Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (10 page)

“Yes, miss.” She grabbed a sheet of newspaper from underneath the counter. With a deft turn of her hand, she twisted the paper into a cone shape and began tossing the vegetables into the center.

Phyllis cleared her throat. “Er, I’m wonderin’ if you know of a family named McCourt that live near here.”

“Never ’eard of ’em.” She looked over her shoulder. “Do you want anything else, miss?”

“I’ll have a cabbage,” she replied. “Are you sure you’ve never heard of them? They’re supposed to live nearby, and they do their shoppin’ in this neighborhood.”

“I’ve just said I’ve never ’eard of ’em.”

Phyllis felt tears spring into her eyes. She knew she wasn’t going to be good at this, and later this afternoon, when the others were all there, they’d know she couldn’t do it. Embarrassed, she ducked her head and stared at the countertop.

“Wait a minute. Are they the people that had the murder?” the girl said.

Phyllis lifted her chin and noted that her thin face had softened. “That’s them. My mistress gave me a letter of condolence to take to the house, and I can’t remember the address. She’s goin’ to sack me if I don’t get that ruddy letter to Mrs. McCourt.” She was making it up as she went along.

“Look, I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to work for hard people.” She glanced over her shoulder toward a curtain on the wall behind her and then back at Phyllis. “I didn’t mean to be rude before,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, “but I’ve gotten in trouble for bein’ too familiar with the customers. Mrs. Beaman will have my guts for garters if she catches me chattin’ with you.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Phyllis blurted out.

“It should be alright today. She went upstairs with one of her headaches, and that means she’ll have gone to bed by now. The McCourts shop here, alright. Leastways their household does. I’ve never seen either of them myself, but I heard that Mr. McCourt had his throat cut.”

“That’s what I heard, too.” Phyllis leaned forward eagerly. “I don’t suppose you know their address?” she asked, remembering to stay in character with the lie she’d told.

The girl grinned, and her face was transformed. “Number twelve Victoria Gardens. My brother does the delivery to the house. He says that it’s no wonder Mr. McCourt was murdered; he’s a right nasty fellow. Their footman was here yesterday gettin’ a bucket of wet sand, and he was ever in such a state. We were real busy, and he had to wait his turn. We’re the only ones that brings in sand, you see.”

Phyllis wasn’t certain she did, but not wanting to stop the flow of words, she merely nodded.

“Duncan’s a nice lad, and I could tell by his expression he was worried. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that the McCourt house was in a right old mess. He said Mr. and Mrs. McCourt was fightin’ like cats and dogs and that one of the housemaids was certain she was goin’ to get the sack.”

“I wonder what the McCourts were fightin’ about.” Phyllis hoped she was saying something that would keep the girl talking.

“I don’t know.” There was a scraping sound from behind the curtain, and an expression of alarm crossed the girl’s face. “Let me get you that cabbage,” she said loudly as footsteps pounded down a set of stairs from the inner reaches of the building.

“Thank you,” Phyllis said. “And I’ll have a pound of carrots as well,” she added just as the door opened and a stout, dark-haired woman with a stern visage stepped into the shop.

Witherspoon held the silver-and-pink-patterned teacup with care. It was of the thinnest, finest porcelain and looked as if a good sneeze could shatter the delicate china into pieces. “Thank you, Mrs. Brunel. Did you see anyone suspicious looking when you were either arriving at the McCourt home or when you were leaving?”

She shook her head. “No, Inspector, I didn’t.”

“Surely you remember that man I pointed out when we came around the corner to Victoria Gardens,” Leon said to his wife. “He was most certainly suspicious looking.”

“Of course he wasn’t,” she replied. “We’ve seen the man on previous occasions. Don’t you remember that we saw him when we went there for luncheon in October? I think he must live in the neighborhood.”

Leon frowned. “Yes, of course, dear, you’re right. We have seen him before.” He glanced at Barnes. “That’s probably why I was able to describe him so easily.”

The constable smiled noncommittally. “What time did you get to the McCourt house yesterday?”

“We arrived a few minutes after half past four,” Leon replied.

“Were the other guests there when you arrived?” Witherspoon asked, even though he already knew the answer.

“Everyone else was in the morning room when we got there,” Leon replied. “As a matter of fact, the room was so crowded, I stepped out so that it would be more comfortable for the others.”

“It wasn’t that uncomfortable,” Glenda Brunel interjected. “There were plenty of chairs, and we weren’t in there more than five minutes.”

“Oh dear, you’ve caught me.” Leon chuckled indulgently. “Alright, I’ll confess that I wanted to have a closer look at the vase in the foyer. It is a Ming and it is exquisite.”

“Are you a collector as well, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Indeed, I am,” Leon replied. “As a matter of fact, my interest in Oriental art and artifacts superseded Daniel’s. I’ve been collecting for years. He was always interested, but he wasn’t able to afford it until after he married Mrs. McCourt.”

“And now his collection is bigger than yours,” Glenda added as she smiled sweetly at her husband. “That’s rather unfair, don’t you think?”

Leon shrugged. “Not really.” He looked at Witherspoon. “Daniel McCourt was our family solicitor before his marriage.”

“He’s also a cousin,” Glenda supplied.

“How long have he and Mrs. McCourt been married?” Barnes asked curiously. He’d gotten the impression from the servants that the McCourts had been married for a number of years.

“They celebrated their fifteenth anniversary this past October,” Glenda said quickly. “But it is common knowledge that it was Mrs. McCourt’s fortune that allowed Daniel to indulge himself in his passion for collecting.”

“Now, now, Glenda. You mustn’t speak ill of the dead. Daniel’s behavior was no different than most men of our class.” He smiled ruefully. “He’s been a good husband to his wife and provided her with everything.”

“He hasn’t provided her with anything,” she snapped. “It was her family’s money that has kept them all these years. If Daniel hadn’t married her, he’d still be a mediocre solicitor working for Cochran and Stevens.”

“Please, dear.” Leon patted his wife’s hand. “Let’s not be uncharitable. He’s been a good husband to Elena.”

Glenda Brunel looked as if she wanted to continue the argument, but she changed her mind and clamped her mouth shut.

“Cochran and Stevens. Would Charles Cochran be affiliated with them?” Witherspoon inquired.

“Definitely,” Leon answered. “Charles’ father started the firm, and as far as I know, Charles is still with them. Daniel resigned from the firm after his marriage.”

“Mr. Cochran and Daniel McCourt stayed in contact with each other after he left the firm . . .” The inspector took a sip of tea. “Is that correct?”

“I presume so,” Leon replied with a shrug. “He’d been invited to tea.”

“I don’t think they remained friends,” Glenda argued. “We’ve never seen him at a social function at the McCourt house.”

“He was at the funeral for Elena’s late aunt,” Leon countered. “And at the reception.”

“Of course he was there. Charles Cochran is the Herron family solicitor, and the funeral reception was held at the Herron home, not the McCourt house.” She smiled smugly. “As a matter of fact, Daniel McCourt wasn’t even present when Natalie Herron’s will was read. He was specifically told he couldn’t go into the Herron drawing room when Charles read out the will. He had to wait outside in the garden.”

Leon Brunel drew back slightly, his gaze on his wife. “How on earth do you know that?”

“How do you think I know?” She laughed. “Elena told me when we were at lunch earlier this week. We’re friends, you know.”

“How long were you in the morning room?” Witherspoon asked.

“I don’t know, exactly, but it was no more than five or perhaps six minutes,” Glenda said. “Then we went into the drawing room.”

“Did either of you notice any mistletoe hanging from the doorframe between the drawing room and the study?” Witherspoon asked.

“I certainly didn’t.” Leon sniffed dismissively. “And I can’t imagine Daniel allowing such a heathen practice in his household.”

“I didn’t see any, either, but I don’t understand how you can be so sure that Daniel wouldn’t have allowed it,” Glenda said to her husband.

“Because he hated nonsense like that,” Leon shot back. “If there was any mistletoe about the place, it was put up by either Elena or one of the servants.”

“You don’t know that.” She glared at him. “The rest of the house was beautifully decorated. There was even one of those Christmas trees.”

“Lots of households have a tree,” Leon muttered. “If I’d known you were so fond of them, I’d have had one put up here.”

“I don’t want one,” she replied. “They’re more trouble than they are worth.”

“Did Mr. or Mrs. McCourt explain why they wanted you all to go into the drawing room at the same time?” Barnes asked. He knew it couldn’t have been because the tree was lighted. At that point the footman wasn’t back with the sand. “Was it just to show off the Christmas decorations?”

“I don’t think so,” Leon said.

“You know very well why, Leon.” Glenda crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell the truth. Daniel wanted to make his big announcement. He’d bought something for his collection and wanted to show it off and—”

“Glenda, please,” Leon interrupted. “The poor man is dead. Let’s not cast aspersions on his character.”

“Did he say what it was he’d acquired?” Barnes asked quickly. “You’re not the first to mention that Mr. McCourt wanted to show something off, but thus far, no one knows what that something might have been.”

“I don’t know. Everyone left before he could finish telling us.” Glenda’s brows drew together in a confused frown. “Have you spoken to Jerome Raleigh? He appraises everything before Daniel buys. Surely he’d know what the object was.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brunel, we’ll do that.” Witherspoon glanced at Mr. Brunel. “Do you know?”

“I’m not certain, but I think it might have been a Hwando sword. I’d heard that Daniel had only recently bought one and they’re somewhat rare. But I can’t be sure that’s what he wanted to show us.”

Barnes glanced at the inspector, who gave the barest nod of his head. “It was a Hwando that was used to murder him,” he said.

“Oh dear God.” Leon closed his eyes briefly. “The papers only said it was a sword. I’d no idea it was the Hwando.”

“You didn’t know the Hwando was hanging in his study?” the constable pressed. “The doors between the study and the drawing room were wide open.”

“I know that, Constable, but Daniel kept his swords displayed on the wall in the study, and one didn’t go there without an invitation,” Leon replied. “You couldn’t see it from where we were in the drawing room, and I’ve not been in his study for months.”

Witherspoon put his cup down on the table. “How long were you actually at tea before the fire broke out?”

“We’d only just started,” Glenda said. “Elena had poured and the maid had lifted the stack of plates off the bottom rack of the trolley when all of a sudden there were people shouting from below stairs. Naturally, Daniel and Elena excused themselves and went to see what was wrong. They came back a few moments later and announced there had been a small fire by the back staircase but that everything was now fine.” She smiled ruefully. “But within five minutes, it became obvious that it wasn’t over. The room seemed to fill with the most dreadful smell.”

“Was it paraffin?” Barnes asked.

She frowned prettily. “At first, that’s what it seemed to be, but then it wasn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Brunel, but I don’t understand exactly what you mean,” the inspector said.

“It’s difficult to explain, but it was almost as though there were two separate odors, and both of them were paraffin. At first we all pretended not to notice, but honestly, within a few moments, it simply couldn’t be ignored. I felt so sorry for Elena; she was so humiliated, and I know we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but Daniel only made the situation worse. He kept pretending that nothing was wrong.”

“But my dear, what else could he have done?” Leon asked reasonably.

“He could have kept quiet long enough for her to do something. But he kept talking and talking about what a wonderful acquisition he’d made.” She gave a discreet, ladylike snort. “Elena finally interrupted him after you commented that I appeared to be about to faint. She stood up and ordered the maid to open the windows. Then she apologized for the awful smell and told us we could leave. Well, it was dreadful, so everyone got up and started for the hallway to get their hats and coats.”