Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (17 page)

“So Kimball must 'ave been 'ere long enough for Gedigan to trust him,” Wiggins said eagerly.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded approvingly at Smythe and then flicked her gaze to Betsy. “And there's something I want you to do as well. Remember our conversation this morning? Well, I want you to make contact with Madeleine Flurry and see if you can get her talking.” She'd waylaid Betsy before the meeting started, to pass along an idea that had occurred to her in the wee hours of the night.

“But what about the baby?” Phyllis interjected. “What are you goin' to do with the little one while you're out on the hunt?”

“She'll come with me.” Betsy grinned. “As a matter of fact, she might be what loosens Mrs. Flurry's tongue.”

Mrs. Goodge suddenly shoved back in her chair and got to her feet. “Speaking of our darling, I think I've hogged her enough.” She moved around the table and handed the baby to Luty.

“Why, thank you.” Luty cuddled the child close, grinning broadly as Amanda giggled.

“Ruth, I've a task for you as well and it might not be easy.”

“Do tell, I love a challenge,” Ruth said.

“You had a friend who made the comment that Edison's, uh, paramours were often married women, right?”

“But she's left town,” Ruth reminded her.

“But isn't there someone else you can ask?” Mrs. Jeffries persisted. “Someone who would know whether or not Cecily Downing was once romantically involved with Orlando Edison?”

Ruth thought for a moment and then smiled. “Oh yes, I've several sources that would know that.”

Mrs. Jeffries beamed in approval.

Mrs. Goodge got up. “I don't like to be rushin' you all, but I've got several sources droppin' by this morning and I want to get my sweet buns baked.”

“That's fine, Mrs. Goodge, I think we're done.” Mrs. Jeffries rose from the table, as did everyone else except for Wiggins and Phyllis.

Wiggins looked a bit put out. “Is there anythin' special you want me to suss out? You've given everyone else a special job.”

“And you've not given me one, either.” Phyllis crossed her arms over her chest.

By this time, Betsy had tucked Amanda into her pram and the others had all grabbed their coats, mufflers, hats, and gloves. Mrs. Jeffries waited till she heard them trooping down the hall to the back door before she spoke. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend either of you.”

“I'm not offended,” Wiggins said quickly. “I'm just curious as to why you've left me—er, us—out.”

Mrs. Jeffries flicked a quick, covert glance at the cook, who grinned broadly before turning and yanking her biggest bowl out from under her worktable.

“Frankly, the reason I didn't give either of you a task is very simple.” She smiled sweetly. “Both of you seem to have been very distracted and I assumed that you each had something important going on in your own lives.”

Phyllis' jaw dropped. “Distracted? But I found out ever so much from Enid Carter yesterday and, at other times, I've tried my best to find things out, but sometimes you just can't.”

Behind her Mrs. Goodge snorted. “Especially if instead of gettin' out on the hunt, you spend your time hangin' about the Gaiety Theater and moonin' over a silly play.”

Phyllis gasped.

“Maybe she's been playin' about, but I've done my bit,” Wiggins charged.

“That's not true,” Phyllis cried. “You've spent more time worrying about that silly football game you might miss this afternoon than doin' your share for the case. I'll admit I've gone back to the theater a time or two, but I've at least tried.”

“It's not a silly football game,” he argued. “It's important to me. I don't do much for myself and you've no right to make me feel like I'm lettin' everyone down.”

“No one is letting anyone down,” Mrs. Goodge yelled. “And both of you have a right to enjoy your own interests. I'm no better than either of you. Since I got this new cookbook, I've not done right by this case, either.”

The room fell silent and for a brief moment, Mrs. Jeffries thought perhaps they'd gone too far. “Forgive me, both of you. You have every right to spend your time as you wish and we've no right to expect you to give up the things that make you happy just to work on the inspector's case.”

Phyllis bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears. “Are you sayin' you don't want us working on the case?”

“No, of course not. I'm saying you have every right to live your life as you please—”

“Then I want to work on the case,” Phyllis interrupted. She swiped at her cheeks and lifted her chin. “Mrs. Goodge is right, I let that silly play turn my head. But I want to stay on the case. Nothing in my whole life has ever made me feel as proud as helping to catch killers.” She stood up. “So if it's all the same to you, I'm goin' to get out there now and find out as much as I can.”

“Thank you, Phyllis.” Mrs. Jeffries was relieved. She would never have gone along with the cook's idea if she'd known it might make Phyllis cry. “But you must believe me, I didn't bring this up to make you feel badly, I simply wanted to know if you wanted to help with this one.”

“You can count on me,” she declared.

“And you can count on me as well.” Wiggins got up, grinned broadly, and shrugged. “I'll admit, I love football, but this is more important. Come on, Phyllis, grab your coat and hat. I'll walk you to the corner.”

As soon as they'd gone, Mrs. Goodge looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “I told you it would work.”

“And you were right, but honestly, when Phyllis started to tear up I felt lower than a snake.”

“Don't be silly, young people need a bit of guilt now and then.”

* * *

Witherspoon paused at the top of the fourth-floor landing to catch his breath. He and Constable Barnes were at the Larchmont Hotel, which, unlike the Great Western around the corner, didn't have a lift.

“Let's hope Mr. Kimball is in his room,” the inspector said as he started down the corridor. He glanced at Barnes and shook his head in admiration. “You do have a very extensive network of informants, Constable. Despite all my years on the force, I was never very good at that sort of thing.”

“You didn't walk the beat as many years as I did, sir.” Barnes looked at the room numbers as they passed the first door. As planned, he'd told the inspector that one of his sources had tipped him that Kimball was being hounded by debt collectors over his gambling. “Here it is, sir, number 304.” He rapped sharply on the door.

“Come back later.” Kimball sounded half-asleep.

“Open up, Mr. Kimball, it's the police,” Barnes called.

They heard a scuffling sound and then the door opened. Yancy Kimball, his hair disheveled and his eyes bloodshot, peered out at them. “What do you want? I've told you everything I know.”

“We're sorry to disturb you,” Witherspoon said politely. “But we do have some questions we must ask.”

“You can either let us into your room or accompany us to the station,” Barnes added.

Kimball sighed irritably, stepped back, and waved them inside. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said sarcastically as they stepped over the threshold. He was dressed in a pair of trousers, an undershirt, and a pair of socks with a giant hole in the big toe of the right foot.

The bed was unmade, dirty clothes were scattered over the floor, and on the table by the window was an open bottle of whiskey, a glass, and a half-eaten Cornish pastie. A pair of boots was on one of the two chairs and a stack of newspapers on the other one. Kimball grabbed the boots in one hand and scooped up the newspapers with the other. He dumped them on the foot of the bed and flopped down on the mattress. “There, I've made you a place to sit.”

They sat down and Constable Barnes whipped out his notebook. He pulled out his pencil and then looked at Witherspoon.

“Mr. Kimball, we'll be as brief as possible, but we do have to ask you more questions,” Witherspoon said.

“Go ahead.” Kimball rubbed his forehead. “But make it quick. I've a killer of a headache.”

“On the day your cousin was killed, you said, you didn't leave here until half past seven that night. Is that correct?”

“That's right. We planned on meeting for dinner at eight. It only takes half an hour to get to Barnaby's from here.”

“Then why, sir, do several staff members recall seeing you leave here at half past four?” Barnes said. They'd stopped and interviewed some of the hotel staff before coming to Kimball's room.

“I don't know who you spoke to,” Kimball snapped, “but they're mistaken. I was here taking a nap until after six.”

“Mr. Kimball,” Witherspoon said patiently, “the desk clerk on duty that afternoon saw you leave at four thirty and the housekeeper brought fresh linens up to your room at five o'clock. You weren't here. So where were you?”

“I went for a walk.”

“Why didn't you tell us that originally?” the constable pressed.

“Because my cousin had his head bashed in and I was afraid you'd think I had something to do with it,” he snapped. “For God's sake, I was scared, can't you understand that?”

“Why would we think you'd want to hurt your cousin?” Witherspoon asked. “According to your previous statement, you wouldn't have even seen your cousin if you'd not run into him outside Thomas Cook's.”

“That wasn't true.” He sighed. “I saw Edison as soon as I arrived here.”

“Which was when exactly?” Barnes asked.

“November fifteenth.” Kimball sighed again. “I was hoping he'd ask me to stay at his house, but he didn't, so I asked him for a loan to put myself up here. When I found out he'd been murdered, it put the fear of God in me.”

“Why?” Witherspoon shifted on the hard chair.

“Why? Are you daft? I'm his heir, Inspector, the one who'll inherit his worldly goods, the one who benefits from his death.”

“How did you know you were his heir? Had he told you that?” the inspector asked.

“He didn't have to. He was a young man so I doubt he had a will, and I'm his only living relative so I expect it all comes to me.”

“It doesn't.” Witherspoon smiled kindly. “But that's beside the point. Where exactly did you walk on the evening he was murdered?”

Kimball's jaw dropped in shock. For a moment, he said nothing, he merely stared at the floor. Finally, he looked at the inspector. “What did you just say?”

“I asked where you were walking when your cousin was murdered?”

“No, before that. You said I don't inherit?” Kimball's face was whiter than the bedsheets.

“That's correct,” Barnes said. “You're getting part of his estate, but the bulk of it is going to someone else. I expect Mr. Edison's solicitor will be contacting you shortly. We've given him the name of your hotel. Now, please answer the inspector's question. Where were you walking?”

“Oh, my God, this is a calamity.” He buried his face in his hands. “What am I going to do? They'll kill me now.”

“You mean the gamblers that you owe money to, is that who will kill you?” Barnes said conversationally.

Kimball looked up. “You know about this? You know that I owe them money?”

“We have informants, sir,” Barnes said. “And we know you're deeply in debt and were probably counting on your cousin's estate to save your neck.”

“But I didn't kill Orlando to get my debts paid,” he cried. “He was my family. I wouldn't do such a thing.”

“Yet you must admit that it's a powerful motive,” Witherspoon said. “If you only arrived here in mid-November, how could you get in debt so quickly?”

“It doesn't take long, Inspector. Besides, I've been here before and I knew exactly where to go. But Lady Luck hasn't smiled on me lately and, within two weeks, I was up to my neck and dodging Gedigan's thugs.” Kimball stopped.

“You told us originally you met your cousin outside Cook's because you'd just booked passage to New York—” Witherspoon began.

Kimball interrupted. “I didn't have the money to leave town. The day I ran into Orlando I'd gone to a jeweler's and sold a gold ring so I could pay my hotel bill. I invited Orlando to dinner to ask him for help.”

“He'd already given you money,” Barnes pointed out. “Was he such a generous soul that he'd keep funding you?”

Kimball glared at the constable. “I was his only family.”

“And you were being hounded by thugs. From what we've learned of Edison, he was a decent man, but he wasn't a fool, and giving a habitual gambler more money is like pouring cash down a rat hole.”

“I wasn't asking for money,” Kimball snapped. “I wanted a ticket to New York and when he said he was sailing there himself, I was sure I could talk him into helping me. But when he didn't show that night, I panicked. That's why I went to his house. So you see, Inspector, the last person to want him dead would be me. I needed him alive.”

“Not if you were expecting to inherit,” Witherspoon said softly. “And you still haven't told us where you were when he was killed.”

CHAPTER 8

Betsy wheeled Amanda's pram around the corner and onto the high street. “That's 'er,” the street lad guiding her said, pointing at a tall woman swathed in a heavy gray cloak going into the greengrocer's at the end of the street.

“You're sure that's Mrs. Flurry.” She eyed the lad skeptically. As she hadn't known what Madeleine Flurry looked like, when she'd reached the woman's neighborhood, she'd procured the services of a local street boy, one of many poor children who hung about the high streets hoping to earn a few coins running errands or carrying shopping baskets.

The boy wore a filthy black cap and a brown coat that was two sizes too big, and he had the look of one who'd not had a decent meal in days. Betsy fully intended to pay him more than they'd agreed, but she wanted to be sure he was telling the truth. “'Course I'm sure.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I've done for her lots of times. She lives on Gopler Grove in Shepherd's Bush.”

“Done what for her?” Betsy asked. Now that she had the woman in her sights she'd not lose her, and the lad might have some valuable information.

“What do ya think? I've carried her packages home from shoppin', taken notes to a big house over on Holland Road, and fetched the evening papers, that sort of thing. She's a nice lady.”

Betsy kept her attention on the greengrocer's. “When was the last time you took a note to the house on Holland Road?”

He didn't reply and she flicked a quick glance his way. He looked to be deep in thought. “It were last Monday,” he finally said. “She give me a note for the master of the house and I give it to the housekeeper.”

Two days before the murder, Betsy thought. She dug a handful of coins from her pocket and handed them to the boy. “Here, make sure you buy some decent food with this.”

His eyes widened as he saw she'd given him ten shillings, ten times more than they'd agreed. “Thank you, ma'am, thank you.” He grinned broadly. “Mum will be so happy. This means we might be able to have a proper Christmas dinner. If you need me again, ma'am, I work this street every day.”

She bit her tongue to keep from telling him he ought to be in school instead of out working but she knew all too well the plight of the poor and that they had to do whatever it took to survive. He scampered off and she glanced down at her sleeping baby, bundled in thick, warm blankets and riding in an expensive pram. She thanked God every day that she and Smythe would never need worry about their baby starving and she heartily wished for a world where no child went hungry. A blast of cold wind whipped past, scattering dead leaves along the pavement and jerking her out of her reverie.

Betsy wheeled the pram toward the greengrocer's shop and went inside. There was only one clerk and he was serving Madeleine Flurry. She stood at the edge of the vegetable bins watching as he dumped potatoes onto a newspaper spread beneath a hanging scale.

Betsy shoved the pram to her left and edged up to her quarry. Without being obvious, she glanced at Mrs. Flurry's midsection, but the woman's cloak was closed and she was holding her shopping basket in front of her.

“Will there be anything else, ma'am?” the young man asked.

“Nothing, thank you.” Mrs. Flurry put the basket on the counter while the clerk wrapped her potatoes and took out a small black change purse from the inside of her cloak. She unsnapped the top, took out her money, and handed it across the counter.

Betsy wanted to scream in frustration as the woman finished her business and started for the door. There was nothing for it but to get out of the greengrocer's as quickly as possible and follow the woman in the hopes that her cloak would blow open and that she'd put that stupid wicker basket down.

“May I help you, ma'am?” The clerk smiled at Betsy.

“A pound of carrots, please.” She looked toward the door, determined to see which way Mrs. Flurry turned when she left, but the woman had stopped and was staring at Amanda's pram.

Betsy put a friendly smile on her face just as Madeleine Flurry glanced her way. “Your baby is beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you. You're very kind.” Betsy flicked a quick look at the clerk and saw that he was almost finished wrapping her carrots. Good, she wanted to be ready to pursue her quarry if need be.

“Do you mind if I ask where you got your pram?” She lowered her shopping basket to her side and leaned to one side as she studied the brass joints holding the frame together. As she moved, her cloak opened, exposing her dress.

Betsy smiled widely. “Hitching's Baby Store on Oxford Street.”

“It's lovely. How old is the little one?”

“Just over a year,” Betsy said. Amanda was sleeping like an angel. “Before long, she'll be too big for the pram.”

“Here's your carrots, ma'am.” Betsy handed over her money, took the vegetables, and tucked them under her arm. She heard the shop door open but now she was in no hurry. She'd found out the most important thing that she needed to know and verifying the rest should be dead easy.

* * *

“The house and the furnishings have got to be worth a fortune,” Barnes said to Witherspoon as they waited in the drawing room of Martin Bagshot's Georgian-style Kensington home.

Witherspoon nodded as he surveyed the huge room. The walls were done in alternating strips of pale blue and lilac silk paper, heavy blue damask curtains framed the three windows overlooking the garden, and at each end of the room was a white marble fireplace. Sofas, love seats, ottomans, and wing chairs were upholstered in pale greens, blues, and lavenders. The parquet floor was covered with colorful rugs and the cabinets and tables hung with fringed runners. Paintings covered the wall and a huge Christmas tree, decorated so heavily some of the branches drooped, stood next to a grand piano in the far corner.

The double doors opened and Martin Bagshot charged inside. “What the devil do you want now?” he demanded as he stalked toward the two policemen. “I've told you everything I know and now my wife tells me you're here demanding to see me.”

Barnes fixed Bagshot with a hard glare, stopping him in his tracks.

“We're sorry to disturb you,” Witherspoon said. “But we've come across some new information and it's imperative we speak with you.”

Bagshot looked from the constable to Witherspoon. “You'll need to be quick about it, then. I've an appointment soon and I don't intend to be late.”

“Would it be more convenient coming to the station after your appointment, sir?” Barnes asked politely. He managed to keep most of the sarcasm out of his tone.

For a split second, fear flashed across Bagshot's face but then he forced himself to smile. “No, no, that won't be necessary. I'm sure this is something we can clear up quickly. Go on, ask your questions.”

Witherspoon looked at Barnes and gave a barely perceptible nod. “Mr. Bagshot,” Barnes said, “we'd like to know if you want to change your statement about where you were at the time of the murder?”

“I've already told you, I was shopping on Oxford Street.”

He was going to try and bluff it out, Barnes thought. Stupid fool. It was as obvious as the nose on his face that if they'd come all the way here to confront him, they knew he was nowhere near Oxford Street. “Are you certain, sir?”

“Of course I'm certain.” Bagshot tried to look outraged, but the fear was still there, lurking in his eyes. “I know where I was.”

“Mr. Bagshot.” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “We have a witness who saw you at the Uxbridge Road Station at five forty-five that day. Now, we both know the Uxbridge Road Station isn't anywhere near Oxford Street so you could hardly have been in two places at the same time.”

“I don't care who claimed to have seen me.” Bagshot's voice rose higher. “They're wrong. They've mistaken me for someone else.”

“Our witness knows you personally,” Witherspoon explained.

Bagshot's mouth dropped open and he stared at them for a long moment before moving to the nearest chair and flopping down. “It was Bradshaw, wasn't it? I should have known that self-righteous do-gooder wouldn't keep his mouth shut.”

* * *

“It's about time you showed up,” Blimpey said as Smythe slipped onto the stool opposite him.

“You said it was goin' to take a couple of days to find out anything,” he explained. “And it's a busy time of the year. I've been all over tryin' to find something for my Betsy.”

“Get her some jewelry,” Blimpey advised. “My Nell loves pearls. You'll have a Christmas drink with me.”

It was a command, not a question. “I'd be honored.” Smythe knew Blimpey well enough to know that he only drank with those he considered friends.

“Good.” He signaled the barmaid by holding up two fingers. “While we're waiting for our grog, I'll tell you what I've found out. First of all, Yancy Kimball is a gambler and not a very good one.”

Disappointed, Smythe fought to keep it from showing on his face. He didn't want to offend Blimpey but this was old news. “Yeah, we'd 'eard that already.”

“He's in deep to Mickey Gedigan,” Blimpey continued. “In case you've never 'eard of him, Gedigan is a nasty thug from Stepney who isn't patient with them that owes him money. He's been known to chop things off, if you get my meanin'.”

“Chop what off?”

“Not what yer thinkin'.” Blimpey chuckled. “Even Gedigan's not that brutal. But in the back rooms of certain pubs there's more than one punter playin' poker without their pinky finger.”

“'Ow deep is Kimball in the muck?” Smythe asked.

“My man says over five hundred quid.” Blimpey paused as the barmaid arrived with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Ta, Susie, just leave it, I'll pour,” he told her.

“Five hundred. That's a lot of money. Why'd this Gedigan fellow let him go so deep?”

Blimpey uncorked the whiskey and poured a shot into each glass. “He usually cuts them off if they get too far into debt to 'im. 'E's a mean bastard but he's a businessman and he'd rather get what's owed him than hack off a bit of bone and gristle. My man says Gedigan kept extendin' 'im because Kimball claimed his cousin would be good for it. But he was wrong about that. Edison had made it pretty clear that he wasn't goin' to be givin' Kimball any more handouts.”

“When was this?”

“Last week. Kimball nabbed him at the exchange and asked for a loan.” Blimpey grinned. “Knowin' his sort as I do, Kimball went there thinkin' his cousin would be afraid he'd make a fuss in front of his colleagues, but he was wrong about that, too. Edison told him in no uncertain terms, and in a loud enough voice for my source to overhear, that enough was enough. That he'd given him all he was goin' to get. Apparently, the argument got heated and Kimball trotted out that old chestnut about blood bein' thicker than water. But Edison wasn't swayed. He just said he had other obligations and walked away.”

“But the day of the murder, Kimball was supposed to 'ave dinner with Edison,” Smythe mused. “That sounds like they made it up.”

Blimpey snorted in derision. “I'm sure they did. Kimball's sort never stays on the bad side of a rich relative for very long. Edison was a decent fellow and I don't imagine it took too much grovelin' on Kimball's part to get back in his cousin's good graces.”

“He must have thought he could talk his cousin into payin' his passage back to New York,” Smythe said.

Blimpey shook his head. “Nah, he'd not be wantin' to go there.”

“Why not?”

“Because Kimball 'as an even bigger gamblin' debt on those fair shores. That's why he come to England this time. He was on the run from a gambler name Fenton Clegg, an even nastier piece of work than Gedigan. If Kimball so much as sets foot in New York, he'll be cut to ribbons.”

“So what was he up to, then?” Smythe drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Why was he wantin' to meet Edison for dinner that night at Barnaby's Restaurant? Edison wasn't going to give him any more money so if he wasn't goin' to 'it him up for a ticket 'ome—”

“'E probably just wanted a free meal,” Blimpey interrupted. “Kimball was skint so he was probably hungry. He'd spent what little coin 'e had knockin' back gin at the Crown and Scepter. That's a pub on Napier Road, just around the corner from Orlando Edison's house.” He pushed a glass of whiskey across the table.

Smythe nodded his thanks for the drink. “Bloomin' Ada, you are good. How did your source know to keep an eye on Kimball? Edison wasn't murdered until six that evenin'.”

Blimpey threw back his head and laughed. “It wasn't me keepin' an eye on him, it was one of Gedigan's boys. But, for a bit of discretion on my part and, of course, a hefty fee, he was willin' to share what he knew. He watched Kimball drinkin' at the pub until almost six o'clock, but then he 'ad to answer nature's call and when he got back, Kimball had scarpered.”