Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (6 page)

Mary Anne Frommer smiled wearily as she sat back down on the settee she’d vacated only half an hour earlier. “You wanted to question me, Inspector?” she said.

“Only if you feel up to it,” Witherspoon replied. Her earlier bravado was gone; now she merely looked like a very weary, very tired middle-aged woman doing her best to cope with bad news.

“You’ve a lot of questions, Inspector,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “and I’d like to answer them now and get it over with. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

Witherspoon couldn’t make head or tails of the woman. She certainly didn’t seem cold or callous, yet he had the sense that she was more shocked than grieved by her father’s demise. Interesting and also very sad. “I’m sure it’s most difficult for you,” he began, “and I appreciate your cooperation. I’m sure you’re as eager as I am to get to the bottom of this.”

“I’d like to know who did it,” she replied softly, her attention focused on the window across the room. “And why.”

Witherspoon cleared his throat and glanced at Barnes. The constable had his trusty notebook open and his pencil at the ready. “Mrs. Frommer, who’s your husband’s tailor?”

She started in surprise. “Pardon? Did I hear you correctly? Did you ask who was my husband’s tailor?”

“That’s correct.” He hesitated for a moment. “Your husband claims he’s been on Bond Street shopping since four forty-five this afternoon. He says he went by his tailor’s. Unfortunately he neglected to give us the man’s name.”

She smiled broadly. “He goes to Barkham’s.”

“Thank you.” Witherspoon suddenly went blank. Now that he’d asked the one quesion on his mind, he found he simply couldn’t think of another one. Oh dear, this wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. “Er…Mrs. Frommer…er…uh, can you tell me what you think your husband and
your father might have been arguing about when you saw them in the garden today?” Yes, he thought, that was a good one.

“I’ve no idea,” she answered. “Neither of them took me into their confidence.”

“But you’re certain they were arguing?” he prompted. What if she were merely guessing or, even worse, simply making things up so her husband would look guilty? From what he’d seen of both the Frommers, there was no love lost between them.

“As certain as I can be without having actually heard what they were saying.” She shrugged. “But as I told you earlier, they looked like they were quarreling fiercely.”

“How long has your father lived here?” Barnes asked.

“Since my mother died sixteen years ago.” She clasped her hands together in her lap.

“Yes, I understand, your poor father probably couldn’t stand to be alone after losing your mother,” Witherspoon murmured sympathetically. He’d often found that a small dose of understanding went quite a long way and got one a great deal of information.

“Oh no, that wasn’t it at all,” she explained. “He came here because after Mama died, he’d nowhere else to live.”

Witherspoon frowned. “You mean he’d no home of his own?”

“That’s right. You see, he’d lived in my mother’s house all of their married life. Mama was a Sheridan,” she said proudly, dropping the name of one of England’s oldest and wealthiest families. “I was already married and living here, so when she passed away, he had to leave. The house naturally went to one of my mother’s cousins. He was most put out about it too. He’d always thought Mama had left the house to him, but she couldn’t, could
she? I mean, it belonged to her family, not to her. I don’t think Mama was always truthful with Papa, but then again, why should she be? He certainly wasn’t truthful with her.”

“I see.” Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. “So your father couldn’t afford a home of his own—”

“Oh he could afford it,” she interrupted. “He just didn’t want to live on his own. Not when he could live in an MP’s home.”

“I see,” the inspector said. “Do you know if your father had any enemies?” That was always a good, straightforward question. Generally, though, it always got the same response. The victim was universally loved and hadn’t an enemy in the world.

“Oh, lots of them, I should imagine,” she replied airily.

“Oh, and who would these enemies be?” the inspector said quickly. Goodness, he hadn’t expected that reply.

“I expect most of the neighbors disliked him,” she replied. “He was quite a nosy sort, my father. And he loved the sound of his own voice. He monopolized conversations and had opinions about everything. It didn’t matter to him whether his opinions were informed or intelligent, either. He wasn’t at all shy about sharing them. The neighbors used to run when they saw him coming down the street.”

“That must have been difficult for him,” Witherspoon suggested.

“Not at all,” she answered. “He never noticed. Honestly I’ve no idea how the man lived so long without realizing that he was so disliked. He could clear a room faster than a bad smell. People would make their excuses the moment he walked in.”

“Other than the neighbors, who else disliked him?” Witherspoon asked.

“None of the servants were fond of him,” she said. “He was such a tattletale. One small infraction and he’d go running to Andrew.” She held up her hand and ticked off her fingers as she spoke. “Let’s see, the neighbors and the servants. Then there are his business colleagues. He wasn’t terribly popular with any of them. Not that he does much work these days; he simply sticks his head in his office every once in a while to annoy poor Henry.”

“Henry?” Witherspoon queried.

“Henry Alladyce. The son of my father’s late business partner,” she replied. “Oh yes, of course, I almost forgot. I loathed the man.” She looked up at Witherspoon and Barnes and smiled brightly. “I thought I might as well tell you myself rather than have you learn it from the servants. I didn’t like my father. I’ve barely spoken to him for months.”

Witherspoon was so scandalized he could barely speak. He knew he oughtn’t to be so shocked; as a policemen, he’d seen enough horror to convince him that human beings were capable of anything. Yet still, he was stunned by the cheerful way she spoke of hating her own father, her own flesh and blood. “I see,” he finally said.

Barnes asked, “Why did your father come into town early?”

“He wanted to stop by his office and check on things.” She smiled. “At least that’s what he told us. But it was obviously just a ruse to get away early.”

The inspector regarded her quizzically. “Why do you say that? From the manner in which you describe your father and your relationship with him, why would he need a ruse to get away?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t care about offending me.” She
laughed. “Not one whit. But he walks on eggs not to offend Andrew. Andrew’s important, you see. He’d walk over burning coals rather than offend my husband. So he needed a ruse, you see. That’s why he came up with that sad tale of going to his office.”

The inspector’s head started to ache and he found himself wishing he wasn’t getting all this information quite so quickly. He could barely take it all in. “I’m not sure I understand.” He shook his head, almost to try and clear it. “What makes you think there was a ruse…I mean—”

“What the inspector means,” Barnes interrupted, “is why did your father want to come home early in the first place? Why not just wait and come with either you or Mr. Frommer.”

“I should think that’s obvious,” she declared. “He was meeting someone. Someone he didn’t want the rest of us to know about.”

“You think he planned to meet someone here?” Witherspoon said. “Why? What makes you think so?”

“Because he was having tea with whoever killed him,” she replied proudly. “I overheard one of the constables talking when I was waiting for you to question me. Plus I saw the tea trolley being taken out of the room. So it must have been planned, mustn’t it?”

Witherspoon hazarded a guess. “He could have met someone when he was at his office and invited them back for tea?” He’d have a quiet word with the constables later. It was easy to slip and talk about the circumstances of the murder, he could understand that, but he would warn them to be a bit more careful when there was a possible suspect in the area.

Mrs. Frommer shook her head. “He wouldn’t have done that. He was neither generous nor kind and he never ever did anything impulsively. Every aspect of his life was
planned out to the last detail. Believe me. I know the man. He came back early to meet someone. Furthermore, the house had been empty for two weeks.”

“Yes, we know that,” the inspector said.

“But you don’t understand the significance of it,” she insisted. She pointed in the direction of her father’s quarters. “The man was shot while having tea. But the house had been empty, which means there wasn’t a scrap of food to be had. Yet someone had bought milk for tea and stopped at a bakery to buy a cake. That someone could be only one person. My father. So you see, he planned to be here this afternoon, and whoever he planned to meet killed him.”

Witherspoon forced himself to speak with the servants. His head pounded and he’d heard more information than he could possibly understand in a very short time, but he felt it imperative he question the servants himself.

He smiled at Maisie Donovan. She was a tall, buxom young lady with dark blonde hair and a wide, intelligent-looking face. “Now, Miss Donovan. Could you tell me again how it was that you went into Mr. Ashbury’s quarters and discovered his body?”

Maisie nodded vigorously. “I might not have noticed if I’d not stopped on the landing to rest. That trunk of Mrs. Frommer’s weighs ever so much. If that bloomin’ Boyd hadn’t run off, I’da not been stuck draggin’ the ruddy thing up to the attic, but it’s a good thing it were me and not him, if you know what I mean. A bit slow is our Boyd. He’d have not noticed the light comin’ out of Mr. Ashbury’s door.” She paused to take a breath.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.” Witherspoon frowned. “Are you saying a member of your staff has gone missing?” This was rather important news.

“Oh yes. We woke up this morning and Boyd had scarpered,” she said cheerily. “His clothes were gone too, so we knew he’d gone, you see. Mind you, everyone was quite shocked seein’ as how attached to Mrs. Frommer Boyd was. Loved her, he did. But maybe he got tired of bearin’ the brunt of Mr. Frommer’s temper all the time. He used to always say he was fixin’ to go off to Australia someday. Claimed he had a cousin in Adelaide.”

Witherspoon thought about this statement. “So the lad was gone before anyone, including Mr. Ashbury, left the Ascot house? Is that correct?”

She nodded. “That’s right. And Boyd wouldn’t ’ave killed anyone, ’specially not Mr. Ashbury. He’s simple, you see. That’s why it were a good thing it were me on the landin’ and not him. Boyd wouldn’t have gone into Mr. Ashbury’s quarters under any circumstances. Dead scared of Mr. Ashbury he was. Used to run and hide every time the old man came through the kitchen.”

Witherspoon didn’t see how a footman who’d gone off hours before the murder could have anything to do with its commission, but one never knew. “But you did go into Mr. Ashbury’s quarters, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you hear anyone else in there?” Barnes asked.

She shook her head. “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

“Did you see anything odd or unusual?” Witherspoon asked. “You know, when you first arrived back at the house. Was there any sign that someone had been in here? Any doors left open? Any windows?”

“Nothing like that,” she replied firmly. “The back door was locked tighter than the vault at the Bank of England.”

“How about the front door?” Barnes asked. “Was it locked?”

“I think so.” Maisie seemed less sure now. “I mean, I didn’t go to the front of the house and look. That would be the butler’s job. Not mine. But I’ll tell you one thing; whoever left, didn’t go out by the back door. Not unless they had a key.”

“You didn’t need to wait up for me, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon handed her his hat. “But I’m very grateful that you did.”

“I was curious about your new case, sir,” she replied, hanging the bowler on the coat tree and then starting down the hall. “Do come and have a sit-down, Inspector. I’ve made a fresh pot of tea.”

He followed her into the drawing room and sat down in his favorite chair while she poured tea for the both of them. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to clear some of the muddle out of his mind. But everything about this evening was a jumble. The dead body, the gun being left on the scene, the apparent hatred between the Frommers, Maisie Donovan’s interview and the missing footman. It was no good. He couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. The only thing which would do any good at all was having a nice long chat with his housekeeper.