Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (10 page)

“What would you do, Blimpey? Even with plenty of lolly, you'd still want to keep busy.” Smythe knew exactly what his friend meant; he and Betsy had had this same conversation more than once. They, too, had considered leaving England for a less class-ridden society, but they'd both decided that, for the moment, they'd stay put. Amanda was still a toddler.

Blimpey thought for a moment. “I could do what I do 'ere, I could open a pub.”

“That'd keep you occupied for about an hour a day. Be honest, Blimpey, would you really be happy not knowing everything that was goin' on in your patch of the world? One of the reasons you're so good at your work is because you're one of them people that just have to know everything.”

Blimpey frowned. “I just know I want my child to have all the opportunities I never had.”

“And if you'd had those opportunities, would you be doin' something different?” He leaned toward his friend, his expression earnest. “Admit it, ya like what you do. Ya like seeing some toff climbing out of a hansom and knowin' he's so close to bein' bankrupt that 'e can't even pick up the tab for his dinner or watchin' a titled lady stroll down Regent Street all the while knowin' that her husband's rollin' about in the hay with half her friends and the lover she
thinks is faithful has half a dozen other women. Admit it, Blimpey, ya like that.”

“I do, I like it a lot,” he admitted with a laugh. “Bloomin' Ada, I don't know what I'm on about, do I. When I mentioned leaving to Nell, she wasn't keen on the idea, said this was our country, and if we didn't like the way things were, instead of runnin' off, we ought to fight to change it.”

Smythe relaxed. “She's right. Promise me you'll not close up shop just yet.”

“You're just worried I won't be 'ere when you need help on one of the inspector's cases.”

“Bloomin' right it worries me. But as you are 'ere, let's get on with this.”

*   *   *

Helena Rayburn glared at her gardener. “How dare you insinuate those are mine.” She pointed to the bloodstained garments spread out on the pristine lawn.

“Because they are yours,” he insisted. “I've been the gardener here since Colonel Rayburn was a lad and there's nothing wrong with my eyesight. I've seen you wearin' these things when you're larkin' about in your conservatory pretendin' you know something about growing plants.”

Witherspoon studied the man. Tall and bald, he had brown eyes, excellent posture, and bushy eyebrows. His face was red, though whether that was from shouting at his employer or a lifetime of braving the elements, it was impossible to tell. “Mr. uh . . .”

“It's Tufts, Howard Tufts.” The gardener turned to Witherspoon. “And I know what I know. I found them things rolled up and stuffed under the ivy bed. Soon as I saw 'em,
I sent for one of your lads. But she come out and started demanding that I give 'em to her.”

Barnes looked at Helena Rayburn. “Is that true, Mrs. Rayburn?”

“Of course it isn't,” she snapped. “He's only saying that because I've given him his notice and he's angry at me.”

“You didn't give me the sack,” Tufts charged. “I'm the one that give you notice and you did too try to make me give them to you. But I held my ground and wouldn't let you take them.”

Barnes kept a wary eye on the gardener and Helena Rayburn while Witherspoon knelt and examined the clothes spread out on the ground. There was a full-sized apron, an oversized duster, and a pair of gardening gloves, all of which were stained with blood. “When did you find these?”

“This morning,” Tufts smirked at his employer. “I went to cut the ivy back and found them. Like I said, I went and got that constable who's been on the front door and he sent for you.” He jerked a thumb at Helena Rayburn. “But then she come out and told me to hand them over.”

“That is utter nonsense. I did no such thing.”

The inspector rose to his feet. “Mrs. Rayburn, do these belong to you?”

“I've already said they don't. How dare you take his word over mine.”

Tufts snorted.

“Mrs. Rayburn, are you certain?”

She bit her lip and looked away. “I'm not going to answer any more questions. You've no right to harass me like this.”

“We've every right, ma'am,” the inspector said softly. “A man was murdered on your property, and according to the evidence here on the ground, whoever killed him might have been wearing these garments, which your gardener claims belong to you.”

“And that's not all.” Tufts waved toward the fence. “Them boards over there weren't loose last week. I was weeding along that fence, and one of the things I do when I weed is check that there's no rot on the wood.”

“You're saying the boards weren't loose last week?” Barnes clarified.

“That's right, they were good and tight when I checked them.”

“That proves that anyone could have gotten in here and murdered Filmore,” Helena interjected eagerly. “The killer obviously loosened them to get into the garden and then to the conservatory.” She lifted her hand, pointed, and turned slowly, moving in a semi-circle. “You're all trying to make it look as if I killed that man, but I didn't, and I'll not have you ruining my reputation with your nasty implication that I'm a murderer.”

“Mrs. Rayburn, no one is trying to imply anything of the sort. We're simply asking questions.” Witherspoon hoped she wouldn't become hysterical. He wasn't very good with that sort of thing.

“But you're asking the wrong questions.” She jerked her chin at the gardener. “Why don't you find out what he was doing when Filmore was killed? He never liked him, he was always hinting that the man was up to no good.”

“I never said that,” Tufts cried. “I just said that it was
odd the only thing he knew about gardening was stealin' plants from their native soils and selling them off. Why should I want to kill the fellow?”

“Because you were jealous of him,” she charged. “You were upset that I was making you retire and I was hiring someone Mr. Filmore recommended.”

“You didn't tell us this before,” Barnes said to her.

“I'm hardly in the habit of sharing my domestic details with all and sundry. But nonetheless, it's true. If you don't believe me, you can ask Mrs. Clemment. She was present when I told Mr. Tufts that as of the first of July his services will no longer be required. But after today, I do believe I can dispense with his services immediately.” She turned her attention to Tufts and pointed to the gate. “Get off my property now.”

“Not so fast, Mrs. Rayburn,” Witherspoon said. “We'd like to ask Mr. Tufts a few questions before he leaves.”

“Ask him your questions, then.” She turned on her heel and stalked toward the house.

Witherspoon waited till she was out of earshot. “Mr. Tufts, did you have any sort of quarrel with Mr. Filmore?”

“No, I thought the man was no better than a confidence trickster, but that was no skin off my nose.” He grinned. “He sold them women the most god-awful plants. As long as he claimed it was a rare orchid, he could sell them anything he liked.”

“You're saying he often gave them worthless plants that he'd misrepresented?” Barnes asked.

Tufts grinned even wider. “That's right, but he was quite a clever sod. He didn't do it all the time, and he stopped
altogether once he realized that Mrs. Rayburn and Mrs. Martell was always bringing members of the RHS around to have a look at their greenhouses. Now, them folks do know something about plants.”

“RHS, oh you mean the Royal Horticultural Society,” Witherspoon muttered. “Mr. Tufts, where were you on the morning of the murder?”

“I was here until about half past ten,” he explained. “But it was too wet to get much done so I went home. My missus can vouch for me, and despite what Mrs. Rayburn says, I wasn't all that bothered about being let go. I was getting ready to give my notice anyway. I'm almost seventy, Inspector, and I'm tired. Besides, the late Mr. Rayburn left all of his old servants a bit of money when he passed on, so with that and my savings, the wife and I will do just fine.”

“Can anyone verify your whereabouts, I mean anyone other than your wife?” Barnes asked.

“My neighbor came over and the two of us went to the Full Moon, that's the pub around the corner at about half past eleven. The barkeep will can vouch for me. I was there until two.”

Witherspoon nodded. He'd send a constable to the pub just to be sure, but he was fairly certain Mr. Tufts could be crossed off the list of suspects.

“Are you absolutely sure these garments belong to Mrs. Rayburn?” Barnes nodded toward the clothes.

“Much as I enjoy riling the woman, it's the truth. They're hers. But if you don't want to take my word for it, the other servants will tell you they're hers. She had them special made by her dressmaker. Except for the
gloves, she sent to France for them. Guess English gloves weren't good enough for her.”

*   *   *

The Kensington High Street was noisy with the clatter of horses' hooves, the thump of wheels, and the shouts of drivers jockeying for position on the busy road. Shoppers and street hawkers hurried along the pavement, all of them intent on their business and, to Phyllis' mind, in a ruddy great hurry. She shifted to avoid being bumped and jostled, and stayed close to the shop fronts as she walked.

Phyllis slowed her footsteps as she approached the butcher shop on the corner. She wasn't sure she had the will or the courage to keep going. So far, she'd been to three other places but she'd learned nothing. The clerk at the greengrocer's knew of the murder but was in such a grumpy mood she couldn't get anything out of the girl, the baker had a long line of customers and barely gave her so much as a “good morning,” and the woman running the newsagent's was too busy complaining about her daughter-in-law to another customer to even notice Phyllis was trying to ask a few questions. All in all, it had been a miserable morning.

But the lack of success with the local shopkeepers wasn't the only thing bothering her. Try as she might, she couldn't stop thinking about the incident with Luty. She'd spoken up hoping to make the elderly woman feel better, to let her know that everyone had moments when “they got down in the mouth” and her outburst of honesty had worked. By the time their meeting ended, Luty was back to her old self.

But Phyllis' comforting words to Luty had come with
a cost and now she was paying the price. Unwelcome memories had come flooding back; feelings of shame, worthlessness, humiliation, all those emotions she'd worked so hard to push out of her mind had taken root and sprouted with a vengeance. Try as she might, she couldn't make them go away.

All of a sudden she was a twelve-year-old girl again, grief stricken and standing in front of her old mistress, Mrs. McConnell. “Stop your sniveling, Thompson, you're not the first child to lose a parent. Now get back in the wet larder, and this time, scrub the floor properly or I'll toss you out without a reference.”

Coming to a full stop, Phyllis leaned against the brick wall of an estate agent's office, lifted her shopping basket, and pretended to be searching inside it. She wanted an excuse to keep her face down and hidden from the people on the street. Tears welled up and she swallowed hard to keep them from spilling down her cheeks. The harsh voice continued, only now it was screaming in her head. “You little fool, you'll never amount to anything, I ought to put you out on the streets! I should never have let you in here, you can't do anything right. All you do is take food out of decent people's mouths.”

Phyllis covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob just as a young lad charged around the corner and banged into her, jerking her back to the present.

“Cor blimey, miss, I didn't see ya there.” His thin, narrow face was contorted in worry. “I'm so sorry, miss. I didn't mean to bang into ya. But I'm in a hurry. If I don't get back before my guv does, he'll sack me.”

He was skinny, dark haired, and dressed in scruffy,
oversized clothes he'd probably inherited from an older sibling. He was so young he barely came up to her shoulder. “It's alright,” she told him. “You didn't hurt me.”

“Ta, miss.” He bobbed his head and raced off.

She watched him disappear into the crowd of well-dressed shoppers, most of whom had no idea what it was like to worry every single minute of the day about losing your position and having nothing, not even a miserable job that kept a bit of food in your belly and a cold roof over your head. A hard, hot anger surged through her as she realized the full injustice of it all. Neither she nor that young worried-looking lad had done anything to deserve the fate they'd been given, so why should either of them be ashamed about their lives? Why did being born poor give those that had something leave to push around those that nothing? It wasn't right. Another voice entered her head and this was one she welcomed.

“You've a right to the same things the rich have,” Betsy had told her. “You've a right to a warm bed, plenty of food, and being treated with respect. You're as good as anyone else. The work we do on the inspector's cases is important. We've kept the innocent from being hung and made sure the guilty, even if they're rich and powerful, pay for their crimes. So you hold your head up high no matter who you're talking to, even if it's the Queen herself.”

Betsy had delivered that lecture shortly after Phyllis had worked up the courage to help them. She straightened her spine, swiped her cheeks, and took a deep breath. Betsy was right, she did deserve a good life, and by golly, she was going to have it. She was no longer going to let the past intrude on her present. Not now, not ever again.

She turned and walked the short distance to the corner, opened the door, and stepped into the butcher's shop. Stopping just inside the door, she surveyed the room. It was almost lunchtime, so the morning rush was over and the place was empty of customers. Even better, there was a young man behind the counter. She'd been surprised to find that when it came to getting information, she had better luck with males than females.