Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (12 page)

“Did you know he was in the theatre on Saturday evening?”

Again, Parks hesitated. “Well, I believe I heard someone mention they saw him out front.”

That was a lie, Witherspoon thought. They’d already been told by Trevor Remington that Parks had spotted Hinchley sitting in the audience. Drat. Why did people
persist in lying to the police? “And you were unhappy that he was here?”

“He was a critic. Inspector,” Parks drew himself up straighter. “I’m neither pleased nor displeased to know they’re in the audience. It’s simply a fact of life that one has to put up with.”

“What time did you leave the theatre?” Witherspoon asked. He remembered his discussion with his housekeeper.

“Right after the performance,” Parks replied. “I was in a hurry to get home. I wanted to make some notes on some changes I’m doing for the first act.”

“Did anyone see you?” Barnes asked.

“When I got home?” Parks lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “My housekeeper might have heard me come in. It was after eleven-thirty so I didn’t see her, of course. But I noticed the light on under her door when I went upstairs.”

Witherspoon asked, “How did you get home?”

“I walked, Inspector,” Parks said impatiently. “I live on Pope Street. It took ten minutes to get home.”

“Did anyone see you walking home?” Barnes prodded.

Parks shook his head. “Not that I remember. It was quite late at night. The streets were fairly empty. I went home, let myself in, wrote up my notes and went to bed.”

“Where are they, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Where are what?” Parks asked irritably.

“The notes, sir? I’d like to see them.”

Parks’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you can’t. I put them down backstage and now I can’t find them. I don’t know what you’re implying. But if I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time questioning innocent people. I didn’t like Ogden Hinchley but I certainly didn’t kill him. Ridiculous. There wouldn’t be a critic left in all of England if they were
murdered because they’d given a bad reviews. If I were you, I’d start talking to people who had personal reasons for hating Hinchley.”

“Who would they be, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“A number of people, sir.” Parks’s smile was slow and sly. “To begin with, you might ask Edmund Delaney what he did after the performance. He hated Hinchley and his reasons were personal.”

“I’ve a dreadful headache, Mrs. Jeffries.” The inspector rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely dreadful. I say, is there time before dinner for us to have a glass of sherry?”

“But of course, sir,” she replied as she got up and went to the sideboard. “With all this heat, it’s only a light supper. Mrs. Goodge will send it up whenever we’re ready. I believe a glass of Harvey’s will relax you. Perhaps help your headache.” She poured two small glasses of the amber liquid and, smiling sympathetically at her dear employer, handed one to him. “Oh, really, sir. It’s quite awful how you exhaust yourself on these cases.”

“One must do one’s duty.” He took a sip and sighed softly. “Today was quite trying. Theatre people are so…so…”

“Melodramatic,” she finished for him. “That’s what you called them this morning, sir.”

“And I was right too. Not only are they a melodramatic
lot, but they’re rather cavalier about the most important matters.”

“Really, sir?” She took a sip from her own glass and waited for him to continue. As Luty would say, he’d come home with a bee in his bonnet, and she’d decided it would be best to let him unburden himself at his own pace. “In what way?”

“Humphhh.” He snorted delicately. “They’re not very good at keeping appointments, I can tell you that. Do you know that neither Swinton nor Delaney were at the theatre today? They knew perfectly well we were coming back to talk with them and neither of them could be bothered to show up. I say, Mrs. Jeffries, that’s not good. Not good at all.”

“So you didn’t learn much today, sir?” she queried.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, tossing back another mouthful. “Actually, we had quite an interesting interview with Albert Parks. He claims he only knew Hinchley in a professional capacity. Of course, that’s what all of them say.”

“Do you believe him, sir?”

“I’m not sure.” Witherspoon thought about it for a moment. “I think so, but then again, it’s difficult to say.”

“Why is that, sir?”

“Well, I’m fairly certain he told us one lie today,” he replied. He told her about Parks’s claim that he thought he heard someone mention Hinchley’s presence in the audience. “But we know that Parks had actually seen the man out front. So I’m wondering why he’d bother to lie over a trifle like that? I mean, if he was going to lie, why not tell us that he didn’t know Hinchley was in the theatre at all?” It was most puzzling for the inspector. He hoped his housekeeper might have an idea about it.

“Does he have an alibi, sir?” she asked.

Disappointed, Witherspoon sighed and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Not exactly. He claims to have gone home right after the performance to make some notes on changes he wanted in the first act. But when Constable Barnes asked to see them, he said he couldn’t find them. I find that odd too, but not as odd as that silly lie.” Really, didn’t Mrs. Jeffries have any thoughts on the matter?

“I see,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

The inspector stared at her. “Don’t you find Parks’s behaviour odd?” he finally asked.

“I do, sir,” she said calmly and then went back to sipping her sherry.

“Well, don’t you have any thoughts on the matter?” he asked.

Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. “It seems to me, sir, that he wasn’t really lying. He never said he didn’t know that Hinchley was out front; he merely didn’t mention that he’d seen the man. It could well be that in his own mind, there was no need for him to tell you the circumstances of how he came by the information.” She could tell this point niggled the inspector, but she honestly didn’t see how it could matter. “Did you see Miss Vaughan today?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. “I think sending my regrets to her invitation might have offended her. She sent a note along to the theatre today saying she was indisposed.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not going to question her again, does it?”

“Oh, no.” He laughed. “Of course not. I’m a policeman, Mrs. Jeffries. I must question her again. However, I do believe that it can wait until tomorrow. I know that she left the theatre right after the play ended on Saturday evening.”

He went on to tell her everything. Mrs. Jeffries listened calmly, asking questions where appropriate, clucking her tongue sympathetically and generally learning every little detail of his day. One never knew what might or might not be important.

An hour later, with dinner over and the inspector firmly ensconced in his room writing a letter to Lady Cannonberry, Mrs. Jeffries hurried down the kitchen steps.

Luty Belle and Hatchet had just arrived, Mrs. Goodge was putting the teapot on the table and Fred was jumping about, wagging his tail and generally making a nuisance of himself.

“Good, we’re all ’ere, then,” Smythe said. He was already seated at the table.

“Give us a minute,” Betsy said as she shoved the last of the dinner plates into the cupboard. “Some of us have work to finish.”

Luty, frowning thoughtfully as she watched Betsy and Mrs. Goodge bustling about the kitchen tidying up, said, “maybe I ought to send Effie over to help out when we’re on a case.”

“There’s no need for that,” Wiggins said quickly. The thought of Effie, one of Luty’s homelier maids, hanging about Upper Edmonton Gardens, sent cold chills down the footman’s spine. Effie was a maid whom Luty had taken in because the girl had lost her position when they were investigating an earlier case. She was sweet on the footman. Wiggins hated to hurt Effie’s feelings and he was afraid that if she were here, dogging his footsteps and watching him like a lovesick calf, he just might have a slip of the tongue.

“We’d never get away with it,” Betsy agreed breathlessly as she dropped into the chair next to Smythe. “The
inspector would notice if there was a new maid about the place. But it’s right nice of you to offer.” She smiled at Luty.

“You look right ragged, girl.” Luty shook her head as she took in the maid’s disheveled appearance. Stray locks of hair had slipped out of Betsy’s topknot, her apron was wrinkled and there was a tight, worried set to the girl’s face.

“I’m just a bit rushed today,” Betsy explained quickly. She could feel Smythe boring a hole in the side of her head with his steely stare. The man was overprotective enough as it was; she didn’t want him nagging at her to take things easy. “I was late getting back, that’s all.”

“But Luty does have a point,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. “The rest of us can put many of our tasks to one side when we’re on a case, especially in the summer months. But you and Mrs. Goodge can’t. It doesn’t seem right.”

“We ’aven’t been ’elpin’ enough,” Smythe said softly. “You’ll run yourself sick if you’re not careful. From now on, I’ll nip in early and ’elp Mrs. Goodge with the supper things.”

“You will not,” Betsy exclaimed. “How would we explain you washing up or setting the table if the inspector came down to get Fred for a walk?”

“But Mrs. Jeffries is right,” Smythe protested. “I can put off a lot of my duties and so can Wiggins.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wiggins interrupted. “I’ve still got to see to things about the place.”

“Why don’t we discuss this at another time?” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “It’s getting late. We’ve a lot to cover tonight. Who would like to go first?”

“I believe you ought to speak,” Hatchet said. “It is
vitally important that we know what the inspector has learned.”

Mrs. Jeffries sighed silently as she scanned the faces at the table. They were still skittish and afraid that the inspector was going to solve this case before they could. “As you wish.” She spent the next fifteen minutes telling them what she’d gotten out of Witherspoon. They all listened carefully. Even Wiggins paid attention. “That’s it, then. He’s going to try to talk to the rest of them tomorrow. Who’d like to go next?”

“I ’ad a bit of luck today,” Wiggins volunteered. “I managed to meet Theodora Vaughan’s maid. I was actually right clever, got ’er to come out with me and ’ave tea. Her name’s Rose, and a right nice girl she is too.”

“Get on with it, Wiggins,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “You can sing this girl’s praises some other time. But right now, tell us what you learned.”

Wiggins, annoyed that he wasn’t going to have the chance to brag about his cleverness, frowned but did as he was told. He started at the beginning, and, as Mrs. Jeffries had taught him, mentioned every single detail of the meeting.

“But I really struck gold when we was ’avin’ tea,” he said. “That’s when I found out about Miss Vaughan and Mr. Remington. They’re not divorced.”

“Divorced?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “You mean they’re married?”

“Didn’t I just say they was?” Wiggins replied and frowned thoughtfully. “Sorry, I meant to. They’ve been married for years. They was supposed to have gotten a divorce a couple of years back when they was tourin’ in America. But they didn’t. There was some kind of a legal cock-up and they’re still married. But everyone in London
thinks they got the divorce, ya see. For the past year, Miss Vaughan’s had her solicitor tryin’ to sort it out, but he can’t. But that’s not the important bit. The reason Miss Vaughan’s been tryin’ to get it all sorted out is because she’s in love with Mr. Delaney. They’ve been together for almost a year. She wants to marry ’im, but she can’t ’cause she’s still married to Mr. Remington. Rose told me that Miss Vaughan is desperate to make sure no one finds out she ain’t divorced from Mr. Remington.”

“Because she’s living in sin with Mr. Delaney?” Mrs. Goodge asked, her face set in disapproval.

“She’s not livin’ with ’im,” Wiggins replied. “But he’s round at ’er ’ouse all the time.”

“What else did Rose tell you?” Betsy asked.

“She didn’t say much more than that,” he admitted. “She sort of dried up. I don’t think she meant to tell me as much as she did.”

“That’s very interesting, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. “Did you manage to find out if Rose could vouch for Miss Vaughan’s alibi?”

He shook his head. “All Rose said when I brought it up was that she’d slept like the dead on Saturday night.”

“That’s too bad.” Luty drummed her fingers on the table. “Seems to me if we can’t find out what everyone was up to that night, we’ll never solve this case.”

“We’ll solve it,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. She glanced at Mrs Goodge. “Were any of your sources helpful today?”

Mrs. Goodge made a face. “Not really. The best I could do was a bit of information on Albert Parks and it weren’t much. Seems he got run off from a theatre in Manchester because there was some that thought he had sticky fingers. The receipts kept disappearing when he was in charge. But it was a long time ago, and from what I could learn,
that bit of indiscretion doesn’t have anything to do with Hinchley’s murder.”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t so certain. But she wasn’t sure she ought to ask the cook to investigate it further. She debated the matter to herself. The whole lot of them were already second-guessing their every move. It wouldn’t do to imply they weren’t doing the best they could. But on the other hand, on many of their other cases, things from the suspects’ past had been very important.