Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “But how do you know he hated Walker’s firm?” Luty asked.

  “He told me. The item was a huge success. A year or so later, I happened to run into Gilhaney one night. He insisted on buying me a drink and we went to a nearby pub. He got very drunk—it was the anniversary of something for him, he wouldn’t say what, but it wasn’t a nice memory—and he began talking about Walker and Company. He hated them. I could see he was in his cups, so I put him in a hansom and went on my way.”

  “Then why would he go to work for Newton Walker?” Luty demanded. “That don’t make any sense.”

  John shrugged. “Perhaps Walker offered him a huge amount of money. I know that Walker was looking for someone with Gilhaney’s talent.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It was no secret. Walker wanted someone to examine his finances. His company had gone public and he claimed he wanted to attract more investors.”

  Luty cocked her head to one side. “You sound like you don’t believe that.”

  “What I believe and what I know are two different things,” he replied. “But in my experience, you only get someone like Gilhaney in when you’re looking to see if someone has cooked the books.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth, as the household knew her, was the first to arrive for their afternoon meeting. “Am I too early?” she asked as she glanced around the empty kitchen.

  “No, they’re late.” Mrs. Goodge put a pot of tea on the table next to the plate of brown bread and mince tarts. “But as you’re here and they’re not, we’ll have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what we know so far.”

  “Good, the only thing Hepzibah told me was that the victim had been murdered on Bonfire Night and that his name was Christopher Gilhaney.”

  “That’s right, and we don’t know much more than that except that on the night he was killed, he’d been at a dinner party in Chelsea.” Mrs. Goodge told her what they’d learned thus far. When she was finished, she took a deep breath and tried to think of the best way to say what needed to be said. “I’m not sure how to say this,” she finally admitted.

  Ruth stared at her curiously. “What is it? You can tell me anything, we’re good friends.”

  “I know, and I know you’ll understand what I’m sayin’, it’s just I don’t want you thinkin’ ill of Hepzibah.”

  Alarmed now, Ruth grabbed the cook’s hand. “What are you saying? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Oh dear, I’m not telling it right.” Mrs. Goodge smiled ruefully as she extracted her fingers. “I know you would never think badly of her, it’s just that she seems very different on this case. I know she really wanted to go to those lectures, but it’s not like her to be so … I don’t know … so … so …”

  “Detached.” Ruth supplied the very word the cook needed.

  “You noticed it, too? Thank goodness, I was afraid it was my imagination. And it’s not just her, it’s all of them. They’ve got their noses out of joint because they’re scared this murder will mean they have to cancel their Christmas plans—” She caught herself. “Oh dear, I did it again. You and the inspector were going to go to your friends’ in—”

  Ruth interrupted. “Stop fretting, now, the inspector and I can visit my friends anytime we like. I don’t know about the rest of the inspector’s household, but you’re right about Hepzibah. She was very distant when she was telling me about the Gilhaney murder. Not at all like her usual self.”

  “Like I said, it’s not just her, it’s all of ’em.” Mrs. Goodge thought for a moment. “No, Luty’s fine, but the rest of them acted like gettin’ out and about today was a right interruption to their day. I don’t know what we’ll do if they keep this up.”

  “Perhaps we won’t have to do anything,” Ruth suggested. “Perhaps they’ll come to realize that justice is more important than a few holiday plans.” She stopped as they heard the back door open and then light footsteps coming up the hall.

  Phyllis, her cheeks flushed from the cold, hurried into the room. Before she’d even reached the coat tree, the door opened again, and within five minutes, most of the others had arrived and taken their places around the table.

  Mrs. Goodge kept glancing at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard as she poured mugs of tea and handed them around the table. The others said little as they filled their plates with buttered brown bread and mince tarts.

  “It’s a quarter past four,” Wiggins exclaimed. “Where’s Mrs. Jeffries? Cor blimey, I hope she hasn’t run into trouble. She’s not like the rest of us—she’s not used to being out and askin’ questions.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Mrs. Goodge took her seat. “She’s quite capable of asking a few questions about Robert Longworth. She’s very clever.”

  “We know she’s clever”—he helped himself to a second slice of bread—“but askin’ questions is different from puttin’ all the bits and pieces together like she does.”

  “It’s not that different.” Luty cast a worried glance at the clock. “But it’s gettin’ late and Hatchet and I need to git moving before too long. I want to go to the Rucklands’ dinner party. Old Harry Ruckland has business interests all over the south of England and might know something useful.”

  “We’ve plenty of time, madam,” Hatchet said. “You’re not expected until half seven. You just want to get the meeting started because you’ve found out something and you can’t wait to tell us.”

  Luty grinned. “Danged right, and from that long, sour face of yours, I can tell you didn’t learn anything.”

  Hatchet snorted faintly but said nothing.

  “You don’t think Mrs. Jeffries is in real trouble, do you?” Phyllis looked at Wiggins, her expression anxious. “We were all late back today and it’s not a quarter past, it’s twenty past. That clock is five minutes slow.”

  “She’ll be here soon.” Betsy smiled reassuringly. “You know how it is, sometimes when you’re on the hunt, time gets away from you. But I agree with Luty, if she isn’t here soon, we’ll have to start. Amanda will be wanting her supper and poor Elinor isn’t much of a cook.”

  “It’s not like Mrs. Jeffries to be this late,” Phyllis muttered.

  Wiggins reached over and patted her hand. “Don’t fret, now, I’m sure she’s on her way.”

  “You’re the one that thought she might be in trouble,” Phyllis protested.

  “She’s not in trouble, but her bein’ this late is a bit worryin’,” Smythe said. “Some people don’t like to answer questions and they can be right nasty about it.”

  “Don’t be daft,” Mrs. Goodge cried. “She can take care of herself. For goodness’ sake, she knows what she’s about. She knows what she’s doing.”

  “Does she?” Hatchet asked. “She’s brilliant at putting the clues together, but we’ve no idea how skilled she might be in extracting information in a subtle manner and, as Smythe just pointed out, some individuals take offense quite easily.”

  They all started discussing the matter, their voices rising as they each tried to make their point. The conversation became so loud that none of them heard the back door open.

  “Mrs. Jeffries knows what’s what and she’s just fine,” Mrs. Goodge shouted over the others. “She’ll be here soon, so stop your worrying.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Goodge.” Mrs. Jeffries took off her hat and cloak as she crossed the floor. “I’m so sorry to be late, but there was horrible traffic on the Westminster Bridge. I was stuck in a hansom cab and, frankly, could have gotten home faster if I’d walked.” She hung up her garments and took her seat. “Now, what have I missed?” As she’d stopped in the corridor and eavesdropped, she’d overheard some of what had been said about her. She wasn’t sure if she ought to be insulted that they had little faith in her interrogation skills or flattered that they cared about her enough to fret when she was late.

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Goodge said firmly. “We were discussing whether or not to start without you. But as you’re h
ere now, it’s not important.”

  “Good, who would like to go first?”

  “I will,” Luty volunteered. “I wasn’t able to find out too much about Walker and Company or even the name of the firm in Manchester where Gilhaney worked before he came here, but I did learn that he’s supposed to be one of those people that is brilliant at finances. He ain’t just good with numbers, he’s got one of those brains that can remember something after only seein’ it one time.”

  “How is that possible?” Hatchet asked. “Honestly, madam, sometimes you’re very naive. You believe the most ridiculous nonsense.”

  “It ain’t nonsense.” She shot him a glare. “And I heard it from two different sources. Now, if you’ll wait your turn, I’ll finish with my report.” She told them the rest of what she learned from both John Widdowes and his young clerk. “Accordin’ to my source, Gilhaney was a real decent man, a good man. So I sure would like to know what it was that made him hate Walker, but more importantly, I’d like to know why he then went to work for the fellow.” She glanced at the faces around the table. Except for Ruth and Mrs. Goodge, none of them seemed overly excited about what she thought was a very significant bit of information.

  “Yes, well, we’ll do our best to find out.” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of tea. “Who’d like to go next?”

  • • •

  “Mrs. Bruce, this is an awkward question, but it must be asked.” Witherspoon hesitated. He couldn’t recall Abigail Chase’s exact words, but he was sure she’d mentioned that the Bruces, and Mrs. Bruce specifically, had been Gilhaney’s victims as well. “If Mr. Gilhaney didn’t insult you, why did you and your husband leave so early?”

  She stared at him coldly. “Because I was very, very sleepy, Inspector. Frankly, after we ate dessert, I could barely stay awake. What’s more, it had become apparent to me that, socially, it was much better to leave rather than stay and be the only ones to remain. That would have been humiliating for Mrs. Chase. So my husband put myself and my sister-in-law into a hansom and we went home.”

  “Your husband didn’t go with you?”

  “No, the Chase house is less than half a mile away and he wanted some fresh air. Besides, the only vehicle available was a hansom and they’re not very comfortable if there are more than two people. Now I really must go.” She started for the door.

  “Is Miss Florence Bruce at home?” Barnes asked.

  “Yes, she’s probably in the library. I’ll send the maid to fetch her. Good day.”

  Witherspoon waited till the door closed behind her. “What do you think, Constable?”

  “I think she’s lying about not being insulted.” Barnes flipped through his notebook. “Abigail Chase specifically said that Gilhaney implied that the Bruces loathed one another and that Theodore Bruce had only married his wife to run Walker and Company.”

  “I agree.” Witherspoon nodded. “Mrs. Bruce isn’t telling the truth, but is she lying to hide something or is it simply that she didn’t wish to admit she’d been the victim of the same public humiliation as the others?”

  “Perhaps we’ll know more when we speak with Miss Bruce,” Barnes replied just as the door opened and a tall, middle-aged woman with brown hair and thick eyebrows stepped into the room. She was dressed in a simple gray skirt, a high-necked white blouse with puffy sleeves, and a forest green velvet cummerbund that fitted perfectly around her waist.

  “I’m Florence Bruce. I understand you wish to speak to me?” She crossed the room and took the spot her sister-in-law had just vacated.

  Witherspoon said, “Yes, we’re here—”

  “I know why you’re here,” she interrupted. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. But I’ve an appointment soon and I’ve not much time so can we get on with it?”

  “I’ll be as quick as possible. When you were going into the Chases’ dinner party on Bonfire Night, did you notice anyone in the immediate neighborhood that appeared suspicious?” Witherspoon asked.

  “It’s been weeks, Inspector. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be much help to your investigation. I can’t remember anything about that night except that it was a dreadful dinner party and Mrs. Bruce was terribly sleepy.”

  “She mentioned that as well.” Witherspoon tried another tactic. “Miss Bruce, had you ever met Mr. Gilhaney prior to that night?”

  “No. I believe that Hazel and he were acquainted at one time. He worked for a firm in Manchester owned by one of her friends.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bruce told us she knew him.” Witherspoon tried to think of something useful to ask the woman. Once again, he had the feeling he was going around in circles.

  “Only as an acquaintance. On the way to the Chase home, she mentioned she’d met him socially.”

  “Would you please give us your impressions of the evening.” Witherspoon noticed she kept glancing at the clock on the marble mantel.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.” She frowned irritably. “I’ve told you, I don’t recall the events all that well. It was such a miserable party all I wanted to do was leave.”

  “We understand that, Miss Bruce, but a man has been murdered and you may have seen or heard something that will help us catch his killer,” Barnes interjected. “All the inspector wants to know is what happened that night, according to how you saw the events. We’ve been told that Mr. Gilhaney was rude to everyone. Do you think that’s true or were Mrs. Chase and Mrs. Bruce being overly sensitive?”

  “Overly sensitive!” She laughed. “Constable, take my word for it, my sister-in-law is most certainly not sensitive about anything and Abigail Chase is one of the most practical women I’ve ever met. No, Christopher Gilhaney was a rude boor.” She paused and her expression grew thoughtful. “I can’t recall if he was already there or if he came in right after us, but that doesn’t matter. He was horrible the entire evening, short as it was.”

  “We understand he started with Leon Webster.”

  “He did. I’m sure you already know what was said in these exchanges. Frankly, Gilhaney’s comments were most understood by the people he was speaking with, while at the same time, they were obvious enough for the rest of us to know that he was being insulting.” She glanced at the clock again. “Is this going to take much longer?”

  “Just a few more minutes,” Witherspoon promised. “You said Mrs. Bruce had met Mr. Gilhaney in Manchester? Correct?”

  She nodded impatiently.

  “How long ago was this?”

  “I’m not sure. She often goes to visit Mr. and Mrs. Ormand. She merely mentioned she’d met him socially but she didn’t give us any details.”

  “Us?”

  “My brother and I,” she explained. “She told us she’d met him when we were going to the Chase home. Ted was very surprised.”

  “Was Mr. Bruce happy that Mr. Walker had engaged Gilhaney?”

  “I’ve no idea, Inspector. He doesn’t discuss his business with me.” She got to her feet. “Now, if there’s nothing else …”

  “How long have you lived here?” Barnes asked.

  She seemed surprised by the question. “What kind of a question is that? My living arrangements have nothing to do with Mr. Gilhaney’s murder.”

  “Of course not,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We merely like to know as much as possible about the background of our witnesses. We never know who might be called to testify in the event of a trial. I’m sorry if the question offended you, but the constable is simply doing his job.” He’d thought the question odd, too, but he’d learned to trust Barnes.

  “I am offended and I can think of no reason for me to have to testify on this matter. I didn’t know the man and, except for meeting him at a dreadful dinner party, he’s nothing to do with me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.” She got up and hurried out of the room.

  The inspector didn’t try to detain her; he merely nodded as she flounced out of the room.

  “Sorry, sir, perhaps I shouldn’t have asked her,” Barnes began, but the
inspector cut him off.

  “Nonsense, Constable, you’ve excellent instincts. When we leave, you should have a quick word with the young lady that took our coats. If Miss Bruce won’t answer a simple question like how long she’s lived here, we’ll ask the maid.”

  “You don’t want to talk to all of the servants, sir?”

  “We’ve no real reason to speak to all of them,” he replied. “Not yet anyway.”

  • • •

  “I’ll have a go now,” Wiggins offered. “Mine won’t take much time—there’s not much to tell. I went to Putney and hung about the place for ages, but I didn’t have any luck finding someone from Gilhaney’s lodging house.” He grabbed his tea and took a quick drink to avoid making eye contact with anyone. He felt miserably guilty. He shouldn’t have gone to Craven Cottage. Unlike the stories he’d heard, what little he could see of the pitch was empty.

  “Did you try speaking to the local merchants?” Phyllis asked. She silently hoped he had, because if he’d already done it, that meant she’d not have to troop down to Putney tomorrow. She’d much rather go back to the Bruce neighborhood. Perhaps she’d run into that handsome Jonathan Talmadge again.

  “I didn’t have time,” he lied. He put his cup down, looked at his empty plate, and then reached for another tart, even though he was no longer hungry. “I mean, I hung about all afternoon because I know it’s important for us to find out what we can about the victim.” He glanced up at their faces and saw nothing unusual in their expressions. Relieved that they believed him, he slumped back in his chair. No need to worry now—they couldn’t possibly know he’d shirked his duty. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  “Don’t look so gloomy.” Betsy gave him a cheerful smile. “I didn’t find out anything today, either. Maybe we’ll both have better luck tomorrow. No one I spoke to knew anything about Ann Holter.” She didn’t add that she’d only spoken to two shop assistants in the Holter neighborhood. But neither of them knew anything about the woman so she’d given up and just done a bit of shopping for her own family. She still had hopes of getting to Paris.