Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (8 page)

“Here we are, Constable.” The inspector stopped in front of a door upon which a faded sign reading
ASHBURY AND ALLADYCE, SHIPPING AGENTS
was attached. They stood in front of a tall, rather scruffy-looking office building on a small, narrow street just off the East India Docks. On one side of the building was a long, fully occupied warehouse;
its front doors stood wide open, and despite the narrowness of the street, vans, carts and freight wagons were lining up to pick up and deliver goods. On the other side was a smaller but equally busy goods depot. In the bright morning sunshine, the blue-black Thames glittered through the spaces between the buildings.

Witherspoon knocked once, opened the door and they stepped inside. They found themselves in a small, rather dim room. The inspector blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. What light there was crept in through the rather dirty transom over the front door.

“May I help you gentlemen?”

Witherspoon jumped and turned to see a tall, cranelike man stepping out of a door on the other side of the room. “Er, we’d like to speak to Mr. Roland Ashbury’s clerk,” he said, squinting so that he could see the fellow better. “I say, it’s awfully dark in here.”

“I haven’t drawn the curtain yet,” the man replied. He sounded rather petulant. His hair was dark blond and curly, his face bony and his mouth a thin line slashed across a jutting chin. “I’ve only just unlocked the door and come inside.” He swept a heavy curtain down the entire wall, revealing a set of windows and letting the sun inside the gloomy room. At once the place was brighter, but not much else.

The furniture, such as it was, consisted of two huge desks overflowing with papers and cluttered with boxes, bags and baskets along the top. The floor was gray linoleum. A straight-backed chair sat before each desk. Along the wall was a row of cabinets, their tops cluttered as well with all manner of things. Above the cabinets was a chalkboard covered with rows of names and dates.

“Are those references to ships?” Witherspoon asked curiously as he pointed to the chalkboard.

“Yes, and their estimated departure dates. We are a shipping company.” He waved them toward him. “I suppose I’m the person you need to see, but I’m not Roland Ashbury’s clerk.”

“I’m sorry,” Witherspoon said sincerely. “No offense was intended. I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. We were told that Mr. Ashbury had a clerk and that it was this clerk he stopped to see yesterday—” He broke off as he realized he wasn’t making a great deal of sense.

“What’s your name, sir?” Barnes asked quickly.

“Henry Alladyce.” He sat down on one of the chairs. He was dressed neatly in a crisp white shirt, black tie and yellow waistcoat. His outer coat, the same pearl-gray color as his trousers, was hung neatly on the coat tree by the door. “I’m the only one here. As I said, I’m not a clerk; I own half of this company.”

Witherspoon hesitated for a moment. He did so hate telling people bad news, but there was nothing he could do to soften the blow. “I’m afraid I’ve some bad news Mr. Alladyce—” he began.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Alladyce interrupted impatiently. “Old Roland’s got himself murdered. It was in this morning’s papers. Well, it’s too bad, I suppose, but let’s be frank, Inspector. Roland was quite old and not particularly well liked. I shouldn’t think he’ll be missed.”

“Apparently not,” the inspector murmured. “Er, Mr. Alladyce, when was the last time you saw Mr. Ashbury?”

Alladyce leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers together and stared up at the ceiling. “Let me see, I suppose it must have been over a fortnight ago. Yes, that’s right. It was the day before Roland went off to the Ascot house with his daughter and her husband.”

“You didn’t see Mr. Ashbury yesterday?” Barnes
asked. “He didn’t call here in the afternoon?”

“No,” Alladyce replied. “As I said, I haven’t seen him since before he left for Ascot.”

“Were you here all afternoon?” Witherspoon asked.

Henry spread his hands. “Where else would I be? I’m the only one here and I’ve a business to run.”

“You don’t have a clerk, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Roland claimed we didn’t need one.” Henry pursed his lips. “But of course we did, and do.”

“Did you see anyone yesterday afternoon, sir?” Barnes pressed. “Anyone who can verify you were here all day?”

Henry’s expression didn’t change. “No, I didn’t. I spent the afternoon going over the accounts. I didn’t leave until almost seven last night. I saw no one and no one saw me.”

“You’re sure Mr. Ashbury didn’t come here?” Witherspoon asked.

“Quite sure,” Alladyce replied. “If he were coming here, he’d have sent a message or a telegram. He did neither.”

The inspector nodded. “Did Mr. Ashbury have any enemies?”

“No more than any other businessman.” Alladyce shrugged casually. “You mustn’t judge the firm by the appearance of our office.” He waved his hand around the room. “This is quite a successful venture, sir. It’s a bit untidy just at the moment, but that’s only because Roland was ridiculously cheap and absolutely refused to spend a penny on proper furniture and fittings.”

“So you’re saying that Mr. Ashbury had made enemies in the course of running his business?” Barnes clarified.

“Not exactly.” Alladyce sighed. “What I meant was that it was entirely possible that Roland had made enemies.
When he and my father were building this business, Roland wasn’t above undercutting someone else’s rates.”

“I see,” Witherspoon replied. This interview wasn’t getting them much information. But at least they’d confirmed that Ashbury hadn’t called here before going to the Frommer home. “Well, thank you, Mr. Alladyce. You’ve been most helpful. Do get in touch with us if you can think of anyone who might have had a reason to want to harm Mr. Ashbury.”

“Oh.” Alladyce brightened immediately. “Then you’d best sit down, Inspector. I can think of lots of people who would have loved to harm Roland.”

“I do hope you don’t mind my bringing Morris with me.” Ruth Cannonberry whispered the words to Mrs. Jeffries as they walked across the small terrace behind Upper Edmonton Gardens. They headed toward the oak table which sat invitingly underneath the shade of a large tree. Her houseguest, who’d been introduced to them as Morris Pilchard, was at the far end of the gardens. He stood beneath a yew tree, staring fixedly at the trunk.

“Of course we don’t mind,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. The others were already at the table, which was set for a splendid morning tea. “Your guests are always welcome.”

“Thank you.” Ruth smiled brightly and her pale, middle-aged face was transformed. “I really didn’t know what else to do with him. He’s not terribly interested in seeing the sights of London.” She sighed and turned her head, seeking her houseguest. “He must be watching ants,” she muttered when she spotted him.

“Is he a naturalist, then?” Mrs. Jeffries tried to move Lady Cannonberry along a bit faster. The others were
champing at the bit to get started, and if the truth were known, she was rather in a hurry herself.

“Oh no.” Ruth shrugged. “He simply likes watching bugs. Oh, this looks lovely,” she exclaimed as they finally reached the table. “Mrs. Goodge”—she beamed at the cook—“you’ve outdone yourself. It looks wonderful.”

The table was loaded with food. There was a large brown pot of tea, a plain seedcake, scones, cream, jam, a Victoria sponge and a bowl of quince sprinkled with sugar.

“Thank you,” the cook replied briskly. Naturally the reason she’d baked so much was to feed her sources when they came trooping into her kitchen. But it didn’t do any harm for Lady Cannonberry to think the display had all been laid out for her. “We wanted to welcome you home right and proper.”

Mrs. Jeffries took her seat. “Wiggins, please go and fetch Mr. Pilchard while I pour the tea.”

Wiggins was off like a shot. For a few moments they made small talk and filled their plates. The footman returned with the errant houseguest, who blushed when he realized none of the others had touched their food and were waiting for him.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized quickly as he took the seat next to Lady Cannonberry. “Sometimes I do get carried away. Nature is so very fascinating.”

Morris Pilchard looked to be in his fifties. Tall and thin, he had a long, melancholy face with deep-set hazel eyes and a rather protruding nose. His complexion was pale, his hair a nondescript beige blond streaked with gray.

“Please don’t apologize, Mr. Pilchard,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “We all quite understand. The garden is a fascinating place.” She was determined to get this tea moving right along so they could finish their meeting and
get back on the hunt. Unfortunately they’d been in the middle of Wiggins’s report when Lady Cannonberry and her houseguest had turned up.

“Has the inspector any interesting new cases?” Ruth asked brightly.

They all looked at the housekeeper, waiting to follow her lead before opening their mouths and risk giving the game away. Everyone liked Ruth Cannonberry and no one wanted to lie. She was too good a friend for that.

Mrs. Jeffries smiled, delicately reached for a scone and laid it on her plate. She was desperately trying to think of how to answer. “Actually, he’s been rather busy lately.”

“Oh goody.” Ruth leaned forward eagerly. “Has he a good murder?”

“Lady Cannonberry!” Pilchard stared at his hostess in utter shock. “Surely you’re jesting. You can’t possibly have meant what you just said.”

“Of course I did,” she declared. “I don’t condone the taking of life, Morris. But let’s do be honest here: murder is fascinating.”

Morris pursed his lips and shook his head. “I think it’s quite distasteful.”

“Here’s your tea, Mr. Pilchard.” Her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles, Mrs. Goodge handed him his cup. “Would you care for a scone or a slice of cake, sir?”

Momentarily distracted, he turned away from his hostess to study the offerings. “A small slice of sponge, please.” He whipped his head back around, apparently ready to take up the argument again, but Ruth was a step ahead of him.

“It’s only distasteful if you think it’s right that killers can take life with impunity,” she charged.

“It’s very…common. Yes, that’s right, murder is
common and almost always done by the lower classes.” As soon as he said the words, a bright blush crept up his cheeks as he realized whom he was having tea with. “Oh dear, I don’t mean to imply that any of you would ever do such a thing—”

“Hello, hello.” The inspector’s cheerful voice interrupted the terribly embarrassed Mr. Pilchard. “I was just on my way to the Magistrates’ Court and thought I’d pop in and welcome our dear neighbor home.” He smiled happily at Ruth Cannonberry as he approached the table. “I do hope I’m not interrupting, but when Mrs. Jeffries mentioned this morning that you were coming around for morning tea, I just had to stop in and see you.”

“Gerald, I’m delighted to see you as well,” Ruth said quickly. Her eyes suddenly sparkled with pleasure, a flush crept up her cheeks and her mouth curved in a wide smile. “I’m so happy you came. It seems as if it’s been far more than a fortnight since we’ve seen one another.”

“Uh…uh.” Morris Pilchard cleared his throat loudly. The indelicate sound grated loudly in the quiet garden. Ruth dragged her gaze away from Witherspoon’s and made the introductions.

Mrs. Jeffries looked at the others. Luty, Smythe and Hatchet seemed to be amused. Betsy and Mrs. Goodge looked impatient, and Wiggins was too busy stuffing his face with seed cake to notice anything.

“Wiggins,” she ordered gently, “could you go and fetch the inspector a chair?” The lad nodded and leapt to his feet.

Mrs. Jeffries hoped the inspector wouldn’t say anything about the murder. If Ruth found out they were “on the hunt,” she’d want to help, and as she had a houseguest in residence, that wouldn’t be a wise course of action. “Would you care for tea, Inspector?” she asked.

“Thank you, that would be lovely. I’ve not got long. Constable Barnes is meeting me here in a few minutes.” His smile was strained as he spoke and his eyes seemed to dart between Morris Pilchard and Rum. “Oh, thank you, Wiggins,” he said as the lad returned and shoved a chair under him.