Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (4 page)

“Do you know what time he was to leave?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, he didn't tell me, he just said he had plans for supper and we weren't to worry about him.” She shook her head. “I'm sorry, I can't understand this. Mr. Edison was a good man. Who would want to kill him? Who would do such a wicked thing?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Clarridge,” Witherspoon said softly. “But I assure you, we'll find that person and bring them to justice.”

CHAPTER 2

Now that he was here, Wiggins knew exactly what to do. Finding the murder house was dead easy. Despite the cold, half the neighborhood huddled together in small groups on both sides of the street, pointing and gawking at the constable standing guard on the doorstep. The victim had lived in the last house at the end of the road. Wiggins had passed it many times over the years and knew it to be a posh, four-story light brown brick home with a brightly painted green door and windows with white-painted trim. A concrete walkway led the short distance from the street to a low, wide set of steps going to the front door while a second path branched off to a lower staircase going down to what was probably the kitchen.

He stomped his feet to get the circulation moving in his toes and rubbed his hands together to keep warm while he surveyed the crowd, looking for a likely source. This was his neighborhood and as his gaze flicked from face to face, he realized he recognized half these people by sight and it was a good bet they knew him, too. Good, that could work to his advantage.

He moved through the groups huddled along the pavement until he spotted a skinny young lad wearing an oversized jacket and a green knitted cap with dangling earflaps. It was Georgie Marks, the delivery boy from Wynn's, their grocer's shop. “Hey, Georgie,” he said as he sidled up to him, “what's all the fuss about 'ere?”

Georgie pointed to the house. “You should know, your guv's in there already.”

“I've not seen my guv since early this mornin'. I've not even been home yet, I was out with my mate Tommy at the pub.”

“There's been murder done.” Georgie's eyes brightened with excitement. “The poor feller was lyin' right out on his doorstep. I know—I saw it myself. He had his head bashed in. I got a real good look before they carted the body over to the wagon.”

“Cor blimey, a murder! That's awful. Who was he, then, the one who was done in?” Wiggins asked.

“Mr. Orlando Edison. He buys his groceries from our shop.”

“He does his own shoppin'?”

Georgie looked at him as if he was stupid. “Don't be daft! 'Course not. His housekeeper does that. But he stops in every month to settle the account. Mrs. Wynn is goin' to be upset at him dyin' like this. He was a right good customer. Paid promptly and was always as polite as could be.”

“Did ya ever meet him yourself?” Wiggins scanned the crowd to see if there were any additional sources he could tap.

“'Course I did,” Georgie boasted. “He were in the kitchen just last week when I was doin' the delivery. He give me a few bob, said it was a Christmas tip. Most rich men don't do that, they don't give you nuthin' and look at ya like you're supposed to be grateful to be servin' them. But 'e weren't like that—'e was a nice bloke. Just yesterday I overheard Kitty Long, she's one of the maids, tellin' Mrs. Wynn that Mr. Edison was givin' the 'ousehold a special treat tonight.”

Wiggins gave the lad his full attention. “What kind of treat?”

Georgie's eyes narrowed. “You tryin' to 'elp your guv by askin' questions?”

He smiled ruefully. “Nah, I'm just bein' nosy. Come on, then, tell me what's what.”

Georgie leaned closer. “Well, I don't know if it's worth passin' on, but Kitty told Mrs. Wynn that he was payin' for all them to go out to the theater tonight. They was goin' to the Gaiety and Mr. Edison was givin' them pocket money to pay for hansom cabs home and a bit extra so they could buy them sweets they sell.”

“He sounds an even nicer man than our guv,” Wiggins muttered.

“That's what I thought, too, and everyone round here knows how good your guv is to his household. I said as much to Mrs. Wynn, I said, ‘That Mr. Edison sounds even better to them that works for him than Inspector Witherspoon,' but Mrs. Wynn, she just snorted and said there was more to it than him bein' a decent master. She claimed he was only good to his people so they'd keep their mouths closed about his shenanigans. Mind you, she says that sort of thing about everyone.”

Wiggins nodded as his mind worked furiously. Despite the way she smiled as she bustled about her shop, Mrs. Wynn was as two-faced and catty as anyone he'd ever seen or heard. The woman never had anything nice to say about anyone or anything. Mrs. Goodge called her a crepe draper and some of their neighbors had actually stopped shopping at Wynn's. But he'd once heard Mrs. Jeffries say that even though Mrs. Wynn's tongue was unpleasant, it was often truthful. “Did Mrs. Wynn say what she meant by that remark?”

“Huh?” Georgie pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and blew his runny nose. “What do ya mean?”

“Cor blimey, Georgie, it's as clear as that drippin' snout of yours. What was she talkin' about? Come on, lad, you're a sharp one, you know what I'm askin'. Was she just bein' mean or did she have a reason for what she said?”

Delighted by the backhanded compliment, Georgie grinned broadly. “For once she wasn't just bein' her usual nasty self. She did have a reason for what she said. Mrs. Crumley was in the shop when Kitty was natterin' on about what a wonderful master Edison was, and Mrs. Wynn is always lookin' to best her when it comes to bein' in the know. So the minute Kitty left the shop, Mrs. Wynn turned to Mrs. Crumley and said Mr. Edison wasn't a saint, that she'd seen him in Holland Park a few days back with a young woman and the woman was cryin' like a baby.”

“Did she tell Mrs. Crumley what the two of 'em was talkin' about?” Wiggins pressed.

“I don't know what she said then—I 'ad to get on with the morning deliveries.” Georgie wadded the hanky up and stuffed it back in his coat pocket. “Still, I don't care what Mrs. Wynn thought of him, he was a nice fellow and treated the people who worked for him like they wasn't just dirt under his feet. Kitty said he was always good to them. Why do people like him have to get murdered? Seems to me that if God was doin' his job properly, he'd only let the horrid ones get their heads bashed in.”

Wiggins understood what poor Georgie was trying to say and, in his own way, he'd often had the same thought. Why did seemingly good people get murdered when there were so many wicked ones about? He and Mrs. Goodge often discussed that topic; but right now, he needed information. “Wonder what the killer used to bash 'im.”

“I heard it was a club of some sort,” Georgie said.

“It was a shovel,” a female voice said from behind them.

They both turned. A young woman who Wiggins recognized as the maid from the last house on the corner of Upper Edmonton Gardens stood there. She was a tall, dark-haired girl swathed in a heavy cloak and scarf that had slipped off her head and pooled around her neck.

“It was a miner's shovel,” she continued.

“How do ya know that?” Georgie demanded. “And what would Mr. Edison have been doin' with a miner's shovel, diggin' for gold? I've been standin' here as long as you 'ave and I didn't hear that.”

“Then you're not listening closely. One of the coppers carryin' out the stretcher said as much to the other coppers. Mind you, I can't imagine why there'd be a miner's shovel in a big, fancy house like this.” She pointed toward the front door. “But maybe the copper got it wrong and it was just a plain old gardenin' shovel.”

* * *

A pot of fresh-brewed tea was on the table when Mrs. Jeffries came into the kitchen. Surprised, she stopped in the doorway. “I thought I heard voices but I assumed it would be Phyllis and Wiggins. What on earth are you doing here?” She untied the black ribbons from underneath her chin as she headed to the coat tree. “I thought you were having dinner with the inspector.”

“We did have dinner,” Ruth replied. “But during coffee, Constable Barnes came and got Gerald. There's been a murder; that's why I'm here. We're waiting for Wiggins now.”

“The lad came home just as Ruth arrived, so he scarpered off to see what he could find out at the murder scene.” Mrs. Goodge poured a cup of tea and put it at the housekeeper's spot.

“It's close by, then?” She took off her bonnet and hung it on the peg and then unbuttoned the fastening of her cloak.

“Less than a quarter of a mile, on Holland Road,” Ruth said. “The only other bit of information I heard was the victim's name is Orlando Edison and Chief Inspector Barrows found the body.”

“Chief Inspector Barrows found the body?” Mrs. Jeffries put her cloak up. “Gracious, that's a bit unusual. He's normally behind a desk at Scotland Yard.”

“We'll know more when Wiggins gets back,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“Orlando Edison . . .” Mrs. Jeffries came to the table and sat down. “That name sounds so familiar. But for the life of me, I can't place it now. Perhaps we ought to notify Smythe and Betsy . . . no, that can wait until tomorrow morning. Besides, they're out this evening.”

“Wouldn't you just know that our inspector would get a case on the one night everyone's gone,” the cook complained. “Luckily for us, he was having dinner with Ruth; otherwise, we'd not be able to find out anything until tomorrow. And it's lucky Wiggins came home at a decent hour so we might find out a few bits and pieces from the neighbors.” It was the household's custom to get “on the case” as quickly as possible.

“I hope he's being careful,” Ruth murmured. “Most of the constables know him by sight.”

“As do many of the neighbors.” Mrs. Goodge frowned. “But he's a clever lad and he'll know what to do.”

* * *

“Mrs. Clarridge, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.” Witherspoon put the stack of business correspondence he'd looked through back in the wooden tray on the corner of Edison's desk.

She carried a tray holding a pot of tea, two mugs, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Their earlier interview had been interrupted. When the maids learned their employer had been murdered, they'd set up an unholy racket that had the housekeeper leaping up and racing for the kitchen.

Witherspoon had used the break to finish searching Edison's study while Barnes had tactfully withdrawn to let the housekeeper minister to the sobbing girls. He'd come up and commandeered the dining room to use for his interviews. He was in there now with the cook, a stoic older woman not given to displays of emotion or hysteria.

“It was no trouble, Inspector, and making tea gave the girls something to do. I'm sorry they lost control and made such a fuss, but they're both very young.” She set the tray down on the small table between the brown leather love seat and matching chair sitting catty-corner to Edison's desk. She gestured for the inspector to sit.

“I hope you don't mind, Inspector, but I took tea to the constables outside. It's very cold tonight.” She sat down on the love seat and handed him a mug of tea. “I've added milk and sugar but if you need more, it's here.”

“Thank you, ma'am, that's very thoughtful of you.” He smiled gratefully as he took the cup. “I'm sure this will be fine.” Her eyes were red from weeping, but she had herself well under control.

“I'm sure you've a lot of questions for me.” She straightened her spine and folded her hands in her lap.

“When you left the house, did you notice anyone suspicious hanging about on the street?”

“I wasn't really paying attention, Inspector, but I don't recall seeing anyone in particular. There were people out and about, of course. It's a busy street and there's shops just around the corner.”

“Did Mr. Edison have any enemies?” He hated asking that question. Of course the man had enemies; he'd had his skull bashed in and that wasn't the act of a friend. Nonetheless, it was an inquiry he had to make.

She said nothing for a moment. “I wouldn't say he had enemies, per se,” she finally said. “But there were people who were upset with him.”

“You mean because of the Granger Mine bankruptcy?” Witherspoon remembered what Barrows had said earlier.

“I'm sure there's some that would blame him, but it wasn't his fault. Mr. Edison is—was—a businessman. All investments carry risk and most people know that.”

“Had anyone threatened him about this matter, this bankruptcy?” He took a sip of tea.

“Not that I know about,” she said. “But that's hardly the sort of subject he'd discuss with me.”

“Did Mr. Edison do anything out of the ordinary today?”

“Out of the ordinary?” she repeated. “I'm not sure what you mean. Unless he was meeting with a potential investor or going to the stock exchange, he was often at home during the day.” She waved her hand around the room, gesturing at the file boxes on the lower bookshelves and then at the desk with the wooden correspondence trays overflowing with papers, the crystal ink pot and cloisonné pen, and the green ceramic jar that housed a dozen pencils. “This was his workplace and today was like any other. He didn't have any appointments so after breakfast he came in here and went through his correspondence, wrote his replies, and then called Kitty to take them to the postbox on the corner.”