Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (21 page)

* * *

Constable Griffiths was waiting for them outside of the Downing house when the inspector and Barnes emerged. “I was hopin' I'd not missed you,” he explained. “The duty sergeant told me you were goin' to be talking to the Merry Gentlemen again. I went to the Bagshot house but the butler said you'd already left and, as this was the closest one, I figured you'd be here.”

“Good thinking, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “One of these days you'll be a fine detective.”

“Thank you, sir.” Griffiths grinned broadly, pleased that Witherspoon had noticed his abilities.

“What is it, Constable?” Barnes asked. Evening was turning into night and the temperature was dropping fast. He didn't want to stand about on the pavement breathing in the freezing air longer than necessary. “Has something else happened?”

“No, sir, but I'm goin' off duty and I knew you wanted a report on those other carolers. This area is on my way home so I thought I'd tell you what we found.”

“Excellent, an oral report will save us some time.” Witherspoon wound his scarf around his neck and looked at the two constables. “Constable Barnes, shall we try and see Paul Ralston before we call it a day? I'd like to hear what he has to say.”

“So would I, sir,” Barnes replied.

“Good. Constable Griffiths, let's hear your report as we walk.”

They started off in the direction of the Notting Hill High Street. Griffiths took out his notebook and flipped it open. “There were eight carolers that night including Mr. Idlicote and Miss Parsons, and Constable Barnes had already spoken with them, so Constable Eldon and me tracked down five of the other six. We got lucky, they all live nearby. There's a Mr. Meecham, a Miss Hadley—”

“You don't need to give us their names,” Barnes interrupted. “Just be sure and include them in the written report.”

“Right, sir.” He flicked a quick look at his superior and then went back to his notebook. “They all said much the same thing.”

“Let me guess.” Barnes sighed wearily. “No one saw or heard anything.”

“That's pretty much it, sir, except that Mr. Meecham said the sixth caroler, a lad named Danny Wigan, had mentioned that he thought he saw someone at the downstairs door.”

“You mean the tradesmen's entrance?” Barnes clarified.

“That's right, sir. Wigan wasn't home when we went to speak to him. His neighbor says he went to Manchester for Christmas and he won't be back until after Boxing Day.”

“Let's hope we have this case solved by then.” Witherspoon sighed. “But if we don't, we'll have a word with Mr. Wigan. Good work, Constable, this is very helpful.”

* * *

Mrs. Jeffries climbed the stairs to John and Fiona Sutcliffe's Mayfair mansion and banged the knocker. Beneath her cloak, she rubbed her hands briskly up and down her crossed arms. It was full night now and the temperature had dropped sharply. She'd told Mrs. Goodge she was taking a walk, and she knew if she didn't get home before it got too late, the cook would have the entire household out looking for her. She didn't want to worry them, but an idea was taking shape in her mind and before she could develop it any further, there was something she had to find out.

The door opened and Mrs. Sanger, the Sutcliffes' housekeeper, stared at her in surprise. “Mrs. Jeffries! I didn't know you were expected. Please come in, it's dreadfully cold out there.”

“I'm not expected,” Mrs. Jeffries explained as she stepped into the foyer. “And I do apologize for just barging in like this, but I must speak to Mr. Sutcliffe. Is he at home?”

“He and Mrs. Sutcliffe are in the drawing room.” She hesitated, as if unsure of what to do next.

“I'll wait here while you announce me,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. Generally, a family member wouldn't need to be formally announced but as Mrs. Jeffries' current relationship with her sister-in-law was still somewhat new, she didn't blame the housekeeper for being uncertain of how she ought to be treated.

Mrs. Sanger smile gratefully. “I'll be right back.”

She didn't have to wait long before Fiona appeared. “Hepzibah, what a lovely surprise. Come in, come in, I've told Mrs. Sanger that from now on, she needn't announce you. You're family.”

“How lovely of you to say that.” Mrs. Jeffries hurried toward her and, impulsively, gave her a hug.

When they drew apart, she could see that Fiona was startled, but pleased.

“Now, tell me what brings you here tonight,” Fiona demanded with mock severity, “and why it's John you want to see and not me.”

Mrs. Jeffries laughed as they went into the drawing room. John Sutcliffe rose from his seat and came toward her. He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Hepzibah, I can't tell you how delighted I am that it's me you came to visit and not my wife. Come and make yourself comfortable. I'll pour you a drink. Sherry, right?”

“I'd love a drink but I'm afraid I can't stay long.” She sat down on an overstuffed chair. “My household doesn't know I'm here—they think I'm taking a walk.”

“Thinking about the inspector's latest case, are you? We know that he's investigating the Edison murder.” Fiona sank down opposite her. “Which means, if I'm not mistaken, that you're here because there's something we can do to help.”

“There is, but I don't want you to think that I'm being presumptuous or—or—”

“Don't be silly,” Fiona interrupted with an impatient wave of her hand. “When I came to you, you didn't turn me away. We're always glad to assist in any way we can and you know whatever you ask of us will go no further than this room. What do you need?”

“I believe I'm the one she needs,” John said smoothly. He handed her a delicate crystal glass of Harvey's.

“That's correct.” Mrs. Jeffries took a quick sip and gathered her thoughts. “When I was here for dinner the other evening, you sent off a note telling your broker to sell certain stocks.”

“That's right, I wanted to get rid of my mining stocks.”

“The ones in the Transvaal?” She waited until he nodded. “Oh dear, there's no right way to ask this, but I'm in need of somewhat of an expert opinion and, well, I know you're a very prudent investor. So may I ask you, did you sell them because your broker recommended you sell?”

He regarded her curiously. “I sold them because I think most people, myself included, leapt into mining stocks a bit too quickly. There's plenty of gold in the Transvaal, but not in every single mine.”

“Can you explain that further?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“You've heard of the Witwatersrand Gold Rush?” He paused and when she inclined her head, he continued. “That was in 1886 but gold had been mined in the region since the 1850s. But as you know, it was the huge find of '86 that started the rush. Within a short period of time, the place was swarming with anyone who was able to swing a shovel. People were staking claims left and right and of course, very shortly, investors were buying anything they could get someone to sell. Unfortunately, the competition was so fierce that a number of mines were bought and developed without the proper amount of diligence as to whether or not there was actually enough gold to make mining profitable. It took a few years before all of this came to light, but there have been articles in the financial press detailing some of the frenzy that went on during the rush and, of course, the ramifications for investors. That's why I sold my shares.”

“You found out that your shares were in mines without any gold?” She wanted to make sure she understood.

“I don't know whether there was gold in them or not, but after hanging on to the shares for months and seeing no return on my money, I decided to sell.”

“Did the Granger Mine going bankrupt influence your decision?”

“Of course, but the Granger isn't the only mine to go under,” he said. “There have been half a dozen others.”

There was only one more question she needed to ask. “Was there ever any indication of fraud about the companies that have gone bankrupt?”

“You mean, did the investors who came together to buy the claims and form the companies know how little gold there might be in any given mine?” He steepled his fingers together, thought for a moment, and then gave a negative shake of his head. “No, I've not heard any hints in that direction. It is more a matter of everyone being in such a hurry to grab a portion for themselves that they bought up any claim that was for sale.”

“In your opinion, was there fraud connected to the Granger Mine?” she asked.

“Not that I've heard,” he replied. “And some gold was actually found there. There just wasn't very much of it.”

* * *

“It's about time you got here.” Mrs. Goodge stood in the middle of the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “We were getting worried.”

“'Ow far did you walk?” Wiggins hung his jacket back on the coat tree. “Good thing you showed up now, I was goin' to come lookin' for you.”

Phyllis, who'd just started to lay the table, put the stack of plates down and gave Mrs. Jeffries a disapproving frown. “I'm glad you're back safely. I was havin' all sorts of horrid thoughts about what might have happened to you.”

Mrs. Jeffries gazed at their worried faces and noted that even Fred looked annoyed with her. “I'm so sorry.” She took off her cloak and hat. “But when I was out walking, I suddenly realized that there was someone who could answer a very important question so I went to Mayfair to see my brother-in-law.” She paused as she heard a hansom cab pull up outside. “Oh dear, that's the inspector. Well, at least I got home before he did.”

“Tell him dinner won't be ready for another half hour,” Mrs. Goodge said.

Mrs. Jeffries made it to the hall as he came in the front door. “Good evening, sir.” She rushed forward and held out her hand for his hat. “How was your day? Any new developments with the case?”

He handed her his bowler. “We're making progress, I think, but frankly, it's very slow going. I think a sherry will be most welcome.”

A few moments later, she handed him a glass of Harvey's and sat down opposite him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He took a sip and settled against the seat cushions. “I suppose I shouldn't be discouraged, we have found out some useful information. We began the day with a visit to Yancy Kimball and then went on to have a nice chat with Martin Bagshot. Both interviews were very interesting. By some very clever trickery on Constable Barnes' part, Bagshot admitted he wasn't shopping on Oxford Street when Edison was murdered and we also learned quite a bit about Kimball.” He told her the details of their visit with Kimball.

“He actually admitted he thought he was Edison's sole heir,” she commented when Witherspoon paused to take a sip of his sherry.

He nodded. “Oh yes and he was rather distraught when he found out the truth. Our interview with Martin Bagshot was enlightening as well,” he said.

Mrs. Jeffries gradually relaxed as he reported what had happened with Bagshot. She'd been concerned about the burden they were forcing on the good constable. Barnes would never complain, but she knew that having to come up with one story after another about how he'd stumbled across the information they fed him must be tiresome. But in this case, it had definitely paid off. “Bagshot admitted he was at the Edison home?”

“Indeed he did, but as I said, he claimed that when he saw the body and the police milling about the place, he panicked and ran. He said he was so upset that he went straight home and shut himself in his study with a bottle of brandy. But neither his wife nor any of the servants can confirm that.”

“Do you believe him? After all, he did have a terrible quarrel with the victim the day before the murder.”

Witherspoon shrugged. “At this point, I don't know. But to be fair, Charles Downing argued with Edison, and for all we know, Paul Ralston and he might have had words as well.” He broke off and drained his glass.

“They were really angry about the Granger Mine going bankrupt,” she commented. But somehow, even as she said it, she didn't think that was the reason Edison had died. Surprised by the notion that flitted into her mind, she blinked, but before she could figure out what her own inner voice was trying to tell her, the inspector continued talking.

“They were, but as professional investors, they know that investing in anything is risky.” His brows drew together. “I think their anger at Edison was more than just the mine going under.”

“Like what, sir?” She got up and refilled both their glasses.

“I'm not entirely certain but I do know that the three of them were concerned about what Edison might say when he took the witness stand—Charles Downing admitted that much to us. He told us the meeting they had the morning after Edison was murdered wasn't about seeing if the Merry Gentlemen had legal grounds to bring a fraud charge against the victim, which is what they originally claimed, but to determine if his testimony might damage their reputations. But before the meeting got started, they found out he was dead.”

“Did he say anything else, sir?” She put his drink down next to him and took her seat.

“He said a number of things. He'd had a drink before we arrived and I believe it loosened his tongue.” He recounted the interview with Downing, telling her everything, including the uncomfortable moment when Cecily Downing had called her husband a disgusting drunk. Then he recounted their meeting with Constable Griffiths and, finally, going to the Ralston home. “But Mr. Ralston had already left for a dinner party, so we'll have a word with him tomorrow.”

* * *

Mrs. Jeffries opened the bottom drawer of the pine sideboard and took out the heavy mahogany chest that held the silverware. Grunting with effort, she lugged it to the table where a tin of silver polish, a heap of clean rags, and the previous day's
Times
were spread. She put it down, unlatched the brass hinges, and opened it before taking her seat. Reaching inside, she took out the top four spoons, laid them on the newspaper, and then pried the lid off the tin of polish.