Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (7 page)

“And the constables found nothing untoward when they searched the area?”

He shook his head and reached for his teacup. “Nothing. Mind you, everyone knew we already had the murder weapon, and it was dark by the time they began searching. I’ve ordered another search for tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have any suspects, sir?”

He frowned. “I suppose everyone who was at the tea party could be considered a suspect.”

“I thought most of the guests had already left the premises when the murder occurred,” she commented.

“Not all of them.” Witherspoon took a sip of tea. “Arthur Brunel was the one who sent for the police, and Constable Barnes had quite an interesting interview with one of the housemaids. A young girl named Annie.”

“The one who cracked the rim of the Chinese plate?”

He nodded. “She said that when she was bringing up a tray, she overheard a woman asking one of the other guests why on earth he’d come to the McCourt house—” He broke off and grinned. “She didn’t like to admit it, but she deliberately stopped and listened. She was in the hallway and heard the man say quite clearly that he only came so that he could see her.”

“Who is the ‘her’?” She frowned in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“I didn’t, either, but then the maid told me that the voice didn’t belong to Mrs. McCourt, so the only other woman it could have been was Mrs. Leon Brunel.”

“And who was the man?”

Witherspoon sighed. “Annie said she didn’t recognize his voice, so we’ll have to try and sort it out ourselves. But you must admit, a conversation like that does put the cat amongst the pigeons.”

Witherspoon and Barnes were back at Victoria Gardens bright and early the next morning. In the pale light of a cold winter’s day, Witherspoon directed a small army of constables in searching the communal gardens and the immediate area surrounding the McCourt home.

Barnes had popped into the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens this morning when he’d stopped to fetch the inspector. He’d had a short but useful chat with Mrs. Jeffries and the cook. When he and Witherspoon had first begun to work together, he’d soon realized the inspector was getting far more information than they were uncovering in the normal course of their police work. It hadn’t taken brilliant detecting on his part to realize Witherspoon’s household and friends were the ones doing the helping. He’d debated long and hard with himself before he’d revealed to the housekeeper that he was onto them, but the truth was, he admired what they were doing. They were smart and discreet, and they had sources that the average policeman couldn’t hope to compete with. All in all, it had worked out nicely.

Constable Griffiths smiled apologetically as he approached Witherspoon and Barnes. “Sorry, sir, but the only things we’ve found are a couple of old burlap bags, a broken umbrella, and a pencil case. All the items look as if they’ve been out here for weeks, sir.”

“Tell the lads to go over the grounds one more time and then go and help with the house to house,” the inspector instructed.

“Yes, sir.” Griffiths bobbed his head respectfully and left. As soon as he was gone, Barnes said, “Let’s hope we can find a witness from somewhere around here.” He pursed his lips. “This time of year with everyone out and about for the holidays someone must have seen something.”

“I’d not count on it, Constable,” Witherspoon replied. “Half the houses here are probably empty because people have gone to Scotland for Christmas.”

“And if you ask me, that makes no sense at all.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Scotland is more wet, cold, and miserable than London.”

“Agreed, but these sort of people do enjoy imitating the royal family, and the Queen takes her entire brood to Balmoral for the holidays. But let’s be optimistic; they can’t all have gone north, so perhaps someone will have seen something.” Witherspoon glanced at the rear of the McCourt house. “The servants are up by now, and I’d like us to have another word in that quarter before we begin interviewing yesterday’s guests.” He turned and went down the path, his feet crunching loudly on the gravel.

“Who do we want to speak to specifically?” Barnes asked as they crossed the small paved terrace to the back door.

“I want to speak to the housekeeper again, and I’d like you to talk to the butler. I think a precise time line of everyone’s whereabouts could be of value.” He stopped and then turned toward the far side of the house. “Let’s take a look at that balcony.”

Barnes hurried after him.

Witherspoon pointed up at the second floor. “Look, it’s quite small, but surely if Mrs. McCourt was standing out there for ten minutes, someone should have seen her.”

“Not if all the servants were out in the gardens,” Barnes said reasonably. “Not unless one of them had a reason to look for her. You can’t see the balcony from out back.”

“In any case, let’s see if we can find out if anyone did notice her.” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “And if none of the servants saw her, let’s see if one of the neighbors might have seen her.”

 

As soon as the hansom cab carrying the inspector and Barnes pulled away from the pavement, the others descended upon the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens.

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, were the last to arrive. Everyone else was already at the table in their usual spots: Mrs. Jeffries sat at the head with Mrs. Goodge on her right; Wiggins sat beside the cook with Ruth on his other side; Betsy, holding the baby, and Smythe and Phyllis sat on the left side of the table.

“It’s all his fault,” Luty announced as the two of them swept into the room. “It takes him forever and a day to git movin’ in the mornings.”

Luty Belle Crookshank was an elderly, white-haired American woman. From the wild west of Colorado, she’d married an Englishman who’d gone prospecting, and they had made a fortune in silver mining. Now widowed, she’d been a witness in one of the inspector’s first cases and had realized that his household was snooping about looking for information. After that case had been resolved, she’d come to them with a problem of her own, and ever since, she and Hatchet had insisted on helping them.

She knew everyone who was anyone in London, and despite being unschooled, plainspoken, and of no social pedigree whatsoever, she was welcomed in the homes of cabinet ministers, bankers, diplomats, and aristocrats. She loved bright clothes and even brighter jewelry. Today she wore an emerald green cape with a white fur collar and a matching fur hat.

“Don’t be absurd, madam. I was ready a good ten minutes prior to our leaving the house.” Hatchet grinned broadly. He was a tall, white-haired man with a regal bearing and a ready wit. He was devoted to his employer and not in the least shy about voicing his opinions. “Good morning, everyone,” he said as he helped Luty out of her cloak and went to the coat tree, shedding his own overcoat and black top hat as he walked.

“There’s that pretty dumplin’.” Luty’s pearls swung wildly as she rushed over to where Betsy sat holding the baby. Amanda waved her chubby arms and gave her a wide, toothless grin. “Oh my goodness, look, she’s smilin’ at me.”

“Of course she is, Luty. She knows her godmother,” Betsy replied. She was a pretty, blonde-haired woman in her twenties. She was the maid in the Witherspoon household, but in truth, since she’d had the baby, her duties were so light as to be nonexistent. She was now more a housewife than housemaid, and she’d already made up her mind that she was going to have a talk with Mrs. Jeffries about giving up her duties altogether. Taking wages when she didn’t feel she’d earned them properly made her feel guilty, and in any case, she didn’t need the money. “I’m going to feel very left out now that you’ve all got a murder,” she said as Luty chucked the baby under the chin and then skirted around the table to where Hatchet held out her chair.

“You’ll contribute your bit,” the cook assured her. “You won’t be able to get out and about like before, but that’s alright. There will still be bits and pieces that you can do.”

Betsy laughed softly. She couldn’t believe she’d once feared this moment; once been terrified that after she’d married there would come a time when she wasn’t able to do her fair share when they had a murder. She’d dreaded that moment more than anything, but now that it was here and she held her child in her arms, she couldn’t imagine why she’d been so frightened. Now the thought of being away from her baby was unthinkable. “That’s nice of you to say, but don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” she declared. “And now that we’ve got Phyllis on the hunt with us, she’ll be able to take over some of my patch.”

“Don’t say that!” Phyllis exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ll be able to find out near as much as you always did. I’ll do my best, but I don’t want everyone thinkin’ I can do as well as you. You’re much better with people than I am.”

“Nonsense, you’ll do just fine,” Betsy replied. “You just need some practice, that’s all.” Betsy was the one who went to the neighborhoods surrounding the murder scene and the homes of their suspects. With her shopping basket over her arm and her sweet smile, she’d become an expert at getting information and gossip out of the local merchants.

“Of course you will, Phyllis, so stop worrying,” Mrs. Jeffries reassured her. “Now, let’s get started. I’ll start by telling Luty and Hatchet what we know, and then I’ll tell the rest of you what I learned from the inspector last night and what Constable Barnes told Mrs. Goodge and me this morning.” She took her time in the telling and was careful to stick to the facts. When she’d finished, she looked at the faces around the table, hoping that someone would be able to add something to the meager details they knew thus far.

“Daniel McCourt,” Luty murmured. “That name sounds awfully familiar, but I can’t recollect anythin’ specific about it.”

“I, too, recognize the name,” Hatchet agreed. “But like you, I can’t recall in what context I have heard it.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “McCourt was a collector of Oriental art? That might be useful, as I’ve a number of connections in London’s art community.”

“I’m not so sure he actually collected art.” She frowned in confusion. “From what the inspector said, the murder weapon was from the victim’s collection, but I’m not sure a sword would be considered art.”

Hatchet grinned. “I’ve got some sources that should be knowledgeable about antiquities as well.”

“I’ll ’ave a go at the local hansom drivers and the pubs,” Smythe volunteered. “We’ve ’ad a bit of luck on this one; all the tea party guests live close to the murder house, so if they’re suspects, at least we won’t be runnin’ about all over London. But even if they lived close, they’d ’ave probably taken a hansom rather than walked yesterday. It was bloomin’ cold.”

“And it’s going to be just as cold today,” Betsy interjected. “So make sure you don’t forget your scarf and gloves.”

“I’ll see what I can suss out from the McCourt servants,” Wiggins offered. “And if there’s no one about the murder house, I’ll try one of the other people. Cor blimey, we’ve got enough suspects to choose from. ’Ow many people was at the tea party?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Leon Brunel, Arthur Brunel, Charles Cochran, Jerome Raleigh, and Nicholas Saxon.” Mrs. Goodge recited the names quickly. “And don’t forget Mrs. McCourt. She ought to be a suspect as well. We’ve only her word that she went upstairs to that balcony.”

“None of the other servants saw her up there,” Ruth mused. “And they were out in the communal garden.”

“We don’t know that no one saw her,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded them. “Neither the inspector nor Constable Barnes asked that specific question yesterday; they were too busy taking general statements. But I’ve no doubt they’ll take care of the matter today.”

“None of these names sound familiar to me,” Ruth admitted as she reached for her teacup. “But my women’s group is meeting today. I’ll see if I can learn anything there.”

“I’ll get some notes out to my old colleagues,” Mrs. Goodge murmured. “And I’ve got the laundry boy and the butcher’s lad comin’ round today. Lucky for us the murder was close by. Maybe one of them will have a bit of useful gossip.”

Phyllis, who’d been staring at the tabletop, glanced up to see everyone looking at her expectantly. She took a deep breath. “I’ll speak to the local merchants,” she offered. “I’m not sure I’m goin’ to be able to learn anythin’, but as I said, I’ll do my best.”

Wiggins caught her eye and gave her a reassuring smile. “You know, we don’t always learn much when we’re first startin’ a case,” he said to her. “Sometimes it takes a few days, so don’t be gettin’ all miserable if you don’t ’ave much luck your first time out.” In truth, he didn’t think Phyllis was going to learn one blooming thing. She wasn’t as pretty or as confident as Betsy, and when she got nervous, she stuttered just a bit over some words. Yet he didn’t want to discourage her. She was a nice person, and he hoped he’d be wrong and she’d surprise them.

“That’s excellent advice, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “As for me, I think I’ll take a quick trip and have a look at the murder house. Don’t worry; with this cold weather, my bonnet will hide my face well enough to keep any constables from the inspector’s station from recognizing me.”

“Why do you want to go there?” Betsy asked curiously.

“It was something the inspector said,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I can’t quite recall his exact words, but the gist of the matter is that there are three doors and a number of windows in the McCourt house. Because of the fire, all of them were open. I’d like to see how easy it would be for someone to gain access to the place without being noticed. That’s the sort of thing one must see for oneself.”

Smythe looked at her, his expression speculative. “You thinkin’ the fire wasn’t an accident?”

“I’m trying not to form any conclusion until we’ve more facts,” she replied. “We all know how easy it is to get on the wrong track entirely if we make assumptions too early in the case. But on the other hand, it is possible that whoever killed Daniel McCourt deliberately set the blaze. None of the servants would admit to being anywhere near the area where the fire started.”