Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (4 page)

“But we’ve got their address,” Mrs. Goodge said brightly. “And believe me, in that neighborhood I know
I can find out who the victim is pretty quick. You know my sources; they cover this whole city.”

The cook wasn’t simply bragging. From her own cozy kitchen here at Upper Edmonton Gardens, she had a veritable army of people to call upon. Deliverymen, milkmen, butcher’s boys, chimney sweeps, costermongers, rag-and-bones men and fruit vendors to name but a few. She did her bit in the investigations in her own way, but she never left her kitchen. She could also call upon a circle of acquaintances that included cooks from some of the wealthiest houses in all of England. She could find out any scrap of gossip, any breath of a scandal about anyone in the city.

Mrs. Jeffries gave an understanding smile. She too was eager to begin, but as she had told Wiggins earlier, it wouldn’t be fair not to wait for the others.

Their patience was soon rewarded. Smythe heard the carriage first. “That’s them,” he said, rising to his feet and heading for the back door. “Now let’s just hope that Wiggins gets himself back here quick.”

A few moments later Betsy and two others hurried into the kitchen. Leading the charge was an elderly, white-haired woman with sharp dark eyes. Her frame was small and her body frail looking, yet she marched into the kitchen like a general leading her troops. Wealthy, American and some would say eccentric, Luty Belle Crookshank loved investigating murders more than anything.

Directly behind her was her butler and archrival in the game of gathering clues. Hatchet too had white hair, but he was a vigorous fellow in late middle age. Proper and proud, he was devoted to his plain-speaking and blunt mistress. “I trust we haven’t kept you waiting too long,” he said by way of a hello.

“We got here as quick as we could,” Luty said as she
took the chair next to Mrs. Jeffries. “But wouldn’t you know it, Myrtle and some of her friends had dropped by and we couldn’t get rid of ’em without bein’ rude.”

“I believe that suggesting they take their ‘fat little fannies’ elsewhere could constitute being rude, madam,” Hatchet corrected her.

“Fiddle.” Luty waved her hand dismissively, unmindful of the way the diamond and sapphire rings she wore caught the light. “They knew I was just funnin’ with ’em. Besides, they’d been there long enough. If I’d had to listen to Myrtle much longer, I might have run screamin’ from the room.” She flashed an impish grin at the others around the table. “What kind of a killin’ we got here?”

“A man has been shot,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “That’s really all we know. We’re fairly certain Inspector Witherspoon has the case. Wiggins is at the scene of the crime now, trying unobtrusively to find out more information. He ought to be back any moment.”

“Do we have a name?” Hatchet inquired.

“No, only an address,” Mrs. Goodge replied. She sighed and reached for the teapot. “Though if that boy doesn’t get back soon, I’ve a mind to box his ears. This waitin’s awful.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” Smythe said easily. He’d cocked his head to one side. “I fancy there’s a ’ansom pullin’ up outside.”

Within minutes a breathless Wiggins rushed into the kitchen. “Sorry it took so long,” he said, “but there was ever so much gossip goin’ on I couldn’t tear myself away. You’ll not believe what all I’ve learned.” He yanked out a chair and plopped down. Fred, the household mongrel, bounced up and down next to the chair, deliriously happy to see his friend. Wiggins absently patted his head.

“Take a moment to compose yourself,” Mrs. Jeffries
instructed as she poured him a cup of tea, “and then tell us everything you heard.”

“What’s the victim’s name?” Betsy asked eagerly. It niggled her that Wiggins had got to go the scene of the crime and she’d been sent to fetch people. But that was a woman’s lot in life, gettin’ stuck with the borin’ bits.

“His name was Roland Ashbury,” Wiggins replied. “He lived with his daughter and son-in-law. You’ll never guess who his son-in-law is, either.” He paused dramatically. “Andrew Frommer. Member of Parliament.”

“Have you gone deaf, man?” Frommer snapped. “I said why are policeman swarming all over my house? There’s an ungodly crowd outside. I demand to know what is going on?”

Witherspoon glanced at Mrs. Frommer. He’d kept quiet, thinking that bad news might be less shocking coming from a member of the family. But apparently his was a minority opinion.

Mary Anne Frommer didn’t say a word to her husband. She ignored him and huddled in one corner of the settee. She seemed to have visibly shrunk in size.

The inspector silently chided himself for being so insensitive. Why, the poor woman was probably so over-wrought, she wasn’t capable of saying anything. How could he have been so impolite? Mrs. Frommer was in shock. It would be his duty to relay the terrible news. He
took a quick step toward the angry man striding impatiently through the doorway.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. I’m afraid I’ve very bad news for you.”

Frommer stopped abruptly. He tilted his head in a gesture which had the unfortunate result of fattening his face by adding another chin. “Bad news? What sort of bad news? Has there been a robbery?”

“I’m afraid it’s worse than that, sir,” the inspector said. “Your father-in-law is dead. He’s been shot.”

“Shot? Roland? But that’s ridiculous. He was a bit of a windbag and a fool, but I can’t see why anyone would want to shoot him.” Frommer didn’t so much as glance at his wife as he spoke. “When did it happen?”

“We’re not sure,” Barnes interjected softly. “We think it was sometime late this afternoon.”

“I can’t believe this.” Frommer began to pace the room, the thud of his footsteps masked by the thick carpet of the drawing room. “It couldn’t happen at a worse time. The party doesn’t need this sort of thing. I’ll have to make some sort of statement. Good Lord, this isn’t going to look good at all. A murder in an MP’s home.” Without so much as a glance at any of the others in the room, he whirled on his heel and stalked back toward the hallway.

“Excuse me, sir,” the inspector called just as Frommer reached the door, “but I do need to ask you some questions.” Witherspoon was appalled by the callous way the man treated his wife. Good gracious, the poor woman had only just learned her father had been murdered, and here her husband couldn’t be bothered to offer one word of comfort.

“Questions? Me?” Frommer looked outraged. “Whatever for? I haven’t seen Roland since breakfast this morning.”

“That’s not true,” Mrs. Frommer said. “I saw you talking to him in the garden before he left.” She straightened from her slumped position and stared at her husband speculatively. “It looked to me as if you were having quite an argument about something.”

Clearly stunned, Frommer gaped at his wife. “Don’t be absurd,” he said. “I merely stopped to tell the old fellow to be careful and to say good-bye.”

“You two were arguing,” she countered, pointing a finger at him. “Papa was all puffed up like a bullfrog and your face was as red as a cherry. So don’t tell me you weren’t having words.” She smiled maliciously at her spouse. “And you’ve never told my father to be careful in your entire life.”

Witherspoon felt some of his sympathy for Mrs. Frommer evaporate. What on earth was wrong with these people? He stifled a sigh. Unfortunately, as a policeman, he’d seen all too often that many families not only weren’t happy, but positively loathed one another. He was beginning to think that might be the case here.

He looked at Mrs. Frommer. “What time did your father leave the country house?” he asked.

“It must have been around two o’clock,” she replied. “He took the two-fifteen train. I believe he was planning on going by his office.”

“His office?” Barnes asked. “And where would that be?”

“On Russell Street near the East India Docks,” she replied. “He wanted to have a word with—”

“Look, Inspector,” Andrew Frommer interrupted, “if you need to ask me questions, please do so now. You can question
her
”—he jerked his head toward his wife—“later. Considering that old Ashbury’s managed to get
himself murdered in my house, I’ve a number of things to take care of, so please get on with it.”

Mary Anne Frommer stared at her husband with undisguised loathing. Then she giggled, apparently delighted that her husband was so annoyed.

Frommer’s jaw dropped. His mouth opened and closed rapidly, as though he were trying to say something but couldn’t quite find the right words. Mrs. Frommer, seeing her husband silenced—perhaps for the first time in their marriage, Witherspoon caught himself thinking—giggled again and said, “Dear, dear, Andrew, don’t you think you ought to wait before you answer any questions? Unless, of course, you have a perfect alibi for where you’ve been this afternoon.”

“Why…you…how dare you…” Frommer sputtered as he finally found his voice.

“Oh, now that dear old Papa is dead,” she hissed, “you’ll find I dare quite a bit.”

Whatever was going on, the inspector thought, enough is enough. “All right, Mr. Frommer,” he said firmly. “If you’ll please sit down, we’ll take your statement.” He turned his attention to Mrs. Frommer. “Madam, you have my deepest sympathies. If you don’t mind, we’d like to take your husband’s statement now.”

She gazed at him curiously. “Does that mean you want me to leave?”

“Just for a little while,” Witherspoon said.

She nodded regally and then, completely ignoring her husband, rose to her feet and left the room. The inspector wondered what had happened to change her so completely and so quickly. When Mr. Frommer had first entered the room, she’d cringed like a kicked pup. But within minutes she was baiting the man and virtually accusing him of being a liar.

Frommer sat down on the settee his wife had just vacated. He tapped his fingers restlessly against his knee. “Well, get on with it, man. I don’t have all evening.”

The inspector glanced at Barnes, making sure the constable’s notebook was out and ready before beginning. This was one statement he wanted taken down word for word. Having not been invited to sit, he stood next to the ornate marble fireplace. “When was the last time you saw your father-in-law?”

“As my wife said, it was in the garden after lunch.” He shrugged his shoulders casually. “I’d quite forgotten seeing Roland then.”

“Your wife was quite sure you were having an argument with her father,” Barnes said.

“She was mistaken,” Frommer returned disdainfully. “To be perfectly truthful, my wife tends to imagine things. I saw Roland leaving and stopped to say good-bye and to wish him a safe journey.”

“What were you doing in the garden, sir?” Witherspoon asked. It sounded a bit like a silly question, but the inspector was amazed at the number of times seemingly stupid questions had led to the arrest of a murderer.

“I was getting some fresh air,” Frommer replied. “We’d had a rather heavy lunch and I had a lot of work to do. I’d gone to the garden to get some air, hoping to refresh myself so I could take care of a number of important matters.”

“Your servants have said that the entire household was coming back this evening. Is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Did everyone in your household come back to the city separately?”

“I don’t understand the question?” Frommer wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said, sir,” Witherspoon explained. “Apparently the victim, Mr. Ashbury, came up early, as did the other servants. It was your ’tweeny, Maisie Donovan, who discovered the body,” the inspector continued. “Then your wife came home and you arrived a good fifteen minutes after she did. I was merely curious as to what your traveling arrangements had been.”

“I don’t see how my household’s movements can have any bearing on Roland’s death, but if you must know, the servants came back with our cases by coach.”

“How many servants do you have?”

Frommer thought about it for a moment. “Well, let’s see, there’s the butler and the cook, of course. Then there’s a housemaid and an upstairs maid and a ’tweeny…oh yes, and we’ve a scullery maid and a footman as well.” He was counting on his fingers as he spoke. “That makes seven servants, Inspector. Though I fail to see how the number of people I have in my employ has anything to do with Roland’s death.”

“You’d be surprised, sir,” Witherspoon muttered. In his experience, the more staff there was the more opportunity there might be for a good policeman to find out a great deal about a household. So many people, he had observed, tended to think their servants were like pieces of furniture. Deaf, dumb and existing only to serve. He strongly suspected that Andrew Frommer was this kind of person. No doubt Mr. Frommer would be absolutely stunned to know that amongst his own staff there were people of keen intelligence and perception. “What time did your staff leave Ascot for London?”

“Right after lunch.”

“At the same time that Mr. Ashbury left for the train station?” Barnes asked.

Witherspoon nodded approvingly. That might indeed be useful information to have.

“Yes, the servants were packing up the coach when Roland and I were chatting in the front garden.” Frommer stroked his chin.