Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (23 page)

“She did not. She just looked at me like I was makin’ up tales.”

“Has anythin’ else ’appened that was odd or out of place?” he probed.

“Can I have another gin?” she asked. “I’ve got to get back soon.”

He caught the barman’s eye and pointed to her empty glass. “Go on, then. ’As there been anythin’ else you can remember?” he asked.

“On the night that he was murdered, I heard someone walkin’ about outside,” she said and smiled as her drink was put in front of her. “Thanks, Uncle Gus.”

Wiggins pulled another coin out of his pocket and put it on the counter. “Are you sure about that? You couldn’t ’ave just been imaginin’ it because you were half asleep?”

“That would be hard to do as I was downstairs by the servants’ door and not in my bed,” she replied. “I’d gone down to get a drink of water. I don’t like goin’ downstairs in the middle of the night; for one thing, it’s dark and cold, but there’s a lamp left at the top of the staircase for us if we need to use the water closet, so I took it and went down to get a drink. I’d started back and was just outside the door when I heard a rustlin’ sound and then footsteps.”

“Right outside the door?” he pressed.

She frowned in confusion. “That’s just it. I was standin’ right there and it didn’t sound like it was right outside, but it was close.”

“You didn’t look?”

She drew back, staring at him as if he were an idiot. “’Course not. We’d had murder done in that house. I went back to bed and pulled the covers over me head. I told the housekeeper the next day, and she said it was probably just my imagination.”

 

Phyllis couldn’t help herself; she had to find out whether Harriet Adamson was still employed. She crept up the side entrance to the Brunel house and knocked softly on the door. She didn’t want to get the girl in trouble, so she’d come up with a plan. As the door opened, she pulled an envelope out of her jacket pocket. But she needn’t have bothered, for Harriet stood there. Her eyes widened in surprise. “What are you doin’ here?”

“I’m sorry. I was so concerned about you that I wanted to come by and see if you still had a roof over your head,” she said.

“How’d you know where I worked?”

Phyllis smiled. “I followed you home yesterday. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Harriet drew back and then smiled in return. “You’re a really nice person. No one’s bothered about me in ages. I’ve still got my job; as a matter of fact, they seem to have forgotten all about me.”

“That’s wonderful. I don’t want to get you in trouble, so I’d better go.” She turned to leave.

“Can you wait for me up on the corner?” Harriet asked, looking over her shoulder. “I just heard the cook tell the mistress we’re out of sugar. I’ll offer to go and fetch it from the grocer’s.”

Phyllis wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but she didn’t want to hurt Harriet’s feelings. “Alright, I’ll meet you there.”

Phyllis went back out to the street and turned in the direction of the shops. She reminded herself that as far as Harriet was concerned, her name was Millicent . . . She stopped in the middle of the pavement, trying hard to remember what surname she’d given herself yesterday. Millicent . . . Millicent . . . Millicent Burns. She sagged in relief as the name came to her.

She got to the corner and waited, promising herself she’d just walk Harriet to the grocer’s and then get on with her task. She was determined to figure out how to get shopkeepers and clerks to chat with her.

A few minutes later, Harriet appeared. She was smiling from ear to ear. “It was so nice of you to come and see me, Millicent.” She grabbed Phyllis’ hand and giggled. “My afternoon out is on Tuesdays. When’s yours?” She pulled her toward the grocery shop farther up the road.

“I get Friday afternoons off,” she said, feeling terrible that she was lying to this poor girl. The Witherspoon household allowed staff to take whatever afternoon off they wanted within the week. “I’m so glad they didn’t sack you.”

“I am, too,” she said earnestly. “They work us like dogs, but I expect most households are like that. Do you ever wish you could do somethin’ else?”

“I do.” She took a deep breath and told the truth. It wasn’t as if she’d ever see Harriet again, so what did it matter whether she voiced her dream aloud? “I want to be a typewriter girl.”

Harriet gaped at her. “Really? I think that’s wonderful. But how do you learn to use such an instrument? I saw one in a shop window on Oxford Street once when I was carryin’ Mrs. Brunel’s packages. It looked ever so complicated.”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted honestly. “But there must be a way. I think perhaps you need to go to a special school or somethin’ like that. I’m savin’ my wages so I’ll have a way to pay for it.”

“I bet you’ll do it,” Harriet declared. “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. I’d never have had the courage to speak to someone the way you spoke to me. Just havin’ someone to talk to helped so much.”

Phyllis couldn’t believe her ears. She was suddenly overwhelmed by conflicting emotions as guilt over her motive for approaching Harriet warred with pride that someone actually considered her brave. “You’d have done the same,” she finally muttered. “I’m not brave. I’ve just been in the same boat and know how lonely it can make you feel. But that’s enough about me. They’re bein’ nicer to you, right?”

“Only because Cook realized she’d been dead wrong in accusin’ me of stealin’ her stupid saffron.” Harriet laughed. “No one had stolen it at all. It was on the floor in the dry larder up against the flour bin.”

“You mean someone had just poured it out of the jar?” Phyllis wanted to be sure she got this right.

“That’s what it looks like,” Harriet replied. They dodged around a well-dressed man in a bowler. “Saffron is very expensive, so we can make neither heads nor tails about why someone would just dump it on the floor and keep a cheap glass jar. We looked all about the larder, but it wasn’t there.”

“It was kept in a locked storage cupboard, right?” Phyllis persisted. “That’s why they accused you; you had the housekeeper’s keys.” Every household she’d ever worked in except for the inspector’s kept the spices locked up.

“That’s right.” Harriet slanted her a strange look. “But I didn’t steal it. I only had the housekeeper’s keys because Cook had lost hers and sent me to borrow the other set.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean you to think that way,” Phyllis protested. “I know you didn’t do it. Only someone daft would pour an expensive spice out and keep the jar.”

“And I’m not daft.” Harriet laughed.

“I’m glad they’re treatin’ you better,” Phyllis said. They were almost at the grocer’s.

“Only just.” Harriet stopped by the front door. “They’re still strict about silly things. Like this mornin’, the housekeeper went on and on because she found pine needles and specks of bark on the attic floor landing. None of the servants had tracked it into the house, we’re all careful about wiping our feet, but she didn’t want to hear that. Because then it would mean that one of the family or a guest had done it.”

 

Everyone was back on time for their afternoon meeting. Mrs. Goodge held Amanda while Betsy put the last of the tea things on the table before slipping into her spot next to Smythe.

“I’ll go first,” Luty volunteered. “My bit won’t take long. Bunch of ya are grinnin’ like cowboys on payday, so I can see you’ve all got plenty to report.” She paused, and when no one contradicted her, she continued. “I spent most of the day chasin’ up one source after another, and it was about as useful as pullin’ hens’ teeth, but I did hear a couple of things that were interestin’. One, Charles Cochran is as pious as a preacher, and no one I talked to could imagine him killin’ anythin’, let alone a human being. One of my sources claimed the feller don’t even eat meat!”

“He doesn’t seem to have a motive, either,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “Sorry, Luty, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No offense taken.” Luty helped herself to a slice of buttered brown bread. “I also had a chat with a friend of mine named Carlos Montoya. He collects artifacts from the Middle East and he knows Leon Brunel. He was at the auction house the day McCourt had the ruckus over sellin’ them Yuan vases. Now, Carlos, he loves to gossip, and so when he ran into Brunel a few days later, he was all set to pass along that tidbit, but Brunel had already heard about it, and he also told Carlos that he’d stopped usin’ Raleigh as an appraiser years ago because he knew he was incompetent.”

“That’s interesting,” Ruth said. “I was rather under the impression that both McCourt and Brunel were Raleigh’s clients.”

“I think we all were,” Luty said. “Just goes to show, we shouldn’t ever make assumptions. Anyways, that’s all I heard.”

“I’ll go next.” Ruth smiled at Luty. “You found out more than I did. Unfortunately, at the Christmas reception I got stuck next to Lady Stafford.”

“The one from our last case?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly.

“The very same, and she not only sat down at my table; her presence was apparently effective in keeping everyone else far away. We were sitting at a table for six, and I was certain half the ladies at the reception would leap at the chance to make her acquaintance, but I was wrong. The room was crowded, and no one else came near us.”

“Cor blimey, you’d ’ave thought one of her own class woulda wanted to sit with ’er. She must be a mean old thing!” Wiggins exclaimed.

Ruth thought for a moment. “She’s not so much
mean
as she is overbearing, rude, and opinionated, but that description applies to most of the aristocracy in this country. No, I think people avoid her because there’s something pathetic about her, a loneliness that she hides behind a mask of arrogance. It was obvious she didn’t want to go home, as she said there was never anyone there but the servants. I felt so sorry for her that I offered her a ride, and I’m glad I did, because I learned a little more about one of our suspects during the drive. She claims that Saxon’s uncle, the one that left him the Oriental collection, didn’t get the entire collection from his business in the Far East. Lady Stafford says that a good portion of it was picked up cheap at bankruptcy auctions here in England. She also mentioned that Arthur Brunel’s grandparents, his mother’s family, lost all their money and were forced to sell everything. They had an extensive collection of Oriental ceramics and a number of items from Japan.”

“Isn’t Arthur the only one in the family that wasn’t interested in collectin’?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“That’s what he told the inspector,” Mrs. Jeffries confirmed. “And neither Inspector Witherspoon nor Constable Barnes saw anything when they were in his home. In fact, they both said the drawing room was bare of anything except the most basic of furnishings.”

“Lady Stafford had never heard of Arthur Brunel taking any interest in collecting. The only fanatic in that family was his half brother, Leon,” Ruth added. She told them the rest of what she’d heard that day.

When Ruth had finished, Hatchet looked at Luty. “Was your source sure of his information about Leon Brunel?”

“He seemed to be, why? What’d you hear?” she demanded.

“My source, and it is an impeccable source, told me that a few days before the murder, he saw Leon Brunel and Raleigh having a drink together at Brunel’s club.”

“Just because they was drinkin’ together don’t mean that Brunel trusted Raleigh’s judgment,” Luty argued defensively.

“My informant was sitting close enough to overhear part of their conversation. Brunel was talking to Raleigh about Oriental artifacts, asking him if he’d heard of anything interesting coming in from Hong Kong.” He smiled triumphantly.

“That doesn’t mean that Luty’s information is wrong,” Betsy interjected. “Only that you’ve heard different things.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave her a grateful smile. “That’s very true. Who would like to go next?”

“I will,” Phyllis volunteered. She wanted to get it over with. “I didn’t have much luck with the shopkeepers.” She smiled hopefully at Betsy. “We’ll have to go together sometime so I can watch how you do it. But I made contact with that maid at the Brunel house.” She told them the few bits of information she’d heard from Harriet. “I’m sorry,” she said when she’d finished. “I know I shouldn’t have gone back to see her, but I was so worried about her gettin’ tossed into the street.”

“We’re all glad that she still has her position,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And you did learn a bit.” Something tugged at the back of her mind, but again, the idea faded before she could grasp it.

“Let me ’ave my go, then,” Wiggins said cheerfully. He told them about his meeting with Annie, taking care not to mention that he’d met her in a pub and then kept buying her drinks. “She’s sure she ’eard someone outside the house that night,” he finished.

“Which would be useful if she’d heard someone outside on the night before the murder,” Mrs. Goodge complained. “But the killer isn’t likely to have come back to stomp about the passageway now, is he?”

“I told you, she wasn’t sure the person was in the passageway,” he corrected. “Look, I know it don’t make sense, but that’s what she said, and she’s got no reason to lie about it.”

Again, Mrs. Jeffries felt a nudge in her mind, as if something was right under her nose but she couldn’t see it. “All we can do is report what we learn and hope the pieces help us to sort out the puzzle.”

“Are you figurin’ it out?” Phyllis asked eagerly. “Are the bits comin’ together for you?”

“Sometimes I catch a glimmer of an idea but it disappears before I can start moving the pieces together into any sort of reasonable theory,” she admitted glumly.

“Not to worry; you’ll suss it out,” Mrs. Goodge declared.

“You always do.”

“Maybe my information might ’elp,” Smythe offered. He told them about what he’d learned from Blimpey. He took care in the telling, making sure that everyone understood the implications of his information.