Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize by Emily Brightwell Page B

herbs.”
    â€œHow do you know this?” Ruth asked curiously.
    Hatchet smiled. “In my younger days I spent a lot of time in the Far East. I still keep in contact with a number of friends who are still out there. One of my friends is a plant collector who specializes in orchids. He’s currently in Borneo, but a few years back he was in India working for a consortium of English aristocrats, all of whom wanted orchids and other exotic blooms for their gardens. He and I correspond regularly and he’s mentioned Filmore’s name on more than one occasion. Plant collectors or orchid hunters as some call them are a hard and tough breed, but even amongst them, Filmore had a bad reputation. What’s more, most collectors are like my friend—they work for either a rich individual or a collective of some kind.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” Phyllis asked.
    â€œBecause it’s expensive, and collectors need to have enough money to hire guides, buy supplies, and in many instances, employ guards to get them in and out of some very unsafe places. Even after they’ve found a reasonablenumber of specimens, they have to get them safely back to England, and according to my friend, they’re lucky if they get back with even half of what they’ve collected. But Filmore didn’t work for anyone. Which means he had enough money to finance his own expeditions.”
    â€œSo that means he’d not have to share the profit with anyone else,” Luty muttered.
    â€œCan you find out more?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
    â€œI’ll send off a telegram to Sebastian today,” Hatchet said. “But it may take some time to get a reply. In his last letter, he said he was going into the jungle on an expedition.”
    â€œIt can’t hurt to try. Now, if no one has anything else, I’ll pass along what we’ve learned since yesterday.” For the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Jeffries gave them a complete report on what they’d learned. Mrs. Goodge added her comments as well. When she’d finished, she sat back and looked at the faces around the table. “Are there any questions?”
    â€œSeems like a lot of keys are missin’,” Wiggins mused. “The ones to the conservatory and the ones to the victim’s flat and shop. Maybe the killer took ’em.”
    â€œThat’s possible,” Phyllis said. “But the keys to the conservatory have been missing for days and—”
    Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “No speculating, you both know what happens when we start down that road.”
    â€œIt’s not speculatin’, it was just a thought,” Wiggins protested. “But I know what you mean. Right then, I’ll have a go at the Rayburn house and see if I can find a housemaid or a footman to chat with. If that doesn’t work, I’ll see if I can chat with one of the neighbors.”
    Amanda gave a tiny burp and then a huge yawn. “Let me put her down for a little nap before I go out.” Betsy pushed back her chair, came around the table, and scooped the child into her arms. She disappeared in the direction of Mrs. Goodge’s quarters, where a baby cot had been set up on the day the child was born.
    â€œGuess you’ll be wantin’ me to have a chat with the local cab drivers,” Smythe offered.
    Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She knew that before Smythe bothered with the hansom drivers, he’d go to the Dirty Duck and have a word with his best source, Blimpey Groggins, a professional seller of information.
    â€œAfter I send off my telegram, I’ve a few other sources I can speak with regarding the late Mr. Hiram Filmore,” Hatchet said.
    â€œI’m goin’ to Hammersmith,” Luty interjected. “There’s bound to be people there who know plenty about the dead man.”
    â€œMadam, there’s no need for you to go there,” Hatchet insisted. “I was going there this