Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  Barrows looked up from the open file on his desk. “I’d like you to explain yourself, Inspector. I’ve gone through your reports on the Gilhaney case and there’s not so much as a hint that you’re close to an arrest. For God’s sake, Nivens, what’s going on here? You insisted that you’d be able to solve this case easily, but it’s been six weeks!”

  “I’m afraid we’ve hit a number of false leads, sir.”

  “False leads? What the devil does that mean? Does it mean you’re close to making an arrest? Does it mean you’ve some idea who murdered Gilhaney?”

  “No, sir, none of my usual sources have been very useful, sir.”

  Barrows sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “As I told you when I let you have this case, the Home Office wanted it solved quickly. They are not happy, Inspector, and neither am I. I assured them you’d take care of the matter promptly.”

  “At the time, I was sure I could, sir, but unfortunately, none of my informants have any information whatsoever. We’ve hit one dead end after another.” He tried to look embarrassed. “I’m afraid this one might have been a murder, not a robbery.”

  Barrows gaped at him. “For God’s sake, man, six weeks ago you insisted that this was a robbery, not a murder. I took you at your word because I thought you knew what you were talking about. Now I’ve got the Home Secretary breathing down my neck, not to mention the nasty little digs from the gutter press claiming we’re too incompetent to know our elbows from our arses.”

  “My apologies, sir. At the time, the evidence clearly indicated it wasn’t murder but robbery. I was mistaken.”

  “That’s obvious.” Barrows took a deep, controlling breath. “You’re off the case, Inspector. We need this one solved as soon as possible. I’m calling in Inspector Witherspoon.”

  This was precisely what Nivens wanted, but nonetheless, he felt a fast rush of resentment that he could be so easily discarded. “I understand, sir. Shall I send my case files to the Ladbroke Road Police Station?”

  • • •

  Inspector Gerald Witherspoon clutched the huge, brown-paper-wrapped parcel to his chest and stepped out of the brightly decorated toy shop and onto the pavement. He turned and glanced at the window. Dolls, clockwork dogs and cats, green, red, and yellow blocks, a brilliantly painted Regency dollhouse, and a dozen other toys were spread against a white cotton field. He shifted his package tighter against his chest. He couldn’t wait to show it to Ruth. The other presents were going to be delivered to the house, but he’d taken this one because he wanted her opinion. If she didn’t like the toy he’d chosen for Amanda, he’d have her come with him to pick another one.

  A cold wind had blown in, threatening rain, and he debated whether to walk home or find a hansom cab. From behind him the shop door opened and he moved closer to the busy road as two matrons, both of whom had shared their opinion about what to buy for his godchild, stepped outside. He nodded respectfully. “Thank you again for your assistance.”

  “It was our pleasure. Good day, sir,” one of them called out as they hurried off.

  He wished Ruth had been with him, but she’d had a previous engagement so he’d taken the bull by the horns and gone shopping on his own. All in all, it had been a very good day and he was quite pleased with himself. Just then a hansom rounded the corner, slowed down, and then stopped at the curb. He grinned, told himself that fate had made the decision for him, and started toward the cab, moving slowly so the person inside could step onto the pavement without being crowded. He stopped, blinking in surprise as Constable Barnes—dressed in his uniform—got out. The constable was a tall, ruddy-faced man with ramrod-straight posture and a head full of curly gray hair beneath his helmet.

  He smiled apologetically at Witherspoon and then glanced at the driver. “Wait, please. We’ll be just a minute.”

  “Gracious, Constable, what are you doing here?” The inspector’s good mood began to disappear. “You’re supposed to be on leave.”

  “As are you, sir.” Barnes winced. “Something has come up and Chief Superintendent Barrows wants to see us both immediately.”

  Witherspoon, who wasn’t one to ever complain, felt like complaining now. “But we’re both on leave. He’s the one who authorized our leaves. We’re not due back until January third. What can he possibly want?”

  Barnes had heard the talk at the station and had a very good idea what Chief Superintendent Barrows wanted, but he hated to be the one to break it to Witherspoon. The poor fellow had been looking forward to this Christmas holiday. He had big plans and had talked of nothing else for weeks now. The constable wasn’t happy about the situation, either. He and his wife had plans of their own and now, if the gossip at the station had been correct, he’d have to cancel their holiday travels, too. But until he actually heard it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, he’d hold his tongue. “We’ll have to see, sir. Come along, now. If we hurry, we can get across town before the traffic is too bad.”

  Looking slightly dazed, Witherspoon stepped into the cab. “But I’ve just bought some toys for my godchild. The rest of her presents are being delivered to Lady Cannonberry’s tomorrow along with some lovely colored paper. We had it all planned, and we were going to wrap them while drinking her father’s special mulled toddy recipe.”

  “New Scotland Yard,” Barnes yelled as he swung into the cab behind the inspector and took his seat.

  “This will not do, Constable. We’ve both worked very hard and every time we try to take time off, time we’re allowed to have, we get a difficult case.” Witherspoon frowned heavily. “This is the first Christmas that Amanda will really understand what it’s all about and I wanted to make it special for her. Blast, I’ve a feeling that whatever Barrows wants with us, it’s going to greatly interfere with all our holiday plans.”

  Barnes nodded and tried to think of something hopeful to say, but he needn’t have bothered, the inspector was still talking.

  Witherspoon tapped the top of the parcel. “I’ve found the most wonderful present for Amanda. It’s unique. It’s a beautiful model of a French shop, a parfumerie régence. It’s all done up in lovely lavender and pink colors and there are paper dolls with matching dresses for the customers. I know she’ll love it. Plus, I’ve got her a soldier doll along with his lady and I’ve ordered an enormous dollhouse. Ruth and I were so looking forward to our day tomorrow.”

  Barnes smiled sympathetically. “Regardless of why the chief superintendent wants to see us, sir, at least we’ll have Christmas Day. You’ll be there to see the little one opening her presents and enjoying them, sir.”

  Witherspoon’s expression was glum. “Yes, that’s true, but we’d plans for a lovely party on Christmas Eve. You know that—you and Mrs. Barnes were invited—and if, as I suspect, we’re being called to the Yard because of a murder, you and I won’t be able to be there. Which means the only time I’m going to get to be with my godchild is a few hours on Christmas Day. What’s more, as you know, Lady Cannonberry and I had plans to leave for the country on Boxing Day. Her friends are expecting us and I was so looking forward to meeting them. But if we’ve a murder, that’s gone right out the window.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I know you’re disappointed as well. You and Mrs. Barnes had plans to go to Portsmouth to visit her brothers.”

  “We can always go later. Mrs. Barnes is usually very understanding about these sorts of changes,” Barnes said. In truth, she was, but this time, he had a feeling she’d be quite put out and he didn’t much blame her.

  “I hope Lady Cannonberry will understand,” Witherspoon murmured, his expression now worried. “As a matter of fact, I’m glad to have a few private moments with you. Uh, er, I hope you won’t think me overly familiar, but I’d like your advice about something.”

  Barnes eyed him warily. “What about, sir?”

  “Well, you see, Lady Cannonberry and I have gotten very close and, well, last year at Christmas, I bought her a pair of kid gloves. Nice ones, and she liked them very much. She wears th
em whenever we go out. But this year, I was thinking I’d like to get her something a bit more personal, a bit more in keeping with the closer nature of our relationship. I’m not sure what that would be and it’s not the sort of thing I can ask Mrs. Jeffries or Mrs. Goodge, though both of them agreed that the gloves were a good idea.”

  Relieved, the constable let out the breath he’d been holding. For one brief, horrible moment, he was afraid his superior was going to ask him for advice on that most intimate of moments between a man and a woman. “Let me think, sir. Oh, I know, get her some jewelry. When I was courting Mrs. Barnes and I wanted to let her know without actually saying the words that she was special, I got her a lovely brooch. She wears it to this day.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.” Witherspoon smiled broadly. “As soon as I’ve a free moment, I’ll go to a jeweler’s. Would you recommend a brooch, or perhaps a bracelet? No, no, I know, I’ll buy her a necklace. What do you think, Constable? What do women like the best?”

  By the time the hansom pulled up in front of the New Scotland Yard, they’d debated the merits of bracelets, necklaces, brooches, stickpins, and even rings. Yet Witherspoon still hadn’t made up his mind. As they went inside and mounted the stairs to Barrows’ office, the one thing the constable was certain about was that he was glad he’d not been the one to completely ruin both their Christmas holidays. He’d leave that up to the chief superintendent.

  • • •

  “It’s not fair.” Wiggins, the footman, yanked the top off a tin of brass polish and put it on the open newspaper he’d spread on the table. “We should be in the football league. We’ve done enough to be there. But no, those northern clubs don’t want anything to do with us. Southern clubs aren’t considered good enough for the likes of that bunch.”

  Mrs. Goodge, the cook, looked up from her worktable where she was peeling turnips and gazed at him sympathetically. She and the footman were in the kitchen of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon’s large house. Outside, a cold rain had begun to fall, but inside it was warm and cozy. “Now, Wiggins, stop feelin’ miserable about this. There’s nothing you can do to change anything so you might as well make up your mind to look past it. Besides, you told me that while the inspector and Lady Cannonberry are in the country, you’re going to two or three football games and all your mates are going to be there as well. You’re even going to be staying overnight with one of them so you lads can get up to all sorts of mischief.”

  Wiggins smeared some polish on the cloth, bent over, and picked up one of the andirons he’d set next to his chair. He laid it on top of the paper. “I know that, but it still rankles. I hate them northern clubs, especially Burnley.” He glanced at the cook. “Mrs. Goodge, are you goin’ to be alright here on your own? With the inspector gone, we’re all goin’ to be out and about. Phyllis will be visitin’ with her friend and goin’ to all them plays. Mind you, I was a bit put out that Phyllis didn’t think to ask me to go with ’er. I like plays as well.”

  Mrs. Goodge winced inwardly. She didn’t want to see the lad hurt and she could see that his feelings for Phyllis had grown stronger since they’d ironed out their differences. The trouble was, she wasn’t sure that Phyllis saw Wiggins in the same light. The maid seemed to still see him as a brother rather than a potential sweetheart. “Phyllis knows you’ve got the football.”

  “I know, and she doesn’t get a chance to see her friend that often.” Wiggins nodded. “But will you be alright here? Mrs. Jeffries will be out and about, too. She’s goin’ to all those lectures at the British Museum and she said she might even try to get up to Yorkshire.”

  The cook, who’d been looking forward to having the place to herself, was touched by the lad’s thoughtfulness. “Of course I’ll be alright.” She grinned. “Even if Mrs. Jeffries goes to Yorkshire for a few days, Phyllis and I will be here the night you’re gone, and between us, we’ll be right safe.”

  “I wasn’t worried about that.” He smeared the polish on the top of the brass. “Even Betsy and Smythe will be gone. They’re takin’ the little one to France for a few days and you’ll be alone for a lot of the time. Won’t you get lonely?”

  “I’ve lots to do,” she assured him. “Luty and I have plans to go to a restaurant for dinner on the twenty-seventh and I’ve letters to write to my friends, and if any of you lot have been listening to my hints on what to get me for Christmas, I should have at least one nice cookbook to read.”

  “But still, I don’t like to think of you ’ere on your own.” He picked up the polishing cloth and rubbed it against the metal. “I’m glad you and Luty are goin’ out together. Hatchet’s got that friend comin’ from the Far East so he’ll be out and busy as well.”

  “And they’ll both be at Luty’s at night,” Mrs. Goodge reminded him. “Hatchet’s friend is staying with them. Now stop your frettin’. Luty and I will be right as rain.”

  “This is the first time where we’ve all got plans for the holidays,” he mused. “Even the inspector won’t be back from the country till after the New Year.”

  “We’ll be together at Christmas and that’s what’s important.” Mrs. Goodge headed for the cooker. “I’m goin’ to put the kettle on. It’s getting cold and I hear Mrs. Jeffries comin’ down the stairs.”

  Mrs. Jeffries, the middle-aged, auburn-haired housekeeper, hurried into the kitchen. She carried a huge ledger. “Bless you, Mrs. Goodge. I’m dying for a cup of tea and I’ve finally got these wretched household accounts finished.”

  “I’m almost done polishin’ the andirons,” Wiggins said. “And Mrs. Goodge and I was just chattin’ about the holidays, how it’s the first time we can recall that all of us have plans.”

  She opened the bottom drawer of the pine sideboard, dumped the heavy account book inside, and used her foot to close it. “It’s rather exciting, isn’t it?” She slipped into her spot at the head of the table. “I’m so looking forward to those lectures at the British Museum. Dr. Furness is a leading authority on ancient Egypt and he’s giving three of them.”

  “When did you get interested in Egypt?” Wiggins went to work on the second andiron.

  Mrs. Jeffries’ eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ve always been interested in the subject. I’ve read as much as I could on my own. But this is the first opportunity I’ve had to really learn anything from a genuine expert.”

  “Looks like we’re all ready to really enjoy ourselves this Christmas,” Wiggins said. “Let’s just hope it’s not all ruined at the last minute.”

  The kettle whistled and Mrs. Goodge yanked it off the cooker and poured the boiling water into the big brown teapot. “How could it be ruined?”

  “You know what I mean,” Wiggins replied. “We could get us a murder, that’s how.”

  • • •

  Witherspoon stared at Chief Superintendent Barrows, his expression incredulous. “Let me make certain I understand, sir. You want us to investigate a murder that happened six weeks ago.”

  “That’s correct.” Barrows looked down at the open file on his desk and pretended to read from it. He was Witherspoon’s superior, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t embarrassed by what he had to do now. He’d made a dreadful mistake in giving the case to Nivens. “Christopher Gilhaney was shot on November the fifth, Guy Fawkes Night. Since then, Inspector Nivens has been investigating the case as a robbery gone bad”—he looked up—“but we’ve finally come to the conclusion it was actually a premeditated murder.”

  Witherspoon’s heart sank as his worst fear was confirmed. “Do we have any witnesses, sir?”

  “He was leaving a dinner party in Chelsea when he was shot, so we do have some idea of how he spent his last few hours. But we’ve no witnesses to the murder itself, nor does anyone from the neighborhood recall hearing anything at the time we think the killing took place.”

  “Where was he murdered, sir?”

  “In Kilbane Mews. It’s near the river.” Barrows leaned back in his chair and studied the two policemen’s glum e
xpressions. Witherspoon sat across from him in a chair while the constable stood at attention by the door. “Look, I understand this isn’t an ideal situation.” He smiled apologetically. “The truth is, Inspector Nivens made a bit of a mess of things. Now we’ve got the Home Office breathing down our necks and we’ve got to get this case solved.”

  “That might be rather difficult, sir,” Witherspoon protested. “The killer has had six weeks to destroy any evidence linking him or her to the crime, witnesses will have forgotten anything useful they might have seen or heard the night of the murder, and I didn’t have a chance to examine the body at the crime scene.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m aware of all that and I know that with the murder having taken place so long ago you won’t be able to employ many of your ‘special methods,’ but you have solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police, Inspector, so I want you to give this one your best effort.”

  “Of course, sir,” Witherspoon muttered. “That goes without saying.”

  “The Home Secretary himself is nagging us about it,” Barrows explained. “This morning I got a telegram from him demanding I put you on the case.”

  “I take it the victim was prominent?” Witherspoon’s spirits plummeted as he saw his hopes for the holidays vanish. If the Home Secretary was putting his oar in, the pressure to catch the killer would be immense.

  Barrows shook his head. “Not really. Gilhaney was an accountant. He’d come down from Manchester to join a large firm of builders as their head of finance and he’d taken a seat on their board. But he himself wasn’t particularly prominent nor was he well connected. As a matter of fact, he’s more an example of working-class boy makes good. It’s the press coverage, you see—that’s what is so disturbing to the H.O.”

  “The press coverage, sir?” Witherspoon didn’t recall there being a lot of negative articles about this case.

  “That’s what I’ve been told.” Barrows frowned slightly. “But I’ve not seen it. However, the H.O. is particularly sensitive to criticism of the police and apparently, there are some in the gutter press that won’t let this story alone. It’s the usual story; the police are being called incompetent at best and elitist at worst.”