Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (19 page)

Wiggins stood up and followed her, taking care to stay far enough back so that she wouldn’t spot him, while also taking the added precaution of remaining on the opposite side of the street.

He saw her turn onto the local high street, and she disappeared from view. Not wanting to lose her in one of the shops, he charged toward the corner, emerging onto a street crowded with well-dressed ladies, housewives with shopping baskets, street urchins, and vendors. Wiggins stood on tiptoe, looking frantically up and down the high street before spotting his quarry less than fifteen feet from him.

She stood in front of a baker’s shop and stared at the display in the front window.

Wiggins sidled up next to her. The girl didn’t notice; her attention was fixed on a plate of treacle tarts. She was licking her lips. “Those look ever so good, don’t they?” he murmured.

“They do.” The maid gave him a quick half smile. She was a thin girl with dark blonde hair tucked up beneath her green knitted cap.

“Are ya goin’ in there to do a bit of shoppin’?” He gave her his best smile.

She gave him a sidelong glance, her expression wary. “I’m not supposed to speak to strangers.”

“Sorry, miss.” He bobbed his head deferentially. “It’s just that I’m in service and thought you might be as well. It’s my afternoon out, and I don’t know anyone in London. You looked like a nice girl, and I was hopin’ you’d speak to a lonely country boy who’s not ’ad a kind word spoken to him in the three weeks ’e’s been in London. I beg your pardon for botherin’ you, miss.” He turned on his heel and walked away, praying silently that his pathetic act worked. He’d almost made it to the corner and had decided that today wasn’t his day, when she spoke.

“Wait,” she cried.

He turned and gazed at her hopefully. “You’re not angry at me, miss? I’m not usually so bold with young ladies, but you ’ave such a kind face.”

She smiled, and her thin, rather homely face was transformed into something close to loveliness. “I’m not angry at you. I’m just not used to anyone speakin’ to me. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You weren’t rude.” He returned to the baker’s shop. “I was bein’ forward. Are you goin’ in there?”

She blushed and looked back at the plate of tarts. “No, I was just lookin’.”

Wiggins was no expert on women, but he knew they generally liked to look at pretty dresses or fine lace or fancy hats and ribbons. When they were staring at food, it meant they were hungry. He knew what he had to do. For a brief moment, his conscience fought a quick surge of guilt and anger; guilt that he was going to take advantage of her hunger, and anger that they lived in a world where so many had to go hungry. “I was lookin’, too.” He forced a smile. “It’s the first day out I’ve ’ad since I come to London, and as I’ve a bit of coin, I was goin’ to treat myself. It’s not like they feed us all that much where I work.”

Seeing a kindred spirit, the girl grinned broadly. “They’re not generous with food where I work, either. They sent me out to get more salt, but as the housekeeper is shut up with the mistress plannin’ a reception, no one will miss me for at least an hour, so I thought I’d take a bit of time for myself.”

“What about the cook. Won’t she tattle?” he asked. It was easy to pretend to be another hardworking servant. London was full of them.

“No, she’s taken to her room for a lie-down. My name’s Abigail Cross. What’s yours?”

“I’m Albert Jones.” He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the shilling piece he always carried. “It’s wonderful to ’ave someone to chat with. There’s a small park with benches on it not far from ’ere. What do you say I get us a couple of treacle tarts and we’ll go ’ave a sit-down and a chat.”

Abigail looked doubtful. “I don’t know.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve ’ad anyone young to talk to.” He pleaded. “I promise I’m a decent sort. It’s just a couple of buns and a bit of company that I’m after.”

“Alright then.” Abigail grinned. “I’ll wait here while you go in and get the tarts for us.”

Five minutes later, the two had found a dry bench and were munching on their pastries. “This is ever so nice of you,” Abigail said. “It’s a real treat for me. It’s been horrible at my household. No one is even lookin’ forward to Christmas or Boxing Day.”

Wiggins swallowed the bite he’d just taken. “I’m sorry to’ear that. ’Ave they been workin’ you too ’ard then? Is that what’s wrong?” He knew it wouldn’t do to jump right in and start asking questions about the McCourt murder.

Abigail nibbled off the edge of her tart. “They always work us like slaves. But lately, the master and the mistress have been at odds, and he’s cut the household allowance. You know what that means.”

Unfortunately, Wiggins did know. “So the mistress is makin’ it up by cuttin’ back on the amount of food she lets the cook order.” He snorted in disgust. “No wonder you were hungry. Did they even let you ’ave an egg for your breakfast?” Even though he’d never experienced it himself, he knew it was common practice that the first thing cut back when the money dried up was food for the servants.

Abigail shoved the last of the tart into her mouth and chewed vigorously. “We’re eatin’ porridge these days except for Sundays, when they let us have an egg but no bacon. The housekeeper told us that come January, we’ve got to start payin’ for our own tea and sugar as well. It’s not fair. Why should we be punished because Mr. and Mrs. Brunel can’t get along.”

Wiggins was genuinely upset for the girl. But he had to find out if the discord between the Brunels had anything to do with McCourt’s murder. “That takes a big chunk out of your quarterly wages, doesn’t it? But why are your master and mistress fightin’ so much? ’Ave they always been at odds?”

Abigail bobbed her head. “Who knows. It’s gotten worse lately, though. Mr. Brunel’s cousin was murdered, and ever since then, they’ve been goin’ at it like cats and dogs. They don’t even care that the entire household can hear them.”

“Someone was murdered?”

“It’s been in all the papers,” Abigail said eagerly. “We’ve had the police around, and that caused an even bigger row than usual. You should’ve heard them go at it as soon as the policemen left. Mr. Brunel was shoutin’ at her that he wished to God he’d never married her, that she was disloyal and treacherous.” Abigail brushed the crumbs off her lap and stood up.

“Cor blimey, that’s awful.” He wished he’d gotten her more to eat.

“Mrs. Brunel screamed right back that it was his own fault for tryin’ to lie to the police, and he shouted that she was no better, that he knew for a fact she’d not come straight home after he put her in that hansom cab, and where had she gone. Why didn’t she tell the police about where she’d gone, because she’d not come straight home.”

He pretended to be shocked. “Was it true?”

“Oh, she’d come home but it was much later than she let the police believe. I know because I overheard her speakin’ to that inspector. Just before he and the constable left, the constable asked what time she got home and she said she wasn’t sure, but she thought it was close to five fifteen. But that’s not true. She didn’t get home till after seven o’clock.”

 

“You give me that baby right now,” Luty demanded as she charged into the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens for their afternoon meeting. Without even bothering to shed her cloak, she flopped down into her spot, scraped her chair back, and patted her lap.

“Here you are.” Betsy gently placed Amanda into Luty’s arms. “I’m glad you got back on time, as she’s almost ready for her nap.”

“I knew that,” Luty murmured, turning her attention to her namesake. “That’s why I paid the hansom driver double to git me here quick as could be.”

“That’s not wise, madam.” Hatchet clucked his tongue and tried to look stern. “Driving at high speeds through the city is dangerous.”

Luty snorted but didn’t look up. “Yeah, like you haven’t done it whenever it suited you. I swear this baby gets prettier and prettier every day. Oh my goodness, she’s grinnin’ at me.”

Mrs. Jeffries, who’d gone to the wet larder to get another jug of cream, put the pitcher on the table and took her seat. “Are we ready to begin?”

“I can hold my darlin’ while we talk,” Luty declared. Amanda gurgled in response. “See, she wants to be at our meetin’, too.”

“Who would like to go first?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She was eager to give her own report but could tell from the general air around the table that most everyone had something to share.

“I’ll go,” Hatchet volunteered. He told them about his meeting with the Manleys. “I’m afraid my source merely confirmed what we already knew. Elena McCourt was going to use her inheritance to gain the upper hand in the marriage.”

“But why would she kill him now?” Betsy ventured. “Especially as she had all the money and she was going to be in charge. I’d think she’d want to keep him alive so she could get a bit of her own back.”

“Unless she was just sick of the feller and fed up with him,” Luty murmured. “That happens. Remember, we know they was fightin’ right before the tea party. Maybe he pushed her too far and as soon as she got shut of the guests, she killed him.”

“And she was the one that insisted everyone leave,” Phyllis added.

“I find it more interestin’ that Glenda Brunel had once been in love with Nicholas Saxon,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“It might be interestin’, but that don’t give either of them a motive for killin’ McCourt,” Wiggins said.

“We don’t know that for a fact,” Ruth said. “What if Mrs. Brunel and Mr. Saxon were planning on running away together and McCourt found out about it. He could have threatened to tell Leon Brunel, and from the gossip I heard from my sources, Leon Brunel never lets something go once it is his. Oh dear—” she broke off and flushed in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to Hatchet. “I should have waited to see if you were through.”

“That’s quite alright,” he replied. “I was finished with my report.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked at Ruth. “Why don’t you go next, then?”

“Thank you. As I said, I did hear some gossip, but I don’t know if it’s going to be useful or not. I had tea today with an acquaintance of mine whom I felt sure would have heard of some of our principals in this case, and I got very lucky. She didn’t know much about Daniel McCourt, but she knew the Brunels socially. Like Brunel, she and her husband are collectors. When they were having dinner at the Brunel home, he showed them a carved jade pagoda from the Ming dynasty.”

“When was this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly.

“Sometime in October,” Ruth replied. “Olivia couldn’t recall the exact date. But what’s interesting is that her husband specializes in collecting jade; he’s advised the British Museum on some of their acquisitions for the Oriental collection. As they were driving home that night, he told Olivia that he didn’t think the carving was a genuine Ming at all. He said it was a badly done reproduction and certainly not old.” She stopped and took a breath. “I don’t know what this could possibly have to do with McCourt’s murder, but I thought it worth repeating.”

“All information is worth repeatin’,” Mrs. Goodge stated firmly. “If Ruth is finished and no one has any objections, I’ll go next.” She told them about her visit from her Mollie Dubay.

“He proposed to her under the mistletoe,” Betsy murmured when the cook had finished. “And Mrs. Jeffries told us that Constable Barnes had reported the McCourt butler made it clear that the victim couldn’t stand the sight of mistletoe. I wonder if there’s a connection.”

“’Course there is.” Smythe grinned at his wife. “It probably reminds ’im of the silly way ’e asked her to marry ’im. They didn’t exactly become an ’appy couple, now, did they?” He glanced at Luty, pushed back from the table, and got up. “Looks like the lass is sleepin’. Let me take ’er. Your arms must be about ready to fall off.”

Luty kissed Amanda’s forehead and handed him the baby. He headed off toward the cook’s quarters. “But Betsy has a point,” Mrs. Goodge continued. “Why was that mistletoe hangin’ over the body? Mrs. McCourt wouldn’t have put it up. It points too much toward her as the killer.”

“Maybe she did it just to spite ’im,” Wiggins suggested. “It sounds as if now that she didn’t ’ave to depend on ’im for money, she was gettin’ a bit of’er own back.”

“Yes, but then the question would be when did she put it up, before he died just to niggle him, or after he died because he was dead?” Ruth mused.

Mrs. Jeffries felt as if they’d all stolen her thunder. But then she told herself not to be childish. Just because she’d been worrying about why that mistletoe was there didn’t mean the others hadn’t considered the question as well. “Would you like to go next, Luty?”

“Indeed I would.” She hesitated, waiting until Smythe returned to his seat at the table. “I had a nice chat with a banker friend of mine, and I’m sorry to say that most of what I heard was what we already know.” She told them about her visit to John Widdowes.

“The woman that he humiliated, the one he was engaged to,” Betsy said. “Your source said her brother threatened McCourt?”

“That was fifteen years ago.” Luty brushed that aside. “Seems to me that despite our efforts, we ain’t learnin’ much about this case.”

“Yes, it seems like the only thing we’ve discovered of any value is that everyone in London knew that Elena McCourt now controlled the money and she wasn’t going to share it with her husband,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“So why kill him when she could make him dance to ’er tune like she’s ’ad to do for him all these years?” Wiggins said thoughtfully. “But then again, sometimes I think married people do a lot of things just to spite each other, not because it makes any sense. Today, I ’ad miserable luck. I couldn’t find anyone at the McCourt house to talk to, and the Alexandria Hotel wasn’t any better. But I did ’ave a nice chat with a maid from the Brunel house.”

“Which Brunel?” Luty asked.

“Leon and Glenda Brunel,” he replied. “And from what I’eard, those two are right miserable with each other.” He repeated the conversation he’d had with Abigail Cross.