Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake (11 page)

“How did you see the bruises if they were so far away you couldn’t hear what they were saying?” Witherspoon asked.

“There’s a stone bench on their side of the wall,” he explained. “Mrs. Frommer rather stumbled over to the bench and sat down; then she covered her face with her hands and wept. I saw the bruises because her sleeve was still rolled up. I guess I must have walked toward her, wanting to offer comfort or something. I don’t know; I simply found myself standing behind her, shocked as I realized what she’d been showing to her father. Without thinking, I asked her about them.” He shook his head sadly. “She was quite startled and jumped up. As she ran off back toward her house she called out that she’d banged up her arm by running into a tallboy. It was nonsense, of course. Frommer had beat her.”

“But you don’t know that for a fact, sir,” Witherspoon reminded him.

“Oh, but I do,” Burroughs declared. “Later that day, Fiona, my parlor maid told me she’d heard gossip from the servants at the Frommer house. There’d been a terrible
row that morning, Andrew Frommer had gotten furious at his wife for something or other, and like most cowards, he’d used his fists on his wife. Apparently her own father had done nothing to help her, but had barricaded himself in his quarters and pretended that nothing was amiss.”

“Did your parlor maid happen to mention what the row was about?” Witherspoon decided if he was going to listen to gossip, he might as hear all of it.

Burroughs wrinkled his brow in thought. “Let’s see…ah, yes, now I remember. Mrs. Frommer didn’t want to go to the house in Ascot. She wanted to stay in town.”

“You do understand we’ll have to confirm this information with your servants?” Witherspoon said.

“Of course. They’ll be back later this afternoon.”

The inspector wasn’t at all sure what it would mean even if the servants confirmed the rumor that Frommer beat his wife. That might be useful knowledge if it had been Andrew Frommer who was the victim. But he wasn’t. “Mr. Burroughs, are you absolutely certain you’ve no prior acquaintance with the victim?”

Burroughs shrugged. “As far as I know, I never even saw the man until I moved in next door to him.”

“Do you own a gun?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, I own a revolver. An Enfield.” He laughed. “I’m afraid it’s a carryover from my living in the American West. Everyone has guns.”

Witherspoon nodded. “May we see it, sir?”

“It’s locked in my desk”—he stood up—“in my study. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show it to you.”

The policemen followed him down a long hall to wood-paneled room. Bookcases lined two of the walls, a huge rolltop desk sat in the corner and several huge, overstuffed chair were planted in front of the fireplace. Burroughs pulled a small brass key out one of the many cubbyholes
on the top of the desk. He unlocked the bottom drawer and removed a small, flat blue case.

Carefully he put the case on the desk and flipped open the lid.

Then he gasped. The case was empty.

“Prompt as always.” The tall, gaunt-faced man smiled pleasantly at Hatchet and stepped back, pulling the door wide open. With a dramatic flourish, he waved Hatchet inside. “Do come in and make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Hatchet stepped inside, took off his top hat and gloves and sat down in a Queen Anne chair that had certainly seen better days. But then, virtually everything in Newton Goff’s life had seen better days. Hatchet ought to know: he’d once worked for the man. But he’d worked for him before Goff became a thief. “How have you been keeping yourself?” he asked.

“I’ve managed to avoid being arrested”—Goff grinned—“if that’s what you’re asking. I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m afraid all I’ve got is whiskey and I know you don’t indulge.” He walked over to a small cabinet sitting under the window. Opening the door, he reached inside and took out a bottle. “You don’t mind if I indulge? I always find it’s so much more civilized to conduct business over a nice drink.”

Hatchet nodded. He didn’t care how much Goff drank as long as the man was still able to ferret out information. “By all means, drink up.”

Goff set the bottle on the top of the cabinet and reached inside, pulling out a glass.

“Do you still have reasonable sources of information available to you?” Hatchet asked, watching as Goff poured the whiskey into a shot glass that didn’t look altogether clean.

“Of course. That’s how I’ve managed to stay alive all these years. What is it you want to know?”

“I’m not certain,” Hatchet admitted. “A man by the name of Roland Ashbury was shot the other day. He ran a shipping agency. It’s down near the East India Docks. He lived with his son-in-law, Andrew Frommer.”

“The politician?” Goff raised an eyebrow.

Hatchet nodded. “That’s right. I want you to find out what you can about either of them.”

Goff looked doubtful.

“Is there a problem?” Hatchet pressed. “I thought you said you had numerous resources.”

“I do.” Goff tossed the drink back. “But getting information on a politician might be expensive. They cover their tracks pretty well—if, I mean, there’s anything to be covered. Do you think he did the shooting?”

“I don’t know.” Hatchet was grasping at straws. He’d no idea what was going on and he had the distinct impression that none of his cohorts did either. He wasn’t even sure that coming here had been a wise move. But there was nothing else he could think of to do. They needed more information. “But I want you to find out what you can about him. See if there’s any skeletons in his closet. Don’t worry about what it costs; I can afford it.”

“All right,” Goff agreed. “Check back with me tomorrow. I might have something for you then.” He tossed back the rest of the drink and studied Hatchet for a long moment. “Why do you care?” he asked.

“Pardon?” Hatchet had gotten to his feet. Goff’s question took him by surprise.

“Why do you care who killed this fellow?” Goff pressed. “Did you know him?”

“No, but I care all the same. There is such a thing as justice.”

Goff gazed at him and then shook his head, his expression puzzled. “Do you really expect me to believe that? That you’re sticking your nose in this murder simply because you’re interested in justice? That you’re getting nothing out of it for yourself?”

“Yes,” Hatchet replied. “I do.” He clamped his mouth shut, refusing to say another word on the subject. Goff could think what he would. He wasn’t here to convince the man of anything.

“I’m not sure I believe you, Hatchet.” Goff shrugged and turned toward the dirty window. “All I know is you sure have changed. Used to be you didn’t give two figs about anything except yourself.”

“As you said, Goff,” Hatchet replied softly, “I’ve changed.”

“He’s plum disappeared, ’e ’as.” The small, ruddy-faced gardener slapped the stack of straw mats down on the ground next to the black currant bushes.

Wiggins quickly looked around, wanting to make sure that there weren’t any policemen still hovering in the garden of the Frommer house, which was right next door. He’d made the acquaintance of the gardener by offering to help him carry these flat straw mats from a wagon out front of the house into the garden. It was a proper kitchen garden too, he noted, similar to the ones Mrs. Goodge was always going on about. Rows of black currant bushes trailed along the back wall. Gooseberry and red currant bushes flanked the side wall and rows of vegetables were planted in straight lines running up toward the house. Several fruit trees were planted in the grassy space between the currant bushes and the vegetables.

“Thanks fer the hand, lad,” the gardener said. “I’d like to pay ya, but I’ve no coin with me.”

“That’s all right, I don’t mind ’elpin’ out. Matter of fact, like I told ya, I was ’opin’ to see my friend from next door. But when I went round to the back, they told me ’e’d gone.”

“That’s right; that’s what our scullery maid heard. The lad hasn’t been seen since the day of the murder.” The gardener bent down and picked up a long pole which was lying beside the stack of mats. He stood up and plunged the pole directly into the center of the bush. “He were out in the country, and then, on the day of the murder, he completely disappeared. But Minnie—that’s our scullery maid—said she can’t believe Boyd had anything to do with the killin’. He’d no reason to want to harm the old man.”

“But Boyd was supposed to see me today.” Wiggins was making it up as he went along. “I’ve brought him a message from home.”

The gardener laughed and picked up a mat. Taking a ball of thin rope from his pocket, he quickly looped it around and between the straws on the top of the mat and then drew it tight, forming a sort of skirt. “Message from home? For Boyd? You’re jokin’, lad. Boyd ain’t got no ’ome. Afore he got taken in by Mrs. Frommer, ’e was at St. George’s Workhouse in Hanover Square.”

“I mean I brought him a message from my home, from my auntie Jeffries. She was invitin’ ’im to come for Sunday tea.” Wiggins watched, fascinated, as the gardener looped the twine through a hole in the top of the pole and then, standing on his tiptoes, hoisted the mat skirt over the top, anchoring the thing to the top of the pole. The entire top part of the bush was now covered with the mat.

“Oh.” The gardener picked up a third mat and placed
it carefully around the base of the bush, taking care to make sure the mat was loose enough not to crush the tender shoots on the tips of the branches. “I see. Well, you’re goin’ to have to disappoint yer auntie. Boyd’s gone, and I don’t think he’s comin’ back.”

“Why’d he leave like that? I wonder.”

The gardener shrugged. “Probably saw something that made him uneasy.” He fitted a fourth mat onto the bush, effectively covering it completely. Then he stepped back and surveyed his handiwork. “He were right fond of Mrs. Frommer, he was.”

Wiggins didn’t wish to push his luck, but he had to find out more. He’d learned that you could get a lot more information if you were a bit sly about how you asked your questions. “What’s that for?” he asked, pointing at the matted bush. “It looks like a wigwam. You know, one of them houses that indians live in in America. I saw a drawing of one in the
Illustrated
last month.”

The gardener laughed. “It’s a covering to keep the currant bushes from ripening all at once. Mind you, these bushes should have been covered a month ago. Bein’ as we’re in July, it might already be too late. If you can keep the sun off it, it’ll delay the fruit ripening. That’s the idea.” He grabbed another pole and started for the next black currant bush. “I’ve not tried it before, but my wife’s the cook and she’s mighty tired of having to put up jams and jellies by the bushelful because all these currants ripen at once. So I’m tryin’ this to see if we can push some of the bushes back.”

“You’re right clever.” Wiggins was sincere about the compliment, but he’s also found that people tended to keep talking to you if you said nice things to them.

“Thanks, lad. I’m sorry about yer friend.”

He sighed dramatically. “I am too. Boyd’s a nice lad.
My auntie was lookin’ forward to seein’ ’im again. She’s goin’ to be right disappointed.”

“You might try havin’ a look over on Hanover Square,” the gardener suggested as he plunged the pole into the next bush. “Boyd still went over that way occasionally. I think he was friends with one or two of them poor blighters at the workhouse.”

“Thanks,” Wiggins said. “I’ll do that. I would like to find ’im. ’E’s a good friend. At least now I know where to start lookin’. Good thing I run into you.” He jerked his head toward the Frommer house. “They’d no idea where ’e’d gone.”

The gardener frowned, his eyes growing speculative as he glanced at the house next door. “They’ll have plenty of ideas soon enough,” he said darkly. “As soon as everyone realizes what Boyd takin’ off like that means, they’ll be fallin’ all over themselves with ideas about where to look for the lad.”

“What do ya mean?” But Wiggins knew what the man meant.

“There’s been murder done there, son,” the man said darkly. “And when murder’s been done, they like nothing better than to blame it on the likes of us. Take me word fer it, they’ll be runnin’ to the coppers soon enough with all kinds of tales about the poor lad. Everyone would rather it be some poor servant than one of their own kind.”