Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (28 page)

“I think ’e knew it were all over,” Smythe added. “’E’d failed to murder Mrs. Frommer. Weak as she was, ’e’d not been able to kill ’er.”

“How did he think he’d get away with killin’ her right there in hospital?” Mrs. Goodge wondered. “He must have know the nursing sister would tell everyone he’d masqueraded as a policeman, and the police constable he’d sent off to get something to eat would certainly remember him.”

“I expect Alladyce’s plan was quite simple,” Mrs. Jeffries guessed. “I imagine he was going to say he simply wanted to see an old friend and that the only way he could get into the room was by pretending to be a policeman.”

“But she’d be dead,” Betsy insisted. “Surely he must have known the police would suspect him.”

“They can suspect all they want,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But they couldn’t prove he’d killed her. Not if he claimed she was already dead when he entered the room.”

“Is she goin’ to be all right, then?” Wiggins asked.

“For the tenth time, Wiggins,” Betsy said impatiently, “she’ll be fine. Smythe said he overheard the doctor telling the inspector she’d be right as rain soon.”

Luty looked at Hatchet and sighed heavily. “You silly
old fool, you ought to know better than to let a man like that get the drop on ya. I’ve told ya a dozen different times ya ought to carry a Peacemaker. It was right in the carriage too. Why didn’t you take it in with ya?”

Hatchet, who could see the worry in her face despite her words, merely reached over and patted her hand. “Next time I will, madam,” he promised.

“Are you going to tell us how you figured out it was Alladyce?” Betsy asked.

“It wasn’t all that difficult,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We can thank Mrs. Goodge and her theory for that.”

“You mean I was right?” the cook asked.

“Absolutely. One of the things I did when I was out was have a chat with Emma Hopkins. You remember her; she’s the maid who was sacked. She confirmed that Alladyce hated walnuts. As a matter of fact, she told me that every time Roland Ashbury invited Alladyce for tea, he bought a cake with walnuts.”

“Deliberately?” Betsy asked.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “I’m afraid so. He knew the man hated the nuts, but he bought it anyway, just to be mean.”

Mrs. Goodge shook her head. “It’s no wonder Ashbury was murdered. He was a nasty sort. But anyway, all that aside, go on, tell us how you sussed it out.”

“Well, as I said,” the housekeeper continued, “because your theory eliminated so many suspects, there was really not much left to choose from when Smythe happened to mention money. That’s when it all clicked into place. The one person who was going to come out of all this with any advantage was Henry Alladyce. He stood to inherit a financially sound business and several very valuable buildings.”

“Do you think you’d have figured it out if it hadn’t been for the walnuts?” Mrs. Goodge pressed.

“Eventually,” the housekeeper replied. “Even without the nuts, there were plenty of clues. First of all, the story that Emma Hopkins told the inspector should have raised a warning flag. If you’ll remember, she was sacked for breaking a flowerpot. But she claimed someone had moved the pot so she’d deliberately run into it. She was exactly right too: the person who’d moved it was Henry Alladyce. He did it to raise a commotion to buy him time.”

“Time for what?” Luty asked.

“Time to look in that suitcase of old letters that Emma had put by the door. She said she’d put it there for Boyd to take back upstairs. Alladyce took the letters that we found in Mrs. Frommer’s carpetbag. Those letters weren’t addressed to Mrs. Frommer; they were to her father. Someone had given her those letters and I’ll wager that someone was Henry Alladyce. He wanted her to suffer, he wanted her to be racked by guilt, but most of all, he wanted her to be so angry at her own father that when Alladyce murdered him, she wouldn’t cooperate all that much with the police. What he hadn’t counted on was her desire to leave Andrew Frommer. She was going to take the letters to her solicitor. I think we’ll find that she’d planned on using them to stop her father from interfering this time. Even Roland Ashbury wouldn’t have wanted people to know how abominably he’d treated his own son.”

“Mrs. Jeffries.” Betsy’s pretty face puckered in confusion. “I still don’t understand.”

“It’s actually very simple once you see the sequence of events,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “The first thing that happened was Henry Alladyce recognizing Charles Burroughs when he saw him in the garden one afternoon cleaning his gun. You’ll recall that Burroughs claimed the
gun was stolen. Well, I think it was—by Henry Alladyce. He recognized Burroughs as Natasha Ashbury’s brother and the plan sprang into his mind. He’d murder Ashbury and Mrs. Frommer so that he could inherit the business. Charles Burroughs coming to London and taking the house next door to Andrew Frommer gave him the perfect opportunity to carry out his plan.”

“But Emma told the police that Alladyce went on and on about having seen Mr. Burroughs somewhere before,” Wiggins said. “If he were settin’ ’im up to take the blame for this crime, why’d ’e do that?”

“To make certain that no one else recognized him,” she replied. “It was an integral part of his plan that it be the police and not the Frommer household who discovered Burroughs’s real identity. Look what happened when the police did find out who he was; they immediately went to arrest him. It was only Alladyce’s bad luck that it was our inspector on the case. Anyone else would have clapped Burroughs into jail and brought him to trial.”

“So you’re sayin’ that Alladyce plotted the whole thing from the time he recognized Burroughs?” Luty clarified.

“I think he plotted it long before Burroughs arrived on the scene,” she said. “But Burroughs’s arrival provided an opportunity he wasn’t going to miss. There’s still a number of details to work out and questions that need to be answered, but I think that once the inspector gets home, we’ll know everything.”

“We shouldn’t have to wait long,” Wiggins murmured, his gaze on Fred, whose tail which had begun to wag. “I think he’s comin’ now.”

Fred, as always, was right. A few moments later Inspector Witherspoon trudged into the kitchen. “Oh, everyone’s here.”

“But of course, sir. You know how all of us eagerly
await the latest development on your cases,” Mrs. Jeffries said easily. She had her lies all ready. “Luty and Hatchet couldn’t bear to leave without hearing what happened.”

“Alladyce confessed,” Witherspoon said as he sank into a chair. He nodded his thanks as Mrs. Goodge pushed a plate of tea cakes under his nose. “He murdered Roland Ashbury and tried to murder MaryAnne Frommer.”

“How did he get Ashbury to come back to London earlier than the rest of the family?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “You told us that none of the servants recalled Ashbury getting a telegram. Was it arranged before Ashbury went to Ascot?”

“He sent a messenger,” Witherspoon replied. “A street lad. The boy waited till Ashbury came out in the garden and gave him the message that Alladyce needed to meet him in London on urgent business. Roland told the lad to tell Alladyce to be at his home at three-fifteen for tea. Alladyce came and killed him.” He shook his head wearily.

“Then he tried to murder poor Mrs. Frommer?” Wiggins murmured.

“He tried, but luckily he failed. With her dead, he got the entire business.” The inspector yawned widely. “He knew that Burroughs wasn’t home that evening and so he waited in his garden. Remember, Alladyce had been around the Ashbury family all of his life; he knew their habits. He knew that Mrs. Frommer escaped outside every evening after dinner to get away from her husband. Alladyce hid behind the stone wall in the Burroughs garden, and when he saw Mrs. Frommer, he shot her. He used a pillow to muffle the noise. That’s why no one heard the shots from either crime. Pillows. Resourceful of him, wasn’t it?”

The question was rhetorical and no one replied.

“You’ve had a very tiring few days, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries clucked her tongue sympathetically.

“Yes, indeed I have.” He gave himself a small shake. “But I do want to tell all of you how very much I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

Everyone froze. Wiggins, who’d been reaching for a bun, stopped with his hand in midair. Smythe, who’d been sneaking a quick peek at Betsy, went rigid. Hatchet and Luty went perfectly still. Mrs. Goodge swallowed nervously. Mrs. Jeffries’s heart skipped a full beat.

“I don’t quite understand, sir,” the housekeeper finally managed to say.

“Oh, now, I don’t want you pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about,” he said airily. “All of you do. Let’s not be coy. Sometimes your devotion is a bit misplaced, but it’s always, always appreciated.”

“That’s good to hear, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. He didn’t appear to be angry, of that much she was certain.

“I do believe I’m the envy of the entire Yard,” Witherspoon continued. “Everyone was most impressed with Mrs. Goodge and her scones.”

“I’m so very glad, sir,” the cook mumbled.

“They weren’t just impressed with the fact that you were devoted enough to bring me food because I’d been up all night,” he said eagerly. “They were amazed at my cleverness about those walnuts. Thank you, Mrs. Goodge. Naturally I told everyone that it was your cleverness in interpreting my meaning that helped in this case.”

As the cook wasn’t in the least sure what he was referring to, she merely smiled and nodded at her employer.

“Smythe, you and Hatchet both deserve a great deal of thanks,” he continued. “Had it not been for the two of you, that poor woman would be dead. Now tell me again, why had the two of you come to the hospital?”

Smythe was ready for this one. Mrs. Jeffries had briefed him as soon as he and Hatchet had returned home.

“We was lookin’ for you, sir,” he said, his expression earnest. “We got this ’ere note.” He pulled one of the five that had been written out of his pocket and handed it to the inspector. “Hatchet and Luty ’ad dropped by when the boy brung it, and as I didn’t want to waste time, Hatchet took me to the hospital, ’opin’ we’d find you. Instead, well”—he shrugged modestly—“you know what we found. Alladyce tryin’ to murder poor Mrs. Frommer.”

Witherspoon squinted at the spidery handwriting. “I wonder who sent this?” he muttered. He folded it and tucked it in his breast pocket. “Oh well, as we’ve a confession, I don’t suppose it matters. But I must say, we do seem to get a jolly lot of notes sent here.”

“It’s probably from one of Alladyce’s servants or someone else who suspected what he was going to do, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said cautiously. “You must admit your reputation has grown so that it’s only natural that people would think to, well, tip you off.”

“Tip me off?” Witherspoon repeated.

“Yes, sir,” she replied eagerly. “That’s probably why you’re always getting those sort of notes on your cases. People who normally wouldn’t trust the police feel very comfortable dealing with you.”

Witherspoon’s brows rose. “Do you think that could be it?”

“Oh, absolutely, sir,” she said fervently.

The others around the table nodded in agreement.

“You’ve a fine reputation,” she added for good measure. “You’re considered one of the fairest policemen in London. You ought to be proud that people send you notes, sir. I’m sure you get information from the sort of
people who normally wouldn’t give the police the time of day.”

“You know, Mrs. Jeffries”—he straightened up as he spoke—“I do believe you’re right. Goodness, I’m such a very lucky man. A devoted staff and people out there”— he waved his hand to indicate the rest of the world—“who trust me above all others. It’s a burden, but one that I accept with the utmost humility.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, trying to hide her amusement. “I’m sure you do.”

They talked about the case a bit longer until the inspector, yawning with fatigue, took his leave and went to bed. Luty and Hatchet quickly followed suit.

Witherspoon was up and out in the garden early the next morning. The sun shone brightly, birds warbled from the tops of the leafy trees and the air had the crisp, clean scent of a new day. The inspector took a deep breath of air and turned to look a the house at the far end of the communal garden.
Her
house.

He told himself he wanted to enjoy a few moments of sunshine before he went to the station. There would be a mountain of paperwork to get through and a long and involved interrogation. He sighed. The truth was, he’d come out here to see if he could catch a glimpse of Lady Cannonberry. He missed her dreadfully.

His stomach rumbled with hunger. Maybe he’d ask Mrs. Goodge to make more of those walnut scones; they were certainly tasty. His fingers drifted to the waistband of his trousers. Perhaps he ought to ask the housekeeper to take these to the tailor’s. They were getting a bit snug around his middle.

“Good morning, Gerald.” Ruth’s soft voice had him spinning around on his heel. “I saw you from my bedroom
window and couldn’t resist the chance to see you.”

“Ruth,” he exclaimed with pleasure. “I’m so glad you did. It seems ages since I’ve seen you.”

“It’s only been a few days,” she replied, stepping close and taking his hand, “but it does seem a long time. How is your case going?”