02 - Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues (3 page)

“She must have had money,” Barnes said. “Look, that broach on her dress looks like silver.”

Witherspoon hadn’t even noticed the jewelry. He glanced at the horseshoe-shaped silver pin, saw that it was so encrusted with dirt and mud that it was impossible to identify the small stones set along the top of the curve, and then looked away. “Not necessarily, Constable. Someone may have given it to her. For all we know, the poor woman may have been as poor as a church mouse. It’s a bit too early to start making assumptions.”

Barnes knelt down and pointed at the feet. “You’re probably right, sir,” he said. “But them shoes look like good quality.” He leaned to one side, stared at the corpse’s foot and then reached over and began brushing the dirt away from the sole. “Inspector, these shoes are new.”

“Really?” Witherspoon answered curiously. “How can you tell?”

The constable continued his assault on the shoes. “Because this dirt here is from being buried, but when you brush it away, these soles look like new. See, look ’ere, there isn’t even a scuff mark.”

“Yes,” Witherspoon replied weakly, after one fast look at the shoes, “I see what you mean. Good observation, Constable.” Actually, he didn’t have any idea whether it was a good observation or not, but he felt he must say something.

“Cor, she’s got right big feet for someone her size, doesn’t she?”

“Someone her size,” Witherspoon mumbled. Oh dear, if he didn’t get out of this pit, he really would faint.

“Sure, she’s a little thing. Doesn’t look more than a bit over five foot.”

Abruptly, Witherspoon stood up and headed for the ladder. “See to the body, Constable,” he called as he climbed out into the blessed fresh air. “I’m going to talk to the man who found her.”

Witherspoon took a few moments to catch his breath before advancing on the three workmen who stood a few feet away, their shovels and picks sticking straight up out of the soft ground.

“Which of you gentlemen found the er…body?” he asked.

“It were me,” the largest of the three said. He took off his cap and stepped forward. “I be the leadman. Jack Cawley.”

“Er…yes. Could you tell me precisely how you happened upon the er…deceased.”

“Well, I were diggin’, weren’t I. Mind you, I wouldn’t have been diggin’ if them fools hadn’t flooded out that trench over on Ormond Street. We’d a never been here if them stupid engineers knew what they was doing.” Cawley snorted in disgust.

“Inspector,” Barnes called excitedly as he came out of the pit. “I found this around her neck. It’s a necklace of some kind.” He held the dirt-encrusted object out to the inspector. “And it’s got a ring on it. Maybe she was married after all.”

Wrinkling his nose, Witherspoon took the necklace and examined the ring. “A married woman wouldn’t wear her wedding ring around her neck,” he said. He flaked a bit more dirt off the ring and held it up to the light. “I don’t think this is a wedding ring.”

Through the layers of grime, he could see the dull yellow glint of gold. Scraping more dirt off, he saw three dark blue stones set between filigreed patterns on the metal. The ring was valuable. He suspected the stones might be sapphires. Drat, whoever had murdered the girl hadn’t robbed her. Witherspoon
sighed deeply. A dead girl and an expensive ring ususally meant trouble. Complications. A nasty case. Perhaps even a crime of passion.

“Could it be a betrothal ring?” Barnes asked.

“A what?”

“A betrothal ring. Engaged couples wear ’em. Though I don’t know why. Seems to me a good plain weddin’ band should be enough for most folks. But that don’t seem to be good enough for young people these days,” the constable said as he shook his head.

“Yes, I suppose it could be.” Witherspoon turned back to the workman he’d been talking with. “Now, as you were saying.”

“I were saying if it hadn’t been for them fool engineers, we’d never have found ’er.”

“I’m sorry,” Witherspoon said. “I don’t really follow you. What do the engineers have to do with your finding the body?”

Cawley’s bushy eyebrows rose. “It’s got everythin’ to do with it. We’d wouldn’t have been diggin’ up Magpie Lane if they hadn’t flooded the other trench.” He pointed toward the body. “We wouldn’t have been here fer another six months if they hadn’t flooded out Ormond Street. With all the damp and the vermin down where she’s been layin’, she’d’ve been dust by the time we’d got here—if we’d stuck to our schedule. Probably wouldn’t have even been the shoes left.”

“Exactly what are you digging?” Witherspoon asked. He wasn’t sure that was a particularly pertinent question, but he felt he should ask.

“A new Underground line. The Underground were supposed to be under Ormond Street and a new road here on Magpie Lane. But them fools made a mistake ’cause Ormond Street sits on a bleedin’ buried stream.” Cawley shook his head. “So at the last minute, they change their bloomin’ minds and send us over here to start hacking up Magpie Lane. This here’s the first trench—this time, they decided they wanted to make sure there weren’t no water before they brought in the heavy diggers.”

“I see.” Witherspoon nodded. “And you’re the one that
actually found the er…remains?”

Cawley grunted. “Not very pretty either. ’Ere I was, diggin’ away and me shovel all of a sudden hits her foot. Well, I weren’t sure what it was when I first hit it, so me and the blokes just kept on going diggin’. You can see what we found. As soon as we realized it were a body, we sent for the coppers.”

“Inspector,” Barnes called again. “How deep should I have the lads dig? Whoever killed her may have buried the weapon under the body.”

Witherspoon had no idea. He took a wild guess. “Oh, have them go down another foot or so. And be sure to do a house-to-house as soon as you’re finished searching the trench.”

“House-to-house?” Barnes asked in confusion.

Witherspoon remembered there weren’t any houses. “I meant, a house-to-house up on the main road.”

“And what will they be asking, sir?”

“On second thought, Constable, I think we’d better delay that part of the investigation until after we’ve identified the victim.” He hurriedly turned back to Cawley. “You don’t, by any chance, happen to know when the houses on this street were demolished, do you?”

“’Fraid not,” the workman replied. “I don’t live around these parts. But Fred might know. He lives ’round ’ere.” Turning, he called to one of the two workmen standing a few yards away. “Get over here, Fred. The copper wants to ask you some questions.”

The small, wiry man didn’t look pleased, but he pushed away from the shovel he was leaning on and walked toward the inspector.

“What is your name?” the inspector asked.

“Fred Tompkins.”

“And I understand you live nearby. Could you please tell me when these houses were torn down?”

“About a month ago,” he replied sullenly. “Everyone who lived here was evicted, thrown out on the streets just so they could tear down some perfectly good ’omes. It were a crime,
that’s what it was. A crime. Throwing people out of their ’omes just so some toff could tear ’em down and sell the land to build a bloody road.”

Witherspoon watched the man sympathetically. “I take it the locals weren’t too pleased,” he said softly.

“We hated it. Me own sister lost her ’ome.” He turned and pointed toward the one remaining house. “She used to live right next to that one. Nice little place it was. Good solid redbrick, plenty of space in the back for her vegetable plot, and she gets tossed out, without so much as a by-your-leave. They only give her a few days to pack up her belongings. She had to move to a grotty set of rooms in Lambeth. And her with three kids and a sick ’usband.”

“I’m sorry,” Witherspoon said sincerely. “So the residents were suddenly told they had to leave. Do you happen to know who owns these properties?”

Tompkins’s lips curled in disgust. “Weren’t no owners, leastways, not like real landlords. This whole street was owned by a property company, so there weren’t even someone to complain to.” He kicked at a loose stone and sent it flying. “Hard-hearted bastards.”

“Do you know the name of the company?” Witherspoon wished the police surgeon would get there. The smell of the corpse was getting stronger.

“No. But I can ask my sister. She got a letter from ’em and the name were written right at the top.”

“Thank you. That would be most helpful.” He pulled out his notebook and took down the man’s address. “I’ll send a constable around tomorrow for the information.”

There was a tap on Witherspoon’s shoulder. Startled, he whirled around and found himself staring into the familiar face of Inspector Nigel Nivens.

“Goodness, Inspector Nivens, you gave me such a shock. What are you doing down here?”

Nigel Nivens was a sharp-nosed, pale-faced man with cool gray eyes, slicked back dark blond hair and a thin mouth. He gave Witherspoon a weak smile. “I thought I’d come down
and see if you needed any assistance. I understand you’ve been given another murder.”

“I’d hardly put it in those terms, Inspector,” Witherspoon said lightly, “I really don’t feel like I’ve been given anything.” Then he silently chided himself. Inspector Nivens’s turn of phrase was no doubt unintentional. Perhaps he was even being sympathetic. But dear, he did make it sound so odd. Witherspoon knew he was being given another wretched murder to solve, not a nice present for Christmas.

Inspector Nivens looked toward the open trench. “Is it in there?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s a woman.”

“Definitely murdered?”

“Yes. She’s been stabbed.” Witherspoon sighed. “It’s jolly kind of you to offer your assistance, but I’m afraid I can’t allow you to help. You know how the Chief Inspector feels, one senior officer to a case. Gracious, if two inspectors are tied up on one case, he’d be most annoyed.”

“Humph, I suppose you’re right.” Nivens looked longingly toward the trench. “But it doesn’t really seem fair. After all, this is your second murder in a row. I should think, Witherspoon, that it would be only sporting to give someone else a chance.” He mumbled something under his breath. Inspector Witherspoon couldn’t quite make out what he said, but he did hear the word “competent.”

“It really isn’t my decision, now, is it?” Witherspoon said soothingly. “Perhaps if you had a word with the Chief Inspector…”

“Wouldn’t do any good. For some reason, he thinks you’re a genius when it comes to murder.” Nivens smiled coolly. “It’ll be interesting to see how you do with this one. Perhaps it won’t be as simple as the Slocum murder.”

Witherspoon was slightly offended. Finding the murderer of Dr. Bartholomew Slocum had been anything but simple. And he didn’t really understand what Inspector Nivens was complaining about. The fellow always got good, clean burglaries. Lucky man.

Mrs. Jeffries was waiting in the hallway when Inspector Witherspoon arrived home. “Good evening, sir,” she said cheerfully as she took his bowler hat and coat. “Have you had a good day?”

She knew he hadn’t had a particularly good day. One look at his long face had told her that much. But she wasn’t deterred, certain a cozy chat and a nice glass of sherry would no doubt fix him right up.

“Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon replied. “As a matter of fact, it’s been a very dreadful sort of day.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry to hear that.” She turned toward the drawing room. “But not to worry, you’ll feel much better after you’ve had a chance to relax.”

The inspector dutifully followed her into the drawing room and sat down in his favorite wing chair. A fire blazed in the hearth, a glass of amber liquid was sitting on the table next to his chair, and Mrs. Jeffries was gazing at him sympathetically. He felt much better already.

“What delight is Mrs. Goodge cooking up for our dinner tonight?” he asked as he reached for his glass.

Mrs. Jeffries desperately wanted to know whether the inspector knew of any unidentifed female bodies turning up in the last two months. But she didn’t want to arouse her employer’s curiosity. Not just yet. There would be time enough for that
after she and the others had done more investigating into Mary’s disappearance. She curbed her impatience and decided to wait until he had some sherry in him before she brought up the subject. Besides, the inspector was always far more willing to talk on a full stomach.

“Roast pork and poached apples,” she replied with a smile. “Now, Inspector, tell me all about it.”

“About what?”

“Why your dreadful day, of course.” She gazed at him earnestly. “I know you never like to complain, but really, sir, sometimes it helps to get things off one’s chest. As soon as you walked into the house this evening, I knew something utterly appalling must have happened.”

“You’re so very perceptive, Mrs. Jeffries,” he murmured with a relieved sigh. “And you’re absolutely right, as usual. There’s been a murder. A very difficult one, I’m afraid.”

“How terrible.” Mrs. Jeffries tried to sound appropriately subdued, but it was difficult. Not that she condoned murder, naturally. But she couldn’t help but be elated by the fact that she and the rest of the household would now have two cases to work on. Not only would they find the missing Mary Sparks, but they could help their dear inspector as well. “Why do you think this one’s going to be difficult?”