Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (14 page)

“Let me go!” The voice was American and came from around the corner of the church. “Damn you, punching me in the face isn't going to get him his money.”

Wiggins' heart leapt into his throat and, for a moment, he was tempted to make a run for it. He wasn't a coward, but he wasn't a fool, either. But then he remembered his duty and flattened himself against the wall. He edged to his right, moving quietly and hoping the noise from the street would mask any noise he made. When he got to the end of the building, he sank to his knees and peeked around the corner.

Yancy Kimball was there with two other men. A stocky man with stringy blond hair and dressed in a long brown coat had Kimball by the lapels. The other, a giant of a fellow with a black mustache and wearing a blue wool hat, pinned Kimball's arms behind his back.

“Blast a Spaniard,” Wiggins murmured. “What the ruddy 'ell do I do now?” He looked toward the street, hoping against hope that someone would miraculously appear.

“There's no need for the rough stuff. Let me go,” Kimball pleaded. “I told you I was good for it.”

“You've been tellin' us you're good for it for weeks now,” the blond snarled. “And Gedigan's sick of waitin'. He wants what you owe and he wants it now.”

“He'll get nothing if I'm dead,” Kimball cried.

“Yeah, and we've heard that one before, too. But at least if you're dead, Gedigan'll have the satisfaction of knowin' you paid for cheating him. People who can't pay their debts shouldn't gamble.” He tightened his grip on the lapels while the man holding Kimball's arms jerked them hard.

Kimball squawked in pain.

Wiggins balled his hands into fists as he frantically wondered what to do. If he left to find a policeman, by the time he got back, Kimball could be beaten to a bloody pulp. He took a deep, ragged breath and forced himself to calm down. He wouldn't do Kimball any good by standing here like a terrified schoolboy. But he wasn't stupid, either. He was no match for either of those brutes; they were professional hoodlums who made their living collecting gambling debts. But all he needed was for them to be distracted enough for Kimball to make a run for it.

He scanned the ground and spotted what he needed lying beside a crumbling headstone. Moving quietly, he stood up and walked the three feet that stood between him and what was probably a very stupid idea. He reached down and picked up a handful of the broken stone. It felt funny using bits of someone's gravestone for this sort of thing, but he wasn't about to let these two hooligans murder Kimball.

He took a deep breath and put the largest chunk in his right hand. Going back to the wall, he peeked around the corner. Wiggins swung around the building, aiming the stone just as the ruffian raised his fist.

“Don't be a fool,” Kimball yelled. “Gedigan will be a lot more satisfied with his money rather than me being dead. If you've half the brains God gave a weasel you'll listen to what I have to say. Something's happened. I've got money coming.”

“Quit playin' about and take your medicine like a man.” He drew back his arm. “Why should we believe you now when you've done nothin' but lie for weeks?”

“Because I'm getting a huge inheritance from my cousin. For God's sake, you must have read about it. Orlando Edison—it's been in the newspapers—he was the financier who was found murdered. I'm his only heir and, believe me, he had plenty.”

The man lowered his fist and eased off Kimball's lapels. “Go on, keep talkin'.” He nodded and the other thug stepped back. Kimball was now free.

Wiggins sagged in relief and ducked back behind the corner. He kept them in sight, though.

“Orlando Edison was my cousin. He's got no other family so I'm going to get it all. He's got plenty of money as well as property both here and in America.” Kimball straightened his coat. “Tell Gedigan to be patient and he'll get his money with interest.”

“When?” Baldy demanded. “Gedigan's not goin' to be put off any longer.”

“I'll not have the money in my possession until the estate's settled.” Kimball shrugged. “But as I've got lots coming my way, I can get a proper loan now. There's nothing a bank likes more than giving money to someone with prospects. I'm going to see my banker this afternoon. Tell Gedigan I'll be along this evening to see him.”

* * *

“I hope the lady is home,” Witherspoon said as he stepped down from the hansom cab in front of the five-story brown brick home of Charles Downing. Like all the houses along the street, the ground floor had a plastered white façade and sat behind a raised black railing that enclosed a staircase leading to a lower floor.

“So do I, sir,” Barnes said as he pushed open the gate and stepped through. “If she's out, when she comes home her servants will warn her that we were here.”

Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose as he followed the constable up the short walkway to the front door. “That's true. I'm hoping the element of surprise will get us more information.”

Barnes banged the knocker against the wood.

The door opened a few inches and a young housemaid stared out at them. Her eyes grew as big as saucers as her gaze flicked over Barnes' uniform. “Uh, yes, may I help you?”

“We'd like to speak to Mrs. Downing,” Witherspoon said. “Is she at home?”

“I'll see if she's receiving, sir,” the girl stammered.

“This isn't a social call,” Barnes interjected. “Tell Mrs. Downing if she doesn't wish to speak to us now, we'll ask her husband to escort her to the station.”

“That won't be necessary.” The voice was female and came from within the house. “Show them in, Grayson.”

The maid opened the door and stepped back. The inspector took off his bowler as he entered the foyer. Bright Oriental rugs covered the dark wood floor, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and a wooden hall tree painted in gold and white stood against the wall opposite the door. A wide staircase led off to the right and on the bottom step stood a woman.

Blonde haired, blue eyed, and rail thin, she was dressed in a teal blue day dress with white lace trim on the cuffs and collar. She stared at them solemnly for a few moments. “I'm Cecily Downing. I understand you wish to speak to me?”

“We do, ma'am,” Witherspoon said. “I'm Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.” He glanced at the constable and saw the expression of surprise that flashed across his face before he could mask it. Downing had told the constable that his wife was a good deal younger than himself. The inspector was not an expert on ascertaining a lady's age and she did appear to be a
bit
younger than her husband. Barnes had reported that Downing described his wife as “a foolish young woman,” and that was most definitely stretching the truth. Foolish she might be, but “young” had been left behind a good ten years earlier.

“I know who you are. My husband says you're in charge of investigating Orlando's murder. I suppose I'll have to answer your questions.”

“That would be very helpful, ma'am.” Witherspoon unbuttoned his coat.

She stepped onto the floor and motioned for them to follow her. “Come along, then, we'll be more comfortable in the drawing room.” She led them down the hallway to the open doors of the drawing room and they went inside.

Christmas was very evident here. A huge evergreen, fully decorated but with the candles unlighted, stood between the emerald green loveseat and couch, and a wreath with a red velvet bow was suspended by maroon cords on the wall between the windows. Holly and ivy were draped around the bases of all the lamps and the candles, and another, larger wreath with a gold and white bow hung on the wall over the green marble fireplace and mantel.

“Please sit down.” She gestured at two straight-backed chairs with embroidered seats opposite the sofa. She waited till both the policemen were seated before she spoke. “Go ahead and ask your questions, but I assure you, I don't know anything about Orlando's murder.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, who was taking his notebook and pencil out of his jacket pocket. He waited till the constable was ready before he answered. “I understand you and the deceased were, er, friends.”

She shrugged. “He was my husband's colleague. They did business together. That hardly makes us friends, though we did occasionally frequent the same social events. I'm sorry he's dead, of course.”

“If you're not friends, why did you use his Christian name and not his surname a moment ago?” Barnes looked up and stared her straight in the eyes. “For a woman of your class and stature, ma'am, that was a very odd way of referring to the deceased. Generally, when a married woman uses the first name of a handsome, eligible bachelor, that usually means they are either old friends or intimately acquainted on another level.”

Witherspoon held his breath and knew he was blushing. He was a policeman so he knew it was silly to be embarrassed by delicate subjects during the course of a murder investigation, but somehow, he'd never gotten used to some of the awkward questions one was forced to ask. He didn't fault the constable; Barnes was frequently provocative and, just as frequently, it loosened otherwise recalcitrant tongues. Furthermore, Barnes was merely following up on information they had been given by the woman's husband.

“That's ridiculous,” she snapped. “I made a mistake and used the wrong form of address. Do get on with your questions, I've people coming to tea soon and, frankly, I'd prefer the police not be here when they arrive.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Edison?” Witherspoon asked.

She lifted her finger to her chin. “Last week at the Drummonds' dinner party. As a matter of fact, I was seated next to him.”

“You spoke with him at length?” the inspector asked.

“Of course, Inspector—it was a social occasion and I don't generally sit like a mute statue next to my dinner companions. I spoke to everyone at our end of the table.”

“How did his manner seem to you?” Barnes interjected.

Small lines appeared on her forehead as she frowned. “I'm not sure I understand. It was a festive occasion and he was like always, charming and gracious. There was nothing special about the evening.”

“Mr. Edison didn't appear to be worried or upset about anything?” Witherspoon pressed.

“Not at all.”

“What were you doing on Wednesday evening at six o'clock?” Barnes smiled as he asked the question.

“Wednesday evening? Why is that any of your business, Constable?” She drew back in surprise as she understood the significance of the question. “That question is outrageous. How dare you ask me such a thing.”

“Ma'am, we've had it on good authority that you and Mr. Edison had more than a passing acquaintance,” Barnes explained. “As a matter of fact, shortly before the murder, your husband had a terrible argument with the deceased. He warned Mr. Edison to stay away from you.”

She started to get up. “I don't know where you heard such nonsense—”

Witherspoon interrupted. “We know Mr. Downing argued with Mr. Edison because he was shouting loud enough to be heard by several witnesses. Your husband told us what the quarrel was about.”

“Charles told you they'd fought over me?” She eased back into her seat.

“He admitted it, ma'am,” Barnes said. “Now, you do understand why we need to know your movements on the evening Mr. Edison was killed.”

She said nothing for a moment; she simply stared at her hands. “I don't know what to do. I had no idea that Charles would do something so foolish.”

“Then you admit that Mr. Edison was more than just a casual acquaintance,” the constable said.

She lifted her chin. “I admit nothing. I don't know what nonsense Charles was babbling about, but I assure you, Orlando Edison was nothing more than one of my husband's work colleagues.”

Witherspoon noted that thus far, she'd not bothered to tell them where she'd been at the time of the murder. “Again, I must ask you, Mrs. Downing: Where were you at six o'clock this past Wednesday evening?”

“I was out shopping, Inspector. On Regent Street, if you must know. It's Christmas and I wanted a new set of household linens for Boxing Day. We're having a dinner party and the old linens need to be replaced.”

“Shopping seems to be a very common pastime these days. Your husband claims he was shopping as well.”

“It is Christmas, Inspector. That's often when people buy things for one another.”

“Yes, of course.” He inclined his head in agreement. He wished he had time to do a bit more shopping. He'd seen a lovely wooden hobbyhorse that he wanted to get for Amanda. “Mrs. Downing, while you were out that afternoon, did you see anyone you know? A friend or an acquaintance who might be able to verify your whereabouts?” Witherspoon felt a bead of sweat gather under his shirt collar. The room was stifling.

“No, I did not.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“What time did you arrive home that evening?” The constable shifted in his seat. The embroidered padding on the chair was elegant, but ruddy uncomfortable.

“I'm not sure. I didn't look at the clock, but I imagine it was close to seven o'clock. We don't dine until eight, so I had plenty of time to rest and change for dinner.”

“Perhaps one of your servants noticed the time,” the inspector suggested.

“They were in the kitchen when I came home.”

“Even the housemaids?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, even them, Constable. Furthermore, I went straight up to my room when I arrived home.” She gave Barnes a withering look. “And before you ask, I don't have a personal maid to help me dress.”

“What about your husband, what time did he get here?” Witherspoon asked.

“I've no idea, I didn't see him until dinner and I didn't ask him what time he'd come in the front door.” She got up. “I'll have to ask you to leave. If you've more questions for me, you can ask me later. As I told you, I've guests coming.”