Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “I found out a little bit,” Phyllis volunteered. “It isn’t much, but it was the best I could do. Florence Bruce takes laudanum. I don’t know why she takes it or for how long—my source didn’t say—but she’s got a standing prescription for it.” That comment was a bit of a stretch, but she thought it reasonable, considering the way the old man at the chemist’s had behaved. “And the Bruce home is owned by Newton Walker, Mrs. Bruce’s father. The locals refer to it as ‘the Walker house.’ When he dies, the property is going to her.”

  “I thought you claimed you’d not found out a lot.” Mrs. Goodge gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ve learned two facts we didn’t know and, as Mrs. Jeffries always says, we’ve no idea what might or might not turn out to be important.”

  “Who would like to go next?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “I will.” Smythe put his cup down. “I didn’t have much luck, either. The only thing I found out was that Leon Webster was at a pub near the Chase house on Bonfire Night. Accordin’ to the fellow I talked to, Webster was as nervous as a kitten in a roomful of bulldogs. He jumped every time the fireworks exploded.” He repeated everything he’d learned from old Hamish. “My source was lucky he had his nephew with ’im. Webster recognized him as a former employee and bought them both a couple of drinks.”

  Mrs. Jeffries nodded, but she’d only been half listening. She tried to think of a question, but nothing popped into her head.

  “What time did he get to the pub?” Luty asked.

  Smythe grinned. “Ten minutes before last call, and the place closes at half ten. And Webster didn’t just buy drinks for the others, he downed two whiskeys himself.”

  “Why is that important?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Oh, silly me, of course it’s important.” She glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. “The inspector told you the dinner party ended early the night Gilhaney was killed.” She waited for Mrs. Jeffries to make a comment, but she simply sat there, staring off into space. The cook surveyed the faces around the table. Ruth and Luty looked like they were listening, but the rest of them appeared to be bored or daydreaming.

  Mrs. Jeffries finally came out of her daze. “Yes, yes, he did. Now I guess it’s time for my report. Actually, I’ve nothing of substance to say. I didn’t have much luck today. The truth is, I learned nothing.”

  • • •

  “I don’t think this will take long, Constable. Miss Holter was the first to leave the night Mr. Gilhaney was murdered,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes hovered in the foyer of the Holter house.

  She lived in a large town house at the end of the street. The exterior was slightly shabby and needed a bit of paint and a good scrub. The inside wasn’t much better; the black and white floor was missing several tiles, the gold-patterned wallpaper had dulled with age, and there was a thin layer of dust on both the cabriole-legged side table and the blue ceramic umbrella stand.

  “Let’s hope not, sir. I’d really like for us to have time to get to Putney. We need to speak to Gilhaney’s landlady. Nivens’ report didn’t even tell us what had happened to his belongings. Surely the man had more to his name than just the clothes he was wearing that night.”

  Witherspoon pulled out his watch and frowned. “We’ll not have time, Constable. It’s past four and with the traffic on Putney Bridge we’d not get there before dark. I’d prefer to do it in daylight. I want to have a good look at his last residence.” He tucked the watch back in his vest pocket. “After we speak to Miss Holter, I’d like you to have a word with her servants and confirm the time she arrived home that night.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “What was I thinking? No wonder it feels like we’ve been going in circles. We’ve every right to confirm their statements and we don’t need their permission to speak to their household.” He looked down the gloomy corridor. “I wonder what’s taking them so long.”

  “It’s been a good five minutes, sir.” Barnes could tell that the inspector was aggravated. He was, too, but whether it was because of Ann Holter’s tardiness in receiving them or the case in general was hard to tell. “I don’t think the housemaid will lie for her mistress. I don’t think the girl likes Miss Holter very much, sir. She was grinning from ear to ear when we told her why we were here.”

  The maid was still smiling when she returned. “This way, gentlemen.” A few moments later they were led into the Holter drawing room. Witherspoon noted the windows were draped in heavy, old-fashioned gray velvet curtains, the furniture was upholstered in green horsehair and had thick, claw-footed legs and feet, and the pattern on the carpet was so threadbare as to be unrecognizable.

  “You wish to speak with me?” Ann Holter stood in front of the unlighted fireplace and glared at them.

  “Yes, ma’am, we do. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes …” he began.

  “I don’t care what your names are,” she interrupted. “Just ask your questions and then leave my house.”

  She was a tall, bony woman of early middle age. Her hair was dark blonde streaked with gray, parted in the center and fitted into a disheveled knot on top of her head. Several tendrils had escaped and hung limply behind her ears. She had a long horse face with small eyes so deeply set that in the subdued light he couldn’t even tell what color they might be. She was dressed in a high-necked yellow blouse that appeared too large for her thin frame and a brown skirt.

  The inspector knew she wasn’t going to ask them to sit down. “Miss Holter, I understand you were at a dinner party at the home of Gordon and Abigail Chase on Bonfire Night, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time did you leave the Chase home?” Barnes asked.

  Her beady eyes shifted to the constable. “Since when do underlings speak in front of their betters?”

  “Constable Barnes is an essential part of this investigation,” Witherspoon said softly. “Please answer his questions.”

  “Yes, I was at the Chase home the night that Christopher Gilhaney was killed.”

  “What time did you leave?” Barnes asked.

  “I don’t know the exact time, but it was before the dessert was served. It was probably half past eight or thereabouts.”

  “How did you get home?” Barnes asked again, just to irritate her.

  She said nothing for a moment. “I took a hansom cab.”

  “What time did you get here?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Not everyone watches the clock, Inspector,” she replied. “But as it’s only a quarter mile or so, I imagine it was about a quarter to nine. The fireworks were still going off—I could hear them. I don’t know why people waste their time and money on such frivolities. It’s just an excuse for the lower classes to indulge in drunkenness.”

  Witherspoon ignored her comment. “When you were leaving the Chase home, did you notice if there was anyone suspicious hanging about the neighborhood?”

  “I had a headache, Inspector. My only desire was to get home as quickly as possible.”

  “Of course. I understand now,” the inspector replied. But it had suddenly occurred to him that Gilhaney had been very disrespectful to her. Why? Why go out of your way to be rude to someone you’d never met before? That simply didn’t make sense and if he’d learned one thing about the victim, it was that he wasn’t foolish. He was extremely intelligent. So why had he made himself out to be a boorish lout to a roomful of strangers? “Miss Holter, was the Bonfire Night dinner party the first time you’d met Mr. Gilhaney?”

  “I’d never seen the man prior to that,” she said quickly, but a flush had crept up her cheeks and Witherspoon noted that the constable was staring at her with a hard, knowing expression on his face.

  “Are you sure of that, Miss Holter?” he pressed. His gentlemanly instincts decreed that he give her a chance to tell the truth.

  “How dare you,” she snapped. “I’ve told you that I’d never met the man.”

  “We understand Mr. Gilhaney was quite insulting to you that night.” Barnes watched her carefully a
s he spoke. “Why would he do that if you hadn’t been previously acquainted?”

  “How should I know? He was a disgusting boor.” She pushed away from the fireplace, stalked to the settee, and sat down. “That is what comes of letting the lower classes into a decent person’s home. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile. Gilhaney was like that: a stupid little upstart that thought he could mingle with his betters.”

  Witherspoon interrupted her tirade. “Are you saying he deserved to be murdered?”

  She caught herself. “Certainly not. I’m a good Christian woman and I’d never condone murder. Please, just get on with your questions. I’ve an engagement this evening and I’ve not much time.”

  “I’ve no wish to be indelicate,” Witherspoon said, “but can you tell us specifically what Mr. Gilhaney said to you that night?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember.”

  Witherspoon knew she was lying. She’d been grossly insulted and humiliated; that was the sort of thing that people, especially women, remembered. His mother had once told him that she recalled every single detail of the moment she’d realized his father’s family thought he’d married beneath him. She hadn’t shared the specifics of the memory with him, but he’d known she remembered it vividly. He suspected that no matter how hard he pressed, Ann Holter would never tell him Gilhaney’s exact words. “If you do happen to recall what he said, please let us know. Do you know if Mr. Gilhaney had any enemies?”

  “How would I know that, Inspector? As I’ve already told you, I’d never met the man prior to the Chases’ dinner party.”

  “Are the Chases friends of yours?” Barnes asked. “The reason I’m asking is because the guests at the dinner party were all involved in some way with Walker and Company.”

  “They’re not particularly close friends,” she admitted. “Abigail Chase’s father was a bank clerk, but Gordon is from a decent enough background. The reason I went was because my mother and I are shareholders in the firm. My late father was on the board of directors.”

  “Your mother lives here as well?” Witherspoon asked.

  “She does, but she didn’t go with me to the Chases’. She was invited, of course, but her eyesight is failing and she’s not comfortable going out at night. She limits her social engagements to the daylight hours.”

  Barnes gave her a bland smile. “May we speak to her, Miss Holter? Perhaps she can verify the time you arrived home that night.”

  “You may not. My mother has nothing to do with this matter and I’ll not have her disturbed.” She glared at him. “She retires right after dinner and was sound asleep when I arrived home. Now, if there is nothing else, I’d like you to leave.”

  Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, who gave a barely imperceptible nod indicating he had no more questions for her. “Thank you for your time, Miss Holter,” he said.

  She said nothing as they left the drawing room. The housemaid was waiting in the hallway to see them out.

  Barnes held his questions until they were almost to the front door. He wanted to make sure they were out of earshot. “Excuse me, Miss … uh … I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “Kemp, sir, Joy Kemp.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “And I imagine you’d like to speak to me, wouldn’t you?”

  “You seem a very bright young woman.” The constable couldn’t help but smile back. “I know it might be difficult, but can you recall what time Miss Holter arrived home on Guy Fawkes Night?”

  “Of course I can.” She laughed. “The mistress came in at half ten. I know because I saw her going up the front walkway just as I got home that night. I had to duck behind a bush so she’d not see that I was late in myself. Lucky for me the servants’ entrance is so far from the front, she didn’t hear me.”

  • • •

  Mrs. Jeffries put the brochure down and sighed heavily. She’d dreamed of these lectures at the British Museum. She’d been fascinated with Egypt for many, many years. Truth to tell, one of the reasons she’d left Yorkshire when David died was so she could come to London and spend as much time as she liked staring at the exhibits to her heart’s content.

  She had a feeling that if she’d been born in a different time, perhaps years from now, she’d be the one sifting through the warm desert sands and uncovering the secrets of one of the greatest civilizations the world had ever known. Archaeology was a new science, but one she thought might just change the world.

  She stared at the picture on the front of the brochure she’d just put down, her attention focused on one of the figures: a woman wearing a wide jeweled collar, a diaphanous white skirt, and not much else. She couldn’t help but think that if women dressed like that in ancient Egypt, surely they must have been the equal of men; surely they must have had more rights and privileges than women in this time and place.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to ignore the anger that pierced through her as she remembered the unfairness of being a female. It was a memory she’d tried hard to forget; it was the moment she’d decided to leave it all and come to London. It was the moment David’s odious little cousin, the ginger-haired half-wit, had shown up on her doorstep and claimed that the cottage, her home with her beloved husband, now belonged to him. He was a man and family property went to males.

  She could have taken him to court—there had been cases where the old laws had been ignored—but she’d been weary and not up for a battle. She and David had been estranged from his sister, who’d married up and might have been in a position to help, but pride wouldn’t let her ask for assistance from that quarter, so she’d taken his pension and come to London.

  Mrs. Jeffries caught herself—she’d not thought of this in years. Why on earth she was thinking of it now was a mystery. She glanced out her window and saw that the gas lamp across the road was lighted. It was getting late and Witherspoon would be home soon.

  Ten minutes later, she forced herself to smile as the inspector came through the front door. “Good evening, sir.” She reached for his bowler and his heavy black overcoat. “How was your day?”

  “Very confusing,” he admitted. “Let’s have a sherry and I’ll tell you all about it. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, I do believe that this case is going to be the one that I cannot solve.”

  “Nonsense, sir.” She forced herself to laugh. But in truth, she was of the same opinion. The murder was too old. “You’re far too clever a detective to give in to such thoughts. You’ll solve this one just like you’ve solved all the rest.”

  He gave her a rueful smile. “I appreciate your encouragement, Mrs. Jeffries, but I’m afraid that this time, it’s simply too late. What few clues there might have been have been swept away by the sands of time and what few witnesses there were either can’t or won’t remember anything important.”

  Witherspoon trudged down the hall and into his study. Mrs. Jeffries, who felt the way he looked, followed him in and went straight to the liquor cabinet. She poured two glasses of Harvey’s all the way to the brim and without spilling a drop crossed the room. “Perhaps this will help a little, sir.” She handed him his drink and took her seat.

  He took a quick sip. “Today was very, very tiring. We took statements from a number of people, most of whom were at the dinner party with the victim the night he died. But I’m not certain we’ve made any progress to finding Gilhaney’s killer. Honestly, we heard the same information repeatedly and I had the distinct impression we were going in circles. But as Constable Barnes pointed out, hearing several people give an account of the same circumstances does show that not everyone has been truthful.”

  “You mean they gave different versions of the same event?”

  “Yes, frankly, it became obvious that at least two people lied to us. The trouble is, they were both so humiliated by Gilhaney, I can understand why they’d avoid telling the truth.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it, sir,” she suggested.

  “We went to the Chase home first. I thought that might be a good place to start
and, as it turns out, indeed it was. Mr. Gordon Chase knew exactly when Gilhaney left their home that night. It was at eight forty-seven. That might come in useful.”

  “That’s early for a dinner party to end,” she murmured. An image from ancient Egypt flashed into her head and she realized how badly she wanted to go to those lectures. It wasn’t just about women being better treated in that society—though, to be honest, she wasn’t absolutely certain that was altogether true—it was because the place itself was so very fascinating. Why, even their art was filled with brilliant colors as though they contained the sunlight itself.

  “There’s a reason it ended so early. You’ll not believe the way the victim behaved that night.” He took another drink. “And I must say, Newton Walker was rather a surprise. Not at all as I imagined he’d be. He’s the one who insisted I get the case.”

  Mrs. Jeffries realized she’d not heard a word he’d said. She blinked and shook her head. This wouldn’t do, it simply wouldn’t do. The inspector was doing his duty and she would do hers. “Really, sir?”

  She forced herself to pay attention as he told her the details of his day. When he’d finished, she said, “Goodness, no wonder you’re exhausted, sir. It sounds as if you’ve taken statements from half of London.”

  “It feels as if we did,” he agreed. “But you do see my point about taking statements from a number of people about the same event. Constable Barnes and I are certain that Hazel Bruce and Ann Holter lied to us. Gilhaney said awful things to both of them. Honestly, I don’t condone murder, but he was certainly no gentleman; his behavior was indecent. But the question is, did the ladies lie to save themselves the humiliation of repeating what Gilhaney said, or did they lie for another reason?”

  “You mean to cover up the fact that either of them might be involved in the murder?” She knew there was something here she ought to remember, something someone had said at today’s meeting, something about Gilhaney’s character. But for the life of her, she couldn’t recall what it was.