Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (24 page)

Witherspoon forced himself to stay calm. Branson seemed incapable of giving a simple, straightforward answer. “Nonetheless, it’s my duty to confirm his statement. Mr. Evans was alone in the office that afternoon, is that correct?”

“I’ve already told you we were all gone,” Branson replied. “I’ll admit I was surprised when Mr. Evans told the juniors they could go home when they’d finished, but in retrospect, it shouldn’t have been in the least surprising. Mr. Evans had a terrible headache that day. As a matter of fact, I almost offered to loan him my bottle of peppermint oil, as it’s awfully good for headaches. You just rub it on your forehead and within a few minutes, you’re feeling much better. Mind you, it does sting a bit—”

Witherspoon interrupted. “Mr. Branson, did Mr. Evans tell you he was feeling poorly?” He knew it was a silly question, but his own head was starting to ache and he couldn’t think what to ask next.

“Of course not, that wasn’t the sort of question one could ask Mr. Evans. He didn’t encourage comments on personal matters.”

“You’ve worked for him for over twenty years and you’d consider asking if his head hurt a personal matter?” Witherspoon stared at him in disbelief. Douglas Branson didn’t seem to be able to stick to the subject nor to control his tongue.

“Mr. Evans wasn’t one to invite any sort of personal comment,” Branson explained again. “Everyone thinks he’s very taciturn and rather cold, but I know that isn’t the case. Though he’d never admit it, he feels things very deeply. There was an old cat that used to hang around the back of the building; Mr. Evans took a liking to it and brought it in. He called him Billy Boy and made him a bed under his desk. He claimed he’d brought the creature in to keep the vermin away, but this is a modern building, and there aren’t any rats. Billy was here for over five years, but he was old and one day he died. Mr. Evans was his usual self, didn’t bat an eye, just said he was sorry to lose such a good mouser. But later that day, when he thought the office was empty, I slipped back to get my spectacles. I’d forgotten them, but that’s neither here nor there. Well, as I said, he thought he was alone, but I peeked into this office and I saw him sitting by Billy’s little makeshift bed and he was crying.” Branson’s eyes filled with tears as he told the story. “He was sobbing fit to break a heart.”

Despite the fact that he had dozens of witnesses to interview, including a trip to Lowery’s club to verify his statement, Witherspoon didn’t have the heart to shut the fellow up.

“It was frightening, Inspector, seeing him like that. He’d skin me alive if he knew I’d told what I saw that day, but I’ll not have you thinking he could commit murder.” Branson swiped at his eyes. “He’s a good man. He’s kept me on all these years even though I can’t control my tongue. He knows I need the job.”

Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “Your secret is safe.” He got up and backed toward the door. “I appreciate your cooperation.” He escaped and dashed out to the outer office, but Barnes wasn’t there.

“The constable’s gone across the hall,” the blond one told him. “He said he’d be just a few minutes.”

Witherspoon heard Branson coming out of Evans’ office. He made a run for it. “Thanks very much, I’ll go over and find him. Good day to all of you.”

Barnes was coming out of the shipping agent’s office as Witherspoon stepped into the corridor.

“I thought I’d have a word with the neighbors and see if they could verify Mr. Evans’ statement,” Barnes said.

“Good thinking, Constable. What did you find out?”

“The clerk told me that Evans was in his office that afternoon.” He pointed at the glass transom above Evans’ office doorway. “He saw light coming out there when he left here that day. Are we going to Lowery’s club next?”

Witherspoon smiled faintly. “I think that’s a good idea. Constable Barnes, forgive me if I’m wrong, but it appears to me as if you’ve already tried and convicted Sir Madison.”

Barnes laughed. “The evidence against him is mounting. He’d not want the Evans family to know he has two dead wives, and Agatha Moran was in France. She might have stumbled across his dirty little secret.”

“True.” Witherspoon started down the corridor. “But we don’t know she had found out about Odette Lowery.”

Barnes fell into step next to him. He knew good and well that Agatha Moran had known the whole story. Mrs. Jeffries had given him all the details. But he couldn’t admit that he knew. “You’re a brilliant detective, sir. I’ve no doubt you’ll keep digging and eventually we’ll find the proof we need to catch the bastard.”

 

Ruth stood on the pavement and peeked through the tiny window into the shop. But all she could see was a table covered with laces and two dressmaker’s dummies. She took a deep breath and wondered if what she was about to do would be helpful to their case. After all, she told herself, no one else had seen fit to chase after this clue, and they were all far more experienced than she.

But somehow, she had the feeling that this piece was important. It was the sort of thing a man might overlook, but it had been preying on her mind. But perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps none of the others had pursued it because they knew it wasn’t going to be useful.

Don’t be such a ninny, she told herself. The worst that could happen was she might embarrass herself, and that certainly didn’t frighten her. Any woman who was willing to fight for women’s suffrage certainly wasn’t averse to a bit of humiliation. Why, just last year she’d been tempted to chain herself to the fence in front of Parliament along with several of the more radical women in her group. She’d only been dissuaded from such a course of action by knowing how it might upset Gerald if he had to arrest her.

She remembered Mrs. Jeffries’ words: “Rosemary Evans heard her mother arguing with someone. Mrs. Evans said the girl had heard her having words with her dressmaker.”

She took another deep breath and reached for the door handle. On principle, she’d avoided establishments like this, preferring to give her custom to a cooperative sewing society and a local shop around the corner from where she lived. But now she opened the door and stepped inside Corbiers.

The inspector had been past Webster’s dozens of times over the course of the years, but he’d never really paid any attention to the place until now. It was one of the newer gentlemen’s clubs in London, built in the 1830s in the Greek Revival style that was so popular in those days. But now there was enough city dust on the white stone walls to turn them gray, and the elegant columns were chipped and gouged.

“It’s not the most exclusive of clubs,” Barnes commented. “The majority of the members are aristocrats that have lost most of their cash and gentry that are trying to move up a rung or two on the social ladder.”

Witherspoon sighed. “Blast, that just means they’ll put up a fuss just to show that they can.”

Barnes grinned. Sometimes his inspector surprised him with his insights. That was exactly what this lot would do. “Shall we go in, sir?”

They climbed the wide, broad staircase and went in through the front door. A potted fern held pride of place on a marble-topped table in the foyer. A portrait of a man in early nineteenth-century dress hung on the wall and a set of dress swords were mounted over the open double doorway leading to the main room. Sitting on a chair by the door was a uniformed porter. He leapt up when he caught sight of Barnes.

“What do you want?” he challenged. “This is a private club.”

“And we’re the police,” the constable replied. “Who is in charge here?”

“Mr. Gregg is the club secretary. He’s in his office.”

“Then please go and get him,” Witherspoon ordered softly.

The porter nodded hastily and ran down the hallway to the very end. He knocked once, opened a door, and stepped inside. They could hear him speaking, but they were too far away to hear what was said. Seconds later, a slender gray-haired man dressed in a black frock coat appeared. He hurried up the corridor toward them.

“I’m Justin Gregg. What is it you require?” he asked. His gaze flicked back and forth between the open doorway of the main room and the two policemen.

“We would like to speak to some of your members,” Witherspoon explained.

Gregg raised an eyebrow. “Which members?”

“Anyone who might have been playing cards with Sir Madison Lowery on this past Wednesday afternoon.” Barnes deliberately raised his voice as he spoke. Nothing got cooperation from these toffs faster than a bit of uncouth behavior.

Gregg’s eyes widened in alarm. “Please wait here. I’ll go to the card room and see if any of those gentlemen might be able to help with your inquiries.”

The constable wasn’t having any of that. There were too many exits from these old buildings, and one thing he knew about the upper class, they stuck together. “We’ll go with you, sir,” Barnes said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Witherspoon flicked a quick glance at his constable but said nothing.

Gregg opened his mouth as though he wanted to argue, then clamped it shut and nodded curtly. “This way.”

He didn’t lead them through the double doors into the main room; instead, he took them to a door halfway down the corridor, opened it, and motioned for them to follow.

There were three tables in the room but only one had card players. Gregg started for the occupied table, but Barnes stepped in front of him. “We’ll take it from here, sir.” he said. By this time, the men at the table had stopped their game.

“Gregg, what’s wrong?” One of the men stood up and frowned at the two policemen. He was bald, portly, but elegantly dressed in a gray waistcoat, white shirt, and red cravat.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Witherspoon said as he moved toward their table. “It won’t take long and then you can get back to your game.”

“You can go now, sir,” Barnes said to the club secretary. Gregg hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and left.

“What’s this about?” a dark- haired man asked. He tossed his cards facedown on the table.

“Were any of you here on Wednesday afternoon?” the constable asked.

“I was,” the dark-haired man said. “So were Jacobs, McNalley, and Westmorland.” He pointed to three other men, including the tall one who’d spoken first. “What of it?”

“Was Sir Madison Lowery here that afternoon?” Witherspoon shifted his weight. He wished someone had offered them a chair. It was wet outside and his knee was starting to hurt.

One of the others laughed. “He was here. He was in a foul mood. He lost.”

“How much did he lose?” Barnes knew it probably wasn’t relevant to the Moran murder, but additional information couldn’t hurt.

“Three hundred pounds.” The thin-faced one fixed the constable with a sneering smile. “That’s more than you make in a year, isn’t it?”

“The constable’s income is none of your affair.” Witherspoon gave the fellow a hard stare. “What is your name, sir?”

“Lord Westmorland. What’s yours?”

“Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. My immediate superior is Chief Inspector Barrows, and I’m assigned to the Ladbroke Road Police Station. Now, as you were here on Wednesday, a few simple questions shouldn’t be too difficult, even for you.”

Barnes ducked his head to hide a smile. Witherspoon didn’t lose his temper very often, but he was a tiger in defense of his men.

Westmorland gasped at the insult. “How dare you speak to me like that.”

“You can either answer the questions here, sir,” Witherspoon continued, “or we’ll assume you have something to hide, in which case we’ll need to ask you to come down to the station to help us with our inquiries.”

The redheaded man sitting next to Westmorland leaned over and whispered in his ear. He closed his eyes briefly and then fixed the inspector with a sour smile. “My apologies, I didn’t realize you were the great Inspector Witherspoon. Apparently you’ve solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Ask your questions.”

Witherspoon felt his cheeks grow hot. Westmorland’s comment was calculated to embarrass him, but he wasn’t going to allow a silly remark to stop him from his duty. “What time did Sir Madison arrive?”

Westmorland shrugged. “I didn’t look at a clock, Inspector. But it was after lunch.”

“Was it just the four of you playing?” Barnes asked. “Or did anyone else join the table?”

“It was mainly the four of us,” the dark- haired man replied. “I think Carrington joined us for a few hands, but he’s the only one.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’m Fielding Spencer.” He pointed to the other men at the table.

“That’s Paul Jacobs and Horace McNalley.”

“What time did Sir Madison Lowery leave that afternoon?” Barnes took out his pencil and notebook. He flipped it open, balanced it on the back of an empty chair, and began scribbling names.

“The last game broke up a few minutes before five,” Spencer answered. “We walked out together and Lowery got into a hansom.”