Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (3 page)

“You’re both right,” she said briskly. “On the one hand, it’s only fair to wait for Smythe to get here before we leap into action, so to speak.”

“Are we goin’ to wait for Luty and Hatchet as well?” Wiggins asked.

“I’m getting to that,” the housekeeper replied. “Actually, what I was going to suggest is that you escort Betsy down to the high street and put her in a hansom. She can go get Luty and Hatchet. You can nip over to the murdered man’s house and try and pick up a bit more information, and by the time everyone gets back here, Smythe ought to have returned.”

“The killer left us a present, sir,” Barnes muttered. He was on his knees in front of the tea trolley, his nose to the carpet. “Looks like there’s a gun here.” The constable carefully reached behind the wheel and slowly pulled the weapon out. Getting a grip on the handle, he straightened up and held it out to Witherspoon. “A revolver, sir. An Enfield.”

Grimacing, Witherspoon took it and held it to his nose. He wasn’t certain what, exactly, it was supposed to smell like. As far as he could tell, the only scent was a slightly smoky metallic one. But he’d seen other policemen put a gun barrel to their nose and then pronounce on whether it had or hadn’t been fired. The inspector supposed that if it hadn’t been fired, there wouldn’t be a scent at all. “It’s been fired,” he concluded. “Here, have a whiff and see if you don’t think I’m right.”

Barnes took the gun and gave it a good long sniff. “Right, sir,” he agreed, “it has been fired. I’d say this is our murder weapon. Odd that the killer left it here and didn’t take it with him.”

Witherspoon almost sagged in relief. “Well, then, that would rule out suicide.”

“Right, again, sir. That trolley is a good ten feet from the victim.” Barnes pointed at the expanse of carpet between the chair and trolley. “Ashbury wouldn’t have shot himself in the head and then heaved it under that far.”

“Agreed. And it certainly wasn’t an accident.” The inspector shook his head. “But why leave the weapon at all?”

“Maybe the killer panicked sir,” the constable suggested. He’d been a policeman a lot longer than the inspector, and in his day, he’d seen some pretty stupid criminals.

Just then another constable appeared in the doorway. “The police surgeon’s just here, sir,” he said to Witherspoon, “and the mistress of the house, a Mrs. Frommer, has arrived. She’s getting upset. What do you want me to do?”

“Send the police surgeon in here, but make sure Mrs. Frommer is kept downstairs. I don’t think she ought to see her father this way. It would be most shocking, most shocking, indeed. We’ll be down in a few moments to have a word with her.” Witherspoon handed the gun to Barnes. “Would you take charge of this?” The constable was far more experienced with firearms than himself, and frankly he didn’t want to risk shooting off his big toe by carrying the gun himself.

“Yes, sir.” Barnes took the gun, opened the thing up and peered into the cylinder. “There’s only five bullets here, sir. That mean’s that one’s been fired.” He popped the bullets out of the gun and put them into his pocket. “We’ll place it in evidence when we get back to the station.”

“Er, ah, yes, Constable, that’s a good idea,” Witherspoon muttered. He wished he’d thought to open the gun himself, but the truth was, he was a bit frightened of them.

The two men went down the stairs to the ground floor. As they neared the front door Barnes veered off and gave the weapon to the constable who was stationed there. Witherspoon went on into the drawing room.

The lady of the house was a plump, middle-aged woman with light auburn hair peeking out of an ornate bonnet and pale blue eyes. Dressed in a dark green traveling dress, she leapt up from the settee when the inspector stepped through the door.

“Who are you?” she demanded. Her voice was thin, reedy and edged with hysteria. “Why are all these police here? What’s happened? Where’s my father? Where are the servants?”

“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, madam,” he replied sympathetically. “I take it you’re Mrs. Frommer.”

She clasped her hands in front of her. When she spoke, her voice shook. “Yes, I’m MaryAnne Frommer. Mrs. Andrew Frommer. What’s happened? Where’s my maid?”

The inspector could tell by her demeanor that the woman was well aware that something awful had happened. One doesn’t come home to find one’s house full of police without realizing that something terrible has occurred. But even with that, he wanted to break the bad news to her in as kindly a way as possible. “Your maid and the rest of the servants are in the kitchen, madam,” he said gently. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news. Very bad news. Was your father expected here today?”

“Yes.” She paled even further. “We’ve all been out at our country house. Father came home on an earlier train today. He should be here. Where is he? For God’s sake, has there been an accident?”

“I’m afraid he’s dead, ma’am.” The inspector hated this part of his job. Watching someone learn of the death of a loved one was heartbreaking.

MaryAnne Frommer stared at him for a long moment. Her mouth parted slightly and she cocked her head to one side, as though she hadn’t heard correctly. “Dead?” she
finally whispered. “But that can’t be. He was fine at luncheon…he ate two apple tarts for dessert. How can he be dead? How did it happen? Was it his heart? A stroke?”

“He was shot, madam.” Witherspoon dearly wished the lady’s husband would get here. He wasn’t sure what to do if she had hysterics.

“Shot?” She shook her head in disbelief. “No, I don’t believe it. Father? But who…how…? I don’t understand. But he didn’t keep firearms in his room. All the hunting rifles are kept at the country house. How could he have been shot?”

“He wasn’t shot with a rifle, ma’am. He was shot with a revolver,” the inspector replied. “And it doesn’t appear as if it was an accident of any kind. It appears to have been done quite deliberately.” Witherspoon generally didn’t like to use the word
murder
until he absolutely had to.

Her eyes widened to size of scones. “Are you saying he was murdered?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” Witherspoon replied. Drat. He noticed that Barnes hadn’t come in to take notes.

She swayed on her feet and, before the inspector could reach her, sat down heavily on the settee. “I don’t believe this,” she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Father dead. Shot.”

“What’s all this, then?” A booming voice sliced into the quiet drawing room.

Witherspoon looked up just as a short, rather stout, dark-haired man in thick spectacles strode into the room. “Now, see here,” he began, as soon as he spotted the inspector. “I demand to know what’s going on? That blockhead of a constable wouldn’t say anything. I demand to know why my house is swarming with policemen.”

Wiggins mingled with the small crowd that had gathered on the pavement in front of number twenty-one. The huge, pale gray-brick house was at the end of the fashionable street and set back behind tall, spear-pointed black fencing. A police constable stood guard at the front gate. Two more stood like sentinels on the wide doorstoop of the house. Wiggins thought the one on the left looked familiar. So he quickly darted behind two tall women, both servants from the look of their clothes. No reason to stick his face out where he might be spotted.

Staying to the center of the crowd, well behind the women, he kept a sharp eye out, hoping that none of the police constables coming and going would notice him. Too many of them knew who he was and that he worked for Inspector Witherspoon.

“What’s ’appened?” Wiggins asked the youngest of the women.

“The old bloke wot lives here ’as got done in,” she replied excitedly. “Shot he was, while he was havin’ his tea.”

“Now, Vera. You don’t know that fer sure,” the other, older woman cautioned.

“Do too,” the one called Vera replied. “Heard it from our Agnes, who got it directly from that young police constable that’s sweet on her. She spotted him comin’ back from raisin’ the alarm and he told her that old man Ashbury ’ad been shot in the ’ead. So don’t tell me I don’t know what’s what.” She folded her arms over her chest and glared at her companion.

“Your Agnes was wrong about that robbery over at that Yank’s house, wasn’t she?” the other woman shot back. “And she’d supposedly got that from the constable too. If you ask me, he don’t know what’s what.”

“He does too,” Vera countered hotly. “Anyone could have made a mistake on that other one. The door and the window was wide open.”

“But nothing was taken, was it?” her companion said triumphantly. “So there weren’t no robbery.”

“Does this Mr. Ashbury live on ’is own?” Wiggins asked quickly, before the two women could get into a full-blown argument.

“’Course he don’t live on his own,” Vera snapped. “Lives with his daughter and her husband. Mr. and Mrs. Frommer. He’s an MP. He just went inside a few minutes ago. Stopped and had a right old dustup with that constable on the door.” She giggled. “Mind you, I expect by the time the night’s over, the police’ll be wishin’ it were Andrew Frommer that’d been shot. He’s a nasty one, he is.”

“Nasty fellow, is ’e?” Wiggins knew he couldn’t stay much longer, but he wanted to learn as much as he could before going back to the others.

“Won’t give ya the time of day,” Vera said flatly, “and treats the help like they was dirt.” She jerked her head toward the house. “Most of the staff there is untrained. They can’t keep proper servants. They’ve even got a footman that’s a half-wit.”

“Really?” Wiggins edged away. He wanted information about the murder. About what had gone on this evening, not about what kind of employer Frommer was. That could come later. He worked the crowd, keeping up a discreet but steady stream of questions. By the time he left, he’d found out enough to get the household started.

“Lady Cannonberry’s train was late,” Smythe the coachman explained. “And by the time I got ’em loaded up and on the way, it was later than I’d thought.” He was a
tall, muscular, dark-haired man with brutally heavy features. Were it not for the kindness in his brown eyes and the good-natured set of his mouth, he could easily be mistaken for a ruffian. But nothing was further from the truth. The coachman was as kindhearted as he was strong.

“Them?” Mrs. Goodge queried. “I thought it was just Lady Cannonberry you were bringing home.”

“She’s brung a houseguest with ’er.” Smythe took a quick sip of tea and glanced at the clock. “Some sort of distant cousin of her late ’usband. Fellow’s name is Pilchard. Morris Pilchard. Bit of a toff. I could tell it niggled ’im that she were so friendly to me.”

“How foolish of him,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “We are all Lady Cannonberry’s friends.” Ruth Cannonberry was the wife of a late peer of the realm. She was also the conscience-driven daughter of a clergyman, a bit of a political radical and halfway in love with their dear Inspector Witherspoon.

“She didn’t pay any mind to ’im,” Smythe replied. “She were just ’er usual nice self.” He shot a fast glance at the clock. “Blimey, it’s gettin’ late. What’s takin’ ’em so long?” He hated for Betsy to be out in the evening on her own. “By rights, Betsy’s had plenty of time to get Luty and Hatchet back here.”

“There are dozens of valid reasons why they might have been detained. Luty may have had guests or they might have been in the midst of something,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She’s not been gone all that long. Just a little over an hour. Besides, we can’t start until Wiggins gets back. So far the only thing we know is that someone’s been murdered. We don’t even have the victim’s name.”