Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (26 page)

Mrs. Goodge bustled across to her stove, grabbed the kettle and put it on the boil. When they heard what she’d done, they were all going to need a cup of tea. “Well, I’ve done something I thought was necessary.” She was determined to stall for time until she could think of just the right way to put it.

“Yes, but what was it that was necessary?” Betsy prodded. Unlike Wiggins, she was still a mite upset. It had frightened her badly when she’d seen that the cook was gone without so much as a by-your-leave. That wasn’t like Mrs. Goodge. She was of the old school. Before this incident, Betsy would have bet her next quarter’s wages that the cook would never leave the house without permission from the housekeeper.

“Just give us a moment to get the teapot ready.” Mrs. Goodge started for the china hutch.

“I’ve already done that,” Mrs. Jeffries said quietly. “As a matter of fact, I’ve done up a tray. Smythe, will you fetch it from the dry larder, please. You must be tired after your outing, Mrs. Goodge,” the housekeeper continued smoothly. “Do sit down and rest your feet. Betsy and I will get the tea.”

Mrs. Goodge sat down. A few moments later the tea was ready and the rest of them had joined her at the table. Everyone gazed at her expectantly. She cleared her throat, a bit nervous at being the center of attention. “Well, now, when you hear what I’ve done, I don’t want any of you kickin’ up a fuss, not till you hear me out.”

“I think we can all manage that,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“All right, then.” She took a deep breath. “I wanted to make sure you were right about the killer bein’ Charles Burroughs, so I went over there with my scones. Burroughs isn’t the killer and neither is Eloise Hartshorn. Both of them ate every bite of them scones, walnuts and all. So despite us findin’ out who Burroughs really is, someone else killed Roland Ashbury,” she finished.

No one said a word. They were too surprised. Finally Mrs. Jeffries said, “But, Mrs. Goodge, maybe it was Ashbury who picked the walnuts out of his cake. Had you considered that? In which case your theory that the killer didn’t like walnuts would be categorically incorrect.”

“I don’t understand,” Wiggins interjected. “What’s the killer got to do with walnuts?”

“He picked them out of the cake,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “The inspector said that one of the dessert plates found at the scene of the murder had walnuts on it. That’s been nigglin’ at me ever since we started this investigation. I’m a cook. I know a lot about food and how people pick and choose what they’ll eat. And I know our killer didn’t like walnuts. He probably doesn’t even realize what he did can point the finger of guilt at him, but I know it and I know that Ashbury liked walnuts,” she declared gleefully. “He had to; he’s the one that bought the cake. No one in their right mind buys a cake with nuts in it if they don’t like them.”

Everyone glanced at one another, wondering if anyone at the table would have the nerve to argue with the cook. No one did. The truth was, her idea made a sort of sense.

“What did the inspector say when you showed up?” Betsy finally asked. In her lap she crossed her fingers, hoping and praying that the cook hadn’t mucked things up completely.

“He were a bit surprised,” Mrs. Goodge admitted.
“But I’ve worked with Mrs. Jeffries long enough to understand what I need to do in a situation like that. I handled it right well, even if I do say so myself. He’s got that basket of scones with him. He ought to be feeding one to Andrew Frommer anytime now.”

Andrew Frommer belched loudly and scratched at the stubble on his face. His clothes were dirty and wrinkled, his hair uncombed, and he was missing one of his shoes. He sat on the settee in his drawing room, oblivious to the fact that he had two policemen staring at him suspiciously.

“Where have you been, Mr. Frommer?” Witherspoon asked. Though it really was a rather foolish question: one could tell from the smell emanating off the fellow that he’d been drinking.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” he replied. “I don’t have to answer your questions. I’m not under arrest.”

“Not yet, sir,” Barnes muttered.

“Mr. Frommer,” Witherspoon began sternly, “your wife is in very serious condition. She’s been shot. She’s in the hospital.”

“And I’m in a pretty miserable state myself,” Frommer replied morosely. “What am I going to do? The bank’s going to foreclose and I know that cow I’m married to won’t lift a finger to help me.”

Witherspoon thought he was beyond shock. “We need to know where you were last evening at seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock?” Frommer repeated. “I don’t remember. Damnation, man, how am I supposed to know where I was at any particular time yesterday? My whole life is in ruins. The party’s withdrawing their support, I’m losing my home, I’ve no money and that tart I was sleeping with
is running off to America with that lout who used to be my neighbor.”

Barnes stuck the basket of scones in his face. “You look like you might be a bit hungry, sir,” he said. “Eat one.”

Frommer, so lost in his own misery that the incongruity of a policeman offering his a pastry completely slipped past him, absently reached into the basket and helped himself. “Thanks,” he mumbled as he took a bite.

The inspector watched him carefully. He wasn’t precisely sure how Mrs. Goodge had jumped to the conclusion that he expected her to make pastries with walnuts in them, but for some odd reason, she had. Though he did rather think it beyond the call of duty for her to come across town to bring them to him while he was interviewing suspects. But then again, his staff was quite exceptional. Even the constable thought so.

“Mr. Frommer,” Witherspoon began again, “perhaps you don’t understand that your wife is gravely, gravely ill.”

Frommer dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Quit harping on that, man. She’ll be all right. She’s too much like that old father of hers to go quietly out of this life. She’ll do all right now that Roland’s gone. She and Henry are both going to dance on the old bastard’s grave. I tell you, she’ll not die.”

He chomped away on the scone. Witherspoon wondered if it was a fair test. He was almost sure the man was still a bit drunk. If he did dislike walnuts, perhaps all the drink had made him forget that fact.

“But don’t you think you ought to go and see her?” The inspector tried one last time. He simply couldn’t believe that the man was so callous about his wife’s condition.

“Why should I?” Frommer gave an ugly bark of a laugh. “She doesn’t need my company. Hospital or not, Henry will go see her today. He told me this morning that he was looking forward to it.”

“You saw Mr. Alladyce this morning?” Witherspoon pressed.

Frommer stuffed the last bite into his mouth. “Yeah, he told me about MaryAnne.”

“He told you your wife had been shot?” Witherspoon wanted to make absolutely sure he’d heard that correctly.

“That’s what I said, man.” Frommer sniffed pathetically. “I tried to get him to loan me some money now that he’s got so much of it. But he cried poor, just like he always does and sent me on my way.”

“What do we do now?” Betsy asked. Like everyone else at the table, she was confused. “If Charles Burroughs isn’t the killer, then we’re back where we started.”

“Not quite,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “We do have Mrs. Goodge’s idea, of course. It’s actually quite an excellent one. I should have listened to you earlier,” she told the cook. “If I had, we might have the killer under lock and key now.” She suddenly frowned. “But if one or more of the suspects doesn’t eat the scones, then what will we do? Just because they refuse to eat in the presence of the police won’t necessarily mean that they don’t like walnuts.”

“Not to worry.” The cook beamed proudly. “I thought of that already. That’s why I sent out one of my sources early this morning.” She glanced at the carriage clock on the hutch. “As a matter of fact, Jeremy ought to be back anytime now. He’s a clever lad, he’ll do well, I know it.”

“Jeremy Slaven, the boy who first brung us news of
the murder?” Wiggins asked. “’E’s one of your sources?”

“Now he is,” she said. She cocked her ear toward the hall as she heard the clink of the back door and then footsteps coming their way. “Maybe that’s him now.”

But it wasn’t. It was Luty and Hatchet.

The staff quickly brought them up-to-date with all that had happened. When they were almost at the very end of their narrative, Jeremy Slaven finally came racing into the kitchen. He skidded to a halt as he caught sight of the entire group at the table.

“It’s all right, boy,” Mrs. Goodge said reassuringly. “They know everything. Now, you just get on over here and have some tea while you tell us what’s what.”

“Are there any of them nutty scones left?” Jeremy demanded as he popped down in the chair next to Wiggins. “I could do with more of them; they was right good.”

“Nary a one, boy,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But if you’ve found out what I wanted you to, I’ll bake you a batch tomorrow all your own. You’ll not have to share ’em with anyone.”

“Except Sally,” he replied promptly. “That’s my little sister. I’ll share with ’er. Can’t I ’ave a slice of bread? I’m hungry.”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Jeffries shoved the plate of bread and the butter crock toward him. He grabbed a slice and slathered it with butter as the housekeeper poured him a mug of tea. “Ta,” he said, when she pushed it next to his plate.

“Well, go on, then,” Mrs. Goodge encouraged. “What did you find out?”

“Mr. Frommer’s ’ome now.” Jeremy took a huge bite out of his bread. “Accordin’ to the ’tweeny that works fer ’im, he were on a powerful drunk and come in smellin’
like a pub. But she said he likes walnuts well enough. The girl said Mrs. Frommer likes ’em too. That Mr. Burroughs—none of his servants would talk to me, so I didn’t find out anything. But Miss Hartshorn ain’t got nothin’ against ’em. I couldn’t find out anything about Mr. Alladyce either. His ’ouse was locked up tight and his neighbor said he was leavin’ London as soon as he got back from visitin’ Mrs. Frommer in the ’ospital.”

“That doesn’t tell us much more than what we already know,” Smythe muttered. “Too bad this isn’t like some of our other cases. All you ’ad to do then was keep yer eye on who ended up with the money.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s head jerked up. “What did you say?”

Taken aback, Smythe stared at her. “When?”

“Just now. What did you say? Repeat it, please,” she ordered.

“I said it’s too bad this isn’t like some of our other cases. All we ’ad to do then was see who ended up with the money,” he repeated. “Well, you’ve said it many a time yourself, Mrs. Jeffries. The one who ends up with the goods at the end of the day is usually the one that did it.”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t speak for a moment. She stared blankly at the far wall. Then she shook her head. “I’ve been a fool. A stupid, arrogant fool.”

“Now, Hepzibah,” Luty began, “don’t be so hard on yerself. We’ve all made mistakes. So you thought the killer was Burroughs. Based on what we knew at the time, it was a right good assumption.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked at the faces staring at her from around the table. “Do you still trust me?” she asked them. “Even after the dreadful mistake I made about this case. Are you still willing to do what I ask.”

“’Course we are,” Wiggins volunteered. “You’re right smart.”

“I trust you,” Betsy declared. “Why? What’s happening?”

“Hatchet and I always trusted ya,” Luty said, speaking for the two of them. “What’s wrong? Why you lookin’ like a fox that just figured out the farmer’s got a gun?”

“Mrs. Goodge?” The housekeeper looked at the cook.

“You know I trust you too,” she said. “You’ve not been wrong very often.”

Smythe was already getting to his feet. “What do I have to do, Mrs. J? Just tell me what ya need and I’m on my way.”