Mrs. Jeffries Sweeps the Chimney

Mrs. Jeffries yawned as she went down the stairs the next morning. She hadn’t slept well. There were far too many bits and pieces swirling about in her head for a restful night’s sleep. She hurried into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt.

Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge were sitting at the table. There was a plate of buttered bread, a dish of orange marmalade and a pot of tea in front of them. Fred was sitting next to the footman’s chair with his head resting against the lad.

“I took the early train back this mornin’. I’m glad to be ’ome, Mrs. Jeffries,” he replied. “It feels like I’ve been gone for ages instead of a few days.”

“Well, uh, he’s about the same,” Wiggins said softly. He reached down and patted Fred. “I come ’ome because I ’ad a bit of a dustup with my cousin.”

“He punched him in the nose,” Mrs. Goodge added. “But from what Wiggins told me, the boy had it coming. He kept insulting Wiggins’s mother.”

Wiggins looked up and met her eyes. “I tried to get along with my relations, Mrs. Jeffries, I really did. But the only one who wanted me there was my grandfather. My aunt and uncle weren’t very nice either, and my cousin hated me from the second he picked me up at the station. But I didn’t mind all that, I tried to keep out of everyone’s way. But when Albert started callin’ my mam them horrible names . . .”

“You don’t have to explain to us.” She held up her hand. “We know you, Wiggins. You’re a good and gentle soul. If you resorted to fisticuffs, I’m sure it was for a good reason.” She couldn’t believe she’d just said those words. She’d always believed violence never really solved anything, but then again, perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps there were moments when a good smack in the nose was just what the situation needed. “So, now that you’re back with us, let’s get you out there working on our case. We’ve been stretched a bit thin on this one.”

“Course you ’ave,” he nodded eagerly, relieved not to have to keep talking about his dreadful relatives. “What with there being two corpses and all.”

“I’ve told him everything we’ve learned so far,” Mrs. Goodge said as she got up and walked over to the counter. She lifted the cloth off her bread bowl and frowned at the dough. “I don’t think I’ve left anything out. Oh blast, this is takin’ its sweet time to raise. Perhaps it’s just as well I’ve got those hot cross buns in the larder. I’ve got my sources coming along this morning.”

She thought for a moment. “I think we need someone working on the Bermondsey murder. We haven’t really covered that neighborhood very well. Betsy had a bit of luck a couple of days ago, but since then, we’ve found out very little. I think it would be a good idea if you went around there and had a go at it.”

He took a quick sip from his cup. “Exactly what should I be askin’? From what Mrs. Goodge told me, no one has any idea who that poor woman was.”

“Just find out what you can about either the woman or the cottage,” she replied, “and follow your nose. You’ve always been quite good at that sort of thing.”

“Certainly, just as soon as I get the inspector fed his breakfast and out the front door.” She pushed back from the table and got up. “I thought I’d see what I could learn about Jasper Claypool before he went to India. Claypool was at St. Matthew’s Church in Finsbury Park. The family is from that area. Perhaps I’ll find out something useful about either our suspects or our victim.”

They waited till they heard the back door slam before either of them spoke. Then Mrs. Goodge said, “He was in a terrible state when he arrived this morning. His knuckles are red from where he hit his cousin, but it’s his conscience that’s really hurting him. He told me he’d broken his promise to his grandfather by leaving. Apparently, the old man had got him to give his word that he’d stay until the grandfather either died or got well.”

“But the old man didn’t see to it that his family kept a civil tongue in their heads,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “And from the sound of it, they made our Wiggins miserable.”

“They’re afraid the grandfather is dying and that he’s going to leave part of the family farm to Wiggins. Albert, the cousin that Wiggins smacked, accused Wiggins of licking the old man’s boots to get a share of the estate.”

Constable Barnes waved a passing cab over to the side of Holland Park Road. “Where to first, sir? The Mayberrys are in Islington, and that’s the closest.”

“Let’s give them a try,” Witherspoon said as he climbed into the hansom. They had the list of the former tenants of Dorland Place they’d gotten from Eric Riley. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed that someone will give us a clue to who that poor woman was.”

Barnes gave the driver the address and then settled back next to the inspector. He whipped out his notebook. “If we don’t learn anything useful from the Mayberrys, we got the address of a Mrs. Colfax who used to live at number three on that road. She lives in Chingford now and is quite elderly.”

“Were those the only two names we were able to track down?” Witherspoon asked. As the days passed, this case was becoming more and more difficult. They had no real suspects, no motive, and one of the corpses hadn’t even been identified. He was beginning to think he wasn’t ever going to solve this one.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Barnes admitted morosely. “Ten years is a long time. We only got these two addresses because they’d kept in touch with the local vicar.”

“None, sir,” Barnes replied. “No one can remember what freight company picked it up, only that they had the proper documents and took it away.”

“Right, sir.” Barnes scratched his chin. “Which is odd, when you think of it. If he was killed Monday evening and the luggage was picked up Monday afternoon, was he the one that sent for it, and if so, where did he have it taken?”

“No, sir, he checked with Claypool’s old parish and with some of his former associates and the bags weren’t taken anywhere he could find.”

“And they weren’t taken to either of the Rileys or the Christopher home or the factory.” Witherspoon shrugged. “Then where on earth did they go?”

“Not yet, sir. I was only mentioning her as a possibility. Also, sir, I’ve got the final reports from the lads that did the door-to-door. We’ve got a report from a woman who actually saw the poor man running down the street.”

“She didn’t exactly see his killer, but she did see Claypool running towards the church,” Barnes said. “It was a real pea-souper that night, and all she caught was glimpses of him running through the fog. She didn’t think anything of it because she thought the man was simply late to church. But she was able to pinpoint the time for us, sir. It was six o’clock.”

“No, sir, but she did hear another set of footsteps. But again, she took no notice. She thought it was someone late for church. That’s about it, sir. No one else saw or heard anything.”

For the duration of the journey, they discussed the few facts they had about the case. Barnes, who’d had a brief word with Mrs. Jeffries when he’d gotten to Upper Edmonton Gardens that morning, dropped some pertinent bits of information and a goodly number of helpful hints in the inspector’s path. But he didn’t think they were having the desired effect on his superior, for by the time the hansom pulled up in front of a tiny house in Islington, Barnes could tell by the his inspector’s glum expression that he was still having grave doubts about the case.

“Constable, I fear this case is going to be one of those that get away from us.” Witherspoon closed his eyes briefly. “We’re dealing with a very clever killer.”

“Not to worry, sir. We’ll get the blighter.” He pulled some coins out of his pocket and paid the driver. “Like you always say, sir. They always make a mistake.”

“I certainly hope so,” Witherspoon said fervently. “But honestly, I do admit this one has me baffled. Frankly, Constable, I’m not even certain whether we’re looking for one or two murderers.” He peered at the small row houses. “What’s the address?”

“It’s number eight.” Barnes pointed to the middle of the row. The two-story brick house had dilapidated drainpipes and needed a decent paint job about the window sills. “Let’s hope there’s someone home.”

The door opened almost as soon as the constable had finished knocking. An elderly woman wearing spectacles and a clean white apron over her brown housedress peered out at them. “Yes? What is it?”

They entered a small sitting room containing an aged three-piece suite of an indeterminate dark color and two side tables with brown matching lamps. Antimacassars were laid neatly on the backs of the settee and chairs.

She laughed. “You can say that again. Mind you, they always tried to be crafty about it when they was using the place. But all of us knew what was goin’ on.”

She nodded eagerly. “Supposedly the people that owned the factory across the road, they were our landlords, you understand, they was supposed to be keeping number seven empty for their own use, but the only time it ever got used was when he was meetin’ her.”

Mrs. Mayberry shrugged again. “I don’t know their names. Actually, they were pretty crafty about stayin’ away from pryin’ eyes. But I know they used the place because sometimes you could see smoke comin’ out of the chimney, and even though they’d pull the blinds, you could see light comin’ from out the bottom crack.”

“They had a key,” she replied. “There was never any windows broken, and the one time one of the neighbors went over to the factory to speak to them about it, they were told to mind their own business.”

“Only once, I saw a woman come out late in the afternoon. She stood at the door and tried to wait until she thought it was safe before she showed her face, but I was back behind the tree across the road and she didn’t see me. I saw her all right. She was a tallish woman, well dressed and posh looking if you know what I mean.”

“No, she had on a veil. But she was dressed fancy and carried herself like a queen, I remember that much. I never got a look at the man, but I know there was one because my Billy was creeping around the back of the cottage when they was in there and he heard them talking.”

She pushed her spectacles up her nose. “Let me see, they only really started usin’ the place the last year we lived there. I don’t remember how often they was actually there, but it was more than a few times. Too bad you can’t speak to Mrs. Hornby, she was right next door to the place. But she died last year, had the scarlet fever, she did, and it took her in less than three days.”

“Because they come in the same way each time,” she insisted. “They come by hansom cab and the woman always wore a heavy veil over her face and the man had his collar pulled up high. He looked pretty silly when it was summertime. But it was always the same—they went to a great deal of trouble not to be recognized. Seems to me that casual people using the place wouldn’t have taken such care, would they.”

“Yes, I see your point.” The inspector nodded. He wasn’t sure what any of this meant, but it had to mean something. “Do you recall the last time you saw anyone at the cottage?”

Witherspoon felt very sorry for the poor lady. She sounded very lonely. He got to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Mayberry. You’ve been most helpful.”

Mrs. Jeffries stepped out of the train station at Finsbury Park and stopped to survey her surroundings. She needed someone local to point her toward St. Matthew’s Church. Across the road, she spotted a newsagent’s. She slipped around a hansom cab and darted through the heavy traffic to the other side. She waited till the shop was empty before stepping inside. “Hello,” she smiled at the woman behind the counter. “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m trying to find St. Matthew’s Church.”

A few moments later Mrs. Jeffries, armed with precise directions, started up the busy road. As she walked, she thought about the case. They had two bodies, two victims, but the murders might be as much as ten years apart. Then again, what if the two killings weren’t even related to one another? No, she shook her head as she turned the corner, she simply didn’t believe that. It would be far too much of a coincidence for the first victim to be holding an address that had a second victim up its chimney.

She slowed her steps as the idea took root in her mind. Life was full of coincidence. What if this was one too? Then what? They’d have wasted a huge amount of time and effort trying to tie the two killings together instead of investigating them separately.

She pulled her jacket closer against the sudden cold from a gust of wind. The neighborhood had changed as she walked, going from small row houses with tiny gardens to larger homes the farther one walked from the station. A row of tall oaks lined each side of the road, and the homes were set well back from the street. Most of them had gardens with deep green lawns and beautifully tended flowerbeds.

She came to the intersection and stopped. St. Matthew’s was on the corner. It was made of gray stone and set back in a churchyard that was surrounded by a low stone fence with a wrought iron gate leading to the church door. She walked up to the gate and stared at the building. It was only half past ten, so there might not be anyone in the church. Well, then, she’d wait about until someone showed up. She pushed through the gate and stepped into the yard. She was almost to the door when a voice said, “You’ll not be able to get inside. They don’t unlock the doors till noon.”

“Actually, I’m not certain.” She smiled hesitantly. “I’m trying to locate a Reverend Jasper Claypool.” Though Claypool’s murder had been in the papers, she was pretending ignorance, hoping the mention of his name might get someone to talk to her. In her experience, people were always willing to pass along a bit of bad news.

“No, we were on the same ship coming back from India. I got off in Cherbourg. I arrived back in England late yesterday. Unfortunately, I’ve lost the address where I was supposed to meet him, but I do recall him saying he was coming up here to visit his family. I’ve got some contributions for his church building fund in India, and I wanted to give them to him personally.”

“You must have misunderstood him, ma’am,” the gardener shifted uneasily. “Reverend Claypool’s got no family around here. They all left the area years ago. But that’s not the worst of it, ma’am. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the Reverend Claypool is dead. He was murdered a few days ago near the London docks. It was in yesterday’s papers.”

“They don’t know, ma’am. The police haven’t caught anyone.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “You look a bit pale, ma’am. I’ve a key here, so if you’d like to go inside and have a sit down, I’ll unlock the doors for you.”

“Thank you, I would be very grateful.” She felt just a bit guilty. But she shoved the feeling aside and carried on with her plan. She wanted this man talking. He’d apparently been here for quite a while and was a good source of information. “I do feel a bit faint.” She stumbled ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I simply can’t believe he’s gone. He was so looking forward to coming here. He was so looking forward to seeing his family. He’d missed them all so much, especially his nieces and nephews.”

“I’m sure he did miss ’em, ma’am. He helped raise the twins after their parents died,” the gardener said. “And it weren’t no easy task, either.”

“Oh, even if he’d had a wife, raising the girls all those years would have turned him gray. I’m Arthur Benning,” he said. “I’ve been the groundsman here for twenty years.”

“I’m Penelope Mortiboys,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She hoped that God would forgive her for lying in his house. After all, she was trying to catch a killer, and surely that took precedence over a petty white-lie sin. “I hadn’t realized that poor Reverend Claypool had spent so many years rearing his nieces.”

“Oh, yes,” Benning smiled broadly. “He was ever so kind to those girls. Mind you, Miss Hilda was always as good as gold and Miss Edith wasn’t a bad girl, just a bit high-spirited. He was a good man, the reverend. He didn’t have to be their guardian. His half-brother and his wife was quite willing to take the girls in and give ’em a proper home.”

“Right,” he frowned slightly. “Mr. and Mrs. Riley would’ve been quite chuffed to give the girls a home, but Reverend Claypool said it were his responsibility. He was the one named guardian in their father’s will. Course, the gossip was that the only reason the Rileys offered was to get their hands on Miss Hilda’s money. But I don’t put much credence in that sort of talk. John Riley was a decent sort, and both of his wives was real nice women. The girls spent a lot of time at their house as they were growing up. And the Rileys didn’t even make too much of a fuss when Miss Edith played that awful prank.” He laughed. “I expect they was used to it. Miss Edith was always doin’ something naughty, she was.”

“Not like this,” he said. “She leapt out the bushes waving a cloth when young Mr. Horace had all the children in the pony cart. It spooked the horse so badly he reared up like a stallion and the cart overturned. The children were tossed out onto the embankment and poor Mr. Horace ended up with a broken ankle and missed a whole school term because of it. Mr. Eric was just a toddler, and he landed on a clump of grass with just a few bruises, and Miss Hilda broke a bone or two, and, of course, Miss Edith walked away without so much as a scratch.” He laughed again. “But that was generally the way of it. Miss Edith always seemed to get out of most things with no mishaps.”

“Miss Edith’s been estranged from the whole family,” Arthur Benning said bluntly. “They’d left here by the time it happened, but everyone around here knew about it. Well, you couldn’t expect the reverend to forgive something like that, could you?”

Mrs. Jeffries knew she had to be careful. She couldn’t let on that she had no idea what he was talking about. “No, of course he couldn’t. But all the same, it’s a shame the way it all turned out.”

“Oh, I don’t know, last I heard, Miss Hilda was happily married to her Mr. Christopher and Miss Edith is off running about the continent, doin’ what she wants and answerin’ to no one. Mind you, I expect the way she’s livin’ her life probably upset the good reverend, him bein’ a vicar and all.”

At that moment, a man dressed in clerical garb stepped into the front of the church and peered at them from behind the baptismal font. “Arthur, is something wrong?” He advanced down the aisle toward them.

“This lady felt a bit faint, sir,” he replied, gesturing at Mrs. Jeffries. “I brought her inside to have a sit down. She was lookin’ for Reverend Claypool and didn’t know that he’d died.”

“It was a bit of a shock.” She smiled and got to her feet. “But your Mr. Benning has explained everything and been most considerate. Obviously, I misunderstood Reverend Claypool. From what Mr. Benning has told me, both he and his family left this area some time ago.”

“That’s correct. I never met the man, but he was quite well-loved in the parish.” He pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “Arthur, you’d best get that trimming done on the Harcourt graves. They’ll be here fairly soon to pay their respects.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” she said. Then she turned to the vicar. “It’s such a shame about the poor man. Do they have any idea who killed him?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he said. He took her elbow and began edging them down the aisle toward the door. “It’s most unfortunate, but the police are quite good at catching murderers. I’m sure they’ll find out who did it.” He hustled her down the aisle and out the front door before she could gather her wits about her to ask more questions. “Do have a good day,” he said as he hurried back inside. She stared at the closed door for a moment and then glanced around the churchyard. Arthur was nowhere in sight, and besides, she didn’t want to get him in trouble by taking him away from his work any more.

She went up the path to the pavement, turned and stared at the church. On the property next to the church, there was a house made of the same kind of stone as the church. She guessed that was the vicarage. She decided there was no harm in spending a bit more time in the neighborhood. No telling what she might be able to find out.

“I’d like to have a word with the staff,” Barnes said to the inspector. “Now that we know when Claypool was killed, it’ll be interesting to know if Mr. and Mrs. Christopher was at home.” They were seated in the Christophers’ drawing room waiting for either the master or the mistress.

Barnes shrugged. “We’re not learning much, sir. I keep thinking that Claypool arrived back in London early that morning, yet he didn’t die till six o’clock in the evening. Where was he all that time?”

Mrs. Christopher swept into the room. She was dressed in a fur-trimmed fawn jacket and carried a pair of gloves in her hands. “My housekeeper said you wanted to speak to me,” she said softly.

“I mean, he arrived in London early that morning and he didn’t die until that evening. He must have been somewhere for all those hours. Mr. Horace Riley insists he wasn’t at the factory or at his home, and Mr. Eric Riley says the same thing. You and your husband both say he wasn’t here, so we’re hoping you can give us some idea of where he might have gone.”

“I doubt that, ma’am,” Barnes said dryly. “There’s been plenty of newspaper coverage about his death. We’ve asked for anyone who’d seen him to come forward and make a statement. No one has. Also, ma’am, would you mind if we had a word with your staff?”

“My staff? If you mean the servants, there’d be no point. Most of them never even met my uncle. They could tell you nothing.” She pulled on one of the gloves.

“None whatsoever.” She pulled on the second glove. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I must be off. I’ve several appointments this morning.”

“Actually, ma’am, there is something else. I believe you have a sister. Does she live here in London?” He knew she didn’t, and from everything he’d been told, Edith Durant was a fairly delicate subject. He wanted to be as discreet as possible, but he had to ask. They couldn’t find hide nor hair of the woman anywhere.

“Not often. But she does come occasionally. We saw her last year as a matter of fact, on Boxing Day.” She sighed. “Look, Inspector, Constable, my husband doesn’t really welcome Edith into our home, so I generally meet her somewhere else.”

Mrs. Christopher followed their glance, and then a puzzled expression crossed her lovely face, quickly followed by one of outrage. “Now see here, Inspector. What are you implying?”

“My sister may be a bit unconventional, sir, but I assure you, she isn’t a murderess.” Hilda straightened her spine. “The very idea is unthinkable.”

“Do you own a gun, ma’am?” the inspector interjected. “As I said, our questions are merely routine. We’re asking everybody.” He was annoyed with himself. He’d not thought to ask Horace or Eric Riley if they owned a weapon. He made a mental note to rectify that error as soon as possible.

“I don’t understand this. My uncle, who I didn’t even know was in England, gets murdered, and all of a sudden, my family and I are subjected to these humiliating questions.” Her voice had risen perceptibly, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. “You have no right to come in here and make these disgusting implications.”

“As I said before, ma’am,” the inspector said, wishing she’d calm down, “our intention was never to imply anything untoward, we’re merely trying to find your uncle’s killer. You want us to find out who did it, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she cried. She clasped hands together in distress. “Of course I want you to find his killer. I loved Uncle Jasper, he was like a father to me.”

The drawing room door opened and Carl Christopher charged inside. “Hilda, what on earth is wrong?” He crossed to her and drew her close, his expression concerned. “I could hear you from outside.”

“I’m sorry, darling.” She gestured at the two policemen. “I’m afraid I’ve let myself get upset. They were asking some questions about Edith. About whether or not Uncle Jasper might have met with her on the day he died. About whether or not Edith has a gun. It was most distressing, and I’m afraid I allowed myself to get terribly overwrought.”

“They asked me if I had a gun,” Mrs. Christopher added. “And if I had any idea where Uncle Jasper might have been those hours before he died.”

“We know your uncle arrived quite early that morning,” Barnes said. “And we asked Mrs. Christopher if she had any idea where he might have gone.”

“Of course they can speak with the staff,” he said smoothly. He turned to Witherspoon. “We’re not trying to be uncooperative, Inspector. We’ll answer any questions you like.”

“Hush, darling.” He put his fingers over her lips. “We’ll not do Edith any good by lying for her.” Turning back to the inspector, he said, “Edith owns a small revolver. She carries it for protection, as she travels so much.”