Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (3 page)

“I agree, sir. But let's see if he's got any other cash or valuables on his person.” He opened the jacket far enough to stick his hand into the inner pocket. “There's something here, sir.” He pulled out a bundle of paper, flattened out the stack, and held it up toward the light so they could see. “Five-pound notes, sir, and no robber would leave this much cash. Besides, a professional thief wouldn't leave the body lying here with the door wide open.”

“This killer wanted the victim found quickly,” Witherspoon said.

Barnes continued checking the pockets. “He's got coins, sir, a lot of them,” he said. “Looks like florins.” He groaned slightly as he got to his feet.

“Are you alright, Constable?” Witherspoon looked at him sharply. Barnes would never shirk his duty but he wasn't a young man and what had to be done tonight could be done by one of the other officers.

“It's just my knees creakin' a bit, sir.” Barnes smiled gratefully. “I'm fine. I'll have one of the constables take the cash and coins next door to the chief inspector. He can put it in the safe at Scotland Yard.” He took a moment and counted out the bills. “By my count, there are fifty pounds and a dozen florins.”

“Excellent notion, Constable. That's a lot of money; I'd rather it was at the Yard than the station.”

Barnes motioned for one of the three constables standing guard at the end of the walkway to come. A sizeable crowd had now gathered and the constable realized they would need more men. “Then I'll get the lads started on the house-to-house. Someone might have seen something.”

The inspector looked down at his feet and then moved cautiously, watching where he stepped until he could reach the shovel. Picking it up, he examined it closely. “It's very heavy and the back is covered in blood and other bits. It feels like cast iron.”

“Yes, sir?” the young constable said.

Barnes handed him the bills and coins. “Take this next door to Chief Inspector Barrows and ask him to take custody of it. Then come back with the evidence box for the murder weapon and take it to the station. Mind you, don't muck up the sticky end. We'll need that for the court case. When you get to the station, have the duty sergeant send along three additional constables. But before that, have Constable Sanderson there”—he pointed to the tallest constable holding back the crowd—“take charge of the house-to-house and interviewing witnesses.”

“Right, sir.” He took the money and raced off.

Witherspoon put the shovel down beside the body, turned his head, and studied the foyer through the open doorway. “It appears as if Mr. Edison had just stepped out for a moment. There's plenty of light coming from the interior of the house and I can see that one of the gas lamps in the hallway is lit. As soon as the police surgeon gets here, we'll search the place.”

* * *

“Third time is the charm,” Ruth muttered as she balled her hand into a fist and banged on the back door of Upper Edmonton Gardens. Putting her ear to the wood, she listened for the telltale shuffle of Mrs. Goodge's feet, but she heard nothing. Frowning, she silently debated her next course of action: Mrs. Goodge was the only one home tonight, so should she go back to her own house and wait until the others came back from their various outings or should she try knocking again? She'd knocked as hard as she dared and it was getting cold out here.

From behind her, she heard footsteps and someone whistling. She whirled around just as Wiggins, the footman, stepped off the path and onto the small kitchen terrace.

He came to an abrupt halt. “Cor blimey, who's there?”

“It's me, Ruth Cannonberry,” she replied.

“Oh, you gave me a start.” He shook his head and stepped toward her. “What are you doin' 'ere? Is the inspector alright? 'E's not taken ill, 'as 'e?”

“He's fine, Wiggins.” She sighed in relief. “But he's been called out on a murder and I've been standing here for five minutes trying to get Mrs. Goodge to answer the door.”

“Murder, huh.” Wiggins pulled a ring of keys out of his pocket. “I'll get us in. Mrs. Jeffries left me with her keys before she went out. She knew I'd be the first one back. I was just 'avin' a drink with one of my mates at the pub. Mrs. Goodge 'as probably dozed off.”

He got the door open and led her down the hallway and into the large, warm kitchen. Mrs. Goodge, her head resting on her chest, had indeed fallen asleep. She woke with a start. “What is it? Who's here?”

Fred, the household's dog, a black, brown, and white mongrel, who had been curled up asleep on his rug next to the stove, got to his feet, his tail wagging. Wiggins patted him on the head as he stepped into the cook's frame of vision. “It's me, Mrs. Goodge. I've got Lady Cannonberry with me. The inspector's been called out on a murder.”

“A murder?” She blinked to clear the sleep out of her eyes. She was a portly, gray-haired woman with wire-rimmed spectacles and several chins. “Gracious, they always happen at such inconvenient moments. What should we do? Everyone's out tonight. Phyllis has gone to the theater and Mrs. Jeffries is at the Sutcliffes' for dinner. We can't even get Betsy or Smythe because they're at a Christmas party tonight.”

“I don't think we'll be able to have a meeting.” Ruth slipped into the chair next to the cook. “All I wanted to do was let everyone know that the inspector has been called out to a murder. But”—she glanced at Wiggins—“even though I don't have the exact address, the scene is quite close. The victim lives on Holland Road, so if you wanted to nip over there and see what you can learn, that would be useful.”

Wiggins refastened the buttons of the jacket he'd started to take off and slapped his cap back on his dark brown hair. He got up. “Do we know who was killed?”

“A man named Orlando Edison. But be careful, I think Chief Inspector Barrows is in the area. Constable Barnes mentioned he'd found the body.”

“I'll be careful.” Wiggins grinned broadly. “Don't worry, I'm good at keepin' out of sight. All the constables round here know my face. But if I do get spotted, anyone sees me, I'll just say I was coming back from the pub, saw the crowd, and wondered what the fuss was all about.”

“Crowd?” Ruth repeated.

“There's always a crowd at a murder 'ouse.” He gave Fred one last pat and started toward the back door.

“Take your scarf,” the cook ordered. “You don't know how long you're goin' to be outside and the temperature's dropping fast.” She looked at Ruth. “I knitted that for him.”

He doubled back to the coat tree, grabbed the long, light blue woolen garment, and wrapped it around his neck. “I like to save it for best,” he explained with a grin.

The cook snorted. “You like to wear it where a pretty girl will notice that it matches your eyes. Mind you be careful out there.”

“Will do, Mrs. Goodge. I'll be back as quick as I can.” He headed for the back door with Fred at his heels. “Sorry, boy, I'll take you out when I get back,” he promised. “I can't take you walkies now, we've got a case.”

“He knows me, so if you'll trust me, I'll take him out,” Ruth offered. “But he'll need to be on a lead. I'm afraid he won't come when I call.”

Wiggins smiled gratefully. “Ta, he does like his evening walk.” Fred danced up and down as the footman grabbed the lead off the coat tree and clipped it to his collar. “You be a good dog, now,” he ordered as he handed the end of the lead to Ruth.

She got up and the three of them headed for the back door. “We'll be back in fifteen minutes,” she called over her shoulder.

* * *

“What do you think of this, Constable?” Witherspoon handed Barnes a copy of the
Times
, which had been neatly folded on page eight. “See, under the Shipping Intelligence, two vessels have been circled.”

Barnes angled the paper so that it caught the lamplight. His eyesight wasn't what it used to be. “There's one circled for December twenty-second and another for December twenty-third. Both ships are leaving from Liverpool and sailing to New York. Perhaps he was planning a trip, sir.” He handed the paper back to Witherspoon.

“But he's testifying in that Granger matter at the bankruptcy court.” He frowned.

“Perhaps he thought he'd be finished by then, sir.” Barnes pulled open another desk drawer. They were searching Orlando Edison's study. The constable was going through the desk while the inspector examined the cabinets and bookshelves.

“And just because he's circled those ships, it doesn't necessarily follow that he was planning on leaving the country,” Witherspoon said.

From outside, they heard the sound of an angry female voice.

“What do you mean I can't go inside? I'm Mr. Edison's housekeeper. What on earth is going on here?”

Barnes headed for the door. “Shall I bring her in, sir?”

“Please do.”

The constable stepped out into the hall and saw a thin, middle-aged woman standing in the open front door. She was glaring at the policeman who was doggedly darting from one side of the doorway to the other to stop her from coming inside.

“If you'll just wait a moment, ma'am, I'll get the inspector,” the young constable said as he lunged to his left when she tried to elbow her way past him. “Careful where you step, ma'am, there's still bits of him about the place.” He glanced nervously down at the door stoop. The body was gone, but they hadn't had a chance to gather any other parts that might have flown off the poor fellow's skull.

Barnes winced as he heard the constable's warning. “Let the lady come in,” he ordered.

He moved aside and she lunged past him and raced toward Barnes. “I'm the housekeeper. What's going on here? Why are there policemen at all the doors?”

Barnes smiled kindly. Despite her bravado, he could see the fear in her eyes. She knew something awful had happened.

“What's your name, ma'am?”

“Emma Clarridge, and I demand to know what's happened.”

Barnes said nothing but merely led her into the study where Witherspoon stood waiting. He advanced with his hand out as he introduced himself. “I'm Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. Please forgive our being here, but I'm afraid I've bad news.”

“I'm Emma Clarridge, Mr. Edison's housekeeper.” She paled and her eyes glazed with tears as they shook hands. “Something terrible has happened, hasn't it?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied. “Your employer, Mr. Orlando Edison, was murdered this evening. One of your neighbors saw him lying in the doorway and raised the alarm.”

Tears poured down her cheeks and she stumbled backward toward an overstuffed leather chair. “Oh, dear Lord, murder. But—but—but he was alive and well when we left. He sent us to the theater—it was to be our Christmas present.”

Witherspoon grabbed her arm to steady her and gently eased her into the chair. “Please sit down, Mrs. Clarridge, I can see this has been a great shock to you.”

She shook her head, her expression confused. “But he can't be dead, he can't be. Oh, my gracious, the others, the cook and the housemaids, they're waiting at the servants' entrance. I've got to . . .”

The inspector interrupted. “The constable will see to them.” He glanced at Barnes, who was already on the move.

“I know this is difficult, Mrs. Clarridge, but can you tell me when you last saw Mr. Edison?”

“Six o'clock.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and swiped at her wet cheeks. “There were carolers coming and even though we were leaving, I went to answer the door but he waved me back. He said he'd take care of it, that he enjoyed hearing them sing.”

“How did you know the carolers were coming if you didn't answer the door?” Witherspoon asked.

“I saw them from the drawing room window. I'd gone in to close the curtains and I saw them coming across the road. They were heading straight for the house.” She sniffed as a fresh batch of tears pooled in her eyes. “We've had carolers before, sir, and Mr. Edison was uncommonly generous. He always gave each of them a florin. I think word had gotten about, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do,” he replied. That explained why the victim had over a dozen of those particular coins on his person.

“Had Mr. Edison actually opened the door while you were here?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn't sure what, if anything, the carolers had to do with the murder, but he felt it wise to get as many details as possible.

She thought for a moment. “No, we were in a hurry to leave. The others were shouting at me to come along so we could get the next omnibus.”

“Did you hear him open the door?”

“There was too much of a racket for that. As I said, we were in a hurry and not minding how much noise we made.”

“You left by the servants' entrance at the side of the house?” he clarified. Barrows had found the body at six ten and if they'd left at six, then the killer would have had to have done the murder in that ten-minute period of time.

She smiled through her tears. “Mr. Edison was a very generous and liberal employer but it would hardly be fitting for the staff to use the front door.”

“What about the downstairs front door?” he asked.

“That's the tradesmen's entrance and it's kept locked. It's only opened when deliveries are made.”

“Did you lock the servants' door when you left?”

“Yes.” She rummaged in her coat pocket, pulled up her hand, and held up a key. “It was locked tight as a bank vault and I had the key with me.”

“Would Mr. Edison have locked the front door after listening to the carolers?”

“Most definitely. Once the sun was down, we kept the house locked. If he went out in the evening he took the key to the front door with him. That's what he was going to do tonight. He was going out to dinner.”