Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (8 page)

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Phyllis blurted out. “I mean, most houses aren’t like this one. Our inspector is a decent person who wouldn’t toss you into the streets for the least little thing. In all the places I used to work, if you made a mistake that caused any damage, you’d be shown the door right quick and without a reference to boot.”

Gerald Witherspoon had been raised in very modest circumstances. He was only rich today because he’d inherited this house and a fortune from his aunt. Consequently, he’d never learned to regard servants as objects to do his bidding and actually treated them as human beings.

“She’s right,” Ruth agreed. “Just because the servants insist they can account for their whereabouts when the fire supposedly started, that doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth. Lying to keep a roof over one’s head is understandable.”

“So you’re saying the fire could have been a genuine accident?” the housekeeper countered.

“Shouldn’t we treat that as an equal possibility?” Hatchet said. “Perhaps the killer merely took advantage of the circumstances. It wouldn’t be the first time a murder was committed because someone saw a golden opportunity and didn’t want to waste it.”

“We don’t know enough yet to be speculatin’,” Luty declared. “And every time we start thinkin’ too much about the case before we’ve got all our facts, we git in trouble. So I say we ought to just git out there and find out as much as we can.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed and rose to her feet. “Let’s see if we can’t learn a few facts today. Everyone be back here by half past four for our afternoon meeting.”

There was the sound of chairs scraping as people began to move. Smythe looked at his wife. “Are you goin’ to stay ’ere or go ’ome?”

Betsy hesitated, unsure of her welcome in the kitchen now that they had a case. “I don’t know. Mrs. Goodge has her sources coming and I—”

“Don’t you worry about that,” the cook interrupted. “You and that baby stay right here. As a matter of fact, you can help me get these lads talkin’. Wiggins”—she looked toward the coat tree where the footman stood putting on his jacket—“can you go into my room and pull the rocker out here, please?”

“Sure.” Wiggins headed off toward the cook’s quarters on the far side of the staircase.

“Are you certain I won’t be in the way?” Betsy asked.

“Don’t be daft, girl. I can use the company,” the cook declared.

 

“Mrs. Williams wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped, but she was sure that none of the servants left the back garden,” Witherspoon admitted as he and Barnes got out of the hansom in front of Arthur Brunel’s house on Claringdon Crescent. “But thanks to Haines, we do have a better time line of yesterday’s events.”

“And he also confirmed that the servants stayed in the garden, so none of them could have seen Mrs. McCourt on the balcony.” Barnes paid the driver. “So we’ll have to wait till we read the house-to-house reports to see if anyone else might have noticed her. Mind you, even if no one saw the woman, it doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”

“True, but I do want to verify her statement if possible. I don’t think she was overly fond of her husband,” the inspector added.

Barnes laughed. “You can say that about half the married women in England, sir, but that doesn’t mean they’d do murder.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the three-story brown brick home belonging to Arthur Brunel. “Wonder what’s going on here, sir.”

The house sat back from the street behind a small fenced garden. Two workmen blocked the short walkway leading to the front door; one was bent over a set of sawhorses cutting a piece of wood, and the other was on his knees rummaging through a toolbox. He looked up just then and caught sight of the two policemen.

“Pardon me.” The inspector smiled politely at the laborer as he opened the creaking gate and went up the walk. “But do you know if Mr. Arthur Brunel is home?”

The workman stopped sawing as his companion stood up. Both men were now staring at them. “He’s in there.” The taller of the two men wiped the sawdust off his hands and pointed to the front door. “Just bang the knocker.”

But they didn’t need to do that, as the door opened and a young housemaid stuck her head out. She looked directly at the inspector. “What do you want, sir?” she asked.

“We’d like to see Mr. Arthur Brunel.”

“He’s not receivin’, sir.” She started to close the door, but Barnes slapped his hand against the wood and stopped her from slamming it shut.

“This isn’t a social call,” he said softly. “Tell Mr. Brunel we need to speak with him. If he doesn’t wish us to come into his home, he’s more than welcome to accompany us to the station.”

Behind him, one of the workmen snickered.

The housemaid’s eyes widened with fright. “I’m only doin’ what he told me to do,” she explained. “I’ll leave this open and go tell Mr. Brunel what you’ve said.”

She disappeared, and they could hear the murmur of voices from the interior of the house. A few moments later, she reappeared and ushered them inside. She led them across a tiny foyer, past the staircase, and into a drawing room. “He’s in here,” she murmured softly before hurrying back to the hall.

They stepped farther inside, both of them blinking as their eyes adjusted to the gloom. But there was enough light to see that the walls were papered in an ugly gray green pattern, the curtains were closed, the carpet was frayed, and the furniture was one step away from being decrepit.

From out of the shadows, a man stood up. “I’m sorry to sound rude, but I suffer from terrible headaches. That’s why I had the maid say I wasn’t receiving. Please come in and sit down.”

“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes.” The inspector squinted as he moved deeper into the room. “We’re sorry to barge in like this, but it’s important we speak with you. Are you Arthur Brunel?”

“I am.” He waved them toward two chairs by the empty fireplace then sat back down on a love seat opposite. He had red hair, a snub nose, and a face full of freckles. “And I do know why you’re here. But I assure you, sir, I had nothing to do with Daniel McCourt’s murder.”

The inspector sat down and then winced as something hard punched directly into his backside. “You were at the McCourt house yesterday for tea, is that correct?” He heard Barnes groan as he sank into the other chair. He glanced over and saw the constable grimacing in pain.

“Yes, I was invited to the house. But I didn’t stay long. No one did. There was a fire in the servants’ hall, and the place stank to high heaven. We didn’t even get to finish our tea, which was very annoying, as I’d told the maid not to bother to make me any supper.”

“Can you please tell us what happened yesterday at the McCourt home?” Barnes asked.

Brunel thought for a moment. “Let me see, I think I arrived right on time, which would have been half past four. I don’t know why the tea wasn’t set for the proper time of five o’clock, but it wasn’t. We were kept waiting for some time in the morning room, of all places, and then the butler escorted everyone to the drawing room.”

“Do you know exactly when you went into the drawing room?” The inspector shifted his weight. Ye gods, what on earth was in these chair cushions?

“This is just a guess, but I’d say we went in about four forty,” he replied. “I can’t say for certain, as I don’t have a timepiece and didn’t look at the house clocks. But we were only in the drawing room for a couple of minutes before we heard the commotion and found out there was a fire. Daniel McCourt assured us that everything was under control and we should have tea, but within moments it was obvious that would be impossible. The house stank something awful. We sat there trying to pretend we didn’t notice the smell when all of a sudden Leon exclaimed that it looked as if his wife was going to faint.”

“Mrs. Brunel had taken ill?” Barnes clarified.

Arthur smirked. “That’s what Leon said, but Glenda looked perfectly healthy to me. As a matter of fact, I happened to look at her just when he made the comment, and I must say, she looked surprised. But obviously, Elena McCourt couldn’t have guests keeling over from the fumes, so she asked us all to leave.”

“It was Mrs. McCourt who asked you to go?” Witherspoon said.

“Oh yes,” he replied eagerly. “Daniel didn’t say a word about the smell. He just sat there smiling and pretending that nothing was wrong. But that’s just like him. He ignored Leon’s comment completely and kept wittering on about how we’d be so surprised by his latest acquisition. He was quite put out when his wife insisted we all leave. But he could hardly object, as everyone literally bolted for the door the moment it was acceptable to do so. The stench was terrible.”

“I understand you and Mr. McCourt weren’t on the best of terms?” the inspector said.

“That’s putting it mildly, Inspector,” he replied. “I haven’t spoken to him in over three years. Daniel conspired with my half brother to cheat me out of my share of our father’s estate.” He waved his hand around the darkened room. “You saw the men outside. They’re builders, and because of McCourt, I’m now forced to turn the top floors of my home into flats. That’s the only way I can hang on to my property.”

“How did he cheat you, sir?” Barnes asked.

Brunel smiled bitterly. “Daniel McCourt is our cousin. He was also the executor of my father’s estate. He and Leon, my half brother, have been friends since childhood. Between the two of them, they managed to ensure that I got a mere pittance of what was coming to me. They cheated me.”

“Then why did you accept McCourt’s invitation?” Witherspoon asked.

“I almost didn’t.” He shrugged. “Then I changed my mind. The truth is, I was curious. I was surprised to get an invitation. I went to see what he wanted.”

“We understood Mr. McCourt had arranged the tea because he wanted to show off his latest antiquity acquisition,” the inspector said as he watched Brunel carefully for his reaction. “Was that not the case?”

“That’s exactly what the man wanted. I’ve no idea why McCourt thought I’d be interested in one of those heathen things, but like a fool I accepted his invitation, thinking that perhaps he might have some other reason for wanting to see me. But it was the same old thing: Daniel showing off and being greedy. As soon as he walked into the drawing room, I realized I shouldn’t have come. If the fire hadn’t started and stunk up the house, I’d have found an excuse to leave in any case. Mr. Saxon and Mr. Raleigh were glaring at each other, Charles Cochran didn’t say a word to anyone, Elena McCourt was ill at ease, and Leon’s poor wife kept her eyes on the floor as if she wanted to memorize the pattern in the rug. It was most unpleasant.”

“Are you saying that none of the guests wanted to be there?” Barnes asked.

“That’s how it appeared to me.” Brunel laughed harshly.

“But luckily, someone set the house on fire, and that gave everyone an excuse to go. Unfortunately for me, I left my wallet in the drawing room, and I was almost home before I realized what I’d done.”

“So you went back to retrieve it?” Witherspoon pressed.

“Is that correct?”

“Correct. I’d started to go into the pub nearby, and out of habit, I’d patted the pocket where I keep my wallet. It wasn’t there.” He sighed. “Then I remembered I’d taken it out at the McCourts’ house and instead of putting it back into my coat pocket, I’d laid it down on the arm of the chair. So I had to go all the way back to get it.”

“Which door did you use when you went back to the house?” Barnes asked.

Brunel blinked, surprised by the question. “Why, the front one, of course. It was standing wide open, so I went straight inside.”

“Did you see anyone?” the inspector asked.

“No, so I started for the drawing room, and then I heard another commotion. Well, you know what I found when I went inside. Mrs. McCourt and the butler were standing there, both of them blubbering so badly I couldn’t tell what they were saying. Then I saw him lying there.” He looked away. “He was a greedy braggart and a thief, but he didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Barnes stood up. “You could tell he was dead?”

Brunel didn’t seem surprised by the constable’s sudden move to vacate his seat. “It was obvious. For God’s sake, there was blood everywhere. So I immediately ran for help and fetched the constable from the corner. Oh, sorry about the chairs. The cushions got wet a few months back, and now they’ve gone hard as rocks.”

Witherspoon got up as well. “Why didn’t you stay and give us a statement? Surely you must have realized that we’d want to speak with you.”

“You are speaking with me,” Brunel countered. “I told the constable what had happened, I got my wallet, and then I left. I didn’t kill the fellow, so I don’t see why I should have had to inconvenience myself any further. I hadn’t had my tea, and I was hungry and thirsty. I wanted to go home and have a drink.”

 

Samson, Mrs. Goodge’s cat, hissed and swiped his paw at Phyllis as she came out of the hallway. But she dodged around the stool where the nasty old tabby perched and went into the kitchen.

“Smack his paws when he does that,” Betsy instructed. She was sitting in the rocker that Wiggins had pulled next to the table.

Phyllis cringed visibly and then continued on toward the coat tree. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I don’t like hittin’. Even an old mean one like him doesn’t deserve to be whacked about.” She reached for her jacket.

“I didn’t mean for you to beat him,” Betsy said as she rocked the baby. She hadn’t missed the way Phyllis had reacted. “But a little tap to let him know he’s doing wrong won’t hurt him.”

“Mrs. Goodge loves him dearly, doesn’t she?” Phyllis slipped her coat on and reached for her woolen hat. Wiggins had brought the animal home at the end of one of their cases. Samson had been the pet of a murder victim, and the footman had claimed the cat would have starved to death if left at the household of his previous owner.

“Indeed she does,” Betsy said. “So we all put up with the nasty old thing.” She noticed that Phyllis’ shoulders were hunched and her fingers fumbled with the buttons as she fastened her coat. “You’re scared, aren’t you?”