Chapter 3
The landlady wasn’t at all what I’d expected.
Mrs. Frieda Jeffry’s age was difficult to gauge, but there were enough lines around her eyes and mouth for me to assume she was in her forties.
She sat with a straight back on the sofa, but the posture seemed natural, and not overly stiff.
She was beautiful, her dark hair threaded with silver, and clear blue eyes that only moved from Harry when I introduced myself.
She rose with the poised grace of a lady schooled by a strict deportment teacher and offered us tea.
“There’s no need to trouble yourself,” Harry assured her. “The sergeant is making it. We hoped we could ask you some questions, Mrs. Jeffry. You, too, Mr…?”
“Clive Symond,” the man next to Mrs. Jeffry said, shaking Harry’s hand.
“The other lodger. Only lodger now,” he added grimly.
Aged about thirty, Mr. Symond also held himself with an effortless composure as he sat beside his landlady.
I wouldn’t call him handsome—his moustache was too thick for my liking—but he had a certain quality about him.
Where Mrs. Jeffry couldn’t take her gaze off Harry, Mr. Symond couldn’t take his off me.
Although I didn’t welcome it, it wasn’t unsettling as the gazes of some men could be. It was admiring rather than lecherous.
“Miss Fox and I are private detectives,” Harry said, handing the landlady one of his agency’s cards. “We’re assisting the police with their investigation into the murder of Mr. Bradbury.”
“Why do the police require assistance?” Mr. Symond asked.
“They’d prefer not to admit we’re helping, so I’m not at liberty to say more.”
Mr. Symond studied the card Mrs. Jeffry handed to him.
Before he could ask Harry why we’d arrived at the crime scene so quickly, I addressed my first question to the landlady. “You discovered the body, is that right?”
She pressed a handkerchief to her throat. “I did. It was awful. So much blood…”
“When did you last see Mr. Bradbury alive?”
“This morning, at breakfast. I make Mr. Bradbury and Mr. Symond a hearty breakfast every day. Mr. Symond then went off to work. Mr. Bradbury would usually go to his desk in the sitting room, but this morning he needed to speak to his subject, Mr. Arkwright. That’s what Mr. Bradbury called him—his subject.
Mr. Bradbury is writing a book about the author’s life, specifically his association with the pirate, Blackheart.
Was writing it.” The hand at her throat briefly moved to cover her mouth before dropping to her lap to join the other hand clutching a damp handkerchief. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“And where is Mr. Arkwright?” Harry asked, all innocence.
“The Mayfair Hotel. He moved in recently and plans to spend the rest of his days there. He’s quite elderly.”
“When did Bradbury return here?”
“I don’t know. That’s the thing. He was supposed to be out.
After he and Mr. Symond left, I cleaned up the breakfast things then went out myself.
It’s Tuesday, you see. I always go to the market on Tuesday mornings, then meet a friend for a slice of cake at a tea shop.
When I got home, I had no idea Mr. Bradbury was even here.
He was supposed to be with Mr. Arkwright until one. ”
“What time did you get home?” I asked.
“About twelve-thirty. The killer arrived at twelve-forty-five”
I’d not asked for that information, but didn’t point that out. “That’s very specific.”
She stiffened. “One tends to make a note of the time when one sees a killer.”
“You don’t have any assistance around the house? A maid or cook?”
“A charwoman comes three times a week. Today isn’t one of her days.”
Mr. Symond urged her to continue. “Tell them about the tall man.”
Mrs. Jeffry picked up her cup of tea from the table beside her.
“The killer, you mean.” She sipped, eyeing us over the rim of the cup.
I got the feeling she was pausing for dramatic effect.
“He arrived not long after I got home, at a quarter to one, as I said. I was in the kitchen when I heard his knock. He asked to speak to Mr. Bradbury, and since I expected him to arrive soon, I told the visitor to go up and wait. I had to stir the gravy, so didn’t take him up myself.
I returned to the kitchen, stirred the gravy and put the kettle on the stove to make tea, then went upstairs to ask the visitor if he wanted a cup while he waited.
The door was open, and that’s when I saw Mr. Bradbury, covered in blood.
I knew he was dead. I was so frightened, I started to scream.
The tall fellow ran past me to get away.
I know I should have tried to stop him, but I was too scared and shocked. ”
Mr. Symond patted her shoulder. “If he was as big as you say, you couldn’t have stopped him.”
“You didn’t see him?” Harry asked the lodger.
Mr. Symond shook his head. “He was gone by the time I arrived. I was several houses away when I heard Mrs. Jeffry screaming at the top of her lungs. I came in and saw Bradbury at his desk…” He swallowed. “I fetched the police immediately.”
“Do you always come home from work in the middle of the day?”
“Why is that relevant?” Mr. Symond asked.
“Just trying to establish some facts.”
“Sometimes I do. Today I managed to finish my visits early. When that happens, I have permission from my employer to go home.”
“What is it that you do?”
“I’m an insurance broker at Wiley Brothers. When a client has a claim, I’ll often call on them in person to assess the damage, or what’s missing if it was theft, et cetera. Assessments can take minutes or hours, depending on the extent of the claim. I never know until I’m there.”
Harry turned to Mrs. Jeffry, whose demeanor subtly altered with the attention. Her eyes widened ever so slightly and her chest expanded. I wasn’t sure if her reaction was a conscious one or not. “Did you actually see the tall visitor murder Mr. Bradbury?” Harry asked her.
“No. But he was in there long enough. He must have done it.”
“He also ran off,” Mr. Symond chimed in. “An innocent person would have stayed to explain themselves, and assist Mrs. Jeffry who was clearly upset.”
“Unless she was calling him a murderer,” I added. “At the top of her lungs.”
Mrs. Jeffry bristled. “He did murder Mr. Bradbury. Who else would have done it? Also, he had that look about him. Narrow eyes and thin lips. He had a meanness about him that innocent people don’t have.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself snapping back.
I didn’t want to give away that we knew the man she was referring to.
Instead, I focused on a glaring inconsistency in their story.
“You say you didn’t see the man, Mr. Symond.
Yet you heard Mrs. Jeffry screaming as you approached the house.
Surely if you were close enough to hear her scream, you must have seen him run off. ”
“I think she’d been screaming for some time?” He answered with the inflection of a question, as he arched his brows at her.
“For several minutes,” Mrs. Jeffry said with a shrug. “My voice was quite hoarse afterward.”
“Was the tall man covered in blood?”
“I don’t recall,” she said.
“There was a lot of blood at the scene, so it must have been all over the killer, too.”
“I do recall now. Yes, I believe he did have blood on him.”
“He left no bloodied footprints on the floor.”
“Thank goodness. At least the cleanup is limited to the sitting room.” She must have realized how heartless she sounded, because her face suddenly clouded and she tapped the scrunched handkerchief in her fist to her chest. “It’s so awful. Poor Mr. Bradbury.”
“So you noticed all the blood at the scene?” Harry asked.
“It was difficult to avoid seeing it.”
“Did you go closer to the body to check that he was dead?”
“Oh, no. It was obvious that he was from the doorway. I couldn’t think of anything worse than touching him.
The very notion of it sends a shiver through me.
” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m afraid I found it all rather overwhelming, so I kept my distance.
” She flapped the handkerchief in front of her face.
“I feel a little faint now, as it happens.”
Harry got up and handed the teacup to her.
She smiled at him in thanks and drank the rest of her tea.
He sat back down just as D.S. Fanning entered, carrying a cup of tea for me.
I gave him a smile that mimicked Mrs. Jeffry’s. “Thank you, Sergeant. Could you please pour another for Mrs. Jeffry.”
“I have work to do, Miss Fox.”
“Please, Sergeant.”
Mrs. Jeffry held out her empty teacup and D.S. Fanning glared at it before taking the cup and leaving.
I set my cup down on the saucer, balanced on my knee. “Did you open the doors to the balcony?”
Mrs. Jeffry nodded. “Yes, for fresh air while waiting for the police.”
“And yet you were horrified by the dead body and just told us you kept your distance.”
“It’s a large room, Miss Fox. It’s easy to keep one’s distance and open the doors to the balcony, too.”
I didn’t necessarily agree, since the balcony doors were located beside the body at the desk. I didn’t point this out, however. “Did you open the French doors before or after Mr. Symond arrived?”
“I can’t recall precisely, but it must have been after.” She looked to her lodger for confirmation, but he merely shrugged. “Yes, after. Of course it was after he arrived. When he went to fetch the police.” She glanced at the door, as if willing D.S. Fanning to hurry up with her next cup of tea.
Harry took up the questioning again. “Did Mr. Bradbury have any other visitors lately?”
“Why is that relevant?” Mr. Symond asked again. “The killer was the tall fellow.”
“Perhaps he was working with someone.”
Mr. Symond seemed to accept the suggestion with a thoughtful nod. “I think he had a friend from his university days drop by. Do you remember, Mrs. Jeffry? Two days ago, it was.”