Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (15 page)

“Just one more question, ma'am.” Barnes shoved the notebook back into his jacket and stood up. “Can we have a look at the souvenir miner's shovel your husband owns? The one he got when he became a member of Granger's board of directors.”

“No, Constable, that's not possible. I thought it an ugly piece of nonsense and I didn't want it cluttering up my home so my husband kept it at his office.”

* * *

“Merry Gentlemen, my foot,” Maurice Bradshaw exclaimed. “There's not a bloody thing merry about any of them. What's more, none of the four of them care one whit about the less fortunate.” He took a sip of tea and eyed Hatchet over the rim of his cup.

They were in a small café on Commercial Road in the East End. Hatchet had tracked down his old friend Maurice Bradshaw, who until he'd retired had been a broker at the stock exchange.

Bradshaw had gray hair that stood up in tufts no matter how much pomade he applied, a ruddy complexion laced with wrinkles, and a nose that looked much like an eagle's beak. But his stern countenance was in direct contrast to his character. Bradshaw was a widower and, once retired, he'd devoted his life to serving others. He'd used his wealth to start the Frances Bradshaw Trust for the Poor, a charity named after his late wife and housed in property he'd purchased next to the Methodist church on Chapman Street. Mrs. Bradshaw had been a devout Methodist. The charity provided food, warm clothes, and, once a week, a medical clinic for the poor of the East End.

“You don't sound as if you like them very much,” Hatchet commented.

“There's nothing to like about any of them. Amberly's a tightfisted miser who'd kick a starving kitten's bowl of milk just for the sport of it, Ralston's a social-climbing upstart who doesn't give a toss about anyone but himself, Bagshot wouldn't have a farthing to his name if he'd not gotten lucky on that Sperling Mine deal five years ago, and Downing is a blustering idiot with all the personality of a tree stump.”

Hatchet laughed and reached into his pocket for his watch. Unfortunately, much as he liked Bradshaw, he'd not learned anything about the Merry Gentlemen or Orlando Edison that he didn't already know. At this point, he was simply going to enjoy Bradshaw's company until he had to leave for the afternoon meeting. He held the timepiece on his knee, flipped open the lid, and saw that it wasn't quite half past two. “But Orlando Edison seems to have been a decent man. Everyone seemed to have liked and admired him.”

Bradshaw's thick eyebrows drew together. “He was liked, that's true, and he did donate generously when I was collecting money for the trust. But the only time the others ever gave so much as a farthing was for show. You know what I mean—if someone they wanted to impress was involved, they'd open their purses fast enough. Last month I was at a dinner party and Lord and Lady Medford were there, as was Martin Bagshot and his wife. Lady Medford generously offered ten pounds for the trust, as did several others at the table. Martin Bagshot, who, as I said, never opens his purse, piped in and said he'd like to contribute the same.” He chuckled. “Within a few days, everyone except Bagshot made good on their donations. But I cooked Bagshot's goose. I ran into him at the Uxbridge Road Station a couple of days ago and reminded him that he'd promised to send me ten pounds for the charity. I hinted that I was seeing the Medfords over Christmas, and of course Martin immediately agreed to make good on his offer.”

Hatchet's grin faded. “A couple of days ago,” he repeated. “Which day, exactly?”

“This past Wednesday, the eighteenth.” Bradshaw took another sip.

“What time?”

Bradshaw put his cup down. “Let me see . . . I'm not sure. My meeting had ended at half past five and it took about fifteen minutes to walk to the station. Bagshot was just coming out when I arrived so it must have been around five forty-five or ten minutes until six.”

* * *

Wiggins sprinted through the back door and skidded to a halt as he flew into the kitchen. “Sorry I'm late,” he apologized on a ragged breath. “But I found out somethin' and it took me a good while to finish it up properly.” That wasn't quite the truth. He'd been so proud of himself about Kimball, he'd rushed to the pub on Throgmorton Street but, to his great disappointment, the two lads he'd met before weren't there and the only person he'd struck up a conversation with knew nothing about football. Then he'd had to race back here, using some of his precious coin on a hansom rather than the omnibus in order to get here for the meeting. He pulled out his chair and sat down.

Mrs. Goodge peered at him over the rim of her glasses. “Are you alright, lad? You look a bit flushed.”

“I'm fine,” he muttered. “Just a bit out of breath. 'Ave I missed anything?”

“We've just started,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Luty was about to tell us what she'd learned today.”

“As I was sayin',” Luty continued, “my source is someone who knows what's goin' on in the financial community and he give me an earful today. He told me that Orlando Edison was well liked, but considered a bit of a rogue. In other words, he wasn't above sweetenin' the pot to get what he wanted.”

“Madam, what on earth does that mean?” Hatchet glared at her irritably. He'd really wanted to go first, as he thought his information was very useful, but being the gentleman that he was, he'd kept silent when it was apparent she wanted the floor.

“It means that there were rumors he got the Merry Gentlemen to sit on the board of directors of the Granger Mine by payin' them.” She grinned broadly. “And though that ain't illegal, it's not exactly ethical.”

“And now the Granger Mine is in bankruptcy,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“But that's not that important,” Wiggins interrupted. “I mean, I'm sorry, but I found out something this afternoon that will 'ave us thinkin' a bit differently.”

“As did I,” Hatchet declared.

“You're not the only ones that learned something useful,” the cook interjected. “Just because I got a new cookbook doesn't mean I wasn't doing my part. I found out some bits and pieces that will have your heads spinning.”

“I've found out something as well,” Betsy stated. She glanced at Smythe, who gave her a quick grin.

“Me, too,” Ruth said.

Mrs. Jeffries couldn't believe her ears. What was going on here? This wasn't the way they usually behaved. “Gracious, let's settle down and discuss this in a reasonable manner.”

Everyone ignored her and kept on arguing.

“Let me go next,” Hatchet insisted.

“I'm not finished,” Luty exclaimed.

“Then say something useful,” he replied. “We've danced around this for two days now. It's time to end the waltz.”

“What in the name of Hades does that mean?” She glared at her butler.

Mrs. Jeffries had had enough. She stood up. “Everyone, please, take a deep breath and say nothing for the next minute.”

Stunned into silence, they all stared at her. “I'm not sure what is going on here, but it seems to me that everyone needs to be mindful that we all should be working together. Now, let's do this as we should, one at a time.” Mrs. Jeffries had no idea why everyone had suddenly become so rude to one another, but this had been building since they'd learned about the murder. It was as if they all wavered between being distracted or acting as if the case was the most important thing in their respective worlds. She had no idea what, if anything, was happening, but she knew they needed to step back and regroup with one another. “Luty, please continue with your report.”

Luty straightened her spine. “Well, if everyone is listening, the last bit I picked up was that Martin Bagshot is in a load of financial trouble. He sunk every cent he had into the Granger based on Edison's recommendation and now he's just about broke.”

“Thank you, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Wiggins. “Would you like to go next?”

Chastened, he nodded. “Sorry, but I was so excited about what I saw that I couldn't wait to tell everyone.” He told them about Yancy Kimball and the threats to the fellow's life. “So you see, once he got the thugs to listen for a bit, he 'ad a smooth enough tongue to keep 'em at bay long enough to convince 'em 'e had a lot of money comin' his way,” he finished.

“But how would 'e know that?” Smythe asked. “Kimball claimed 'e'd only been back in London for a short while, so how would 'e have found out he was one of Edison's heirs?”

“'E's the only blood relative,” Wiggins insisted. “And remember, he probably didn't know that Edison made a will and that 'e's not getting the whole estate. He might not know about Mrs. Flurry so 'e's assumin' that as he's the only family, 'e'll be getting it all.”

“Then he's a fool,” Mrs. Goodge argued. “Everyone knows that people often ignore their relatives, especially if they've someone else in their life that's given them a bit of time and attention. Blood might be thicker than water, but the one that's right in front of the face generally gets the goods. Remember what they say, out of sight, out of mind, and Yancy Kimball has been thousands of miles away until recently.”

Mrs. Jeffries had no idea what any of this meant, but she didn't worry about it. She had faith that things would sort themselves out. “Wiggins, if you're finished, we need to move along.”

“I'd like to go next,” Hatchet offered. “My source knew quite a bit about the Merry Gentlemen and Edison, but it wasn't much more than we'd already heard. However, he did tell me something we hadn't heard, namely, that Martin Bagshot was at the Uxbridge Road Station on the evening of the murder. My source saw him coming out of the station at a quarter to six.”

“So what?” Luty challenged. “Baghsot lives just off Holland Park—he probably comes home by that train station.”

“Hardly, madam. He lives on Sunningdale Gardens in Kensington and the closest station would be Kensington High Street, but where he lives isn't the point. If you'll recall, Mrs. Jeffries reported that Constable Barnes had told her that at the time of the murder, Bagshot claimed he was shopping on Oxford Street. Which means he was lying. Uxbridge Station is only a ten-minute walk to Edison's house.”

Luty made a face at him. “Nell's bells, Hatchet. I hate it when you're right.”

“I'll go next,” Phyllis offered quickly. “I found out some information about Paul Ralston.” She told them about her meeting with Enid Carter.

“Sir Thomas Waterson sounds like a mean old man—imagine, disinheriting his own daughter because she stood by her husband.” Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I hope Paul Ralston knows that marrying into a family like that won't buy him happiness despite their wealth and position.”

“He'll not be the first to marry for money and a title,” Betsy said. “But it still seems such a sad way to waste your life.”

“Don't waste your sympathy on Ralston,” Phyllis said. “According to my source, he's no better than Sir Thomas Waterson. He's a very angry person. On the day Edison was murdered, his housemaid gave her notice and he got so furious, he told her to get her things and be out of his house by the next morning.”

“That's terrible.” Betsy frowned. “Where did he expect the poor girl to go?”

“He didn't care. Enid said that he'd never been a nice person to work for, but on that day, he was in a particularly bad mood. He came home that afternoon, shut himself in his study, and thumped his fist against the sofa pillows for half an hour.”

“How did she know that?” Ruth asked.

“She heard him when she walked past the study. Later that day, his fiancée arrived right about the time the tailor delivered his new overcoat. Enid overheard him promising Miss Waterson his old one for some charity she collects for. When she went in to serve the tea, he was tryin' on his new coat and actin' for all the world like he was the sweetest fellow there was.”

“I hope his other maid had somewhere to go,” Betsy murmured.

Under the table, Smythe squeezed her hand. He hated for her to be reminded of the misery of her past. She'd once been forced onto the streets with no place to call home and he knew that hearing about it happening to someone else bothered her more than the others realized. But she suddenly gave him a quick, grateful smile and he knew she was handling it just fine.

“She'll be fine. She's goin' to her family for a few weeks before she marries.” Phyllis giggled. “But Enid said Laura got back at Ralston. She saw her goin' through the pockets of his old overcoat the next morning and helping herself.”

CHAPTER 7

Mrs. Jeffries stood at the drawing room window and stared out into the dark night. She focused her gaze on the gas lamp across the road and tried to think of a plan of action. The inspector was due home any minute now and she still wasn't certain of what she was going to say when they had their sherry tonight. Today's meeting had netted so much information that it wouldn't be fair to expect Constable Barnes to pass it all along. But what would be the most reasonable tidbits for her to weave into their conversation? She cast her mind back to the meeting, going over every report one by one. Surely Wiggins witnessing Kimball's altercation was something Barnes should handle. He could always say one of his informants had told him that Kimball was a gambler. Likewise, the constable and his network of sources could easily have obtained Hatchet's and Luty's information. But there was still the information from the others.

A dog barked frantically, jerking her out of her reverie. She blinked and realized that her neighbor, Mrs. Pomeroy, and her buff-colored spaniel, Sasha, were on the pavement outside the window. The dog was bounding up and down, straining against its lead and howling at a cat that darted across the empty road. Mrs. Pomeroy, on the other hand, was staring straight at her with a curious, bemused expression on her face. Embarrassed, she gave the woman a smile and quickly drew the curtains. The barking faded as Mrs. Pomeroy resumed her walk. Drat, she thought irritably, her train of thought was completely ruined.

But Mrs. Jeffries didn't have time to marshal her thoughts again because, almost immediately, she heard the distinct sound of a horse's hooves and the jangle of a harness. She peeked through the curtains just as a hansom cab pulled to the curb and the inspector got out. It was pointless to try to plan what might or might not be possible to convey to him, she decided; she'd just have to do her best.

She went to the foyer and opened the door as Witherspoon mounted the top step. “Good evening, sir. Gracious, you must be exhausted. You're home so very late.”

“I'll admit that I am a bit tired.” He smiled wanly as he took off his hat and coat.

“Of course you are, sir. You do work so very hard when you're on a homicide case.” She took the inspector's garments and hung them on the coat tree.

“I don't suppose Amanda is still here?” he asked hopefully as he unwound his scarf and tossed it on the top peg.

“No, sir, I'm sorry, but Betsy did say she was going to bring the baby around tomorrow morning. She said she'd try to be here before you left for the day so you could see how well Amanda is walking.”

“That's the best news I've had all day. I know Christmas is only a few days away, but I had so hoped to see the little one before then. I wanted to ask Betsy if she and Smythe would have any objection to my getting Amanda a hobbyhorse. I know she's a bit young, but it's a beautiful toy and she would so enjoy it.”

“I'm sure Betsy and Smythe will think that's a lovely idea, sir,” she said. “Would you care for a sherry before dinner? Mrs. Goodge says it won't be ready before seven o'clock.”

“That would be splendid.” He started down the hall toward his study.

“Any new developments in the case, sir?” she asked as they entered the room. She went to the liquor cupboard and pulled out a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream. Opening it, she poured the fragrant sherry into the small, cut crystal glasses she'd put out earlier.

“We clarified a number of things.” Witherspoon sat down in his overstuffed chair. “But it's all rather confusing.”

She laughed as she handed him his drink. “Now, sir, you know very well that the jumble in your mind is part of your method. It happens with every case. It's very much a necessary step in the way you develop your case, sir.”

“That's very good of you to say, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said and smiled gratefully, “but sometimes it doesn't feel that way. I don't mean to complain, but I'm not sure of solving this one. No one has an alibi—I mean, people have alibis but they're all the sort that can neither be proved nor disproved.”

“You mean like the Merry Gentlemen, sir?” she asked. “They apparently were all out shopping for Christmas when the murder took place.”

“Not just them. Cecily Downing and Madeleine Flurry were also out between the hours of four and six on the day of the murder and, like the others, they claimed to be Christmas shopping.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, I wouldn't think there was that much shopping to be done for the holidays.”

“I take it you spoke with Mrs. Downing and Mrs. Flurry today?” she pressed. She didn't want him sidetracked on the subject of the upcoming holiday.

“Yes, but Mrs. Downing wasn't very forthcoming.” He frowned. “And if you ask me, she wasn't as young as I thought she'd be.”

Surprised, because the inspector never made ungentlemanly remarks about a woman's appearance, she stared at him. “What do you mean, sir?”

“Mr. Downing led me to believe that his wife was hardly more than a girl but honestly, and I don't mean to be unkind, she seemed no more than a few years his junior. What's more, she wasn't in the least concerned that her husband had a vicious argument with the victim shortly before the murder. All she said was that Downing was acting foolish but he wasn't the sort to bash someone's head in in a jealous rage. She also maintained that Edison was nothing more than her husband's business acquaintance.”

He took another sip of sherry and told her about his interviews with both Cecily Downing and Madeleine Flurry. Mrs. Jeffries listened to his recitation carefully and in the expectation that something he said might give her an opening to convey
some
of the information from today's meeting. But as he talked, her hopes dimmed.

When he paused to take a breath, she said, “Did Mrs. Flurry know she was one of Edison's heirs?”

“She did. Edison told her when he did his will that she'd inherit. I suppose they must have been very good friends.”

His comment gave Mrs. Jeffries a fighting chance. Now she could convey the tidbits that Betsy had picked up. “From what Betsy heard, they were more than friends, sir.”

“What?”

“Don't be alarmed, sir, Betsy isn't in the habit of discussing your cases, but you've become so very famous and everyone in the neighborhood knows she worked here, so”—she broke off and shrugged—“even when she's out shopping people pass along gossip.”

“But how would anyone know that Mrs. Flurry had anything to do with the victim? That's not been in the papers and the details of his estate have most certainly not been made public.”

“It wasn't his will the gossips were discussing.” To give herself time to choose her words, she sipped her sherry. “It was Edison's relationship with Madeleine Flurry. Betsy was at the butcher's on Shepherd's Bush Road and, well, to make a long story short, she heard a rumor that Madeleine Flurry and Orlando Edison were lovers.” That wasn't quite all the gossip that Betsy had heard, but she needed to tread carefully here and not say too much. If she was lucky, sowing a few seeds might do the trick and have him looking a bit closer at Mrs. Flurry.

Witherspoon's eyebrows rose. “That would certainly explain why he'd left her the bulk of his estate.”

“And a roof over her head for the next quarter,” Mrs. Jeffries added.

“Mrs. Flurry claims he wanted her to oversee packing his things and shipping them to him,” he murmured.

“That's certainly one explanation, but you yourself said that his housekeeper, Mrs. Clarridge, struck you as an eminently capable woman,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And let's face it, not every woman is going to be reasonable when she finds out she's being left behind.”

“You think she might have killed him because he was going to New York?”

“It's possible, sir. After all, as you pointed out, the murder weapon was one of opportunity, not planning.” She wasn't sure if he'd made this assertion or not, but to her way of thinking, it never hurt to bolster the inspector's confidence.

“She might have grabbed it and bashed him over the head in a fit of rage,” he speculated. “Yes, that's very possible. And like the others, her alibi is very weak. As a matter of fact, when I asked her where she was shopping at the time of the murder, she couldn't say with any certainty, just that she'd been on the Kensington High Street.”

“Now that I'm telling tales out of school, I might as well pass along another tidbit from around the neighborhood.”

“My goodness, there's more? Poor Betsy, she must hate going shopping when I'm on a murder case.”

“This one isn't from Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “It's from Lady Cannonberry. Now please understand, she was most reluctant to mention this to me, it's just something she heard at one of her women's meetings. Lady Cannonberry is most certainly not a gossip and would never indulge in any behavior that might reflect negatively upon you or impede one of your cases.”

“Of course she wouldn't,” he agreed. “She is the most wonderful woman and her character is above reproach. Uh, exactly what did she hear?”

“Apparently, her source was someone who once knew Edison quite well. But that's neither here nor there. What is important is that she told Lady Cannonberry that Orlando Edison didn't keep all his money in the bank,” she said. “Supposedly, he always kept a substantial amount of money close at hand. ‘One should always have some cash hidden close just in case one needs to bolt.' Supposedly, those were his exact words, sir.”

“But we searched his house thoroughly and there was no money found.” Witherspoon frowned in confusion. “But perhaps we ought to have another look. If Lady Cannonberry's acquaintance knew what she was talking about, perhaps the killer was looking for money and Edison's death was a robbery gone wrong.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew exactly what she'd been talking about; her source had told Ruth that she and Edison had been “far more than friends before he took up with that Flurry woman.”

* * *

The house was quiet as Mrs. Jeffries came up the hallway to the kitchen. She'd checked that all the doors were locked and then, realizing she wasn't in the least bit sleepy, decided to make herself a cup of tea before going upstairs to bed.

She put the kettle on the cooker, then got down the teapot and her mug. As she waited for the water to boil, she stared across the room toward the small window over the sink that faced the street. A carriage trundled past and she listened; in the darkness, she couldn't see it well, of course, but that didn't matter, she was simply trying to empty her mind and let the ideas come and go as they would.

All the new information she'd learned both at their meeting today and from the inspector this evening just left her more confused. But no matter how she looked at what few facts they had, she couldn't make heads nor tails out of any of them. They seemed to be long on gossip but woefully short on cold, hard facts.

For once, concentrating on the victim to find the reason for the crime didn't seem to be very helpful. Edison's murder could have been a robbery that went wrong or he might have been killed by a woman furious at being abandoned while he went off to America or even by a lady whose advances he might have spurned. It could also just as easily have been an angry shareholder who'd lost everything because of the bankruptcy or someone who was convinced that Edison had defrauded them. But which was most likely? Which made the most sense?

Edison's murder had been a particularly brutal one, which brought up another question. Why kill him with a shovel? Why hadn't the killer used a different method? According to Constable Barnes, the postmortem revealed that there had only been two blows struck. So did the killer know exactly where to hit the skull or did he or she just get lucky? And if your aim was to murder, why risk that weapon? Surely a gun or even a knife would be far more effective, because it was quite possible to survive even the most horrendous head injuries. A hard stab through the heart would guarantee death and a knife was the most accessible weapon there was; every kitchen in London had one.

Because the killer had no choice. The thought came unbidden into her mind. The kettle whistled and she turned to grab a tea towel.

Mrs. Goodge was standing in the archway. Despite the lateness of the hour, she was still fully clothed. Samson sat by her feet.

“Gracious, I'm sorry.” Mrs. Jeffries snatched up the towel and grabbed the kettle off the stove. “I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“You didn't. I knew I couldn't sleep yet. I'll get us a jug of milk for our tea.” She trudged down the hall toward the wet larder. Samson trotted after her.

Mrs. Jeffries let the tea steep while she got down Mrs. Goodge's mug, two dessert plates, a bowl of sugar, and the biscuit tin. By the time Mrs. Goodge came back with the milk, she had everything nicely arranged.