Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (20 page)

“Glenda Brunel didn’t get home until seven o’clock,” Phyllis commented. “That’s interestin’. At least you found out somethin’ different. I didn’t hear much of anythin’ when I had my chat with a maid from the Brunel household.”

“Tell us what you did hear.” Mrs. Jeffries gave her an encouraging smile.

Phyllis told them about following the young maid and their meeting on the church steps. “I’m sorry,” she finished. “I know I should have asked her more questions, but she was so scared she was goin’ to be gettin’ sacked.” She looked at Luty. “And I’m sorry I gave her your address, but she was in such misery. I couldn’t think what else to do.”

Luty waved off her apology. “You did right by sendin’ her to me if she gets sacked. If I can’t use her in my household, I’ll bully one of my banker friends into hirin’ the girl.”

“You did very well, Phyllis. You were kind to the girl, and that’s important. Now, if all of you are finished, I’ll go next,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She told them about her trip to the communal garden.

“At least this time you didn’t track in pine mulch,” Mrs. Goodge commented when she’d finished.

“Did I track it in yesterday?” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “Gracious, I didn’t even notice.”

“Even if the mistletoe came from the communal garden, I don’t understand why the killer hung it up,” Betsy said. “Wouldn’t he or she be taking a risk? Constable Barnes said it was hung from the doorframe, and unless the murderer is seven feet tall, he or she would need to stop and drag a chair or something over to get it up that high.”

“There was a stool in the study,” Ruth reminded them.

“Even so,” Betsy argued, “why take the time to do it? The only connection we know of is that he proposed to his wife under a sprig of the stuff. So unless the killer wanted to point to Mrs. McCourt as the killer, why take the risk of staying there one moment longer than necessary?”

“Maybe the killer
was
pointin’ the finger at Mrs. McCourt,” Wiggins suggested.

“But that would only work if people knew about the proposal,” Ruth said. “Mrs. Goodge’s source was a housemaid who just happened to walk in. But we don’t know if anyone else knew the story, and we’ve not heard it from any other source.”

“Perhaps the killer was just muddying the waters,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested, her expression thoughtful. “Then again, there’s something about this case that suggests the killer didn’t mind taking risks. Besides, if the killer didn’t put it up there, then who did?”

 

The inspector was late for dinner that night. He and Mrs. Jeffries were in the drawing room having a glass of sherry, and he was in the midst of telling her about his day. “It’s quite annoying, Mrs. Jeffries. According to the reports, no one in the neighborhood saw or heard anything. Now, I ask you, if someone is getting his neck sliced by a great big sword, wouldn’t he make a bit of a fuss?”

“One would think so,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. But she wasn’t so very sure of that fact. The truth of the matter was, she really should have gone to speak with their good friend Dr. Bosworth. She’d no idea how someone would react upon having an artery or a vein severed. She made up her mind to go along to St. Thomas’ Hospital the next morning. “But then again, perhaps a body goes into shock and is quite unable to utter a sound when such an injury occurs. Have you spoken to the police surgeon about it?”

Witherspoon frowned. “No, I haven’t, but that’s a jolly good idea. Mind you, I’m not sure the neighbors would have noticed anyone lurking about the area in any case; not with all the comings and goings of the tea guests.”

“And none of the neighbors saw anything?”

“No.” He sighed heavily. “So we can’t even verify that Mrs. McCourt was out on the balcony when the murder was taking place. As a matter of fact, when I interviewed Miss Kent, she mentioned that she’d walked past the other side of the house during the period when the murder must have happened. I asked her if she’d seen the balcony, and she said she had but that it had been empty.”

“You don’t think Mrs. McCourt is guilty, do you sir?”

“No, why should she kill him now? She has the upper hand.”

“Well, it certainly sounds as if you’ve had a very full day, sir,” she said cheerfully. “What else did you learn?” She listened carefully as he recounted the rest of his interviews. “So Lydia Kent claims that Daniel McCourt owed her five thousand pounds? That’s a huge amount of money.”

Witherspoon frowned. “I thought so as well, but Miss Kent assured us this isn’t merely an old sword, but a valuable artifact from one of the earlier kingdoms of that part of the world.”

Something nudged at the back of her mind but was gone before she could grab the wretched thing and make sense of it.

He put his empty glass on the table. “Nonetheless, whatever we might think about the value of the Hwando, it does give her a legitimate excuse to have been in the area.”

Mrs. Jeffries rose and picked up his glass. “Would you like another sherry, sir? Mrs. Goodge has supper in the warming oven, so there’s no rush.” She wanted him to keep talking. The more he spoke, the more likely it was he’d recall additional details of his day.

“I’d love one.” He smiled. “And pour another for yourself. I do hope we get this case closed soon. I don’t know why we always seem to get a difficult investigation at this particular time of the year. It’s most unfair. I want to enjoy the season,” he complained. “Lady Cannonberry was going to have a dinner party, but she’s put it off because of this wretched murder. Oh, I suppose I ought not to feel so hard done by; there are so many in London that have so little. But I still haven’t had time to buy Amanda her present.”

 

Mrs. Jeffries stood at the window and stared out at the street. The house was silent, as the others had gone to bed. She’d told Wiggins she’d do the locking up and sent him and Fred up to their room at the top of the house. She tried to marshal the facts of this case into some kind of cohesive order, but it was difficult. They were learning the same few facts over and over. Everyone had found out that Elena McCourt had been dominated by her husband but now had control of her own money because of an inheritance. They had learned that Arthur Brunel felt cheated by his half brother, Leon, and Daniel. Now, thanks to the inspector, there was another suspect who hadn’t even been at the tea: Lydia Kent. Where did she fit into the picture? Was there any meaning to the mistletoe over the body, or was the killer simply trying to muddy the waters? She sighed audibly and let the curtain she’d been holding fall back into place. Questions, so many questions, and she couldn’t answer any of them. She picked up the small hand lantern she’d put on the table and went up to her rooms.

As she climbed the stairs, her mind raced with possibilities. They needed to learn more about everyone at that tea party. Mrs. Jeffries stopped at the landing and stared into the darkness. They were going around in circles, and it was time to stop.

 

The next morning, Witherspoon and Barnes found themselves back at Victoria Gardens. They waited in the foyer as the butler went to get Mrs. McCourt.

Barnes walked down the hallway and stuck his head into the drawing room. “There’s no sign of mourning here,” he said to the inspector. “The tree is still up and so are the decorations.”

“Not everyone believes in draping black crepe all over the house.” Witherspoon stared at the ornate mirror on the foyer wall. “The old custom of covering the mirrors hasn’t been observed, either.”

“And it won’t be, Inspector.” Elena McCourt appeared from behind them. She’d come in the front door. “I fail to see how covering a mirror or draping the house with black crepe will do the slightest bit of good when there’s been a death in the family. But do come into the drawing room and sit down. When Haines told me you were here, I took the liberty of ordering coffee for us.” She went past them, the material of her dark green dress whooshing as she led them into the drawing room. “Please make yourselves comfortable.” She pointed to the sofa and took the chair opposite.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, Mrs. McCourt,” he began as they sat down.

“Don’t be,” she interrupted. “You’re neither of you fools, so I know you’ve both guessed there was no great love between my husband and me. But he didn’t deserve to be murdered. I’m quite prepared to answer any questions you have, so please don’t worry about damaging my feelings. Now, what is it that’s brought you here today?”

Witherspoon’s mind went completely blank. After his chat with Mrs. Jeffries this morning at breakfast, he’d thought of dozens more questions for the widow, and that was the trouble. He simply couldn’t decide where to start.

Luckily, Barnes had no such problem. “Do you know a Miss Lydia Kent?”

“Yes, she and Daniel were once engaged,” she replied. “I believe when he broke off the engagement she went to the Far East with her brother.”

The inspector smiled gratefully at the constable and then asked, “Were you aware she’d recently sold your husband a sword?”

“No, I wasn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. Daniel bought items from lots of different sources,” she mused. “But that’s quite odd, really.”

“Why is that?” Witherspoon asked.

“Well, he told me that he’d acquired the sword through Jerome Raleigh, not Lydia Kent.”

The inspector wasn’t quite sure how to phrase his next comment. “Erh, uh, perhaps he thought he was sparing your feelings. Some women wouldn’t appreciate their husband having business dealings with a former fiancée.”

She laughed heartily. “Don’t be absurd. Daniel never bothered to spare my feelings in anything, and lately, he’s been so angry at me that if he could hurt me, he’d have done so with relish.”

Witherspoon stared at her wordlessly. He shouldn’t be so surprised. After all the murders he’d investigated, he knew it was often the case that family members ended up loathing one another. Nevertheless, he was still shocked.

“Why was your husband angry with you?” Barnes asked. The butler entered, pushing a trolley with a silver coffee service on it. He stopped next to Mrs. McCourt. “Would you like me to pour, madam?”

She waved him away. “No, I’ll do it. How do you take your coffee, Inspector?”

“With cream and sugar, please,” he replied.

She poured out three cups and glanced at Barnes. “Constable?”

“Cream and sugar as well,” he said.

She fixed their coffee and handed round the cups. They were delicate, paper-thin white porcelain with blue flowers and a gold rim. Witherspoon held his saucer carefully as he waited for the drink to cool.

She took a quick sip and then sat back in her chair. “In answer to your question, Constable, Daniel was furious with me because I wouldn’t agree to let him control my money. He wasn’t used to me standing up to him, but then again, men rarely are.”

Barnes smiled slightly. “Has something changed recently in your circumstances, ma’am?”

“How very coy you are.” She laughed. “I’m sure our solicitor has already told you that I’ve recently come into an inheritance from my late aunt. She was very rich, and Daniel naturally assumed I’d hand everything over to him. He was furious when I didn’t.”

“Was there a reason you didn’t want him to handle your financial affairs?” The inspector took a sip of coffee and then struggled not to make a face. He didn’t care for it at all.

She put her cup on the table and sat up straight. All traces of amusement had vanished from her face. “When we married, fifteen years ago, my family settled this house and a huge amount of money on us. It was enough for us to live comfortably for the rest of our lives, but Daniel made one foolish investment after another, and if I hadn’t inherited from my family, we’d have been out on the street. So I ask you, why should I have given him my money? He’d just fritter it away on stupid investments and his wretched collection.”

“You didn’t approve of your husband’s collecting?” Barnes pressed.

“At first I didn’t mind, but he’s spent thousands and thousands of pounds on these stupid objects,” she said as she gestured toward the study. “And he doesn’t even know whether he’s buying junk or jewels.”

“I thought you said he had everything appraised by an expert,” the inspector commented. He tried another sip of coffee, but it tasted no better than the first.

“Jerome Raleigh’s been hoodwinking Daniel for years.” She sneered. “He’s no more an expert than I am, and Daniel had finally realized it as well.”

“Yet he invited Mr. Raleigh to tea to show off his new sword,” Witherspoon continued.

“No, he invited him here to expose him as the fraud he was, and I think the man knew it. He was decidedly nervous. Daniel kept watching him and going on and on about his latest acquisition. He only did that because he’d acquired it without Raleigh’s help.”

“So he didn’t have the newest item he’d acquired appraised by an expert?” Barnes was getting a bit confused as well.

“Oh, he did,” she replied. “But it wasn’t Raleigh. It was someone else. I must say that Mr. Raleigh looked very relieved when the fire started and the tea was abandoned. He couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

Witherspoon was curious. “Excuse me, Mrs. McCourt, but if you had told your husband you weren’t going to let him control the money, how did he think he was going to be able to pay for his acquisitions?”

She shrugged. “I assume he had some money put aside for them. He knew I wasn’t giving him any more.”

“But he’d not put any money aside, he’d signed a promissory note for his latest acquisition,” Witherspoon said.

She frowned heavily. “What do you mean? I saw the bill of sale for the Hwando myself, and it was marked paid in full.”

“Then I wonder why Miss Lydia Kent says your husband owed her five thousand pounds for it.”

 

Smythe knocked softly on the door of the Dirty Duck Pub. It was too early for opening, but he wanted to speak to Blimpey Groggins. Mrs. Jeffries told all of them to dig a bit deeper, and Smythe knew she was right. They’d been going around in circles now, all of them finding out the same facts over and over.