Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (7 page)

“That's certainly true.” Mrs. Goodge glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “It's gettin' on and I've got to do more baking for my sources—”

Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “How are you fixed for provisions?”

The cook did all her investigating right from the kitchen. She had an army of tradespeople, delivery boys, gasworks men, and street vendors that popped in and out of her little empire on a daily basis. With buttery scones, cherry tarts, seedcake, and currant buns she plied her sources with mouthwatering treats and endless cups of tea. She extracted every morsel of gossip that was to be had about the victim, the suspects, and anyone else whose name popped up in the course of an investigation. Mrs. Goodge had worked in some of the finest homes in all England. If her street sources failed her, a lifetime spent in service had given her a vast network of former colleagues that she could call upon for information. She'd come to the Witherspoon household after getting sacked from her previous position for being “too old.” When she'd first arrived, she'd been a hidebound old snob who considered working for a mere policeman a step down in the world. But once she'd been pulled into the inspector's investigations, once she'd seen that the rich and powerful were capable of the most heinous crimes while some of the poorest and the least were capable of self-sacrifice and honor, she'd changed. Now she took her commitment to justice very seriously and she was as proud of her accomplishments in contributing to justice as she was of her cooking.

“I've got plenty in for the baking”—she glanced in the direction of the dry larder—“but I could use some vegetables. I need some carrots and turnips for tonight's stew.”

“I'll get them for you,” Phyllis volunteered. “It'll give me an excuse to speak to Mrs. Preston at the greengrocer's. She might know something about our Mr. Edison.”

“And I'll take Amanda in her pram and talk to some of the shopkeepers over on the Kensington High Street,” Betsy offered. “We might as well cover the whole area.”

“Mind you wrap my lambkins up warmly,” Mrs. Goodge said. “It's cold out there.”

Everyone looked at Luty, who always jumped in whenever the baby was mentioned. But she was staring off in the distance, her brows furrowed in deep concentration.

Hatchet reached over and tapped her hand. “You're uncharacteristically silent, madam. Is everything alright?”

Luty started. “Yup, I'm fine, I'm just tryin' to remember where I've heard them names before. Now Orlando Edison, he was easy. He's that stock promoter that's always pushin' mining shares, especially the ones in South Africa.”

“South Africa?” Ruth repeated. “You mean places like Cape Town?”

“No, not there, the other place, the one that's got all the gold—Johannesburg. Gossip was that he made a bundle during the Witwatersrand Rush in '87 and '88 but then he figured out that it was lots easier makin' others do the actual prospectin' and took to promotin' mines rather than swingin' a pickax. But it's them other names . . .”

“What other names?” Hatchet asked irritably.

Luty's eyes widened. “Ralston, Bagshot, and Downing, yes, yes, that's it. Now I remember where I've heard of 'em. They're the Merry Gentlemen.”

* * *

“Mrs. Clarridge, Mr. Edison had two arguments on the two successive days prior to his murder and you heard both of them. Yet when I asked you if anything out of the ordinary had happened recently, the only thing you thought to mention was Mr. Ralston's visit yesterday afternoon.” Witherspoon stood in front of the unlighted fireplace and watched the housekeeper's face. She was sitting on the sofa in the drawing room and the inspector wanted to ascertain if she'd deliberately misled him the previous night. He wasn't very good at reading expressions but it was a skill he was trying his best to master.

“What are you implying, Inspector?” she demanded. “That I was purposely trying to deceive you?”

“Not at all, ma'am,” he said quickly. Perhaps he'd practice his face-reading skills at another time. “But sometimes, people are hesitant to make comments about the deceased. Especially if they admired and respected that person, they don't want to mention anything that might diminish them in the eyes of others. I sense that Mr. Edison was the best of employers and very well liked by his staff.”

Her face softened and her eyes filled with tears. “He was a wonderful man, Inspector, and this is the best post I've ever had. But I wasn't keeping anything a secret, I simply was so rattled I forgot all about the other incidents. It was late and when we came home to find the house filled with police, well, between trying to calm the others and make sense of what happened in my own mind, I'm amazed I could even remember my own name. But rest assured, the moment you'd gone I realized I ought to have told you about both incidents and that they might have been important.”

Witherspoon believed her. “Could you tell me now? Let's start with the one from two days prior to Mr. Edison's murder. Who exactly was arguing with the victim?”

“It was Mr. Downing. He arrived unexpectedly and insisted on speaking to Mr. Edison.”

“What's Mr. Downing's full name?”

“He's Mr. Charles Downing,” she replied. “And he lives on Argyll Road in Kensington.”

“And the other one?”

“Mr. Martin Bagshot was the one who quarreled with Mr. Edison the day before yesterday. Like Mr. Downing, he lives quite close by, on Sunningdale Gardens in Kensington.”

Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. “Excellent. And can you tell me what relationships Mr. Downing and Mr. Bagshot had with Mr. Edison?”

“They did business together. Both men were investors in the Granger Mine and both of them are on the board of directors.” She broke off as the sound of loud voices came from the foyer.

Witherspoon turned just as the drawing room door crashed open and three men, followed by a constable, charged into the room.

“Ye gods, it's true, then?” The portly man leading the pack directed his question to Mrs. Clarridge. “He's really dead?”

“Get back into the hall,” the constable shouted as he scurried in front of them and tried to herd them back toward the foyer. “Sorry, sir,” he said to Witherspoon. “I tried to keep them out.”

“Not to worry, Constable. Let the gentlemen come inside. It's alright.” The constable glared at the intruders, nodded respectfully to the inspector, and left, closing the door behind him.

Mrs. Clarridge stared stonily at the trio of newcomers as she rose to her feet. “You're correct, sir. To the household's great sadness, our master, Mr. Edison, has passed away,” she announced. Then she pointed toward one of the men, who was middle-aged, with curly light brown hair, noticeable jowls, and a huge handlebar mustache. “That's Mr. Downing,” she said to Witherspoon. “You can ask him yourself why he was arguing with Mr. Edison.”

“Now see here, I don't know what you're talking about,” Downing blustered.

“Presumably, you're the policeman in charge here.” A much younger man, who'd been standing behind the other two, stepped past them and looked at Witherspoon. He had dark hair, ears that stuck out, and blue eyes. “So I take it it's true, Orlando was murdered?”

Before the inspector could reply, Mrs. Clarridge touched his sleeve. “I must go downstairs, sir. Cook and I are going over the menu for the funeral reception. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready for me again.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clarridge, I'll come speak with you further when I'm finished with these gentlemen.”

As soon as she'd gone, Witherspoon said, “I'm Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. I assume you're all friends of the victim.”

“Victim?” The man who'd led the pack into the room spoke now. He had thinning blond hair streaked with gray, a very ruddy complexion, and a potbelly that his well-tailored blue suit couldn't quite hide. “Good gracious, then it's true, he was murdered.”

“That's right. Now, why don't you all introduce yourselves and tell me how you found out about Mr. Edison's death?”

The youngest man extended his hand to the inspector. “Forgive us, sir. We've forgotten our manners. I'm Paul Ralston, a business associate of Mr. Edison's. This”—he nodded toward the tubby blond fellow—“is Martin Bagshot and, as Mrs. Clarridge pointed out, the other gentleman is Charles Downing.”

“We're all business associates,” Bagshot said quickly. “This is unbelievable, I'm not sure I can take it in.” He moved to the sofa and flopped down. “Murder? That simply doesn't happen to people like us.”

“I assure you it does, sir,” Witherspoon said as he moved toward the door. He stuck his head into the foyer. “Can you please go and get Constable Barnes and Constable Griffiths,” he called to the policeman at the door. Barnes and Griffiths were both downstairs reinterviewing the servants.

He turned back to the drawing room. “How is it that all three of you arrived here together?”

It was Downing who answered. “We had an early morning meeting together, Inspector, at my home. We heard talk that he'd died and came round to see if it was true.”

“How did you learn of his death?”

“From my housekeeper,” Downing said. “She'd heard about it from someone in the neighborhood. I live very close by, just around the corner. She mentioned it to my wife, who mentioned it to me.”

Witherspoon wished Barnes and Griffiths would get here soon. He wasn't sure questioning them all together in the same room was wise. Yet now that he'd started, it was difficult to stop. He tried to think of a somewhat innocuous one. “Was Mr. Edison supposed to be at your meeting this morning?”

“Absolutely not.” Bagshot's heavy brows drew together.

Oh dear, Witherspoon thought, perhaps this line of inquiry wasn't prudent, either. “And why is that? You said Mr. Edison was a business associate, and apparently he was closely enough involved in your affairs that you rushed over here to confirm whether or not he was dead.”

“Edison wasn't there because we were trying to decide if we ought to take action against him.” Ralston smiled faintly. “Legal action, Inspector. We think we might have had grounds to show he'd deliberately misled and defrauded us.”

* * *

Phyllis hummed faintly as she rounded the corner onto the high street. She daydreamed as she made her way up past the butcher's, not bothering to notice that the place was empty and she'd have had a good chance to talk to the girl behind the counter. Her mind was full of the story she'd seen again at the theater, the tale of Bessie Brent, a working girl like herself who had been discovered to be the long-lost daughter of a miner and she herself an heiress. Well, she wasn't exactly like the heroine in the play—Bessie worked in a London shop while Phyllis was only a housemaid—but it was close enough to her own life, except that she didn't have a young man in her life like Bessie did.

A scruffy lad raced past her, bumping her arm just as she came to the baker's shop. “Sorry, miss,” the boy yelled over his shoulder. Sighing, her reverie interrupted, she glanced in the window and saw Hilda Ferguson, housekeeper to one of their neighbors from Upper Edmonton Gardens, talking to the clerk. Mrs. Ferguson wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise, so she moved on, crossing the road to the butcher's shop. But there were three people in line waiting to be served. She moved on toward the greengrocer's. It was empty but that was probably because it was more of an open stall than a proper shop and it was freezing. But beggars couldn't be choosers and she had promised Mrs. Goodge she'd pick up the vegetables.

Stepping inside, she smiled at Dulcie, the clerk on the far side of the bins. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Is your mum not working today?”

“She's got the sniffles so she's stayin' home this morning. It's cold today.” Dulcie Preston, a thin, red-haired girl wearing a heavy jacket under her apron and gloves with the fingers cut out, blew on her hands. “Too cold for Mum to be here—she had pneumonia last year and Da didn't want her takin' ill again. I heard your inspector got that Edison murder from round the corner. I saw Georgie Marks this mornin' and he was there last night and he said poor Mr. Edison had his head bashed to bits.”

“That's what we heard, too,” Phyllis said. “Did you know him?”

“I didn't know him, but I've seen him before. He was a nice-looking man, handsome, if you know what I mean. But his household has always bought from us. His housekeeper, Mrs. Clarridge, would come in once a week with their fruit and veg order.”

“How exciting,” Phyllis exclaimed. “Did she ever say anything about him?”

Dulcie shook her head. “She isn't much of a talker. Mum says she's the kind that thinks herself a bit above the likes of us. One time Mum commented that the master of the house must have done a lot of entertainin' because he was a single gentleman who always ordered so much, but all that Mrs. Clarridge would say was that she didn't comment on her employer's circumstances with tradespeople. What'll you have today?”

“Two pounds of turnips, please, and a pound of carrots.” She let her mind wander while she waited for Dulcie to fill her order. She kept thinking about the theater, about the wonderful play she'd seen, and wishing she could go back and see it again.

She was jerked out of her reverie by angry shouts. “Are you bloomin' blind? Watch where you're goin'!” a red-faced cabbie screamed as he pulled his hansom sharply to the right to avoid smashing into a laundry wagon that had cut in front of him.

“Here you are,” Dulcie said. “Give us your basket, then, and I'll put the veg in.”

Phyllis, who'd been staring at the laundry wagon, shoved her shopping basket onto the narrow counter. “You said that Mr. Edison's housekeeper dropped his order off every week?” she said.