Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (10 page)

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I tried to tell her you might not even be coming home, but she insisted on waiting. Here, ma'am, let me take that.” She reached for the heavy garment and hung it up.

“Who is it? Not one of Lord Cannonberry's relatives, I hope.”

“I don't think so, ma'am. I know most of them and I've never seen this lady before. She won't give her name but she's nicely dressed and very insistent on seeing you.” Lena lowered her voice to a whisper. “I'm sorry if I did wrong by letting her in, ma'am, but Abigail and I are the only ones here.”

“Don't fret, Lena, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm sure it will be fine. I'll just pop in and see what this woman wants.” Ruth was actively involved in the London Women's Suffrage Alliance and it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that her visitor was a strong, upper-class woman who wanted to lend her support for women's rights without revealing her identity to anyone, even a housemaid.

She opened the doors to the drawing room and gasped in surprise. A woman rose from the red and gold striped satin empire chair. Despite being well into middle age, she was as slender as a reed and still beautiful enough to turn heads on the Kensington High Street. Her black hair was coiled in a knot at the nape of her neck, her complexion was as smooth and unlined as a girl's, and her brilliant blue eyes perfectly matched the peacock blue hat and dress she wore under her cloak.

“Good gracious, Lady Mortmain—Lydia—it's you! I'm so glad to see you. It's been ages.” Ruth hurried across the room.

“It's no longer Lady Mortmain.” She grinned impishly. “Now it's just plain old Mrs. Alexander Grappington and I couldn't be happier. Forgive me for barging in like this, but it's important.”

Ruth motioned her back into her chair and sat down across from her. “Mrs. Grappington, is it? I take it you've remarried?”

“To an American. He's a wonderful man and I'm so lucky to have met him.” She grinned again. “And he's rich as sin but believe it or not, we're actually in love.”

“I do believe it—you're positively glowing,” Ruth said. The last time they'd met, Lydia was the impoverished widow of a nobleman and she'd made no bones about the fact that the only path open to her was to find a rich husband.

“Unfortunately, we're leaving for New York tomorrow and this was the only time I had to see you.”

“Don't apologize, please.” She smiled ruefully. “I will have to leave shortly, but do let's visit for a few moments.”

“This won't take long. I've got some information for you.”

“Information?” Ruth stared at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Let's not be coy, Ruth, I know you help your inspector when he's got a murder case and I also know he's investigating Orlando Edison's murder.”

“You knew Orlando Edison?”

“Very well,” she replied. “One could say we were more than friends, but he was never a serious contender as husband material. Sometimes he was rich but just as often, he didn't have two pennies to rub together. But that's neither here nor there. The point is, I was fond of him and I want to make sure his killer hangs. Like all of us, he had character flaws, but he didn't deserve getting his brains bashed out and dying on his own doorstep.” She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Now, I don't have much time, so please, listen carefully to what I'm going to tell you.”

* * *

Witherspoon nodded his thanks as the housekeeper escorted Orlando Edison's solicitor into the drawing room. “Mr. Lofton, it was good of you to come today.”

“Of course I'd come,” Henry Lofton replied. He was a short, red-haired man with freckles. “Mr. Edison wasn't merely a client, he was also a friend. I want to see his killer caught.”

Surprised, because in his experience lawyers were rarely this cooperative, Witherspoon gaped at the man. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your assistance. Uh, er, can you tell me what is the value of Mr. Edison's estate?”

“Just off the top of my head, I'd say it was approximately fifty thousand pounds split equally between property, a large stock portfolio, and cash.”

Witherspoon frowned. “Property? But his housekeeper said he was leasing here.”

“The lease on this house expires at the end of March,” Lofton explained. “But he had plenty of property in America. He told me that once his testimony in the bankruptcy trial concluded, he'd be moving to New York. He'd recently purchased a town house there and he's owned a farm in Virginia for a number of years.”

“He was leaving the country?” Witherspoon muttered. “His staff hasn't mentioned that.”

“They probably didn't know,” Lofton replied. “He didn't want their Christmas ruined by the knowledge they were soon going to be unemployed. Last week, he instructed me to set aside funds to pay all of them their salaries for the first quarter in the upcoming year.”

“That was very generous of him.” Witherspoon prided himself on seeking justice for murder victims regardless of who they might have been in life; he'd worked hard to stay as detached as possible from the emotional turmoil that often accompanied homicide, but he realized he was genuinely sad that this man had been so cruelly taken. Orlando Edison cared about his servants and to Witherspoon that spoke volumes about the kind of man he must have been. He remembered his mother always saying that you could judge the measure of an important person by how he treated the little people who surrounded him. Orlando Edison had treated the people who served him with respect and concern.

Lofton shrugged and looked away, but not before the inspector had seen a sheen of tears in his eyes. “He was a good man, I don't care what anyone says, he was a good man.” He turned back to the inspector. “I met him five years ago. He'd just come back to England from Africa and needed a solicitor.” Lofton broke off and took a deep, ragged breath. “I had been having some difficulties. I'd made a mistake in a commercial property conveyance my firm was in charge of and it had gone very badly. Needless to say, I was sacked. As my prospects had dimmed substantially, my fiancée left me and I was barely able to keep a roof over my head.”

“Couldn't you find another position?”

Lofton smiled bitterly. “The principals in the company that suffered because of my error were very vocal in their criticism, and in London, commercial real estate transactions inhabit a very small world. So even though I'd had an exemplary record of success prior to my mistake, no one wanted to give me a chance. Then I met Orlando Edison.”

“How did you meet him?”

“At a pub on Throgmorton Street. I don't recall why I'd gone there, but nonetheless, that's how I became acquainted with him. He was such an easy person to talk to and before I knew it, he'd heard the whole story. He invited me to supper at a restaurant and I accepted. That was the beginning. He took me on as his solicitor and as the months passed, he recommended me to more and more of his colleagues. I've now got a thriving business because of him, so I assure you, Inspector, I'll do everything in my power to help you catch his killer.”

“His household servants have said much the same thing. Now, I take it he had a will?”

“He did. Orlando had several beneficiaries. I'll begin with the smallest first. His servants were each left a bit of money. Mrs. Clarridge got the most; he left her three hundred pounds. She's been with him the longest, you see. The housemaids are each getting a hundred pounds.”

“So they're receiving a very generous legacy on top of his instructions to pay their next quarter's wages?” Witherspoon pressed.

“I wouldn't exactly put it that way,” Lofton said. “The legacies are to go to them directly as part of his will; the salary for next quarter was because he wanted them to stay on and continue working here.”

The inspector was now thoroughly confused. “So he was leaving, but he wanted them to stay here and run the house?”

Lofton raised his finger. “There is a reason for his actions, Inspector. I'll get to it in a moment. Let's get to the other legacies. Orlando left his property in Virginia to his cousin, Yancy Kimball.”

“Did Mr. Kimball know he was a legatee?”

“I've no idea, Inspector,” Lofton replied. “I can try and find out for you. I believe Mr. Kimball is now in London, so contacting him won't be difficult. The rest of the estate is to go to Mrs. Madeleine Flurry. She's in a small flat in Shepherd's Bush and I've brought her address with me.”

* * *

“Good, we're all here.” Mrs. Jeffries swept into the kitchen and took her seat at the head of the table. “Shall we get started? Who would like to go first?”

“I will,” Luty volunteered. “But I don't have much to report, though I did find out a few bits and pieces.” She told them about her meeting with Angus Fielding. “My source knows a lot about money,” she concluded, “and he's of the opinion that the Merry Gentlemen weren't all that much smarter than anyone else on Throgmorton Street, they was just luckier.”

“Throgmorton Street?” Phyllis repeated.

“She means the financial center of the City of London.” Hatchet gave his employer a frown. “Really, madam, must you resort to modern slang to make your point?”

“Don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud,” she shot back. “At least I found out that the Merry Gentlemen were a bunch of jailbirds.”

“Being arrested as a form of civil protest against outdated rules and regulations hardly makes those men ‘jailbirds,'” he returned. “A number of decent people were arrested at that time and if you'll recall, public sentiment was on the side of the protesters. Honestly, telling people they can't buy and sell their own property, their own shares . . .” He broke off as he realized everyone was staring at him. “Sorry, but I do feel very strongly about this matter.”

No one said anything for a moment. Then Phyllis said to Luty, “I know you've told us before. But I don't understand why the ‘Merry Gentlemen' are so important.”

“They're important because every investor in the City watches what they buy and sell. They've got the kind of influence that can make or break a company's shares.”

“I understand that, but how did they get to be so important?” Phyllis persisted. She was determined to make up for her negligence today by at least understanding the situation properly.

“Well, it's like this. A few years back, the Merry Gentlemen started investin' in minin' stocks.”

“You mean the mines in South Africa?” Smythe helped himself to a slice of bread.

“Not just them, but minin' stocks from around the world. They hit it big on a stock everyone else had said was a dog. It was a gold mine in California and it made 'em a fortune. I guess it must have been Christmastime two or maybe three years ago, but all of a sudden, everyone and their brother thought these fellers knew everything there was to know about investin', especially in gold mines. After the riots on Throgmorton Street, they'd already formed their little club and been right successful by poolin' their resources and buying foreign stocks. They were written about in the financial press and, from what my source said, they all four pushed the idea that they were financial geniuses. So when they wanted to start investin' in the Transvaal gold mines, Edison asked them to be on the board of directors of the Granger.”

“Because if they were on the board, investors would take them seriously,” Betsy added. She was very intrigued by the idea of buying and selling shares in exotic stocks from faraway places. But her husband seemed to think they already had enough money.

“But that one is goin' bankrupt,” Wiggins reminded them. “So maybe these Merry Gentlemen weren't as clever as everyone thought.”

“Or maybe they were victims,” Hatchet suggested. “It's not unknown for some mine owners to exaggerate the potential of the mine. It's quite possible that these men were innocent victims.”

“Which would probably make 'em mad,” Luty said. “In which case, they'd have a motive to want Edison dead.”

“Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “We've no idea whether or not anyone felt themselves a victim of fraud. We've no idea why Orlando Edison was killed. His murder might have nothing to do with his professional life. But time is getting on and we must go ahead. Wiggins, would you care to go next?”

Wiggins shrugged. “I don't really 'ave much to say. I 'ung about on Throgmorton Street and tried to find someone who knew the deceased, but I didn't 'ave much luck.” In truth, he felt a bit guilty, like he'd not done his fair share today. Once he'd finished talking about football with the two lads at the pub, he'd gone to Smithfield's to have a quick word with his friend Tommy, who was an apprentice there. Tommy's guv was out with the flu so he and Tommy had gone for a quick pint at the local pub and discussed the upcoming Millwall match. By the time he'd finished, it was so late he barely had time to get back for the meeting. “But I'll go out again tomorrow and maybe I'll 'ave better luck.”

“Don't worry, lad.” Mrs. Goodge patted his arm. “I didn't find out anything today, either.”

“I didn't find out very much, either,” Phyllis added quickly. “But I did hear a bit at the greengrocer's.” She told them what she'd heard from Dulcie Prescott. When she was done, she grabbed her teacup and took a quick sip. She was sure that Mrs. Jeffries would take one look at her face and know that she'd done something terrible. After she'd left the greengrocer's, instead of making the rounds to all the shopkeepers in the neighborhood, she'd found herself on the omnibus and heading toward the Gaiety Theater. She hadn't understood what had come over her, it was as if she was under a spell, but she'd not been able to resist the urge to go back. Once there, she'd stared at the playbills out front, memorizing the names of the actors and wishing with all her heart that she could go inside and, for just a moment, be a part of the magic. “But I'll go out tomorrow and I'll try the neighborhoods where those Merry Gentlemen live.”