Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away

Book 33: A Victorian Mystery

by Emily Brightwell

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

OLD SINS CAST LONG SHADOWS

Normally dead bodies in a graveyard are buried—but not this one. When a woman is found strangled in a North London cemetery with an old newspaper clipping clutched in her hand, Inspector Witherspoon is surprised to find that he and the victim have crossed paths before.

Alice Robinson was a respectable widow who ran a quiet Islington lodging house. None of her lodgers have any apparent motive to murder their landlady. But nagging suspicions are lodging in the Inspector's mind—only he knows that "Alice Robinson" is not her real name. Now he'll need the help of Mrs. Jeffries to revisit an old case that has haunted him for years and to get the real story.

Release date: February 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Alice Robinson had almost reached the entrance when she spotted Lavinia Swanson racing toward her. For a split second, she was tempted to dash across the road, but she thought better of it as Lavinia began waving at her. “Blast,” Alice muttered, “I don’t have time to listen to her this morning.” But it wouldn’t do to slight the woman in any way. She was a force to be reckoned with in the local community and Alice needed to stay in her good graces.

So she stopped and forced a smile to her lips as Lavinia, huffing and puffing as hard as a freight train, halted in front of her.

“Oh my goodness, I wasn’t sure it was you. But then I saw that it was and I was afraid you’d not seen me”—Lavinia shifted her shopping basket to the other side of her considerable bulk—“and I want to tell you what Kingston did this morning. I know how you love hearing about his adventures.”

“What’s the clever boy done now?” Alice asked. Oh Lord, the silly cow could natter on for hours about that stupid cat of hers.

“He had a go at Mr. Ashley’s bulldog. Can you believe it, a little thing like my Kingston going after that brute of a dog.” She giggled and pulled the edge of her bronze-colored jacket down.

“He’s always been a brave one, hasn’t he.” Alice forced a short laugh. The brute of a dog was a good twelve years old, blind and so stiff with age he could barely move, and Kingston was the fattest tom in the neighborhood. She edged toward the corner. “I’d so like to hear more, but I’m afraid I must be off.”

Lavinia’s small eyes narrowed behind her wire-framed spectacles. “But where are you going? There’s nothing down there but the entrances to Highgate Cemetery.”

“I’m going to the West Cemetery,” Alice explained, referring to the older, more established section of the burial grounds. She struggled to keep her voice even, but in truth, she was furious. She wasn’t used to explaining herself and found it especially galling that she had to put up with this nosy old woman. But she’d do what she must in order to keep Lavinia thinking that Alice Robinson was a nice, middle-class widow. “My family has a crypt,” she lied. “There’s a crack in the roof tiles. I’m meeting a builder to see what can be done about it.”

“It’ll cost you the earth to get it repaired properly.” Lavinia clucked her tongue. “Now, let me know what your builder’s estimate will be and I’ll have a word with Coleman. We’ve used him for years and he’s a good reputation.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Alice glanced at the sky and saw that heavy, low-hanging gray-black clouds had come in from the west. “I’ll most certainly do that. Oh dear, I must be off now. It looks like it could rain and I need to stop by the chemists once I’m done here.”

Lavinia glanced up and frowned. “Kingston hates the rain and if there’s thunder, he gets in a miserable state. He goes under the maid’s bed and won’t come out. I’ll be off then. Mind you, come see me about that estimate.”

Alice kept her smile firmly in place until Lavinia disappeared around the corner in the direction of the high street. Then she hurried down the road toward the West Cemetery entrance. She went through the main entrance and past the chapel, all the while watching her surroundings to make certain she wasn’t being followed. But as far as she could tell, there was no one on her trail. When she reached the Egyptian gate, she ignored the obelisks and headed deeper into the cemetery proper.

It was a beautiful place, but Alice was in no mood to enjoy the lush evergreens or the barely budding trees planted amidst the tombs and elaborate headstones lining the avenue. A gust of wind swept the area, raising the dead leaves and sending them dancing in the now cold air, but the sudden chill had no effect on her. She simply quickened her pace, determined to get to the meeting place and have this out once and for all. The pathway descended onto a circular space lined by crypts surrounding an ancient cedar tree.

She stopped three-quarters of the way down and surveyed her surroundings. Her gaze skimmed over the ornate grave monuments before moving to the arc of crypts. Squinting, she strained her eyes trying to see if anyone lurked in a darkened entryway or beneath an overhanging lintel. She moved farther down the slope and onto the wide path surrounding the crypts. The area seemed deserted, but her view of it was obscured because the wretched place was circular so she couldn’t see what might be ahead of her. She slowed her pace as she moved farther around the circle and saw that several paths led down this way. Stopping, she looked over her shoulder. For once, she hoped there might be someone close by, a groundsman or a gravedigger or even a ruddy mourner bringing a bouquet of useless flowers for the dead. But she was alone. Her only company was the sound of the wind as it whistled through the trees.

A branch cracked and she whirled about, but there was no one there.

“Stop being such a ninny,” she muttered as she reached into her pocket and felt for the handle of her derringer. It was safely there, and though she was sure she wouldn’t need it to take care of this niggling little problem, experience had taught her to keep it close. The gun gave her courage. She was tired of dancing to someone else’s tune, so instead of moving, she stood where she was. “Is anyone here?”

But there was no answer. Again, she heard a noise from behind—this time, it sounded like running footsteps. She turned again, but the pathway was empty. “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to leave,” she yelled. This was absurd. She’d been taken in by a silly note because that half-wit she’d caught snooping through her things had made a lucky guess. Well, she’d see who had the last laugh. Nobody made a fool of her. Nobody.

Fuming and muttering the most unladylike utterances imaginable, she stalked farther around the circle, heading for the nearest path leading to the highest point. She was out of breath by the time she reached the top. The graves here were newer, gaudier, and more extravagant than the crypts. The headstones were topped with statues of cherubim, seraphim, and saints with hands folded in prayer. Alice stopped for a moment to get her bearings and realized to get back to the main gate she’d need to skirt around the circle again or slip through a section of raised, flat grave markers used to house entire families.

A drop of rain hit her face, and that made up her mind; she was wearing a new skirt under her cloak, and she bloody well wasn’t going to ruin it because of this wild-goose chase. She plunged ahead, turning sideways to pass between two massive slabs of what looked like concrete. She came out onto another path lined with smaller mausoleums and headstones and started toward the gate. But as she went past the first one, an elaborate carving of a giant angel with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other, a figure suddenly appeared in front of her. It stood on the raised base of the headstone. Surprised, she stopped, her eyes widening as she looked at the familiar face. “You’re going to be sorry . . .”

But those were the last words she ever uttered, as a cord was looped around her throat, the two ends crossed beneath her chin and then yanked hard.

Alice tried to scream as she clawed at her killer’s hands but they were encased in heavy workman’s gloves. Panicking, she forgot about her derringer as she bucked and threw her body frantically every which way. Her attacker was not only strong, but had taken the precaution of bracing against the angel and had the added advantage of being above Alice by a good six inches. Her lips worked frantically as she gasped repeatedly in a vain effort to force air into her starved lungs. Her arms flailed out as she tried to hit at her attacker, but it did no good as her killer merely pulled the cord tighter and tighter around her throat.

Alice couldn’t believe this was happening, not to her. But it was happening, and when the life had gone from her eyes and her knees buckled, her murderer finally let go. She flopped, rather heavily, onto the now damp pathway.

Making sure there was no one about before kneeling next to the corpse, the killer searched Alice’s pockets and then put a neatly folded paper in her lifeless fingers before tucking her hand safely beneath the cloak.

Alice Robinson’s expression was such that even the policemen who responded to the loud screams of the widow who’d almost stumbled over the body when she’d come to put flowers on her late husband’s grave remarked that they’d never seen a corpse that looked so surprised to be dead.

*   *   *

Mrs. Goodge, cook to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police, put a bag of flour on her worktable and looked at Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper. “I can’t believe it’s already the middle of March. Where does the time go? I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries, the older I get, the faster it flies.” The cook was a portly woman with gray hair neatly tucked under her white cap, and spectacles that frequently slid down her nose.

“You’re not old,” the housekeeper protested.

“Of course I am, but I don’t mind one bit. I’m one of the lucky ones, you know.”

Mrs. Jeffries looked up from the household account book she’d spread on the kitchen table and stared at the elderly cook. “What do you mean?”

“By the time you reach my age, most people are so set in their ways they’re incapable of change, but thanks to you nudgin’ us to do our bit for justice, I’ve not only done something useful, but I’ve completely changed how I think about this old world of ours. You remember what I used to be like. I thought everyone should kowtow to their betters, stay in their place, and be grateful for a crust of bread. But thanks to our investigatin’, our workin’ for the cause of justice, I’ve changed how I think, and that’s what makes me so lucky.” She leaned down and yanked her big bread-making bowl out from under the worktable. “When my time comes and my Maker asks me to account for my life, I can honestly say that I did my best to make the world a better place.”

Mrs. Jeffries frowned. Mrs. Goodge was generally of a practical nature and not given to speaking at any length about the nature of life or its changes. But two days ago, Mrs. Goodge had gone to see her doctor. Was there something wrong? Was there something the cook wasn’t telling? “Is everything alright? Are you ill?”

“Ill?” she repeated. She looked surprised. “What makes you say that? Is my color off?”

“No, no, you look fine, just fine. But you went to see Dr. Holt, and you didn’t say much when you came home and, well, considering you’ve mentioned going to meet your Maker five times in the last two days, I was a bit concerned.”

The cook eyed her curiously for a long moment and then burst out laughing. “Oh my gracious, I’m so sorry. I’d no idea I was wittering on about such a thing.”

“So you’re alright?”

“I’m fine. I saw Dr. Holt because my knees have been aching something fierce, and I was hoping he’d be able to give me something stronger for the pain. But there isn’t much he can do but give me the same old prescription I’ve been taking for years now. Although he did recommend a nice shot of whiskey before I went to bed, saying it might help me sleep better. Unfortunately, I can’t stand the taste of that stuff.”

“Why don’t you have a glass of sherry—you like that,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. She’d buy her friend a case of it if it would ease her misery.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll try that.” She smiled at the housekeeper. “But not to worry, though, there’s nothing wrong with me but old age.”

Relieved, Mrs. Jeffries smiled. “He actually used that phrase?”

“He was a tad more tactful. I can’t remember his exact words but that was the gist of it. Our investigations are keepin’ my mind young and sharp, but they’re not doin’ a thing for my agin’ joints. But I’m not bothered, as I said. I’m grateful for the chance I’ve had, especially as it came so late in my life. When I first applied for a position here, I thought workin’ for a policeman was almost shameful, but coming to this house was the best thing that ever happened to me. It let me spend the last years of my life doin’ something important.”

The cook was referring to the fact that her employer, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, had solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Department. Of course, what neither he nor his superiors knew was that he had a great deal of help: namely, his servants. Under the leadership of Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a Yorkshire policeman, the entire household and their friends used their considerable resources on each and every case. They dug up gossip, followed suspects, and hunted down clues with the tenacity of hounds on the scent. But that wasn’t the only reason Mrs. Goodge considered herself blessed, for not only had the Almighty given her a chance to do something useful in the later years of her life, but he’d also given her something she’d not had since she’d gone into service at the tender age of twelve—she’d found a family. Her parents had died when she was a child and she’d not been blessed with siblings. Over the years, she’d devoted herself to learning her craft, to becoming the best cook she could possibly be, and to all intents and purposes she’d achieved that goal. But she’d missed having a family, having people she knew she could count on no matter what happened in life. She had that now. She had people who cared about her, and she no longer worried about the future.

Brought together by Mrs. Jeffries, who’d cleverly pushed and prodded to get them out and about whenever the inspector had a new case, the group was an odd lot. It had been Smythe, the coachman and the father of Mrs. Goodge’s own precious godchild, Amanda Belle, who had first figured out what Mrs. Jeffries was up to. But it hadn’t taken long for Wiggins, the footman, and Betsy, the former housemaid and now Smythe’s wife and the mother of her darling, to suss it out as well. Then Phyllis had come along and joined the household, and at first, she’d been a bit skittish about joining in, but she’d eventually got on board as well and now she was one of them. They weren’t related by blood, but they’d become family.

“Justice is important,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “And we were all lucky to end up here.” The clock struck the hour. “Gracious, it’s already past noon. I thought Wiggins would be back by now.”

“There might have been a long line at the chemist shop,” the cook replied. “And Mr. Waldman is very slow in fixing the prescriptions. It was good of the lad to offer to get my medicine for me.”

“I wasn’t being critical,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “But I do tend to worry when one of them is gone longer than I think they ought to be gone. Oh, you know what I mean, Mrs. Goodge. I’ve seen you glancing at the clock whenever Wiggins or Phyllis is ten minutes late getting back from an errand.”

“That’s true enough.” She sighed. “But considerin’ how close we get to the kind of evil that some are capable of doin’, it’s only natural we’d worry when one of the chicks is out of our sight.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “I don’t think Wiggins would appreciate being thought of in those terms; he considers himself a fully grown man.”

“He’ll always be one of my chicks,” the cook declared. “Just like Betsy and Phyllis and for that matter, even Smythe, though he’s now got almost as much gray in his hair as I do.”

*   *   *

“I still can’t understand why Chief Superintendent Barrows sent for me. Why should he want me to consult?” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon asked as he and Constable Barnes got down from the hansom cab. “This isn’t our division, and from the message we received, it seems as if the victim isn’t someone of great importance—not that any one human being is more worthy than another when it comes to murder. Oh dear, that sounded dreadful and it’s not what I meant at all.” He stopped, took a deep breath, and pushed his spectacles up his nose.

Gerald Witherspoon was a pale-faced man of late middle age with thinning brown hair under his bowler, a rather bony face, and deep-set hazel eyes. He wore a heavy black overcoat with a bright red and green striped scarf dangling around his neck.

“You’re making perfect sense, sir,” Constable Barnes said. He paid the hansom driver and nodded his thanks. He was a tall, older copper with a ruddy complexion and a headful of wavy, iron gray hair under his policeman’s helmet. But despite his years, his back was ramrod straight, and he could still bring down a fleeing criminal or break up a nasty fistfight if the need arose. “We only get called to another district when it’s a case the Home Office wants solved quickly, and that generally means the victim is someone rich or connected to the powers that be. I’ve no idea why we’ve been told to come here, sir, but I expect there’s a good reason.”

“I certainly hope so.” Witherspoon tossed his scarf around his neck. “I told Mrs. Jeffries I’d be home early today and I don’t like to be late. Mrs. Jeffries never says anything but I can always tell she worries when I’m tardy.”

“Considering how many killers you’ve put away, sir, I’m not surprised she’d be concerned. Even murderers have family and friends that might want a bit of revenge against you, sir. But Mrs. Jeffries won’t fret today. When we got the message we were needed here, I sent a street lad over to your house to tell her we’d been called out.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Constable. But what about your good wife—won’t she be upset if you don’t show up in time for supper?”

“No, sir, I told the boy to go on to my house when he’d finished at yours. Mrs. Barnes will pop my plate in the warming oven and work on her knitting until I get home.”

Barnes moved onto the broad path leading to the wrought iron gate under the archway of the broad, two-story stone building. “Shall we go in, sir?”

Witherspoon started toward the imposing entrance to Highgate Cemetery. There was a small crowd of people milling about. Some were nicely dressed and holding bouquets while others were obviously workmen and gardeners. All of them stared curiously at the two policemen as they walked toward the gate.

“Let’s hope someone has thought to send a constable to meet us,” Witherspoon said. “This is a huge place, and if we’ve got to find the body on our own, it might take quite a long time.”

“Someone has thought of it, sir.” Barnes pointed to the two constables waiting on the far side of the entrance.

The taller of the two came toward them. “I’m Constable Housman, sir. I’m to take you directly to the body.”

“I’m Constable Shearing, sir, and I’m to stay here and keep everyone out,” the second, shorter constable offered.

“It’s this way, sir.” Housman gestured toward the broad path leading out to the cemetery proper.

“Do we know that this is definitely a murder?” Witherspoon asked as he and Barnes fell into step behind the young man.

“Yes, sir, she’s been strangled.”

“That’s a dreadful way to die,” the inspector murmured.

“Who is the officer in charge?” Barnes asked. He knew that Witherspoon was sensitive to the fact that some officers thought it was unfair that the two of them were often called in to take over. No one would admit it, but when it came time for promotions to be handed out, the publicity from a quickly solved homicide definitely helped move men up the ladder, and the more ambitious coppers were understandably resentful when they lost their case to outsiders from another district.

“It’s Inspector Rogers, sir,” Constable Housman replied.

Barnes glanced at Witherspoon and saw the relief on his superior’s face. Rogers was known as a down-to-earth, reasonable fellow who followed the rules and was a good policeman. He’d been on the force a long time and Barnes was fairly sure he’d heard the man was going to retire soon. Good. That might make things easier for them. Barnes wasn’t naive enough to think they’d been sent to another district so the inspector could merely “consult” on a case.

“He’s the one that found the clipping in the lady’s hand, sir,” Constable Housman continued as he turned off the broad avenue and onto a narrow path bordered by closely spaced headstones. “As soon as he saw it, he sent word to the Yard, and they sent a runner back with the message that you were to be called in straight away.”

“Clipping?” Witherspoon asked. “You mean from a newspaper?”

“That’s right, sir. But I’ll let the inspector tell you about it himself,” he replied. “I’d not like to speak out of turn, sir.”

Barnes smiled wryly. He knew that the young constable was afraid he’d get into trouble with his guv if he said too much about the case. Which meant that even though Rogers had a reputation as a reasonable fellow, he didn’t want his men taking too much initiative. Barnes was grateful that Witherspoon wasn’t like that. His inspector didn’t set too much importance on the command structure and encouraged everyone who worked on a case with him to not only ask questions, but to feel free to offer opinions. To Barnes’ way of thinking, one of the reasons for Witherspoon’s success was that he was prepared to listen to his men. Witherspoon had only one rule and that was that no one was to speak to the press unless specifically authorized to do so.

“It’s very quiet here,” Witherspoon murmured.

Housman led them around a headstone and onto a narrow patch of dead grass. “As we said, sir, Inspector Rogers has put constables on all the gates. He didn’t want people tramping about while we investigated.”

“What about the ones that were already here?” Barnes glanced at a grave that had fresh flowers on it. “This is a huge place—surely there were already people paying their respects and whatnot when the body was discovered. What happened to them?”

“Inspector Rogers cleared them out, sir.”

“That explains the crowd at the gate,” Barnes murmured. “I’ll bet that made him popular.”

“Not really. Several of ’em were real put out. But you can speak to him yourselves. He’s just over there with the others.” Housman stopped and pointed straight ahead to a chubby, gray-haired man wearing a brown tweed coat and flat cap. He stood with three constables in a semicircle on the path. They were looking down at a body sprawled on the ground. Another man, wearing a black greatcoat and old-fashioned top hat, stood a good ten feet away from them, leaning against the wall of a crypt.

Rogers glanced their way. “Ah, good, you’re here.” He broke away from the group and came toward them, his right arm outstretched toward Witherspoon. “Inspector Witherspoon, I presume. I’m Inspector Rogers,” he said as they shook hands. “It’s a relief you’re finally here. We’d like to get this sorted out and the victim moved to the morgue as soon as possible.”

“We got here as quickly as we could,” Witherspoon said, but Rogers ignored him and kept talking. He jerked his chin toward the man leaning against the crypt. “That’s Mr. Abbot. He’s in charge here and just at the moment, he’s a bit put out with us.”

“I’m not surprised,” Barnes interjected. “He’s going to get lots of complaints from the people you made go and from the lot that’s hanging about by the gate waiting to get in to pay their respects.”

Rogers drew back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he looked first at Barnes and then at Witherspoon. “Couldn’t be helped. We can’t have people walking about disturbing evidence. But back to Mr. Abbot. He’s been nagging me to get a move on so he can reopen the gates. He seems a bit squeamish about corpses. Odd, really, as one would assume a man in his occupation would be used to them. But then again, most of the ones he deals with are already nicely sealed up in boxes.”

Witherspoon didn’t blame the fellow for staying back; he didn’t like corpses, either, especially those that had been strangled. “Is he the one who found the victim?”

“No. Mrs. Rivers discovered the dead woman. She’d come to put flowers on her late husband’s grave. She comes every week at the same time. As you can imagine, she’s quite upset so I’ve sent her home. We’ve got her address so you can interview her when you see fit.”

“You don’t think she had anything to do with the murder?” Witherspoon deliberately kept his gaze on Rogers’ face. Examining the corpse would come soon enough.

Rogers shook his head. “She’s eighty years old and far too frail to have done the killing, and Mr. Abbot verified that she’s here regularly.” He waved at the body. “But you have a look and come to your own conclusions. Everyone on the force knows you have your own methods, Inspector. I’ll leave you some men and be off. Our division is at your disposal, sir.”

“But the Yard hasn’t said that I’m in charge,” Witherspoon protested. “I was sent here to consult, sir, not to take over the case.”

Rogers lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s not be coy. You don’t have to mind my feelings—we both know that you’re in charge here, Inspector. This is now your case. I’m retiring this summer, but I’m vain enough to admit that solving this murder would have been a feather in my cap and a good way to end my career. But I’m a realist and once I saw that clipping, I knew they’d give it to you.”

Witherspoon winced inwardly. He’d once been accused of “hogging the limelight” by another officer, and it had stung. He knew there were people who resented him, but there was nothing he could do about it. It wasn’t his fault he kept getting assigned to murders in other districts. The one time he’d broached the subject with Barrows, his superior had been markedly unsympathetic and had told him not to be “so ridiculously sensitive to the opinions of others” and that if the Home Office wanted him on a specific case, so be it.

“We were ordered here, sir,” Barnes said quickly. “Inspector Witherspoon didn’t ask for this.” He wanted to make it perfectly clear that his superior was innocent of any backstabbing or manipulating. They were going to need the cooperation of the lads in this division, and Rogers having a dog-in-the-manger attitude wouldn’t benefit anyone, least of all the victim.

“I never said he did,” Rogers shot back. “But that’s neither here nor there—it’s his case now.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Witherspoon. “You’ll understand why I contacted the Yard when you read this.”

The inspector opened it carefully and drew out a yellowed newspaper clipping. He held it up to the light and squinted at the small print. Barnes leaned in closer so he could read it as well. The article had been ripped from a paper and only a few of the lines were visible.

Today the Metropolitan Police announced the arrest of Carl Christopher of West London for the murder of the Reverend Jasper Claypool. Inspector Gerald Withersp