Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  The cook was curious, but she knew there was no point in badgering the housekeeper to identify the killer until she was ready. “By the way, here’s your reminder. You wanted Constable Barnes to ask the hotel who determined how the champagne was to be served.” Fearing she’d forget to remind Mrs. Jeffries, she’d written this down and put the note by her spectacles before going to bed last night.

  “Thank you, and we also must tell the constable everything the others have found out.”

  “That’s a lot to tell. Let’s hope the constable gets here early.”

  Constable Barnes did indeed get there early. He listened carefully as they shared what they’d learned and then he added a detail or two from his own recollections.

  When both sides had finished, Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “Constable, there’s two things I think might be helpful today. One, I suggest you interview Mr. Sherwood at the Wrexley and ask him two questions.” She told him specifically what he needed to find out.

  Barnes looked perplexed. “Alright, I think that might be possible. Is that all?”

  She told him the last question he should ask the catering manager. “That should be it, Constable. By the way, Wiggins will be there today as well, so if by chance you happen to see him, can you do your best to ensure the inspector doesn’t?”

  “I’ll try my best.” Barnes drained his tea and got up. “Let’s hope your questions help us get this one solved,” he said as he headed for the back stairs.

  * * *

  • • •

  The morning meeting was short. Mrs. Jeffries relayed the information she’d received from the inspector and Constable Barnes. When she’d finished, she paused for a moment, trying to think how to word the various requests she was about to make. She turned to Wiggins first. “I know I told you to go to the Wrexley today and I still want you to, but there’s another errand I’d like you to do after that.” She gave him his instructions for the hotel and then told him the rest of what she needed.

  Wiggins looked doubtful. “It might not be possible to do both, Mrs. Jeffries. If our inspector and Constable Barnes are at the Wrexley, it might be ages before I can find someone who was even on duty that night. It’s not like I can just go strollin’ in and get one of the maids to chat.”

  “You have a point.” She thought for a moment. “But I need someone to go to Pierce and Son. It’s important we know what time that board meeting ended.”

  “But we already know that,” the cook protested. “James Pierce said it ended at around four that afternoon.”

  “I know what he said, but I want to know what time the staff left. Specifically, were they all gone by the time the meeting was over?”

  Wiggins still looked a bit wary, but he nodded. “Right, I’ll do my best. I’ll ask Ellen, she ought to know.”

  “Make certain she can confirm when all of them were gone.” She looked at Luty. “Can we use Jon today? I know he’s not part of this, but he has helped in other cases.”

  Luty narrowed her eyes. “Yup, but why can’t I do whatever it is?”

  “Because I need you to do something else and Jon’s task requires discretion and the ability to move quickly if people in the Cory neighborhood start getting suspicious of a stranger hanging about. I want him to keep a watch on Elise Cory’s home and to let us know immediately if anyone comes to visit her or if she leaves her home. Tell him to try to avoid being noticed by the neighbors. But it’s a fairly busy area, so he ought to be alright.”

  “He’s a clever one; he can do it,” Luty said proudly. She’d taken him in years earlier and given him a job as a footman, but she made certain he wasn’t going to be a servant all his life. “He’s going to University College in Bristol to study medicine. That boy’s goin’ to make a fine doctor.”

  “I’m sure he is.” Mrs. Jeffries added some additional directions and then turned to Phyllis. “You’re going to have the most difficult time of it. It might not even be possible.”

  Her eyes widened and she licked her lips. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure I should ask you to do this . . . there might be another way.” Mrs. Jeffries hated to see the fear that had flashed across Phyllis’s face. What if she was wrong, what if she sent the poor girl over there and it all fell apart?

  Phyllis sat up straighter. “Go on, tell me. I’m not the little scaredy-cat I used to be, I can do whatever is needed.”

  “You weren’t ever a scaredy-cat,” Betsy protested.

  “Don’t be daft. You’ve always done your part,” Wiggins added, even though it wasn’t true. When she first arrived she avoided doing anything, including helping with their cases for fear of losing her job.

  “You’re bein’ too hard on yourself, lass,” Smythe said softly.

  Phyllis gave a nervous laugh. “You’re all being very nice, but when I first arrived, I was too frightened to say boo to a goose in a barnyard.”

  “As well you should be,” Luty said. “Geese are mean.”

  “But I’m not that girl anymore, and one of these days, I might really be a private inquiry agent. There’s no law that says only men can have that job.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Tell me the rest.”

  “Can you go back to the Mannion home? Only this time, don’t hang about in the front of the house. Go down the stairs and ask to see Marie Parker. You’ve already told her you’re a private inquiry agent, so keep up the pretense with her but tell whoever answers the door that you’ve an urgent message from Marie’s family and you must speak with her.”

  “What then?”

  “Then I want you to convince her to give you the serviette Marie dug out of the umbrella stand.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Ezra Cutler, the day manager at the Wrexley Hotel, ushered the two policemen into his small, cluttered office and then shut the door. He was a short, stocky man with curly brown hair. “I do hope you are here to give us good news.” He smiled hopefully as he went behind his desk. “Would you like me to get you some chairs?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We won’t be taking much of your time.”

  “Excellent, then you’ve made an arrest.”

  “I’m afraid not. We’re here to have a word with Mr. Sherwood.”

  Cutler’s face fell. “The catering manager?”

  “That’s right, is he here now?”

  “He is in the dining room with the head chef going over menus.”

  “Oh good, that sounds as if business is picking up,” Barnes said.

  “Not really. We had to cut our rate in half to get the business and they still haven’t given us the deposit.” He sighed and got up. “Come along, then. I’ll take you in.”

  He took them into the dining room, introduced them to Elliot Sherwood, and then disappeared, muttering under his breath as he walked away.

  The chef nodded politely, picked up his menus, and went to the kitchen.

  Sherwood waved them into chairs. He appeared to be in his late twenties with black hair, brown eyes, and a huge mustache. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

  “I’m sure you know why we’re here,” Witherspoon said.

  Sherwood interrupted. “Would you like tea or perhaps coffee?”

  “We’re fine, thank you,” the inspector continued. “As I was saying—”

  “You’re here about the murder,” Sherwood interrupted again. “Of course, why else would you be here? But I was gone by the time the ball started.”

  “We know that.” Witherspoon hoped the fellow would keep quiet for a few moments. “We’re not concerned with what happened that evening; we’d like to ask you about the plans for the ball.”

  “Plans?” he repeated, his expression confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “All you have to do is answer our questions, sir,” Barnes said.
“How long have you been a catering manager?”

  “This is my second position. I worked for the Toplin Hotel in New York for three years. That’s where I met the Wrexleys. Charming couple. They really were impressed with the way the Toplin used its facilities all the time, even when the hotel business was slow.”

  “So you’ve a lot of experience in planning large events,” the constable continued. “Is that right?”

  Sherwood nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”

  “Is it usually the custom to have the champagne glasses on the table when there is going to be a toast?” Witherspoon asked.

  “That depends on the size of the function.” Sherwood stroked the top of his mustache. “For large parties, we generally like to bring the glasses in with the bottles on large trays, it’s faster that way. There are usually two waiters per table, one to fill the glasses and one to hand them to the guests.”

  “But this time, the champagne flutes were already on the table, correct?” The inspector glanced around the huge dining room.

  “That’s right. I suggested that we bring the flutes in on trays but the host, Mr. Pierce, insisted we have them on the tables and the waiters go from guest to guest to fill the glasses. I explained to Mrs. Mannion—she’s the one who conveyed Mr. Pierce’s instructions—that it would be much faster doing it my way, but she said he was adamant they be on the table with the cutlery and the serviettes. The china was on the buffet table—odd, but that’s the way they wanted it.”

  “On the day of the ball, I understand Mrs. Mannion came to ensure that everything was done as Mr. Pierce wanted, right?” Barnes put down his pencil.

  “That’s right. She was here about eleven o’clock that day and I showed her everything we’d be using that evening.”

  “Including the champagne flutes?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Of course. I took her into the storage room and she examined the china, the cutlery, the linen tablecloths, and the flutes. She seemed quite pleased.”

  “At any time was she ever in there alone?”

  He looked perplexed by the question. “Certainly not. I was with her the whole time. We don’t allow guests to wander willy-nilly about the place. She examined a champagne flute and then asked me to show her where the two head tables would be placed. We went into the dining room and I pointed out where the tables and the musician’s platform would be placed. She said that Mr. Pierce would be delighted with the arrangements and then she left.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Wiggins was so cold he couldn’t feel his feet. He was in his usual spot across the mews so he could see if anyone came out the back door of the hotel. Hiding from the inspector hadn’t been a problem—he’d come and gone hours ago—but if a waiter or a bellboy didn’t show up soon, he’d not be able to get to Pierce and Son before they ruddy well closed for the day. He hoped Mrs. Jeffries knew what she was doing. To his way of thinking, she should have asked Constable Barnes to find out about the ruddy place cards.

  The back door opened and Joey Finnigan rushed out and down the stairs. Once again, Wiggins raced across the road, catching up with the young man just as he came out of the mews. “Hello, remember me?”

  Finnigan gave him a hard stare. “’Course I do, I saw you two days ago. What do ya want? I’m in a hurry. For once, they had me work late and I want to get home in time for a hot supper.”

  “Now don’t be so mean. I bought ya a pint, the least you could do is answer a quick question. It’s a right easy one as well.”

  They’d reached the corner. Finnigan stopped. “What is it?”

  “The night of the ball, who put the place cards on the table?”

  “How should I know? That kind don’t introduce themselves to the staff.”

  “But you worked that night, right?”

  “I told ya that already.”

  “Were you in the dining room when the place cards were put on the table? Did you see who did ’em?”

  Joey stared at him doubtfully. “What kind of question is that? You said you’re a reporter, why would your newspaper care about who put out the ruddy place cards?”

  “I don’t know why my guv wanted me to find it out.” Wiggins was going to bluff it out. “Right, then, I’ll tell ya the truth, sometimes my guv passes a few bits and pieces along to the police. You know, stuff we find out that the peelers don’t know. In return, there’s some detectives that owes him a favor, so they’ll tip him off when there’s been a murder or something important happening.”

  “That makes sense,” Joey admitted grudgingly. “Explains why you show up so much faster than the rest of your lot.”

  “So did you see who did ’em?”

  “I did. I’d just finished setting out the flutes and the cutlery. She was real polite, waited till I was done before she went to the table and set them out.” He grinned. “I don’t know her name, but she was a real pretty one.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Witherspoon stared out the window of the hansom cab as it made its way to the Ladbroke Road Police Station. “James Pierce strikes me as a very practical man, and that dining room is huge. Why on earth would he insist the glasses be on the table rather than coming out on trays, which, according to Mr. Sherwood, is a much faster and more efficient method, especially in such a large space?”

  “I’m not sure it was Pierce who made that decision,” Barnes said. “According to Sherwood it was Mrs. Mannion who claimed it was Pierce’s idea. But he told us once he made the initial booking, he handed the arrangement of the details over to her.”

  “We must speak with Mrs. Mannion again,” Witherspoon decided.

  “Shouldn’t we ask Mr. Pierce first?”

  “We will, but I’d like to see what she has to say first. I want both of us to pay close attention to her reaction when we broach the subject. We’ll go to Pierce and Son afterward.”

  “What are you thinking, sir?”

  Witherspoon wasn’t sure he could put it into words, but after talking to Mrs. Jeffries last night, he’d begun to sense that there was more to this case than just blackmail. “I think there’s more to Bremmer’s murder than we thought. Once we learned he was a blackmailer, we concentrated on that aspect.”

  “That’s normal police procedure, sir. But I understand what you’re saying; there’s more to this than we know. There’s something else, something ugly and mean just under the surface that we can’t see yet.”

  “But we will,” Witherspoon said confidently.

  “Then let’s hope we don’t have to spend too long at the station,” Barnes complained. “It’s interruptin’ this investigation just when things seem to be picking up a bit.”

  They’d been called back to the station to ensure the evidence and paperwork for the upcoming trial of a confidence trickster they had arrested were in order.

  “Chief Inspector Barrows was adamant we do it today. Not to worry, though, it shouldn’t take too long. Everything was done properly.”

  “True, and it’ll give us a chance to have a word with Constable Griffiths. He was going to find out what he could about the deaths of Nora Pierce, Osgood Mannion, and even Bartholomew Cory.”

  “I thought we were going to speak to the mother about Mr. Cory?”

  Barnes grinned. “I’m sure he did. He’s clever and he was certain he could find a way to have a word with her when Mrs. Cory wasn’t around.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Are the others here yet?” Wiggins asked as he raced into the kitchen. “I’ve got news and it might be important.”

  “You’re the first one back,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “What’s happening?”

  “I’ve just come back from the Pierce office and it’s a good thing I got there when I did—they was gettin’ ready to shut the whole place up. James Pierce let everybody go hom
e early today because he and Elise Cory are getting married. They’re takin’ the night train to Glasgow Central from Euston Station.”

  “Married?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. She said nothing as her mind frantically worked to assess the situation.

  “What does this mean?” Mrs. Goodge demanded as she looked at the housekeeper.

  But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t answer her. She looked at Wiggins, her expression worried. “What did you find out at the Wrexley today?”

  “What you wanted me to find out, the name of the person who put out the place cards. It was Louise Mannion, not one of the hotel staff. What’s more, Joey Finnigan said that she took her sweet time doin’ it. He noticed because he’d just put the flutes, the cutlery, and the serviettes on the table but he’d forgotten the saltcellar. He was hangin’ about, tryin’ to put the ruddy thing out when she turned and asked him what he was doin’, and when he said he needed to put something on the table, she told him he could do it later.”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Jeffries turned to Mrs. Goodge. “How long ago did Phyllis leave?”

  “She’s there by now. It was fifteen minutes ago and the Mannion home is only a ten-minute walk from here. Why? Is something wrong?”

  “What do ya mean? What are you talkin’ about? Didn’t Phyllis go out this morning?” Alarmed, Wiggins looked first at the housekeeper and then at the cook.

  “She didn’t. We realized that she’d have a much easier time getting to Marie Parker when the kitchen was busy and both the cook and the housekeeper were occupied with dinner,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  Wiggins looked stricken with worry. “Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, Phyllis might be walkin’ into a serpent’s den. There’s somethin’ wrong with that lady. Joey Finnigan claimed the way Louise Mannion looked at him scared him to death.”