Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (29 page)

“And Mrs. Evans pulling a nasty trick like that would explain Miss Moran throwing a fit when she found out,” Betsy added. “But she took the money.”

“And kept an eye on her daughter.” Ruth took a dainty bite of brown bread. “Mrs. Middleton admitted to Gerald that Agatha Moran frequently went to Bayswater to have a look at the Evans house. She must have been trying to watch out for the girl.”

“And when she found out that Lowery was a probable murderer, she must have gone to see Sutton to enlist his help in making sure the marriage didn’t take place,” Hatchet said excitedly.

“Does that mean that Sutton murdered Miss Moran?” Luty asked. “You know, to keep her from spillin’ the beans about him bein’ Rosemary’s papa. He’d not have wanted Eleanor North to find out he’d fathered a child and abandoned the mother.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure. “I don’t know. According to Mrs. North’s second statement, Sutton turned the other way and went home before she went to the Evans house that evening.”

“He could have come back,” Smythe said. “He could have waited for her to go inside and then come back, spotted Miss Moran, and shoved a knife in her heart.”

“Which would mean he’d have had the knife on his person and been prepared to commit murder,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. Something didn’t make sense, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. What she needed was a bit of peace and quiet so she could absorb this new information.

“And he’d have had to have known that Rosemary Evans was his daughter,” Hatchet said softly.

“I’ll bet he did know,” Luty murmured.

“What makes you say that?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Remember how he and Eleanor North met? He was walkin’ past her house,” she explained. “Now why in tarna tion would he be in that neighborhood if it wasn’t to try and catch a glimpse of his daughter?”

Mrs. Jeffries really wished she could have just a few moments to think this through.

“I’ll bet that Mrs. Evans is the killer.” Wiggins helped himself to another slice of cake. “Let’s look at it logically. Miss Moran comes back from holiday and finds out her daughter is goin’ to marry a murderer. She hurries along to the Evans household and tells Mrs. Evans she’s got to stop the weddin’. I’ll bet it was Miss Moran that Rosemary Evans overheard ar guin’ with her mother on that Monday afternoon.”

“And we know that Arabella Evans is such a social climber, she’d die before she’d stop Rosemary’s marriage to an aristocrat,” Ruth pointed out.

“That’s right.” Wiggins waved his fork for emphasis. “And we know that Mrs. Evans was gone for a good long while durin’ the tea, so she could have nipped down to the kitchen, snatched up a knife, and hurried outside to stab it into poor Miss Moran’s heart.”

“Did Mrs. Evans have blood on her clothes?” Dr. Bosworth asked. “If she was stabbed in the heart, the blood would have spurted and the killer would have gotten some of it on his person.”

“And Mrs. Evans couldn’t have had time to murder Agatha Moran,” Betsy said. “When she disappeared during the tea, she sneaked off to smoke a cigarette.”

 

Witherspoon was so tired when he got home that evening that he asked Mrs. Jeffries to send his dinner up to his room on a tray. “I think I’ll just have a quick bite to eat and then go right to bed. I don’t want to eat in the dining room; I might get food on those lovely lace runners on the table.”

“We can move them off, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries argued.

“No, no, everyone’s worked very hard to get the house in order for the reception, and we all want it to be perfect.” He yawned and started up the staircase.

“Would you like a quick glass of sherry before you go up, sir?” She hurried after him. “We can have it in your study.” She’d come up with a clever way to pass along the information they’d learned today. Tomorrow wasn’t just Betsy’s wedding; it was Rosemary Evans’ wedding as well. The Evans wedding and the killer were tied together, but for the life of her, she couldn’t determine the murderer’s identity. Not until she had some time to herself.

“I don’t want one, but please feel free to have a nice drink yourself.” He turned and gave her a winsome smile as he reached the first-floor landing. “All I want is a quick supper and then I’m off to bed. Send Wiggins up with a tray. I’ll leave it in the hall when I’m done. I want to get plenty of rest. I’ve a big responsibility tomorrow.”

Upstairs, Smythe and Betsy sat on the couch in the small sitting room and held hands. “Are you nervous?” she asked.

“No, I’ve been waitin’ for this day for a long time.” He took a deep breath. He’d wanted the flat to be a surprise, but he’d changed his mind and decided it might make her happier if she knew their plans. “When we come back from our weddin’ trip, we’re movin’ into our own flat. It’s close by so we can stay on here. And well . . . I’ve bought the buildin’, but I’ve put it in your name so you’d have somethin’. If you don’t like the colors and the wallpapers, we can change them, and I’ve changed my will so that if somethin’ happens to me, I’ve left everythin’ to you.”

She put her hand over his mouth, stopping the rush of words. “Don’t say such things, not on the night before our wedding. I’ve come close to losing you before, but nothing is going to happen to either of us . . . and you didn’t have to change your will. I don’t have anything to give to you except my love and my trust, so not another word.”

“Your love was all I ever wanted.” He grinned. “And by the way, we’re goin’ to Paris for our weddin’ trip. You can tell Norah and Leo tomorrow before the weddin’. I know she’s been pesterin’ you about it.”

Betsy’s eyes filled with tears, but they were tears of happiness. “She’s been pestering me about everything, but she’s my sister. I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other again. By the way, I told her that you weren’t poor, but she’d already figured that out on her own.”

“Of course she did.” He laughed and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “She’s a smart one, just like her sister.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries closed the double doors behind her as she stepped into the dining room. It looked wonderful. White lace runners were draped over the dining table, now with the additional leaves added so that it ran the length of the room. Elegant green and white bunting, courtesy of Ruth, had been draped over the windows, and net streamers, also in green and white, were looped from the chandelier to all four corners, forming a festive crown over the room. Polished silver serving platters, cut glass crystal, and the household’s best china were lined up on the sideboard. Mrs. Jeffries nodded in satisfaction. Phyllis had done them proud. Betsy was going to have a wonderful reception.

Next she went into the drawing room and smiled in sheer delight as she stepped inside. More bunting at the windows, more streamers crisscrossing the ceiling, lace runners on all the cabinets and tables, and to top it off, a beautifully decorated Christmas tree with the wedding presents tucked safely beneath the branches. That had been Wiggins’ idea.

She spent the next ten minutes turning off the lamps and locking up the house. It was late and she was tired, but she knew she’d never sleep. Not with all the ideas racing through her head. Picking up one lantern, she went back upstairs and into the dining room, where she helped herself to a sherry before going into the drawing room. She put the lantern on the table and sank down on the settee.

Closing her eyes, she put her head back against the cushion and took several long, deep breaths. She’d found that relaxing her body helped to free her mind. She didn’t try to make sense out of any of the facts of the case; she simply breathed and let her mind go where it would.

Snatches of conversation drifted in and out of her mind.
The scullery maid complained that someone had stolen a carpetbag promised to her.
She relaxed her shoulders into the cushions.
“He told her they’d covered everything, includin’ her ruddy table, and what’s more, them cloths cost good money and if they all weren’t accounted for, he’d add it to her bill. You could hear them shoutin’ at each other all the way down in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Jeffries opened her eyes and reached for her sherry. She took a sip and closed them again.
“They confirmed the light was burning when they left that day.”
Her eyes flew open and she sat up
. He described the shelves filled with exotic products that no one wanted and laughed as he recounted seeing Douglas Branson’s head coming up from behind a stack of files. He repeated everything the chief clerk had said, but his expression sobered when he got to the part about Jeremy Evans weeping over his dead cat.

A pattern formed in her mind. For one brief moment, the entire sequence of events was crystal clear, but before she could rally the individual parts into some semblance of order, it disappeared. But she knew she was right—she knew who killed Agatha Moran.

But had she figured it out too late? How was she to prove it? The evidence was circumstantial at best, and tomorrow, of all days, was the worst possible time to set any course of action in motion. What if she was wrong? What if she had lost the ability to put the puzzle pieces together?

She got up and began to pace the room. No, she might doubt herself sometimes, but she knew she was right. This solution was the only one that made sense. She heard the hall clock strike the hour and knew she ought to go upstairs. Sleep would be impossible, but perhaps in the privacy of her room she could think through all her options and decide the best way to proceed. Picking up her lantern, she went upstairs.

She closed the door as quietly as possible and blew out the flame. Darkness descended, but she’d left her blind up and there was enough light for her to see. Putting the lantern on her desk, she made her way to the window. She had to think.

She eased herself into her rocker and fixed her gaze on the gas lamp across the road. She kept her eyes wide open, letting her vision blur and shift as she concentrated on the faint light. The idea she’d had earlier came quickly, and this time, her mind paid attention to the details. She sat there for over an hour.

Mrs. Jeffries gave herself a small shake and stood up. She no longer had any doubts about the identity of the killer. But the question was, could an arrest wait a day or two? That was the real quandary. Tomorrow was the biggest day in Betsy’s life, and she wanted everything to be perfect. Inspector Witherspoon was giving her away in marriage. If an arrest was made tomorrow, he’d be stuck for hours at the station, questioning the suspect and filling out paperwork. Could she do that to Betsy? Could she do that to Witherspoon?

But if she didn’t, she had a horrible feeling that something awful was going to happen.

Wiggins smiled cheerfully as he came into the kitchen. “You’re up already, Mrs. Jeffries. Cor blimey, you’ve even got the tea ready.” He walked toward the table, slipping on the suspender that had been hanging loose over his shoulder.

“We’re the early birds,” she replied. She poured his tea and put it in front of the chair next to hers. “Sit here. I want to talk to you before the others get up.” She couldn’t believe her good luck. Wiggins was usually the last one up in the mornings.

Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t slept very well. She couldn’t shake the feeling that if she waited until after the wedding to nudge the inspector toward an arrest, it might be too late. On the other hand, she didn’t want to take any action that might damage the wedding plans.

In the wee hours of the morning, she’d come up with what she hoped was a solution to her dilemma, but it would involve a bit of subterfuge on her part. She’d realized she couldn’t let any of them, except for Wiggins, know she’d come up with a solution to this case.

Everyone in the household was already excited and nervous about the wedding, and the last thing they needed was any additional conflict about whether or not they should act now or wait until the reception was over.

“What’s wrong?” His face creased with worry as he sat down.

“Nothing is wrong,” she assured him hastily. “I just need you to do something for me today. Something you can’t tell the others about.” She reached over and touched his hand. “This might be difficult for you, because I know you don’t like keeping secrets from the people you care about.”

Wiggins’ eyes widened in alarm. “You’re scarin’ me, Mrs. Jeffries. What’s this about?”

She pulled back. “You have to promise that you’ll do what I ask and not say anything to anyone, especially Betsy or Smythe. Can you do that? I could be wrong about this course of action, and if I am, we’ll have worried them for nothing.”

“Alright.” He took a drink of tea. “I promise I’ll hold my tongue. What do you want me to do?”

“Your wedding clothes are upstairs, right?”

“They’re in the cupboard. Why do you want me to put them on now? It’s a bit early. The weddin’s not till two thirty.”

“No, I just wanted to be sure you had them at the ready. If I’m correct in my assumptions, when you come back, you might be a bit pressed for time.” She took a deep breath, then told him what she suspected might happen today and what she needed him to do.