“I’ve been here before,” she announced. She looked him up and down, her expression assessing, and then she smiled. “Joey says you’re a reporter and you’re wantin’ to speak to me about the murder.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He wasn’t sure he liked the way she was eyeing him up but then he realized he was being stupid. What was wrong with him? He was starting to imagine that every woman he met liked what she saw. That was daft.
“I don’t know what I can tell you. I wasn’t even there that night. I went home at five that day.” She took a sip.
“That’s what Joey said, but he also mentioned that you said one of the champagne flutes went missing that morning. Is it true?”
“It is and I don’t care what Mr. Sherwood says. One of them ruddy flutes went missing that morning. He’s just trying to lay the blame on me so the cost doesn’t come out of his wages, but I told Edwina Corbin when she came in to clean the storage pantry that day that one of them had gone missing, and now Mr. Sherwood is pretendin’ we’re both lying.”
Wiggins didn’t really understand why Mrs. Jeffries wanted him to learn what he could about the missing flute, but he’d do the best he could. “Tell me a bit more.”
“There’s not much more to tell. I took the tray of flutes into the storage room and put them on the counter next to the cutlery, plates, and serviettes that were going to be used that evening.”
“So it was specifically for the Lighterman’s Ball,” Wiggins clarified.
“That’s right. Those flutes are so expensive we don’t keep them sitting around on trays. They’re kept in a locked cupboard along with all the different types of wineglasses. But Mr. Sherwood wanted everything set out nice and proper. He told us he was expecting someone from the Pierce party to come along and see that we were doing what they expected.”
“You counted them before you took them in?”
“Mr. Sherwood told me to take ten of them in and that’s what I did. Three hours later, when I’d finished in the kitchen and he’d finished with the lady, I went back inside and there were nine of them.” She gulped the rest of her gin. “I know that Mr. Sherwood broke one and he’s trying to put the blame on me.”
“Why didn’t you report it to Mr. Sherwood right away, then?”
“He’d already gone. He had an appointment in Kent with someone about having an anniversary party at the hotel. So I couldn’t tell him, could I? Boris, he’s the maître d’, had gone up to have a nap before the evening shift and he’d not thank me for waking him up, would he. So I told Edwina and now Mr. Sherwood is acting like we’re both lying. But it’s the truth.”
“The lady who came to see everything for the Lighterman’s Ball, who was she?”
Hilda shrugged. “How should I know? No one introduces us to the customers.”
“Do you know what she looked like?” Wiggins asked.
“I never saw her. I was in the kitchen cutting vegetables but I heard Timmy Earl say she was blonde and pretty.”
* * *
• • •
Mrs. Jeffries hung up her hat and cloak. “Has Wiggins come in yet?”
“Not yet.” Mrs. Goodge put the teapot down next to a plate of brown bread. “Why? Have you thought of something? Do you know who did it?”
“I wish I did.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “But I did have an idea. Unfortunately, it means he’ll have to go back to the Wrexley.” She stopped speaking as they heard the back door slam and a moment later Phyllis hurried into the kitchen.
“It’s freezing out there.” She pulled off her gloves and stuffed them in her coat pocket before she hung it up. “Am I the first one back?”
“Mrs. Jeffries beat you by five minutes.” The cook put a plate of mince tarts next to the bread.
Luty and Hatchet were the next to arrive, followed by Ruth, Smythe, and then Wiggins. Betsy was the last one into the kitchen and was met with harsh frowns from both Luty and the cook.
“Where’s the little one?” the elderly American demanded.
“Home. My neighbor is looking after her; she’s fussy and I think she might be coming down with the sniffles.”
“Then I’m glad you left her inside. It’s too cold out there for our baby.” Mrs. Goodge patted Luty on the shoulder as she walked past her chair and took her own seat. “Don’t fret, Luty, once this case is over, you and I will take the little one out for a nice treat.”
“And we’ll have her all to ourselves,” Luty declared. “I might as well go first, I didn’t learn much today. Just a few bits and pieces.”
“What did you find out?” Mrs. Jeffries helped herself to a slice of brown bread and then reached for the butter pot.
“Mainly what we already know, but I did find out that Louise Mannion might be rich, but she doesn’t have control of her fortune yet. Both her daddy and her late husband left her money in trusts that are administered by one of her father’s banker friends. She only gets control of the money when she turns forty. Apparently, they both figured by then she’d be smart enough to see through any smooth-talking fortune hunter that came a callin’.”
“That’s ridiculous. She’s an adult and she should be allowed to make her own decisions about her finances.” Ruth sniffed disapprovingly. “Why do men of that social class think women are such mindless morons, that they’ll hand over their money to any handsome bounder that appears on their doorstep? If it’s her inheritance, it’s her money.”
“I can give you one reason,” Hatchet said. “She had a previous attachment they both considered unsuitable. Perhaps they were afraid she’d do it again.”
“Did we ever find out who that person was?” Betsy asked.
“I did.” Phyllis put a tart on her plate. “That’s one of the things I found out today. But I’ll wait my turn.”
“Go ahead, I’m finished,” Luty said.
“I went back to the Mannion neighborhood,” Phyllis said. “I wanted to see if I could find Marie Parker and have another chat with her. Don’t ask me why, it just seemed like a good idea.”
“Then I’m sure it was a good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries told her. “Always trust your instincts.” Phyllis was now a confident young woman, but the housekeeper knew she still had moments when she doubted herself and reverted back to the frightened, cowed girl she’d been when she first arrived at Upper Edmonton Gardens.
Phyllis gave her a grateful smile. “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make contact with her and I was almost ready to come home when she finally came out. Apparently, Mrs. Mannion is always changing her mind about the dinner menu and Marie is the one who gets stuck going to the shops on the coldest days. But that’s neither here nor there. I caught up with her and pretended to have accidentally bumped into her. As we walked to the shops, I got her talking and she told me that the man Louise was in love with all those years ago was James Pierce.”
That wasn’t precisely how it had happened. Marie hadn’t believed Phyllis had accidentally bumped into her and had demanded to know why she was asking so many questions. Phyllis admitted it was deliberate and then told her she was a private inquiry agent hired to look into the Bremmer murder.
“I thought it might be him,” Betsy murmured. “Pierce was the only young man she saw socially who might also be considered unsuitable.”
“Clever lady.” Smythe grinned at his wife.
“And I expect he was only accepted because he’d saved Leonard Lyndhurst from drowning,” Hatchet said.
Phyllis took a quick sip of tea. “But the reason Marie knew it was Pierce was because of what she overheard when she first started working for the Mannions. Just before Osgood Mannion died, he and his wife had a terrible row about Pierce. She overheard him yelling that now that Pierce was a widower, she wasn’t to get any ideas, that he’d not stand for the two of them making a fool of him. She fought back and screamed that he was being ridiculous and then she
demanded to know who was putting such silly ideas in his head. About that time, Marie heard the housekeeper coming up the hallway, but just before she rushed away, she heard the name ‘Stephen Bremmer.’”
“Did Marie know when this argument took place?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Not exactly, but it was last year soon after she’d been hired, and she started working there in the middle of March.”
“I wonder how Mrs. Mannion feels about Elise Cory being back in town.” Luty chuckled. “I’ll bet that put her nose out of joint.”
“Did Marie ever find the missing serviette?” Betsy asked.
“She did. It was in the umbrella urn by the front door. She said it was a right old mess, all wadded up and sticky with strawberry jam and dirt.”
“At least the poor girl won’t have the cost of the item taken out of her wages,” Hatchet said. “That’s good. May I go next?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“I’m not done yet,” Phyllis said quickly. She’d saved the best for last and was determined to tell it properly. “I got real lucky today and I met up with a housemaid from the Bremmer house. She gave me an earful.” She told them everything she’d heard from Norma Baumgarten, repeating it almost word for word. The only fact she omitted was that she’d taken the woman to a pub.
“You did have a good day,” Betsy said. “I didn’t find out anything.”
“So Anne Bremmer knew he was planning on leaving her.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned slightly, but facts were facts and they had to be examined.
“That would kill her chances at being presented at court,” Ruth said.
“And that gives her a motive,” Betsy added.
“Sounds to me like everyone’s got a motive,” the cook complained.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured as she glanced at Hatchet. “I believe you’re next.”
“I took an acquaintance of mine to luncheon today mainly because he was someone who was part of the victim’s social circle,” Hatchet said. “He didn’t tell me much more than we already know. But he did mention that once when he was having a drink with old Mr. Lyndhurst, Louise’s father, he confided something quite horrifying. He said that Leonard Lyndhurst was frightened of his sister, that she’d always been jealous of him and he was sure she was the one who’d pushed him into the water that time he’d almost drowned.”
“He claims his own sister tried to kill him?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Did Mr. Lyndhurst believe his son?”
“My friend didn’t know. He said that when Lyndhurst realized what he’d said, he tried to laugh it off as nothing more than silly brother-sister rivalry.”
“When was this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “I mean, when did your friend have this conversation with Lyndhurst?”
“Years ago, while Leonard was in the Far East. My friend remembered because the conversation was so surprising. Lyndhurst wasn’t a man to discuss personal matters. That’s it for me.”
“I’ll have a go, then,” Smythe volunteered. He told them what he’d found out from Blimpey. He didn’t bother repeating what they already knew; he just gave them a fast, complete report on the new bits and pieces. “So we can add Louise Mannion to the list of people Bremmer was blackmailin’.”
“Was your source sure?” Ruth asked. “I’ve heard just the opposite, that Louise Mannion was the only real friend Bremmer had.”
“My source is generally reliable, but anyone can be wrong,” Smythe replied. “That’s it for me as well.”
Mrs. Jeffries looked at Ruth. “You found something?”
“Only what I just mentioned,” Ruth said. “I had a quick word with Mrs. Ross today; she’s on the finance committee for my women’s group. She’s known both Louise Mannion and Camilla Houghton-Jones for years. She claims that Camilla’s dislike of Bremmer isn’t recent; she’s loathed him for ages.”
“Did Mrs. Ross say why?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“She didn’t know but what she was sure of was that Louise Mannion was the one Bremmer turned to when he was in any sort of trouble. Apparently, there have been times in the past when Anne Bremmer has literally locked her husband out of the house and he’d go to the Mannion home for the night. People have disliked Bremmer for years and the only reason he wasn’t a pariah even amongst his own class was because Louise Mannion insisted he be included.”
“Maybe he’s been blackmailin’ her for years,” Smythe suggested. “Her own brother claims she pushed him into the water. What if Bremmer was holdin’ that over her ’ead?”
“It’s never been said that Bremmer was even there when Leonard almost drowned and even if he’d told Bremmer what he suspected, he wasn’t certain. That’s hardly grounds for blackmail,” Ruth pointed out.
“Or maybe she genuinely cares about him,” Betsy argued. “We’ve all known mean people that have that one friend who takes their part.”
“Can I go now?” Wiggins glanced at the clock on the sideboard. “It’s gettin’ late.” He paused a second, and when no one objected, he plunged straight in, telling them about his encounter with Hilda Jackson. “I’m not sure what it means,” he finished, “but she was certain one of them flutes was missin’ before the ball that night.”
“It’s a coincidence,” the cook declared. “This case has been full of them and the girl is probably right, that Mr. Sherwood or someone else broke one and they’ll not own up to it.”
“I think it is all coming down to the flutes,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “But we’ll have a devil of a time making sense of it.” She looked at Wiggins. “I want you to go back to the Wrexley tomorrow. You may have to speak to a number of your contacts there. There’s a very specific question you need to ask.” Without waiting for a reply, she told them what she’d learned from Dr. Bosworth. When she’d finished, she looked at Mrs. Goodge. “There’s also a specific question we’ve got to get Barnes to ask as well. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be so tomorrow before he gets here, I want you to remind me to have him ask who decided how the champagne was to be served.”
She turned her attention back to the footman. “You’ll need to be careful tomorrow, Wiggins. If my idea is correct, Constable Barnes and our inspector will be at the hotel.”
CHAPTER 10
Mrs. Jeffries was waiting at the door when the inspector arrived home. She hung up his coat and bowler and ushered him down the hall to his study, all the while keeping up a steady stream of chatter. “I was afraid you were going to have another one of those dreadfully tiring days, sir. I’m so glad you’re home at a decent hour. Mrs. Goodge has a nice pork roast in the oven but it’s not quite done.” She went to the liquor cabinet as he settled into his chair.
“That’s fine, Mrs. Jeffries, I need to relax a few minutes before I have my meal. Today has been quite extraordinary.”
“In what way, sir?” She handed him his glass and sat down.
“We seem to be making progress”—he frowned as he ran his finger around the rim of his glass—“but I’m not sure anything we’ve learned is actually helping me determine who murdered Stephen Bremmer.”
“Nonsense, sir, you’ll do as you always do; you’ll let the facts and the gossip churn and bubble in the back of your mind, and at the last moment, you’ll catch the killer. Now, tell me about your day.”
“We had another word with Montague Pettigrew,” he said. “It was awkward at first; one doesn’t like to ask such questions but it was necessary.” He stared at his sherry while he told her about their visit to Pettigrew’s flat. “But speaking with him wasn’t the worst of it, Mrs. Jeffries. Then we needed to reinterview Camilla Houghton-Jones. Luckily, she herself provided the opening one needed to broach the subject. Constable Barnes was deliberately blunt, and that appeared to annoy her so much she admitted she hated Stephen Bremmer and was glad he was dead.” He sipped his drink as he told her the rest of the details about their visit. “
She claimed that Bremmer had his hand in ‘everyone’s pockets.’”
“Just as you thought, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“After that, we went to the Bremmer household and spoke to the staff and Mrs. Bremmer.”
“You interviewed all the servants?”
“No, one of them had her afternoon out so we didn’t get to speak with her, but if need be, I’ll send Constable Griffiths along tomorrow to take her statement.” He told her everything that had transpired at the victim’s home. “It was unnerving to see Mrs. Bremmer; I think she had a bit of a breakdown.”
“Either that or she’s a very good actress,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. She was more interested in what Barnes had found out from the servants. “What did you do then, sir?”
“We went to the station. Constable Barnes wanted to write up the statements as quickly as possible and I wanted to go over the ones we’d previously taken.” He took another sip, his expression thoughtful. “You know, I do believe you’re correct, this case might be starting to make sense. Perhaps by tomorrow morning my ‘inner voice,’ as you call it, will show me precisely what I need to do next.”
* * *
• • •
Mrs. Jeffries was sitting at the table drinking tea when Mrs. Goodge and Samson came into the kitchen. She stopped by the archway.
“Goodness, you’re up early.” The cook yawned. “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”
Mrs. Jeffries shrugged modestly. “I’m not certain. It’ll very much depend on what happens today.” She was fairly sure she’d done it, but she could still be wrong. That had happened before so she was always wary of being overconfident about her conclusions.
“Nonsense, you always say that,” Mrs. Goodge said as she and the cat headed down the back hall to the wet larder. She was back a few moments later with a covered bowl of leftovers. Samson began meowing—screaming, really—as they crossed the kitchen to his food dish. Picking up his dish, she put it on the counter, yanked off the tea towel covering the leftovers, and scraped a generous helping into his dish. With a grunt, she bent down and Samson shoved his head into the food before the dish hit the floor. She joined Mrs. Jeffries at the table. “Now, what do we need to do today?”
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