Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (20 page)

Jane hesitated. “I don’t know. For a long time, I thought it might be because she was enamored of Mr. Evans, but I don’t think that’s what it was. Honestly, if I knew, I’d tell you. Much as I hate the idea of her good name being bandied about by gossips, I’d rather that than having her killer get clean away.”

 

Mrs. Goodge put the plate of scones down on the table next to the teapot and then slipped into her chair. She’d barely had time to get tea on the table before they’d begun coming in for their afternoon meeting. She’d had a brief word with Mrs. Jeffries about hiring Phyllis and had been quite relieved when the housekeeper had thought it quite a good idea. “We could do with some extra help,” she’d murmured as she’d dashed off to do the upstairs dusting.

“Goodness, everyone was here on time. All of you must have learned quite a bit today.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled confidently. For once, she had quite a bit to report as well.

“I’d like to go first, if I may,” Mrs. Goodge volunteered. “I’ve two roast chickens in the oven and I’ll need to baste them a time or two before we’re finished here. It’ll not do us a bit of good if I burn up the inspector’s supper.”

“By all means, go ahead.” Mrs. Jeffries poured herself a cup of tea.

“One of my sources today was a young lady who used to work for Sir Madison Lowery,” she announced with a triumphant smile.

“Cor blimey, that is a bit of good luck!” Wiggins exclaimed.

“Indeed it was,” she agreed hastily. She didn’t want them asking too many questions about how Phyllis happened to end up in her kitchen. “Phyllis worked as a housemaid for him for almost four years. She was recently let go.” She told them everything she’d learned.

“She was let go because Sir Madison couldn’t afford to keep her on.” Luty pursed her lips. “That pretty much fits with what my sources have told me about Lowery’s finances. He’s broke and desperate to find a rich wife.”

“You can say that about half the aristocrats in London,” Ruth said. She was thinking about Lydia Mortmain.

“I think his wife dyin’ is more useful to us than his bein’ broke,” Smythe interjected. “And from the way Mrs. Goodge heard it, it sounds like he took his sweet time gettin’ a doctor there to help the poor woman.”

“I heard that, too!” Ruth gasped. “Oh sorry.” She flashed the cook an apologetic smile. “I’ll wait my turn.”

“That’s alright. I was finished.”

Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what any of this meant, but she had the feeling that they were finally making a bit of progress. “Do go on, Ruth. What did you learn?”

“As you all know, yesterday I had to leave early because I had a friend coming to supper. She knew quite a bit about Sir Madison Lowery.” Ruth took a quick sip from her cup. “According to my source, despite his aristocratic heritage, most of the wealthy families in London did their best to keep their marriageable daughters well away from the man.” She told them everything she’d learned from Lydia Mortmain. Because of her frequent absences from London, Ruth was sensitive to the fact that she’d not always participated in the inspector’s cases, so she took great care to recall every detail. When she’d finished, she sat back in her chair.

“So the Trents thought there was something suspicious about her death?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. She wanted to make sure she understood the situation before she started dropping hints in the inspector’s ear.

“Apparently Mr. Trent was prepared to go to the police but didn’t because of his wife’s health and the damage it might do to her friendship with Margaret Porter Hains.”

“But why should the woman who introduced them feel responsible?” Wiggins looked confused.

“Because Margaret Hains vouched for his character,” Ruth explained. “Which means there shouldn’t have been even a shadow of doubt about Lowery, but apparently, there was.”

“And Sir Madison?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed. “He was ill as well?”

“Not very,” Ruth replied. “He had mild symptoms which cleared up quickly. His poor wife suffered for two days before she finally passed away.”

“How long was she sick before he called in a doctor?” Smythe asked.

“From the way Phyllis told it, it was long enough that she didn’t have a morsel of anythin’ left in her,” Mrs. Goodge added. She glanced at Ruth, her expression sheepish. “Now I’m doin’ it. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Ruth replied. “My source didn’t know exactly how long it was, but it was long enough to get tongues wagging. Furthermore, he inherited quite a bit of money from her as well as the house. But he’s apparently spent most of it, as he’s reduced to selling the fittings and fixtures and taking in a lodger.”

“But what does the first wife’s death have to do with Agatha Moran?” Wiggins asked. “Seems like Sir Madison didn’t even know our victim.”

“We’re not certain about that fact,” Betsy said quickly. “There may be a connection we just haven’t seen as yet.”

“We’ll just have to keep digging until we do find it,” Ruth declared.

“But was Lowery desperate enough to commit murder?” Hatchet murmured. “I suppose we’ll never know the truth about his first wife.”

“I’d not be too sure of that,” Luty said. “The truth has a way of wiggling to the surface. Anyways, we’d best get movin’ on. It’s gettin’ late.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “Would you care to go next?”

“Didn’t learn a danged thing today.” Luty shrugged philosophically. “But there’s always tomorrow.”

“You’re in good company, Luty,” Smythe said. “I didn’t learn much today either. But like you said, tomorrow’s another day.”

Hatchet grinned broadly at his employer. “I’ve learned a few interesting tidbits.”

“Humph,” Luty snorted.

“Do go on,” Mrs. Jeffries encouraged. “Luty’s right. It is getting late.”

“I had a very interesting conversation with two people who knew quite a bit about some of the people involved in our case,” he said. He told them about his meeting with Reginald and Myra Manley.

“Eleanor North”—Wiggins’ brow furrowed—“isn’t she the next-door neighbor?”

“That is correct.”

“But why would she have any reason to stab Miss Moran?” he pressed. “They didn’t even know each other.”

“But maybe they did,” Betsy said. “If her fiancé had once known Agatha Moran, maybe she knew her, too.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to report?” Mrs. Jeffries asked Hatchet.

“No, that’s all.”

She glanced at Betsy. “Did you have any luck today?”

“Just a bit.” Betsy smiled. “I talked to some shopkeepers on the high street near the Evans house. But the only thing I found out was that the Evanses’ servants were all off on Monday afternoon.” She told them about the tiny bit of information she’d learned from the greengrocer. “But I’m going back out tomorrow.”

“Don’t you have the final fittin’ for your dress tomorrow?” Mrs. Goodge asked as she got up from the table. She kept her attention on the maid as she walked over to the cooker and opened the oven door.

“Yes, but that’s at nine in the morning.”

“Aren’t you goin’ to spend the rest of the day with your family?” Smythe interjected. “You don’t want them gettin’ their feelin’s hurt right before the weddin’.”

“I can do it all,” she protested. “I’ve got all day. Norah and Leo have other things to do in London besides sit and hold my hand.”

“That’s fine, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She glanced at Wiggins. “How did you do?”

Wiggins shrugged. “I don’t know that what I heard is goin’ to be particularly useful, but I did meet up with a footman from the Evans household.” He repeated what he’d learned from Mickey Dobbs. “It’s not much.” He smiled sheepishly. “Maybe I’ll hear more tomorrow.”

“It’s fine, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. “Now, I’ve got something to report.” She told them about her meeting with Madame Deloffre. She took her time in the telling, giving them a blow-by-blow account of her every action, from her hiding place in front of the Moran house to the final good-bye with Madame Deloffre at King’s Cross railway station.

“So Beatrice Trent wasn’t his first wife. She was his second.” Mrs. Goodge spooned liquid over the chickens.

“Do you think the Evans family knows he was married twice before?” Luty asked, her expression thoughtful.

“I doubt it,” Hatchet said. “We’ve all been trying to get the goods on all of the people who were at that party, but none of us picked up this particular fact.”

“It can’t be common knowledge,” Mrs. Goodge said flatly. She shoved the birds back in the oven and closed the door. “That’s not the sort of gossip that people keep to themselves, so one of us would have heard by now.”

“It’s a good thing Mrs. Jeffries went to the Moran house today.” Wiggins reached for another piece of bread. “Otherwise we’d still be in the dark as well. Seems to me she’s found us a motive for Sir Madison. He might have killed her to keep her from tellin’ the Evans family their soon-to-be son-in-law had two dead wives.”

“Why thank you, Wiggins.” Mrs. Jeffries beamed.

“But how did Lowery know that Miss Moran had found out his big secret?” Smythe asked.

“Maybe she told him,” Betsy suggested. “You know, to scare him off and try to keep him from marrying her former charge.”

“We can speculate all day, but it’ll not do us any good at this point in the case,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Lowery does seem to have a reason to have murdered Miss Moran, but we mustn’t jump to conclusions just yet.”

“What were the papers that your Madame Deloffre translated for Miss Moran?” Wiggins asked as he slathered butter on his bread.

“A death certificate for Delphine Lowery,” she replied.

“How did that one die?” Smythe asked.

“Don’t tell us,” Luty said. “I’ll bet it was food poisonin’.”

“And you would be correct.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “The first Mrs. Lowery died three days after she’d eaten a batch of oysters.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries managed to corner the inspector as soon as he stepped through the front door. Within moments, she had him ensconced in his favorite chair and drinking a nice glass of sherry.

“I do hope your day was productive, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she sank down on the settee opposite him.

“I’m never sure if I’ve been productive or not,” he admitted. “But one thing is for certain: The constable and I worked very hard today. We learned quite a bit.”

“Do begin at the beginning, sir,” she pleaded. “You know how much I love hearing all the details of your day. We’ve plenty of time. Mrs. Goodge says dinner won’t be ready for another forty-five minutes.”

“Are we having roast chicken?”

“That’s right, sir.”

He took a sip of sherry. “Constable Barnes and I started off with a visit to the Evans household. We needed to go back, you see. The constable wanted to verify something the maid had mentioned, and I wanted to have another word with Mrs. Evans.”

She listened carefully as he spoke, sometimes asking a question or making a comment. By the time he’d finished his recitation, their glasses were empty and she was trying to come up with a way to pass on some of the information the staff had learned. “Have you decided then, to focus your attention on the Evans household?”

He sighed and looked off into the distance. “Well, they have acted oddly. Mrs. Evans has been less than truthful with us and . . . oh, I don’t know. We found out so much information today and I can’t make sense of any of it.”

“It’s early days yet and you must give yourself time to see the pattern and the connections among these divergent facts.”

“But what if I don’t?” he wondered mournfully.

“Nonsense, sir. Your instincts have always served you well on your other cases,” she assured him. “There’s no reason to believe they won’t serve you equally well on this one. As you’ve often said, sir, ‘One can’t go wrong listening to one’s inner voice.’ In this instance, you must give your voice a bit of time. Gracious, sir, who knows what other facts you’ll turn up now that you’re on the hunt, so to speak.”

She knew that Witherspoon had very little faith in his own abilities, so she took every opportunity she could to bolster his confidence in himself and his “inner voice.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Jeffries.” He gave her a grateful smile.

“Kindness has nothing to do with it, sir. You always do your duty, and you’ll do your duty here and catch this killer.”

“I hope so,” he replied.

“As I said earlier, sir, you’ve excellent instincts.” She had to tread carefully here. They’d learned so much today that she didn’t want to push him in the wrong direction. She hesitated for a brief moment and then plunged ahead. “As it happens, over tea this afternoon, Mrs. Goodge mentioned that she’d heard quite a bit of gossip about Sir Madison Lowery.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared through her bedroom window at the mist gathering outside. It was almost midnight and the house was silent, but she couldn’t sleep. She pulled her shawl tighter against the night chill and kept her gaze on the gas lamp across the road. Her mind kept going over and over everything they’d found out. She didn’t like forming an opinion so early in the investigation, but the evidence against Sir Madison Lowery was beginning to mount up. But was it? His motive was very questionable. Surely he’d not have committed murder merely because Agatha Moran threatened to expose his first marriage? Exposure could only be a threat to him if he knew that the Evanses would insist their daughter break off her engagement, and from what they’d learned about the character of Mrs. Evans, she’d not let a bit of gossip stop her from marrying off her only child to an aristocrat, even a minor one. But perhaps Mr. Evans wouldn’t be so eager for the match and would put a halt to the marriage.