Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind (2 page)

Olive Kettering looked over her shoulder as she hurried toward the staircase. She didn’t see anyone in the long, gloomy hallway, but that didn’t mean no one was there. It was broad daylight, almost nine o’clock in the morning, and she should have been safe, but she knew she wasn’t. They’d been waiting for this, for her to be alone in the house. From behind her, she heard a heavy banging noise, like someone thumping along the upper corridor. She’d been a fool to let all the servants take the day off; that’s what came of being a good Christian soul—her own generosity would be her undoing. She ought to have made at least one of them stay here today; all of them hadn’t needed to go to Cook’s funeral. It wasn’t as if most of them had even liked the woman.

Rain slashed at the panes of the tall window at the end of the corridor, masking any telltale sounds of her pursuers, but she knew they were gaining on her. She could feel them. Just as she reached the top of the stairs, she heard a door open behind her.

Olive knew she had to get out of the house. She hitched up her brown wool skirt, grabbed the banister, and charged down the stairs toward the first-floor landing.

From behind her, she could hear footsteps pounding over the thick hall rug as they came after her. They weren’t even trying to be discreet now. There was no need; she was all alone. She picked up her pace, her hands skimming along the smooth wood as she rushed down the staircase, flew across the landing, and continued on toward the foyer. Oh, God, if she could just get outside, just get to the street, maybe she could find someone to help her.

When she reached the bottom, she didn’t waste time looking around to see if they were close. She simply ran toward the huge double front door. She skidded on the black and white tiles, found her footing, and flung herself forward.

The footsteps were on the stairs now, thumping down them like a horde of devils uncaring of how much noise they made. Her hands reached for the brass doorknob and, for a split second, she couldn’t remember which way to turn the wretched thing—the housekeeper always opened the door—but, finally, she gave it a mighty twist and the lock clicked. She pulled it open and rushed outside.

Overhead, the portico protected her from an immediate soaking, but the wind had blown water onto the gray marble slabs of the terrace floor. Her only hope was to get to the street. Even in a storm, there would be people. There were always plenty of people in this part of London.

Olive turned her head sharply as she heard a thud coming from behind her. The door was half opened, but she couldn’t see anything. But she knew they were coming. Choking back a scream, she started across the terrace toward the steps and safety. Her foot slipped on a patch of water, and she almost went down, but she managed to right herself and keep on going. Behind her, the front door creaked open and this time she didn’t bother to look over her shoulder; she knew they were there. A gust of wind blew a newspaper across her face just as she reached the top step; she screamed and lost her footing. Rather than risk falling backward into the arms of the hell that was chasing her, she twisted her body to her left, causing her to crash into a thorny bush. Thunder crashed overhead as she flailed her arms to regain her feet. Unable to see because of the newspaper across her face, she tossed her head from side to side trying to dislodge it, but the rain held it firmly against her skin. Sobbing, she finally managed to scrape it away just as lightning flashed, blinding her because she was staring straight up into it. Terrified, she heaved herself up and, in her panic, turned toward the side of the house rather than the street.

Tears mingled with the pouring rain and streamed down her cheeks as she ran around the corner. She tried to say the Twenty-third Psalm but found that it took all her concentration to keep going.

Trees and shrubs dominated the garden on the side of the house. Olive dodged around a yew tree and had just turned and started back toward the street when she heard them closing the distance. “Help me, Lord,” she muttered, “help me.” She found the strength to go on and raced around the corner to the back. A sob escaped her as the carriage house came into view. Thank God, Bernadine was home. She skidded on the mud but kept her feet and then stumbled over the protruding root of a huge old oak and went down hard. She pulled herself up on her hands and knees.

Olive raised her head and sobbed in relief as a figure stepped out and into view. Thank God, she thought, thank God. Relieved that she was going to be rescued, she tried to give a warning. “They’re behind me.” She lifted her hand to be helped up as the person approached. “We’ve got to get—”

“There’s no one behind you, you stupid woman,” a harsh voice said.

Olive’s mouth opened in shock and her eyes widened as she saw the gun pointed directly at her head. Directly above her was a flash of lightning, but when the thunder crashed a few seconds later, Olive didn’t hear it. She was already dead.

 

“I must say, holding my tongue was becoming more and more difficult,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the others gathered around the kitchen table. Hepzibah Jeffries, the housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Force, was a woman of late middle age. Her auburn hair was threaded with gray, there were freckles sprinkled over her nose, and her mouth was generally set in a cheerful smile, but she wasn’t smiling today. She looked positively grim as she recounted her latest encounter with the new vicar of St. John’s Church.

“There’s no law that says we ’ave to go to church,” Wiggins, the footman, exclaimed. He was a handsome young man with brown hair and round, apple cheeks.

“In my last household, they made all the servants go to church every Sunday, whether we wanted to or not,” Phyllis muttered. “But I suppose in my case it wouldn’t matter, as I don’t live in like the rest of you do.” Phyllis Thomlinson was a plump girl of nineteen with dark blonde hair, brown eyes, porcelain skin, and a face as round as a pie tin. She’d worked in the household since Christmas and she was still a bit shy about saying too much in front of the others.

“It doesn’t matter whether you live in or not, no one here is forced to go to church. That’s not the custom in this household,” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, declared. She was elderly and white haired, but her mind and her opinions were both still sharp. “The inspector believes in letting people make up their own minds about such things. A person’s religion is their own business and employers should have no say in the matter. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Jeffries?”

Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. When this household had first come together, the cook would have been the first to say that a servant should be made to go to church and that the master of the household always knew best. But, like the rest of them, Mrs. Goodge’s attitudes about society had changed greatly in the past few years. Having worked for some of the richest and most aristocratic families in all of England, Mrs. Goodge had appeared to be a hidebound old snob when she’d come to work for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. Yet the first chink in her armor had already been made before she’d even walked in the door. Her previous employers had sacked her without so much as a by-your-leave just because she’d gotten old. When Mrs. Jeffries had first interviewed her, Mrs. Goodge had mouthed a number of platitudes about what was right and proper in the world, but the housekeeper had seen that despite her stuffy manner, behind her wire-rimmed spectacles her eyes had been haunted with fear. She was old and she’d no place to go. She’d learned firsthand how cruel life could be when one was at the mercy of the whims of the rich. In the years that had passed, their investigations into Inspector Witherspoon’s murders had completed the task of changing the cook’s attitudes. “Yes, that’s precisely what I told Reverend Cheney,” she replied.

“I thought you said you held your tongue,” Betsy, the pretty blonde maid, said as she reached for the teapot.

“I did. I wanted to say far more than I actually said.” The housekeeper laughed. “Believe me, the urge to speak my mind was very strong, but I was very polite—when what I wanted to tell him was to mind his own business.”

Everyone laughed.

“Reverend Cheney isn’t at all like the other one, is ’e?” Wiggins commented. “Reverend Glassell didn’t give a toss if we went to church or not. I liked ’im.”

“I liked him, too.” Betsy glanced at her husband, Smythe. “And I’m glad it was him and not Reverend Cheney that married us. Did Miss Euphemia Witherspoon ever make you lot go to church?”

Smythe was the coachman. He and Betsy were newlyweds, having only just tied the knot at Christmas. He grinned broadly. “You’ve got to be joking. I don’t recall her ever setting foot in a church. As long as we did our work, she left us alone.”

Smythe’s history with the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens was the longest of all of them. Years earlier, he’d come to the Witherspoon house as a young coachman for the inspector’s aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. She’d paid a good wage and treated her servants decently. He’d worked hard and saved his money until he had enough for passage to Australia. He wanted to seek his fortune and he’d gotten lucky. He’d made a fortune mining opals in the outback, used that as seed money for other investments, and, years later, come back to England a very wealthy man. He’d only stopped in to pay his respects to his old employer. But Euphemia Witherspoon was sick, lying in squalor, and dying. The only one of her servants trying to take care of her had been a very young Wiggins, who kept vigil by her bedside and did the best he could.

Smythe had immediately taken charge. He’d sent the lad for a doctor, fired the lazy servants, and set about putting the house in order so the poor woman could have a bit of comfort.

But though she hung on for a number of weeks, even the best medical care couldn’t save her. Before she died, Euphemia made Smythe swear he’d stay on in the household for a few weeks to see her only relative, her nephew, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, safely settled in the house. The inspector had been raised in very modest circumstances, and now that she was leaving him a huge house as well as a fortune, she didn’t want anyone taking advantage of him as they’d taken advantage of her. Smythe had agreed.

That was when his life had really gotten complicated. Inspector Witherspoon had moved into the house, Mrs. Jeffries had come along to be the housekeeper, she’d hired Mrs. Goodge as the cook, and then his beloved Betsy had collapsed on their doorstep. They had nursed her back to health and she stayed on as the maid. Just when he’d decided the new staff wasn’t the sort to take advantage of anyone, Mrs. Jeffries had encouraged the inspector to try his hand at solving those horrible Kensington High Street murders and sent the rest of them out to snoop about for clues. Not that they had any idea what they were doing, at least not at first, but they’d soon figured it out and each and every one of them had found investigating murder to their liking. So, without telling any of them how rich he was, Smythe had stayed on for a bit more, just to see how the case turned out. But then Inspector Witherspoon had “solved” the case, gotten transferred from the Records Room at Scotland Yard to the Ladbroke Road Police Station, and, almost immediately, had another case to work on.

By then it was too late. Smythe was involved, half in love with Betsy, and despite the fifteen-year age difference between them she’d let him know she had feelings for him. So he’d stayed and now he thanked his lucky stars he’d made the right choice. He and Betsy were happily married, the household had helped solved dozens of murders, and they’d become a “family.” Naturally, he’d told Betsy about his wealth before they wed. He didn’t believe in keeping secrets from his wife. Mrs. Jeffries had sussed out that he had plenty as well, but he felt a bit guilty that he’d never found the best moment to tell Mrs. Goodge and Wiggins. The time never seemed right and now it was a bit awkward.

“She once sent me over to St. John’s with some money for the poor box,” Wiggins added. “But she didn’t say I had to stay for the service, so I didn’t.”

Phyllis got to her feet and gave them all a sunny smile. “Church or not, this is the best place I’ve ever worked. When I worked for the Lowery household we only got a half day off once a week and then only after we’d cleared up the lunch table and done the washing up. Here, I’ve got the whole day to myself. I suppose I’d best go; I only stopped by to get my umbrella and I’ve spent an hour with you having tea.” She giggled. “I’d never have done that at my old place. But you’re all so nice.”

Mrs. Jeffries stifled a surge of guilt. Phyllis hadn’t been with them very long. She’d been hired a few weeks before Christmas and didn’t take part in their investigations. But the position was only supposed to be temporary, the housekeeper told herself, and they had kept Phyllis on well past Betsy and Smythe’s wedding. She’d not had the heart to let the girl go, she’d needed the position so badly. “You work very hard and you deserve your day out.”

Phyllis’ smile faltered. “But, please excuse me, I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but the rest of you don’t seem to have as much time off as I do. I love working here—I don’t want to lose my position because you think I’m lazy . . .”

“We have plenty of time off,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. “You just don’t notice because . . . because . . .”

“Because you’re always so busy,” Mrs. Jeffries finished. “Now, don’t worry yourself about your position. Go along now or you’ll miss your train. I’m sure your family can’t wait to see you. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Phyllis laughed, grabbed her overcoat from the coat tree and her umbrella from the stand, and disappeared down the back hall.

“What on earth are we going to do?” The cook shook her head. “We’ve been lucky so far; the inspector hasn’t had a homicide case since Christmas.”

“We managed during that one,” Wiggins pointed out. “But I know what you mean, it’s hard always watchin’ what we say. I’m afraid I’m goin’ to slip up and mention one of our cases. I like Phyllis. She’s a right nice girl and she’s so grateful to ’ave a job.”