Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize (13 page)

The housemaid led them past the staircase and down the hall to the drawing room. Tables covered with fringed runners, glass-fronted cabinets filled with china knickknacks, bookcases, a wicker rocker, two settees upholstered in dark green and gold damask, and three matching armchairs crowded the room. The walls were so covered with paintings of pastoral scenes, portraits, and seascapes that it was difficult to see the pattern in the pale pink wallpaper.

Thea Stanway rose from one of the settees. “I've been expecting you, gentlemen. Please come in and sit down.” She waved at the two armchairs that were catercorner to her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stanway.” Witherspoon eased into one of the armchairs but Barnes took out his pencil and notebook before sitting down.

Witherspoon relaxed a bit as he sat; the cushion wasn't one of those wretched slippery ones. “Mrs. Stanway, I know Mr. Filmore's death must have been a shock to you, but it's necessary that we ask you some questions.”

“Of course. Would you or the constable care for tea?”

“No, we're both fine. Now, can you tell me what time you arrived at the Rayburn home?”

“I'm not sure of the exact time. I think it was almost half past twelve. But I was in the neighborhood at half past eleven. My old nanny has a flat in a house just across the street from Mrs. Rayburn, and I often go to visit her, especially when I've a social engagement at the Rayburn home.”

“Did you see anyone hanging about the Rayburn home when you arrived either to see your nanny or when you went to the luncheon?”

“I didn't, but it was wet out so I was more concerned with keeping myself dry than looking around the neighborhood,” she replied.

“Did you take a hansom cab that morning?” Barnes asked.

“I walked, Constable. I like walking. I got in the habit when I was in India.”

“But you said it was wet out?” he pressed.

She smiled. “I've a very good umbrella, Constable, and this time of year, it wasn't cold. Cabs are ridiculously expensive and I quite like exercise and fresh air.”

Witherspoon thought back to his interviews with Mrs. Attwater and Mrs. Martell. “When you arrived at the Rayburn home, were all the other ladies already present?”

“No, I was the first, then Mrs. Attwater came, and after her, Mrs. Martell. The one person who wasn't present was Mrs. Rayburn. She didn't join us until right before the housekeeper announced that luncheon was served. I was surprised about that, too. Helena isn't one to ignore proper etiquette and not be present to greet her guests.”

“Did she say why she'd been delayed?” Barnes stopped writing and looked at her. He wondered if she had any idea that Helena Rayburn had gone out.

“She did not, nor did she apologize, which I thought most odd. As I said, Mrs. Rayburn is very strict about proper etiquette, and considering the way she went on and on about Mrs. Attwater's behavior, you'd think she could have at least had the decency to apologize to us. But then we're all like that, aren't we. Finding fault in others while excusing our own actions.”

“Was there anything unusual about Mrs. Rayburn's appearance when she joined you and the other ladies?” The constable wondered if Mrs. Stanway had noticed the frizzy hair.

Thea smiled. “I shouldn't mention it, Constable, but as you've asked, I supposed I ought to tell the truth. Her hair was frizzy; it was as if she'd been outside in the damp. Oh dear, that sounds unkind, doesn't it, but you did ask.”

“What did Mrs. Rayburn say about Mrs. Attwater?” Witherspoon asked.

“Only that she'd stayed far too long after the meal was over and that she ought to have known better. Of course, both Isabelle and I were there longer than Mrs. Attwater, but Helena excused us on the grounds we were old friends.”

“Wasn't Mrs. Attwater an old friend as well?” Witherspoon asked. “Weren't you all in India together at the same place?”

“We were. But Mrs. Attwater left years earlier than we did.” She thought for a moment. “I quite like Chloe Attwater. I did when we were in India as well. But I don't think Helena, Mrs. Rayburn, liked her very much, and I know that even back then, she never considered Mrs. Attwater a friend.” She shrugged. “Back in those days, Helena felt it was unseemly to have more than just a passing acquaintance
with a governess. But times change and she, along with the rest of us, must change with them.”

“How long were you a customer of Mr. Filmore's?” Barnes asked.

“I'm not sure, let me see. We started the club right after we all got back to England, but he didn't start supplying plants till, oh, five years ago or so . . . Yes, that's right, Helena brought him to one of our meetings and had him show his plants.”

“She arranged for him to meet everyone in your gardening club?” Witherspoon clarified. “Is that correct?”

“That's right. If it hadn't been for her, he'd have probably gone out of business,” she replied. “At least that's what Isabelle, Mrs. Martell, told me.”

“Do you know if Mr. Filmore had any enemies?”

“Well, he must have, mustn't he. Someone killed him.”

*   *   *

“I feel such a fool.” Mrs. Goodge shook her head in disbelief as she grabbed the plate and glared at the remaining slab of seed cake.

The kitchen at Upper Edmonton Gardens was empty save for the two women and Samson, who was staring at his empty food dish.

“Don't be ridiculous.” Mrs. Jeffries stacked the empty teacups on a tray and headed for the sink. “You made a simple mistake, something we all do from time to time.”

“Simple mistake! I put salt instead of sugar in the cake. No wonder no one could eat the ruddy thing. Oh dear Lord, everyone must think me a complete and utter idiot.” Mrs. Goodge began gathering plates and dumping the uneaten slices back on the cake plate. Then she stopped and sat
down. She said nothing. Samson, annoyed that the food dish was still empty, butted her shins with his head and gave a pitiful meow.

Mrs. Jeffries put the tray on the counter by the sink and picked up the bowl filled with meat scraps. She crossed the room, eased him to one side, and used her arm to block his paws so couldn't swipe her hand before dumping the food into his dish. He shoved his fat head in and noisily gobbled down the food. She put the empty bowl next to his dish for him to lick and went back to the table.

Saying nothing, she stood for a moment and studied the cook.

Mrs. Goodge was staring off into space, her expression morose. Finally, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Are you going to tell me what's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong.”

“Please don't say that. You've been distracted ever since the inspector's gotten this murder. There's something about it which is bothering you.”

“Maybe I'm just going senile,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Maybe it's time for me to quit. I've got a bit saved now. I could move into one of them places by the seaside that cater to old women without families. Old women like me.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn't sure if she should let the cook ramble on, wallowing in self-pity, or whether she ought to stop it before the woman talked herself into a major case of melancholy. “You're not going senile and it certainly isn't time to quit. Furthermore, we may not be related by blood, but your contention that you have no family is insulting to me and would be heartbreaking to the others. We are family. So stop this nonsense right now and tell me
what's wrong. Something has caused you to fall into this state of mind, now what is it?”

“India.” She looked down at her hands.

“India? What on earth does that mean? Why should India upset you so much?”

“It's not the country that upsets me. It was when we found out that the ladies in this case were all military widows from the Raj. It made me remember something I've tried hard to forget.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Mrs. Jeffries went to the pine sideboard, opened the cabinet on the lower right, grabbed two cut glass aperitif glasses, and put them on the table. The cook didn't seem to notice. Then Mrs. Jeffries ducked back to the cabinet and yanked out the bottle of excellent brandy she kept on hand for either quiet celebrations or emergencies.

To her way of thinking, Mrs. Goodge's current state of mind was most definitely an emergency.

She poured the brandy into the glasses, slid one across the table to the cook, and then sat down.

Mrs. Goodge blinked. “Oh dear, what's this, then? If I have this, I might ruin our supper.”

“Don't worry about it, I'll supervise you. Now, tell me why the thought of army posts in India upsets you so much.”

Mrs. Goodge picked up her glass and poured the brandy down her throat like a sailor. She sighed and then sat back. “Because I'm responsible for a decent young woman's death in that country. Oh Lord, I hate thinking about it, but the moment I found out our suspects were all connected to the army and India, I couldn't stop myself from thinking of Janet Lawler. She died out there and it was my fault.”

She pushed her empty glass toward the housekeeper.
“May I have another? It helps, and at my age, it doesn't really matter if I become a drunk, does it.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed and poured another shot. She slid it across the table, “I hardly think that's likely. Now, tell me why you think you're responsible for this girl's death.”

“Because I am, Hepzibah. If I'd behaved differently, she wouldn't have died.” Mrs. Goodge nodded her thanks and picked up the glass. “It was years ago and I worked for a family in Kent. The cook left to go to London and she recommended me to take her place. She said I'd worked hard and I deserved it. So I got the position and I was so proud. It was a prominent family and they entertained a lot, so there was a large kitchen staff.” She took a sip of brandy. “Janet Lawler was one of the scullery maids. She was a silly girl, always talking and laughing and a bit lazy. I was eager to prove that I was in charge, that my word was law in the kitchen. That's the way I'd always been treated, and back in those days, that was simply the way it was. Mind you, if I was young and in a kitchen now, I'd not put up with such ridiculous nonsense, we should have demanded better treatment, all of us, but we didn't. Back then, we were always being told we ought to be grateful just to have a position and a roof over our heads. It never occurred to anyone that we had rights. But none of that matters now, what's done is done. Anyway, the long and short of it is that Janet got on my bad side very quickly. Behavior that hadn't bothered me when I was the undercook could no longer be tolerated now that I was in charge.” She closed her eyes as the memories flooded back. “I gave Janet several warnings, but it didn't do much good—she was still always larking about and laughing. The worst
happened while we were getting ready for a huge dinner party, and the silly child dropped an expensive platter with a prime rib of beef on it—that was really my fault, not hers, I should have called one of the footmen to carry it up to the dining room. We were able to salvage the food but the lady of the house was furious that her plate had been broken. Instead of speaking up for the girl, I let her take all the blame and she was sacked the next day and not given a reference.”

“And back in those days, without a reference, a decent job was impossible,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly.

“That's right. After that, the only position she could get was with a family going to India for the husband to join a regiment. Janet didn't want to go, but she was desperate for a job. A few days after arriving in India, I found out she'd come down with one of those fevers they have there and died.”

“How did you find out?” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of her brandy.

“Her cousin worked in the kitchen and she told me. That's how Janet had gotten the position there in the first place.” Mrs. Goodge tossed back the rest of her drink. “That poor child was only sixteen years old and she died of a fever in India. In a foreign land amongst strangers and it was my fault. If I'd stood up for her, if I'd taken responsibility for giving that slip of a girl that heavy platter of food, she wouldn't have dropped it and broken it. She'd have not gotten sacked and she'd still be alive.”

“How was your day, Inspector?” Mrs. Jeffries asked as she hung up his bowler hat.

“Very tiring, Mrs. Jeffries, I shall enjoy our glass of sherry this evening.” He hurried down the hall and she followed a bit more slowly, giving herself a few moments to think. She was very concerned about Mrs. Goodge but she had no idea what, if anything, she could do about her friend's misery. The only thing she could think of was lending both a sympathetic ear and reassuring her she wasn't responsible for the girl's death. But now she had to concentrate on everything the inspector said. There was no doubt that he was going to speak about the case, and she simply couldn't afford to be distracted.

When she reached the study, she went to the liquor cabinet in the corner, pulled out two glasses, a bottle of Harveys, and poured them both a drink.

“Something smells wonderful, Mrs. Jeffries.” He inhaled deeply. “And I do hope that whatever it is, there is plenty. I am very hungry. It feels as if Constable Barnes and I were all over London today, and yet, I'm not sure we actually learned anything of use to the case.”

“Nonsense, sir.” She handed him his glass. “That's just your mind muddling you up a bit so your ‘inner voice' is free to work on the case without interference. That's precisely what you do in every case and thus far, sir, you've had a rather good success rate.”

“You do make me feel better, Mrs. Jeffries, and I do hope you're right and my ‘inner voice' will actually help us solve this one. It's quite frustrating, though—we still can't get into the victim's home or place of business. So we don't know much about the man except for what we've learned from the ladies at Mrs. Rayburn's luncheon.”

“His landlady still hasn't returned?”

“No, she sent a telegram to her neighbor saying she'd be back tomorrow. But as I said, we had a busy day nonetheless. It didn't start off well at all. We went to the Rayburn home to have another word with Mrs. Rayburn, but she'd gone out. So we went to Mayfair and interviewed Mrs. Attwater.”

“Isn't she the luncheon guest who wasn't there when the body was discovered?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She knew perfectly well who Chloe Attwater was but she had to keep up a pretense of ignorance.

“Indeed, and she was a most interesting witness. Not only was she waiting for us with a full tea trolley at the ready, but she was positively eager to answer any and all our questions.”

“That's certainly unusual,” Mrs. Jeffries commented.
As far as she was concerned, that kind of cooperation was also rather suspicious. The rich rarely liked speaking to the police, but perhaps she was being overly cynical. She pushed her doubts to the back of her mind and listened to his account.

“I'm not certain, but I do think that some of the comments Mrs. Attwater made were deliberately fashioned so that I'd think that both Helena Rayburn and Isabelle Martell were capable of murder.”

“From what you've said, sir, Mrs. Attwater wanted to make it very clear that both women were familiar with, uh, what was it?”

“‘Sudden death,'” he repeated.

“So she implied that Isabelle Martell might have pushed her husband off a balcony when he was drunk and that, before she married, Helena Rayburn's accusations of inappropriate behavior led to a young man being drowned. Is that right?”

“That's right. The only person she didn't accuse was Thea Stanway.” He took another sip of sherry. “But then perhaps she didn't have time to include Mrs. Stanway as we were interrupted and called back to the Rayburn house.” He told her about the gardener finding the bloody clothes in the ivy bed. “At first, Mrs. Rayburn did exactly what she did when we found the gardening tools that matched the murder weapon—she denied the clothes belonged to her.”

Mrs. Jeffries listened closely, trying to take it all in as he reported the events surrounding the discovery of the garments and the ensuing fracas between Helena Rayburn and her gardener.

“Of course, I knew it was pointless for the two of them
to simply stand there accusing one another of everything from murder to jealousy, so when she went into the house, I had a quick word with Mr. Tufts, who despite what Mrs. Rayburn said, had no reason to want the victim dead.” He took another quick sip. “While I was interviewing Mrs. Rayburn, Constable Barnes showed the bloodstained clothing to Mrs. Clemment, and she confirmed they belonged to Mrs. Rayburn,” he continued. “Earlier that day, the housekeeper had also told us that Mrs. Rayburn had gone out sometime before the luncheon and only returned a few moments before the meal was served.”

“Where had she gone?”

“I haven't asked her that as yet.” He shrugged. “The truth is, we got called away to the Yard before I could finish my interview so I'll ask her tomorrow.”

When he paused to take a breath, she said, “I can understand why she's frightened. It doesn't look good for her, does it?”

“No, but I don't know that I think she's guilty. She had no reason we know of to murder Hiram Filmore. But we'll find out more when we do finally get to search his flat and shop. We might find evidence that there's a whole host of people who wanted the fellow dead. Mrs. Rayburn is lucky in one sense—Mrs. Stanway seems to be coming by frequently to make sure she's all right. But she does seem to be one of those friends that mean well but end up being cold comfort.” He told her about Thea Stanway's assertion that women were just as capable of murder as men.

“A Job's comforter,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured, though she thought it most likely that Thea Stanway was simply a nosy sort who used friendship as an excuse to see what
was going on at any particular moment. “I suppose Chief Superintendent Barrows was pressuring you to make an arrest.”

“No, quite the contrary,” he replied.

Surprised, she stared at him. “Really sir?”

“Really. I was quite stunned when I got there.” He repeated everything Barrows had said and then added the information Constable Barnes had learned. “What's odd, of course, is that we know of no connection between Sir Jeremy Sanders and Hiram Filmore or anyone else on this case.”

“I'm sure something will turn up, sir. It always does.” She concentrated hard as she tried to keep the facts in some semblance of reasonable order. But then she gave up and just listened.

“After that, we interviewed Isabelle Martell,” he said. “She was very uncooperative; the only thing she could recall about the time she arrived at the Rayburn home was that Mrs. Stanway was in the cloakroom fussing with her gloves.” He downed the last of his sherry. “But we'll learn more tomorrow. I'm sure of it.”

*   *   *

The next morning, Mrs. Jeffries came downstairs and found Mrs. Goodge was up and had made tea. “Gracious, you don't look like you've slept at all,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed as she entered the kitchen.

The cook sat at the table staring off into the distance. A cup of tea was in front of her and Samson was on Fred's rug by the cooker, glaring at both of them.

“I'm fine. Don't mind me, Mrs. Jeffries, it's just the miseries of old age.” She got up and went to the worktable, limping as if her rheumatism was bothering her. She
pulled out her big baking bowl. “I'd better do a batch of scones, just in case one of my sources show up.”

“Didn't you send out notes? That's what you normally do.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down in her chair, reached for the teapot, and poured herself a cup. Once again, she had no idea how to react to her friend's obvious melancholy. She'd hoped a good night's sleep might have helped the cook put her past into perspective, but from her red-rimmed eyes and the sharp lines etched around her mouth, it hadn't.

“I sent some off, but you never know who is going to respond and who isn't.” She turned when they heard a knock at the back door just as Samson gave out a piteous cry for his breakfast.

“I'll get the door.” Mrs. Jeffries got up. “You feed your cat.”

The housekeeper had to shove her worries about Mrs. Goodge to the back of her mind as their morning routine unfolded. Constable Barnes gave them more details on yesterday's activities, and they, in turn, told him what the household had learned.

“What will you and the inspector be doing today?” Mrs. Jeffries asked as they completed their short meeting.

“Hopefully, Filmore's landlady is back and we can get into the flat.” He downed the last of his tea and stood up. “If we're lucky, there'll be keys there for his shop as well. Otherwise, we'll have to break into it. We can't go another day without learning more about our victim. The postmortem report ought to be ready today, and if the chief superintendent is good as his word, we might even see Filmore's military file sometime in the next day or two.”

*   *   *

Half an hour later, Constable Barnes and the inspector were politely introducing themselves to Mrs. Olive Rhodes, Hiram Filmore's landlady.

“I'm so sorry I wasn't here,” she exclaimed as she led them up the stairs to the second floor. “But I was given a lovely return ticket to Bournemouth and I simply had to go. My sister lives there and we've not seen each other for ages. Mind you, I thought Millie had sent me the ticket and just forgotten to include a note, she does that sort of thing all the time, you see, but when I arrived, she'd no idea what I was talking about. So now I've no idea who to thank, though, of course, it was probably Mr. Filmore who did it. He's given me gifts before, but generally he says something when he does. I was so sorry to hear he'd been killed—he was a good tenant, paid his rent on time, and generally was a nice gentleman.”

By this time they'd reached the first-floor landing. “What kind of gifts did Mr. Filmore give you?” Barnes took a deep breath.

“Oh, lovely little things. He knew how fond I was of music so he often got me tickets to a recital or concert.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was a nice man, a rather lonely man, and he was very kind to me. He'd even pay for a hansom cab home for those times he'd given me a ticket.” She blinked hard to beat back the tears, unlocked the door, and then stepped back. “Go on in, sir,” she said to Witherspoon. “I'll be downstairs in the parlor.”

They waited till she'd gone halfway down before opening the door and stepping into the flat. Filmore's home consisted of a large sitting room with a brown and green
herringbone three-piece suite, a small wooden desk on the far wall, and a set of bookcases. Just off the sitting room an open door led to the bedroom, which consisted of a bed neatly made up with a cream-colored spread, a trunk shoved under the window, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers with a mirror on the wall above it.

“I'll take the bedroom.” Barnes headed in that direction while the inspector began a search of the sitting room. First, he checked beneath the seat and back cushions of the furniture but found nothing but some crumbs, a button, and a sixpence. Then he went through the bookcase, the shelves of which were filled with books and periodicals about plants, flowers, gardening techniques, herbs, and spices.

Witherspoon was methodical, fanning the pages of each and every item and checking the back of the bookcase and even underneath it. But he found nothing. Lastly, he went to the desk. The top was bare save for an inkpot with two matching pens on a marble stand and a stack of envelopes. He sat down in the chair and pulled open the top left drawer and began to rummage through the contents. There was nothing but a stack of blank invoices, a packet of white notepaper, a bottle of black ink, and a stack of small brown envelopes. The drawer on the right contained much the same. He worked his way down through the others but found nothing except file boxes containing bills of ladings; invoices; shipping lists; customer lists; old ledgers filled with names, dates, and amounts in both pounds and dollars; and blank customs forms. He was almost at the bottom of the last drawer when he found the box. It was a lovely object—black lacquer, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in an exotic pattern.

Witherspoon pulled it out from beneath a packet of insurance forms and put it on the top of the desk. “Constable, I've found something,” he called. Barnes, who had almost completed his search and was now going through the shoes in the wardrobe, dropped the slipper he'd been holding and raced into the sitting room.

“This was in the bottom desk drawer.” The inspector waited till the constable was close enough to see before he lifted the lid. Inside was a set of three keys, an unsealed envelope, and a letter. He pulled the envelope out, opened it, and then separated the edges with his fingers so he could see inside properly. “Gracious, look at that, Constable. It's a five-pound note.”

“Looks like there's a lot of them.” Barnes jerked his chin toward the cash in the envelope. “That wad is as thick as a fat man's thumb.”

Witherspoon pulled the notes out and fanned them. “And they're five- and ten-pound notes. There must be several hundred pounds here.” He tucked the cash in the envelope. “I think we'd best take this into evidence, though I'm not sure it's evidence of anything except the man ran a business.” He put the envelope back in the box and picked up the letter. Opening it, he frowned as he began to read. “It's addressed to ‘My darling Nigel,' and it appears to be a love letter of some sort.” He felt his cheeks start to flame as he continued reading. “A very passionate love letter,” he mumbled. “And it's signed, ‘Your loving Helena.'”

“Filmore's Christian name was Hiram,” Barnes said dryly. “So I doubt the letter is to him. Do you think ‘Helena' could be Helena Rayburn?”

“It's possible,” Witherspoon said. “But as I recall, her late husband's name was Malcolm, not Nigel.”

Barnes pointed to the writing at the top. “It's dated October third, 1882. I wonder if Mrs. Rayburn was married to Mr. Rayburn by then?”