Mrs. Jeffries Sweeps the Chimney

“So what do you think of this turn of events, sir?” Barnes whispered to the inspector. They were downstairs in a small, dimly lighted sitting room, waiting for the housekeeper.

“I’m not sure,” Witherspoon replied. He glanced at the partly closed door, not wanting to be overheard. “It’s a bit difficult to question someone who doesn’t appear to have an address. Miss Edith Durant sounds very much like an adventuress. We’ve no idea if she’s even in England.”

“But at least we know she had a gun,” Barnes pointed out. He turned toward the door as they heard the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. A moment later, the door opened and a tall, austere middle-aged woman wearing a gray dress stepped into the room.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” She moved toward an old, overstuffed chair on the far side of the settee. “I like to rest my feet whenever I’ve a chance.”

“We wouldn’t mind in the least,” he assured her. “I believe I’ll have a sit down too.” He took a seat at the end of the settee closest to her. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

She smiled wanly. “Take as long as you like, I could use the rest. This is a big house, and frankly, there simply isn’t enough staff to run it properly. But that’s neither here nor there. You’re not interested in our domestic arrangements.”

“Not that I know about,” Mrs. Nimitz replied with a shrug. “But then again, I was out for most of the day. The painters were here doing the downstairs, and the smell was awful. We couldn’t do our work so Mr. Christopher let most of us have the day out.”

“Not really,” she shrugged again. “We took the day in lieu of our normal time off for the week. It was a bit annoying, if you know what I mean. We knew the painters were scheduled to come that day, but the master hadn’t told us we’d have to take our day out then. It was a trifle inconvenient. My usual day out is Wednesday, and I’d already made plans to go to see my niece in Hackney on Wednesday afternoon.”

“So getting the day off was a surprise to the staff?” Witherspoon asked. He wanted to make sure he understood her correctly. That was the sort of fact that ended up being most important. Sometimes.

“We do not tell employers what their staff say about them in the course of an investigation,” Witherspoon said firmly. “Your statements are completely private unless used as evidence in a court of law.”

She still didn’t look completely convinced, but her expression relaxed a little. “Right, then. It was a bit of an odd day. We all left fairly early. Blevins, he’s the butler, had come downstairs at seven to tell me to get everyone out of the house as soon as breakfast was over. The painters arrived just after eight. As soon as the breakfast things were washed and put away, I let the kitchen girls go on. Then I went upstairs and checked that the beds were made. By the time I came downstairs, Mrs. Christopher had shooed everyone out and was pushing me to go as well.”

“No, they gave the impression they were going to be going out as well. Supposedly, that was the reason she was rushing us out the door. She kept muttering they had a train to catch. That they were going to spend the day in Brighton. But I know that was a lie. I had to run back upstairs to get my coat, you see.” She smiled impishly. “They thought I’d already gone. I’d left, but before I got to the corner, I’d realized it was too cold for just my shawl so I came back to get my coat. The front door was unlocked, so I slipped inside. That’s when I overheard them talking. Mrs. Christopher was telling Mr. Christopher that no matter what, they were to stay here until it was finished. I just assumed she was talking about the painters.”

“Rich people do plenty of things that don’t make sense,” Mrs. Nimitz replied. “I’ve been in service all my life and I’ve seen things in other houses that would drive a saint to drink. Frankly, I was so glad for a chance to have a few hours off my feet, all I could think of was getting out of here before they changed their minds and decided they needed someone to stay here and fetch and carry for them. Knowing Mrs. Christopher as I do, she probably insisted they stay to make sure the painters did the job right. She’s real particular and,” she tossed a quick glance at the door, “not very trusting, if you know what I mean.”

“Not anymore. She used to come around a lot right after the old vicar went off to India. I know because every time she’d been here, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher would have a blazing row.”

“About Miss Edith bein’ in the house,” Mrs. Nimitz replied. “Mr. Christopher kept insisting that her reputation was so awful he didn’t want the neighbors seeing her come here to visit Mrs. Christopher. Finally, Mrs. Christopher must have had enough of his carping because the last few years she’s always met her sister at a hotel.”

Witherspoon was confused. “I don’t understand. You said Mrs. Christopher kept a close eye on her husband when her sister was in town, yet you also said he doesn’t want Miss Durant in the house? Could you explain that remark?”

Mrs. Nimitz glanced at the door. “Like a lot of men, he’s a hypocrite. He’s terrified the neighbors will get wind of Miss Edith and her wild ways, but at the same time, he’s a yen for her himself if you know what I mean.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I heard that before he married Miss Hilda, Mr. Christopher was madly in love with Miss Edith. It’s not just gossip, either, because I’ve seen Mr. Christopher at the St. John’s with Edith Durant twice in the last year. Plus, a couple of times when Mrs. Christopher was out of town visiting her mother’s people, he’d bring Miss Durant here late at night.”

“They may be identical twins,” Mrs. Nimitz replied. “But you can tell them apart by the way they act and the way they dress. Believe me, I can tell Miss Durant from the mistress, that’s for sure.”

“Quick, come inside.” Luty grabbed Josiah Williams’s arm and fairly drug him through her front door. “I don’t want him to see us together.” She pushed him toward the drawing room and through the double oak doors. She shoved him quite hard. “He’s way too nosy and he’ll want to know what you’re doin’ here.”

Josiah stumbled on an exquisite Persian carpet, righted himself and then staggered toward a cream-colored overstuffed chair. For a tiny elderly lady, she was very strong. “Who don’t you want to see us?”

“Hatchet,” Luty said grimly. She glanced up and down the hall and then drew the doors shut. “I’ve got Jon on guard duty, but Hatchet’s crafty, he could easily get past the boy.”

“Threatening me?” Luty repeated incredulously. She threw back her head and laughed. “Of course not, he just asks a lot of questions. Now sit down and tell me what you found out. I hope you didn’t go to much trouble.”

Luty had a story ready. “Oh, let’s just say that a long time ago, I knew the feller. He’s a good man and he always dreamed of giving a big chunk of his fortune to those less fortunate than himself. Unfortunately, he’s got a whole pack of relatives bending his ear about what’s right and proper. I guess you could say that I want to know if he was able to leave any of his money to a particular charity that I know he supported. If he couldn’t, then in his honor, I’ll make the contribution for him.” She watched his face as she spoke, hoping to tell by his expression if he believed her. She knew he wouldn’t actually challenge her on the matter. After all, she was an important client and paid a good part of his salary. But it would be nice to know that she could be convincing.

But Josiah Williams was too good a legal man to give anything away by so much as a twitch of his nose. “I see. That’s most generous of you, madam. But the fact is, Jasper Claypool’s will hasn’t changed in ten years. The only bequest he makes to charity is to a benevolence fund for retired clergymen. Was that by any chance the charity you thought he supported?”

“Nah,” she shook her head, “I was thinkin’ he’d leave a few pounds to the foundling home in Watford. But I guess he didn’t. Well, Nellie’s whiskers, the old fellow swore to me that he’d leave some money to them poor children.” She narrowed her eyes at Josiah. “Are you sure about this?”

“But that’s about the time he swore he’d leave them younguns some money,” Luty insisted. “Right before he left, he told me he’d leave the bulk to his nieces and nephews but that he’d give a good ten percent to the Watford Foundling Home.”

“Apparently he wasn’t entirely truthful to you,” Josiah retorted, “because he left his estate to his nephews, not his nieces. One of them was specifically disinherited and the other was only left his collection of rare books.”

“Very sure,” Josiah said. “I spoke to the clerk myself. No one at Claypool’s law firm has seen or heard from him for ages. So if he was coming back to England to change his will, he didn’t let his solicitors know and he’d not made any appointments to see them.”

The door opened and Hatchet stuck his head inside. He pretended to look surprised. “Excuse me, madam, I didn’t realize you were with your solicitor. May I remind you, madam, we are expected in Holland Park in half an hour. We really mustn’t be late. I’ve taken the liberty of having the carriage brought around. I trust you’ll be through with Mr. Williams shortly.”

Luty snorted faintly and then turned back to her companion. Hatchet was already picking at her. That meant he might not have had much luck today either. “I’m real grateful to you for getting me this information.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’d prefer to handle it myself,” Luty couldn’t swear to it, but it seemed his face twitched a bit, like he was trying not to laugh. “But I’m much obliged for the offer.” She’d been going to ask him which niece had been disinherited, but she thought better of it. Besides, she was fairly sure she knew which one it was.

“Do let me know if I can be of further service.” He smiled broadly. “Your inquiries are always so much more interesting than my usual work at the firm.”

Luty stared at him suspiciously. All her lawyers knew about her close association with the Witherspoon household. Her “inquiries” had nothing to do with charity and everything to do with snooping for clues in the inspector’s murder cases. She made a mental note never to ask her lawyers for help again. The old stodgy ones wouldn’t give it and this one was too clever by half. “Uh, thank you, I think. Uh, you won’t get in trouble with the others for helping me, will you?”

“Not at all, ma’am. You’re our best client and the truth is, they’re all very fond of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.” He turned toward the door, and she started to get up. “Don’t bother to show me out,” he called over his shoulder. “I know the way. Do have a nice time at the illustrious Inspector Witherspoon’s household.”

Mrs. Jeffries was the last one to arrive for their afternoon meeting. She dashed into the kitchen, taking off her hat as she walked. “I’m terribly sorry to be late, but the train was held up just outside the station.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave them a grateful smile, approving of the way they were making Wiggins’s return to the fold less awkward. “Indeed, we told the lad we’ve been stretched thin on this case.” She took her seat at the head of the table and reached for the teapot.

“If no one has any objection,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I’d like to go first.” She paused a moment and then plunged ahead. “I don’t have much to report, but I did hear a bit of gossip this morning. I’m not even sure it has anything to do with our case, but it might. It seems that Horace Riley isn’t overly fond of his half-brother, Eric. Supposedly, before Claypool went to India, Horace was trying to talk him into making sure that he had complete control of the factory. Seems he went out of his way to imply that young Eric was incompetent. Apparently, the lad was quite wild in his youth and had a bit of a gambling problem.”

“No, he couldn’t get Eric’s actual share of the property, it was left to him by their father. But as Claypool controlled both of the twins’ share and owned half of the factory himself, he could easily have kept Eric Riley from having a position at the factory. That’s really what Horace Riley wanted,” Mrs. Goodge explained. “The reverend didn’t go along with it. He had very strict views on what was fair and what wasn’t. He insisted that Eric be given a position in the family firm and allowed to work his way up. Another thing I heard was that Eric has proved to be far better at business than his half-brother.”

“That’s right,” the cook nodded eagerly. “My source said they had words over it. Mind you, supposedly Horace was already upset with his uncle over the old man’s refusal to let them sell off the cottages.”

“You can fix that,” Smythe said. “There’s no great caverns or anything like that under London, so it probably wouldn’t be that big an engineering effort to find out what’s causing the cottages to shift. Believe me, that’s a big piece of property sitting there doin’ nothin’. Considerin’ the cost of land in London, there’s plenty of developers that would go to the trouble and expense of making that patch of ground safe for something or other.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the footman. He was staring morosely at the floor. Poor lad, she thought. He wasn’t very happy. Well, he’d have to make peace with his decision one way or another. That wasn’t a battle she or any of the others could help him with. “Would you like to go next, Wiggins? That is, if Mrs. Goodge is finished.”

Wiggins took a deep breath. “Well, uh, actually, I didn’t find out much of anything. None of the shopkeepers could remember anything about any of the former tenants of Dorland Place, and the only other person I talked to was an elderly woman who couldn’t remember what day it was, let alone anything that happened years ago.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not bein’ very helpful, am I.”

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” Betsy insisted brightly. “You just wait. Besides, you’re not the only one who didn’t have any luck today. I spent hours trying to make contact with Lilly Staggers, and she didn’t so much as stick her nose out the door. But I’m not letting that stop me. I’m going right back out there tomorrow and trying again.” She turned her attention to the housekeeper. “I also thought it would be a good idea if I went over to Eric Riley’s neighborhood and see what I can learn about him. He’s the one we know the least about, and he might have had a reason for wanting his uncle dead.”

“A bit,” he grinned. “My source wasn’t able to tell me where Jasper Claypool’s luggage went; it seems to have disappeared into thin air. But I did have a bit of luck in another area. I got the names of a couple of people who were on the ship with Jasper Claypool.” He dug a piece of paper out of his pocket. “There’s a Mr. Adam Spindler of number twelve Hobbs Lane in Chelmsford and a Miss Eudora Planter of Barslee Cottage in Richmond. We need to try to speak to either of these two right away. That’s the only way we’re goin’ to find out why the vicar was returning to England unannounced.”

“But he wasn’t unannounced,” Hatchet pointed out. “According to what Lilly Staggers told Betsy, Eric Riley knew his uncle was in town. If he knew, maybe the others did as well.”

“I wasn’t able to find out what was in that telegram the Rileys received on the day Claypool was killed,” Smythe said quickly. “There were too many people hanging about the street when I nipped over there this morning. But I’ll try again. Maybe they knew their uncle was coming to town too.”

“Let me have a go at finding out about that telegram,” Betsy insisted. “Like I said, I’m going to talk to Lilly Staggers again, and if she doesn’t know anything, I’ll try someone else at the Riley house. Surely someone snoops through the dustbin. And I’ll try and find out if Lilly’s been reporting to Eric Riley about her employers.”

“I found out about Jasper Claypool’s will. Feller hasn’t changed it in ten years.” She gave them the rest of the details from her meeting with Josiah Williams. “I know it’s not much, but at least we know that he wasn’t at his lawyer’s changin’ his will before he died.”

“That is useful to know,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Do you think you can find out if he had contacted his solicitors? Perhaps he was killed to stop him going to see them.”

“My source had spoken to the clerk, and he claimed the firm hadn’t heard from Claypool in ages. So that means if he was going to change his will, he hadn’t mentioned it to his lawyers.” She shrugged. “Anyways, that’s it for me. Oh, wait a minute, I’m forgettin’ something. I did find out something else. Seems that Horace Riley is in some fairly dire financial straits.”

“The factory is doin’ just fine. They’ve got more orders than they can fill, and as the general manager, Horace Riley makes a good salary,” Luty explained. “But according to what I heard, his missus spends it faster than he can bring it in. They’ve got creditors hounding them all the time. One or two of ’em are threatening him with legal action.”

“More than a bit,” Luty replied. “I’m still workin’ on finding out how the Christophers are doin’ financially. But I should have a report on them by tomorrow.”

“You’ve done very well, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “If everyone else is finished, I’ll go next.” She paused for a moment and waited to see if anyone had additional information to contribute. But they were all looking at her expectantly. She told them about her visit to Finsbury Park and her meeting with the gardener at St. Matthew’s Church. “I got the impression that Claypool wasn’t just annoyed with his niece over how she lived, but over something specific in her life,” she concluded. “It was really bad luck that the vicar choose that moment to interrupt us. We were having a very useful conversation. Of course, I’ve no idea if it has anything to do with our case.”

“So far we’ve no idea what has to do with our case,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “But that’s all by-the-by. From now on, I’m going to concentrate on learning what I can about the Christophers and the Rileys. At least they’ve got names and addresses.”

“And I’ll have a go at finding out anything I can about the Christophers,” Wiggins added. “Surely in a big house like theirs, someone will know something.”

“Perhaps I ought to try to learn what I can from the other passengers,” Hatchet said. “Perhaps one of them will know if Claypool cabled anyone from the ship. Perhaps that’s how Eric Riley learned his uncle was coming home?”

“I think I can do it,” he replied. “There’s an early train from Liverpool Street station. It should get me to Chelmsford by half past eight. If I can’t get to Richmond by the afternoon, I can do it the following day. That’ll be all right, won’t it?”

“It should work very well. But do let us know if you need someone else to go see the lady in Richmond.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled happily. This case was very confusing, but they weren’t, as she’d feared, losing heart. “And I’ll have another go at Finsbury Park. I was going to speak to the people who live next door to the vicarage today, but I wasn’t able to make contact with anyone. You’d think on a fine day someone would be outside, wouldn’t you? Perhaps my luck will be better tomorrow. There’s bound to be someone out and about. From what I heard from the St. Matthew’s gardener, family scandals for the Claypools and the Durants were common knowledge.”

Witherspoon was tired as a pup when he got home that evening. He was truly grateful that his housekeeper had a glass of sherry at the ready. “This is heavenly.” He took a sip and sank back into the overstuffed chair. “It’s been quite a day, and I’m exhausted.”

“We went to see Mr. and Mrs. Christopher again, and, well, I’m not certain, but it appears as if Mrs. Christopher’s twin sister, Edith Durant, might end up being our chief suspect.” He gave her all the details about their visit.

Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, occasionally nodding her head or asking a question. When he was finished, she said. “So this Miss Durant is the only suspect you have so far that you know owns a weapon.”

“Not to worry, sir, you can always nip back in and have a word with the housekeeper tomorrow,” she smiled reassuringly. She knew how easily he lost confidence in his own abilities.

He told her about the staff being given a surprise day out because of the painters, and then he told her about how the housekeeper was sure the Christophers were both lying. “You see, they’d said they’d be leaving themselves, but then when she nipped back to get her coat, she overheard Mrs. Christopher telling her husband they weren’t going to leave. That they were going to stay no matter how long it took. That was rather peculiar, don’t you think?”

“And then, of course, the woman went on to imply there was a bit of impropriety between Mr. Carl Christopher and his sister-in-law.” He repeated to Mrs. Jeffries exactly what the housekeeper had said. “And of course, I was a bit confused, because according to Mrs. Christopher, her sister wasn’t even allowed in the house. You can see how very confusing it all is.”

“Indeed I can, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t in the least confused, but then again, she had a much less innocent view of human nature than the inspector. She made a mental note to ask Betsy to find out what she could about a relationship between Carl Christopher and Edith Durant. “But I’m sure you’ll sort it out in the end. You always do. Is that it, sir or did you find out anything else?”

He drained the last of his sherry. “We were able to track down one of the tenants from Dorland Place.” He told her about his visit to Mrs. Mayberry and then rose to his feet. “Now, of course, we’ve only her suspicion that the cottage was used for illicit purposes, but what I do find most odd is her assertion that the management of the factory knew about the situation and approved of it.” He started for the door.

She trailed after him. “That should be an easy thing for you to confirm.” She and the others had already heard this gossip, she was glad that it had finally reached the inspector’s ears.

She realized he wasn’t quite getting what she was saying. “Of course, sir. All you have to do is find a few of the factory workers or office staff who were around ten years ago and ask them.”

“I think there’s a good possibility,” she replied. “If the neighbors knew what was going on and that the company was looking the other way while it went on, then I think there’s a good chance the staff knew about it as well.” She made a mental note to have Wiggins find out exactly who it was in the management who’d “looked the other way,” so to speak. It could only have been Horace, or perhaps Eric Riley.

They spotted Betsy coming down the hall carrying the inspector’s dinner tray. “Good evening, sir. I hope you’re hungry. Mrs. Goodge has outdone herself tonight.” She smiled brightly and went into the dining room.

“Not really, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She wondered just how much about Wiggins’s trip she ought to reveal. “But he felt it best to come home. The old gentleman wasn’t getting any worse, and he felt his presence was a bit disruptive for the household.”

Witherspoon nodded in understanding. “Do tell the lad that if he needs to go back, it’ll be quite all right. I suppose Fred will move back in with Wiggins for a while now.”

“Only since the lad’s been gone,” Witherspoon said quickly. “He came up that first night and scratched on my door. I didn’t have the heart to send him back downstairs.”

Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain the hound had slept on the inspector’s bed every night. “I’ll see to it, sir. Now, do you need anything from the kitchen?”

“I’ll be up with your dessert in a few minutes, sir,” she said as she withdrew. She hurried down the back stairs and into the warm kitchen. The others were all there. Betsy and Mrs. Goodge were tidying up, Wiggins, with Fred dodging his heels, was pushing the huge wicker laundry basket out into the back hall, and Smythe was at the far end of the table oiling a door hinge.

As soon as they were seated, she told them what the inspector had found out that day. “So you see,” she finished, “I think we’ll have to do a bit more tomorrow than we’d planned. Smythe, do you think you can find the painters that were at the Christopher house?”

“The Christophers probably used one of the local commercial firms,” he said. “I’m sure I can track it down. You want me to find out if Claypool was there that day.”

“Yes, and anything else that might be important.” She turned to Wiggins. “You can get over to the factory and try to find out who in management told the neighbors to mind their own business.”

“I can try and track down the gossip about Mr. Christopher and his sister-in-law,” Betsy said. “I should have plenty of time. Even if I can meet Lilly Staggers, what she has to say shouldn’t take too long.”

“I don’t believe I’ll be going to Finsbury Park after all,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I think it would be best if I had a word with someone at the St. John’s Hotel. I want find out just how often Edith Durant stays there and, more importantly, was she there on the day her uncle was murdered.” She looked at Wiggins. “Before you go to Bermondsey, can you stop by Luty’s? I think she’ll need to use her international resources to find out if Edith Durant really has rooms at the Metropole Hotel in Paris.”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t say, but something about the twins was nagging at the back of her mind. “I’m not sure. But I think as Edith Durant is the only suspect who supposedly owns a weapon, we ought to find out everything we can about her.”