Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (20 page)

CHAPTER 9

“Mr. Downing, we know your argument with Mr. Edison had nothing to do with your wife,” Witherspoon said. “So it will save a great deal of time and effort on both our parts if you'll simply tell me the truth.”

Downing stared at the two policemen and then shoved away from the fireplace mantel he'd been leaning against. He flopped down in a green wing chair opposite where they sat on the sofa. “I suppose you've been talking with my lovely wife.” His voice dripped sarcasm. “Are you married, Inspector?”

“No, I'm not. I've never had the pleasure.” He stroked the soft wool of the muffler Ruth had knitted for him. The red and green scarf dangled around his neck and hung over his unbuttoned overcoat.

“Pleasure.” Downing laughed cynically. “Disabuse yourself of that notion, Inspector. Marriage wasn't invented for pleasure but for profit. At least that's what my father always told me, and I'm sure it's true because I've had damned little pleasure in my own—”

“That's enough, Charles.”

Witherspoon turned and saw Cecily Downing standing just inside the doorway. She was glaring at her husband and looked even less like “a foolish young woman” than at their last meeting. The gray dress she wore made her look skinny, not slender; her mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line; and her face was flushed an unbecoming shade of red.

“Enough what?” He leapt to his feet and scowled right back at her. “Enough love? Enough affection? Enough companionship? You tell me, Cecily—what have I had enough of?”

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner.” She took a step toward him.

“I'll speak to you any way I damned well please. I'm the master of this house and don't you forget it.”

“Master?” She laughed harshly and moved farther into the room. “You're master of nothing. You'd not even have a roof over your head if it wasn't for my family.”

Alarmed at the turn the conversation had taken, Witherspoon half rose from his seat in case he had to step between the warring couple. He flicked a quick glance at Barnes and saw that the constable had put his notebook aside and was at the ready. From experience, both policemen knew that domestic disputes could turn ugly in seconds.

But Cecily Downing had seen the change in their demeanor so she stopped, unclenched her fists, and visibly brought herself under control. “Charles, have you been drinking?” she demanded.

Witherspoon wondered the same thing himself.

“Not nearly enough.” Downing rushed to the fireplace and reached behind the holly piled on the mantel. He pulled out a glass half-full of amber liquid and waved it back and forth like a flag. “I was just having a nice drink of whiskey before these kind gentlemen”—he bowed in their direction—“arrived to tell me that they knew good and well that my wife wasn't romantically involved with Orlando Edison. Of course, I could have told them that. My wife isn't romantic with anyone, least of all her husband.”

“You're a disgusting drunk.” She turned on her heel and stalked out, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the windows.

Downing closed his eyes briefly and his shoulders slumped. “I'm sorry, Inspector, Constable. That was an ugly scene and you certainly shouldn't have been forced to see it.” He went to the wing chair, flopped down, and stared morosely at his drink. “Orlando's murder, coupled with the bankruptcy trial, has everyone's nerves on edge.”

“Of course, sir, we quite understand.” Witherspoon gazed at him sympathetically.

“How much have you had to drink, sir?” Barnes propped his notebook back on his knee and pulled out his pencil.

Downing's apologetic expression disappeared and was replaced by an outraged scowl. “I don't think that's any of your business. There's no law against a man drinking in his own home.”

Witherspoon winced inwardly. “The constable is only trying to determine if you're in a fit state to be interviewed, Mr. Downing. If you're not, we can come back at another time.”

“I've had one whiskey.” Downing put the glass down on the table next to the chair. “Which, I assure you, doesn't affect my reason or incapacitate me in any way.”

The inspector wasn't sure he believed him, but then again, a bit too much alcohol in the fellow might make him a tad more honest in his answers.

“In which case, we'll get this over and done with,” Witherspoon said briskly. “As I was saying, we know that your argument with Orlando Edison wasn't about your wife.”

He reached for the whiskey and took a quick drink. “No, it wasn't. It was about the trial. I went to see him to find out if he'd tell me what he intended to say.”

Witherspoon frowned in confusion. “I don't understand. How could he possibly tell you that? The witness stand isn't a preacher's pulpit. When you're under oath, you're meant to answer questions, not make statements. So unless you knew in advance what kind of questions were going to be asked of him—”

Downing interrupted. “I'm not an idiot, Inspector, I know that. But there are ways of handling the situation and I wanted to impress upon him that he was under no obligation to answer more than he was asked.”

“But surely his solicitor or barrister would have already given him those instructions,” the inspector pointed out.

Downing shrugged. “Orlando was quite capable of ignoring legal advice. He often did what he pleased, whether it was wise or not. I wanted to make sure he understood that what he said in court could have far-reaching consequences for the rest of us. This was a civil matter, not a criminal court, and I wanted to impress upon him that there was nothing wrong with keeping his answers short and to the point.”

“In other words, he should not volunteer anything even if it might be pertinent to the case.” Barnes' voice dripped sarcasm.

“I wouldn't put it quite like that, Constable,” Downing said defensively. “I wasn't asking him to prevaricate, only to mind his tongue. There were aspects to the company that we didn't think need be mentioned, private matters that had nothing to do with the company going under.”

“I don't understand.” Witherspoon stared at him curiously. “What private matters are you talking about?”

“Matters pertaining only to the board of directors.” He took another drink, this time draining his glass. “We didn't see why we should be embarrassed and have our names and reputations disparaged during the course of a public trial. I went there to try and talk some sense into the man.”

“In what way?” Witherspoon pressed.

“Come now, Inspector, as a policeman, you've testified in court a number of times. You know what I mean.” His expression was knowing and sly.

Witherspoon knew all too well. He'd seen more than one criminal walk out the courthouse doors a free man because the crown had an incompetent Queen's Counsel handling the prosecution.

“Even when one is under oath,” Downing continued, “one can be honest without blathering about matters that don't concern the court. Frankly, we didn't think that our annual compensation for serving on the board or how we'd been recruited to join had any bearing on the company going under. None of us—”

“You mean the Merry Gentlemen,” Barnes interrupted.

“That's right.” He nodded emphatically. “We weren't involved in the day-to-day running of the company nor should we be held responsible for the fact that the mine had no gold in it. All we wanted was a bit of restraint on his part. But Orlando didn't want to hear it. He said that he was done with shady dealings, that he'd tell the truth and answer everything he was asked honestly and completely.” He grimaced in disgust. “I don't know what got into him. We weren't asking him to lie, just to show a bit of discretion.”

“I see,” the inspector said. “Were the other Merry Gentlemen going to try and talk to him about this matter if you failed?”

“You make it sound like a terrible conspiracy, Inspector, and it wasn't that way at all.”

“Look at it from our point of view, Mr. Downing,” Barnes said. “You quarreled with him two days before he was killed and Martin Bagshot had the same kind of argument with him only one day before the murder.”

“When I wasn't able to convince him to be reasonable, Martin said he'd try. But that's hardly a conspiracy. Besides, Martin had no better luck than I did.”

Witherspoon leaned forward. “Paul Ralston visited him the afternoon he was killed—”

“Paul's visit to him wasn't planned and he didn't argue with him,” Downing interrupted. “He stopped in on the spur of the moment; it was a social call.”

“And the meeting the three of you had the morning after the murder, what was that really about?”

Downing shifted uneasily. “We've already told you, we wanted to see if we had a case for legal action.”

“Stop wasting our time, Mr. Downing,” Barnes snapped. “If you'd had grounds to bring a case of fraud against Edison you'd have done it well before the very day he was scheduled to testify. Now what was the meeting about?”

* * *

Mrs. Jeffries pulled on her gloves as she went down the front stairs. The afternoon meeting was done and evening was fast approaching, but she didn't care. All she'd do if she stayed inside would be to pace up and down the kitchen, driving Mrs. Goodge and even poor Fred to distraction. Reaching the pavement, she turned to her right, heading for the high street and a chance to get lost in the crowds.

She took a deep breath, taking in the mingled scent of smoke and raw damp that was uniquely London. Her footsteps pounded rhythmically against the pavement as she walked. There was so much to understand, so much to try to make sense of, that she felt overwhelmed and, truth be told, a bit concerned. Laura Hemmings hadn't come right out and said she was going to blackmail Paul Ralston, but Phyllis had been sure the girl had implied that was going to be her next step. Was she worrying for nothing? Both Phyllis and Mrs. Goodge seemed to think so, but she wasn't so sure. Blackmail was a dangerous business.

She sidestepped to avoid slamming into an elderly woman who'd stopped in the middle of the pavement to open her change purse. She joined the crowd waiting to cross the road just as a brougham swept past, cutting the corner so much that everyone jumped backward to save their toes from being crushed by the back wheel.

“Watch it, you stupid git.” A grizzled fellow waved his cap angrily at the back of the carriage, and there were angry mutterings from most of the others as well, but this happened all the time in the city, so everyone moved on.

Mrs. Jeffries continued on down the street. Tomorrow morning they were going to tell Barnes about Laura's theft of Ralston's letter and hopefully he'd know what, if anything, they should do. But what about now, what if that foolish girl decided to confront Ralston this evening? Wiggins and Smythe had both volunteered to go to Clapton and keep watch on her, but Phyllis said she thought Laura was too scared of Ralston's temper to confront him alone. If she followed through on her plan, she'd meet him in public.

But more importantly, what did this new development mean? They'd had no hint that Madeleine Flurry and Ralston knew one another, let alone had a relationship. On the other hand, Ralston and Edison had done business together for at least four years, so there was a good chance that Ralston could have met her socially through Edison. Could their relationship and not the Granger bankruptcy be the motive for the murder? Had Edison flown into a jealous rage when he'd learned the woman he loved had betrayed him with another man? It was possible but there was something about that scenario that didn't ring true.

As she passed the baker's shop, a young woman ran out the door and almost collided with Mrs. Jeffries. “Beg pardon, ma'am,” she called as she raced past. She wore an apron but not a coat and carried a letter in her hand.

“No harm done.” Mrs. Jeffries watched the girl run to the postbox in front of the tobacconist's and pop her letter inside. Something tugged in the back of her mind again, and this time, she snatched the edge of the wretched imp before it completely disappeared. She went still and stood there for a good five minutes remembering bits and pieces about the case that had been shared at their meetings. A street lad bumped her arm, snapping her back to the here and now.

“Oy, Mrs. Jeffries, you alright? You've been standin' there like you're playin' statues.” He stared at her curiously.

“Hello, David, I'm fine, I'm just thinking,” she replied. His name was David Raymond and he was a local lad who helped support his family by doing odd jobs and errands. He was skinny, red haired, and wearing an oversized coat Wiggins had outgrown. She'd given him the garment in November and was glad he was making use of it. He was a sharp, intelligent boy and it pained her that he was out working instead of in school getting a decent education. But she'd see to it that at least he was decently paid for his efforts. She pointed across the street to a hansom cab that had just dropped a fare. “Hurry, David, there's a florin in it for you if you get me that hansom cab before someone else grabs it.”