Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (9 page)

He took the tea his housekeeper handed him and then reached for a plate. Witherspoon put a scone and a slice of seedcake on it and then slapped on a huge dollop of heavy, clotted cream. “Are you staying long, Mr. Pilchard?” he asked. He forked a quarter of the cake into his mouth.

“I’m not really sure,” Pilchard replied. He glanced at his hostess and smiled. “It all depends.”

“On what?” the inspector asked. He reached for a knife and slathered the cream across the top of the scone.

Morris shrugged. “Oh, this and that.”

“This and that, you say?” Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. His smile was quite strained by now. When Mr. Pilchard remained silent and merely kept smiling at Lady Cannonberry, the inspector stuffed the remainder of the cake into his mouth and then took a huge bite of the scone.

Luty’s eyebrows shot up and she gave Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge a knowing grin. Seeing the glance that passed between the two women, Hatchet poked his employer in the ribs.

Betsy, a surprised expression on her pretty face, glanced at Smythe, who shrugged ever so faintly. Wiggins finally looked up from his plate, with a puzzled expression. “’Ow come it’s gone all quiet?” he asked.

Mrs. Jeffries decided she’d best do something. The situation was getting more and more awkward by the minute. “We’re all enjoying the nice sunshine,” she
explained brightly. “Would anyone care for a slice of sponge?”

“I would,” Witherspoon said, handing his plate to Mrs. Jeffries. He glanced at Lady Cannonberry. “Er, I’m rather tied up at the moment, but I would so like to take you for ride in the country soon. We want to take advantage of the weather while we can.”

“I should love that, Gerald,” she began enthusiastically.

“That would indeed be nice,” Morris interrupted. “Do let us know when you’re free.” He smiled and rose to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Lady Cannonberry and I are off to the Natural History Museum.” He reached over and helped her to her feet.

“Thank you for the tea,” Ruth said, her expression uneasy. “It was lovely.” She gave the inspector one long, meaningful look and then allowed Morris to lead her off toward her own home at the far end of the communal gardens.

Witherspoon didn’t take his eyes off them. But even with his attention firmly diverted, his fingers managed to grab the plate full of sponge cake that the housekeeper handed him. He forked the cake in his mouth without blinking, his attention completely focused on the retreating man and woman. Finally he sighed. “I’m so glad she’s come home,” he said.

“We are too,” Mrs. Jeffries said stoutly. “And we’re so glad you found the time to join us for tea this morning. Now, sir, do tell, what have you been up to today? You know how fascinated all of us are by your investigations.”

Witherspoon nodded absently. His gaze was still fixed on the huge four-story brick home at the far end of the garden.
Her
home. “Yes, thank you,” he muttered. “I’d love another scone.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled softly. She felt rather sorry for her dear inspector. The poor man was so obviously wrestling with the demons of jealousy he wasn’t even listening. “Right, sir. Another scone.”

Mrs. Goodge looked outraged, but she managed to reach for his plate without smacking his fingers. She’d never seen anyone stuff himself so full of food. What was wrong with the man? If he kept eating at this rate, she’d not have enough provisions to feed her sources this afternoon.

“Me too.” Wiggins started to take a scone but stayed his hand when the cook glared at him. “Uh, maybe I’ll not.”

“Inspector.” Luty raised her voice quite a bit to get his attention.

Blinking, he came out of his daze and turned to look at the American woman. “I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?”

“Yes, sir, I was,” Luty said. “I was jes’ wonderin’ if you wouldn’t mind tellin’ me a bit about this here murder you’ve got. You know how Hatchet and I like hearin’ about all your investigations.”

“Oh well, of course.” He smiled proudly. “Uh, let me see, I suppose Mrs. Jeffries has told you some of the details.” He picked the scone up in his fingers and took a bite.

“She sure did.” Luty leaned toward him and dropped her voice. “What I want to know is what were ya up to this morning? Did ya catch the killer yet?”

“Not quite,” the inspector replied. “Actually, I’ve only just got started. But we’re making progress. We confirmed this morning that the victim didn’t go to his office yesterday afternoon. We spoke to his partner. Fellow named Henry Alladyce. Alladyce claimed that Roland Ashbury
had no intention of going to his office. If he had, he’d have sent Alladyce either a message or a telegram. He sent neither.”

Smythe opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and leaned back in his chair. Betsy noticed. But then she noticed most everything about the coachman. She cocked her head and looked at him speculatively.

“Do you think he planned on going back to the Frommer house all along, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “And that his telling the family he had to go to his office was only a ruse to leave Ascot earlier than the others?”

Again Smythe seemed to lean forward, his expression clearly indicating that he wanted to say something, and again he thought better of it.

“I don’t know,” Witherspoon replied. Absently he plopped another dollop of cream on the small sliver of seedcake left on his plate. “Yet his daughter is convinced he lied about needing to go to his office. She’s sure it was a ruse to get away without offending Andrew Frommer. But if what Mrs. Frommer thinks is true, that means he’d planned to meet his killer there all along….” His voice trailed off as he tried to think of the best way to say what he was thinking. But he couldn’t seem to find the right words. “I mean, it seems to me that—”

“Of course, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She knew exactly what he was trying to articulate. “What you’re saying is that he planned to meet his killer and he kept that plan a secret. As a matter of fact, he connived to get the privacy he needed for the meeting. Therefore, the meeting must have either been with someone he didn’t want his family to know about or it must have been about something he didn’t want made public. Is that what you’re trying to tell us, sir?”

Witherspoon brightened immediately. “Yes, that’s it
precisely. Well, you can see what that would imply, can’t you?”

“I can’t,” Wiggins said honestly.

“It would imply that the victim might have something to conceal,” Hatchet said softly. “Secret meetings usually mean both parties have a vested interested in hiding something.”

“Do you think Ashbury was being blackmailed?” Luty asked.

Witherspoon licked the last of the cream off his fork. “I’m definitely leaning in that direction,” he answered. “But, of course, if he were being blackmailed, why would the killer murder him?”

“Maybe
he
was the blackmailer?” Betsy guessed.

“That’s possible too,” the inspector replied. “But we’ve no evidence either way. Oh dear, I’m getting way ahead of myself. The only thing we know for certain is that he’s dead. We don’t know for certain that he didn’t go to his office. I mean, we only have Henry Alladyce’s word, and from what I understand, he benefits from Ashbury’s death.”

“You think this Alladyce feller is lyin’, then?” Luty asked eagerly.

Witherspoon shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I suppose it’s possible. But it didn’t strike me as likely. He was actually quite candid with us. He gave me a long list of people who didn’t like the victim. Of course, if he’s the killer, that could have been a ruse as well. What better way to throw the police off the scent than by giving them false information.”

“He gave you a list of people, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified.

“Oh yes.” Witherspoon eyed the bowl of sugared quince. “According to Alladyce, there were quite a number
of people who disliked the victim rather intensely.”

At hearing this, everyone at the table went to full attention. Even Wiggins. They all gave the inspector their complete concentration.

“Really, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries encouraged. “A whole list? That might make your task much more complicated. But then again, perhaps it will make it easier.” She desperately wanted to get the names out of him, and the only way to do that was to keep him talking.

“Yes, that’s just what I was thinking,” he agreed. He licked his lips, picked a crumb off his plate and popped it into his mouth.

“Are the people on this list going to be easy to…uh—” She broke off deliberately, hoping he’d jump right in.

“Investigate.” He smiled. “Why, yes, indeed they are. As a matter of fact—”

“Hello, Inspector,” Barnes called from the side of the house. “If you don’t mind, sir”—he pointed toward the street—“I’ve got a hansom waiting.”

“Oh dear.” Witherspoon leapt to his feet. “I must go. Thank you ever so much for the lovely tea. Don’t wait dinner on me,” he called over his shoulder. “I expect I’ll be quite late.”

“Bloomin’ Ada,” Smythe muttered as the inspector and Barnes scampered out of sight. “’Ow’d we let him get away without spillin’ the beans?”

“A list of the victim’s enemies would have been most useful,” Hatchet agreed.

“Useful, hmmph,” Mrs. Goodge snapped. “Necessary, if you ask me. We need a few more suspects. I can’t question anyone unless’n I have names. Not that they’d do me any good now.” She gestured furiously at the table. “Just look at this, it’s practically all gone. What am I goin’ to feed my sources? The man sits here and stuffs himself fatter than a Christmas goose then has the nerve to scarper off without being any help at all.”

“I don’t think he meant to eat so much,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. She too was a tad annoyed at their dear employer. Not so much that he’d made a pig of himself—after all, it was his food—but at the way he’d dashed off
without giving them the information they so desperately needed. “I think seeing Lady Cannonberry with her houseguest must have made him a bit anxious.”

“He was as jealous as an old tom,” Betsy declared. “But it’s his own fault; he should have paid more attention to Ruth.”

“He gives her lots of attention,” Smythe countered. “She’s the one that’s always going off to the country.”

“She’s got relatives to visit,” Betsy said, defending her friend. “Her own and her late husband’s. She got stuck with that lot too, you know. What do you want her to do, ignore them?”

“She could stay home for a change and give a fellow time to court ’er properly.” The coachman frowned darkly, an expression that was known to clear a path in the roughest of pubs, but Betsy wasn’t in the least intimidated.

“She’s given him plenty of chances,” she shot back. “But like most men, he’s not got the sense to see what’s right under his nose. He just assumes she’ll be sittin’ there waiting for him when he decides he’s got time for her.”

Smythe’s jaw dropped in outrage, but before he could form the words to protest, Mrs. Jeffries interrupted.

“Smythe, quickly, follow them.”

“Huh?” Confused, he still got to his feet. “Follow the inspector?”

“Yes, now. Hurry; if you run you might be able to catch their hansom up at the corner. There’s always a dreadful traffic jam there.”

“What do you want me to do?” he called over his shoulder as he raced toward the side of the house.

“See where they go,” she called back to him. “And then get back here this afternoon.”

Without another word, the coachman disappeared around the corner.

Mrs. Jeffries turned and smiled at the others. “Let’s hope he can catch the inspector’s hansom.” She’d sent Smythe on the errand to halt the squabble that was developing between him and Betsy. The maid hadn’t really been complain about Witherspoon’s shortcomings in the courtship department; she was sending Smythe a message. Had she not sent the coachman off, the argument might have become very heated and very personal. A fact that both the parties involved would soon regret once they’d calmed down.

“You want poor Smythe to hotfoot it after the inspector’s ’ansom all day?” Wiggins asked incredulously.

“Of course not,” she replied. “I’m quite sure Smythe will have enough intelligence to hire a hansom of his own.”

Hatchet frowned slightly. “Excuse me, Mrs. Jeffries. But I don’t quite see the point of sending Smythe off.”

Of course you don’t, Mrs. Jeffries thought, you’re a male. She could tell from the smug expressions on Luty and Mrs. Goodge’s faces that they knew precisely what she’d been doing. But naturally she kept her thoughts to herself. “The point is we want to know who was on that list of names the inspector got from Henry Alladyce. The inspector may not be home until very late tonight. If Smythe follows him for a few hours today, we might find out the names of some of the suspects.”

“Meaning that the inspector will go and interview them.” Hatchet nodded knowingly.

“That’s correct. I’m sure all of you realize that we don’t have much to go on so far. Even a couple more names might be worthwhile.”

“But I don’t understand,” Betsy said. “Aren’t we going
to concentrate on finding out as much as we can about the victim. That’s how we usually do it.”

Betsy had a valid point. That was generally how they’d conducted their previous investigations, and usually the method had been most successful. “Of course we are,” the housekeeper replied quickly. “But even with doing that, we frequently have several other suspects to concentrate on as well.” That much was actually true. “So far, we’ve only got the Frommers. If neither of them is the murderer, we’ll be at a loss to help the inspector solve this case.”