Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (10 page)

Mrs. Goodge didn’t have a clue whom Ida was referring to but she’d die a thousand deaths rather than admit her memory wasn’t as keen as the other woman’s. “Indeed I do,” she said heartily. “Frightened of the wind, she was.”

Ida nodded in agreement. “That’s right. Well, Eliza didn’t run outside, she just hid in the kitchen until the shouting died down. She may be a ninny, but she wanted her wages and this happened on the last day of the quarter.”

“What were they arguing about, anyway?” Mrs. Goodge reached for the teapot and poured more tea for Ida.

“Ta. Seems that Mrs. Cooksey was giving the reverend what for about him being out of a position. Said she couldn’t hold her head up no more and that he ought to be ashamed of himself for not being able to provide for his wife.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing!” Mrs. Goodge clucked her tongue in disapproval. “You don’t say—a vicar out of work. Doesn’t the church have to find them a parish?”

“That’s what I always thought,” Ida said. “But maybe it’s not true.”

Mrs. Goodge made a mental note to find out exactly how the Church of England’s bishops appointed vicars. There was something amiss here, she could feel it.
“Maybe there’s just too many vicars and not enough parishes,” she suggested.

“That’s not it.” Ida waved her hand dismissively. “He’s probably had his hand in the till or been messing about with the choirboys. Mark my words, it’ll be scandal that’s got him out of a job.”

Mrs. Goodge tried to look shocked, but the truth was, she really wasn’t. She’d once believed that people in positions of authority were true and good and honorable. But since she’d gotten involved in investigating murders, she’d found it was often those people in authority who lied, cheated, and worst of all, killed.

“That’s usually how these things turn out,” Ida continued cheerfully.

“Didn’t Eliza have any idea why he’d not got a parish?”

“That silly goose,” Ida snorted. “Even after hearing that screaming match, Eliza still thinks the good reverend is taking a long rest for his health.”

Smythe scowled at the two pickpockets standing in front of the Admiral Nelson pub. Blast, he thought as the two scurried out of his way, trust Blimpey to pick a place not fit for man nor beast.

The pub was in the East End, on St. George Street. It was close enough to the Tobacco Dock to smell it. This was an area of London that reeked of poverty and was plagued with crime, misery, and pain. The only good thing that ever came out of here, he thought as he elbowed his way through the crowded public bar, was Betsy. He knew she’d been born not far from here. He thanked God every day that she’d gotten out and landed on the inspector’s doorstep. He refused even to think of what her life would have been like if she’d stayed in the East End.

He heard a familiar laugh. Turning, he spotted a portly
man with ginger-colored hair sitting at one of the few tables. Blimpey saw him and winked.

“Nice to see you my friend.” Blimpey patted the chair next to him. The day was warm but he had a bright red scarf dangling around his neck over his dirty brown-and-white-checkered coat. A battered porkpie hat was sitting forlornly on the table. “It’s been a while since you and I’ve crossed paths.”

Smythe raised an eyebrow. “It’s not been that long. What’ll you have?” he asked, glancing at Blimpey’s empty glass. He knew the rules. Blimpey expected to be well supplied while you conducted business.

“Gin.” Blimpey nodded at the barman. “And bring us two pints of the best bitter as well. You still drink beer, don’t you?”

“That’ll be fine.” Smythe yanked out the chair and sat down. “I’ve just not got a lot of time.”

“You’re always in a hurry,” Blimpey chided him. “That’s what’s wrong with this world, people are always in a bloody rush. They ought to slow down a bit, take time to exchange a few kind words with their fellowman.”

Smythe rolled his eyes. “The only thing you ever exchange with your fellowman is a bit of coin. Now let’s get down to it. I’ve got someone I want you to find out about. Fellow is named Stan McIntosh—”

“The bloke that got killed?” Blimpey’s cheerful grin vanished.

“How’d you hear about it? It’s not been in the papers.”

Blimpey gave him a pitying look and Smythe realized how stupid he sounded. Of course Blimpey had heard about the murder. Blimpey heard about everything criminal in this town. That’s why Smythe had come to him. The man had been a petty thief, but he’d soon realized that his incredible memory could earn him a great deal
more than simple thieving. Besides, thievery was a dangerous occupation. Blimpey had a natural distaste for violence and an ability to organize snippets of information that went far beyond his meager education. Before you could say “Bob’s-your-uncle,” he had a network of informants that stretched from Spitalfields to Putney. He collected information the way a dog collected fleas. Then he sold it to whoever would pay for it. Smythe was one of his best customers.

“Why are you so interested in this McIntosh?” Blimpey eyed him speculatively.

“Here ya are, fellers.” A buxom barmaid put their drinks on the table. “A gin and two pints of the best.”

“Thanks.” Smythe reached into his shirt pocket, took out some coins, and handed them to the woman.

“Thanks,” she replied when she saw what he’d given her. She rushed off before he could ask for change.

He stared steadily at Blimpey. He wasn’t about to answer questions as to why he wanted information. That wasn’t part of their arrangement. But despite his scowl, he didn’t blame the fellow for trying it on. Gathering information was the man’s stock-in-trade.

Blimpey gave in gracefully. “No harm in askin’. A healthy curiosity is what makes life worth livin’. That’s what I always say. You need the goods on anyone else?”

Smythe hesitated. He knew he shouldn’t be sticking his oar in the Gentry investigation. After all, it had been his suggestion that they separate the murder from the attempted murder. But as he was here anyway, why not get his money’s worth. “Yeah, there is.” He thought for a moment, trying to recall all the names that had been bandied about the kitchen during their meeting. “Find out what you can about some people who live over in Hammersmith and Kensington.”

“What’s the names?”

“Reverend Harold Cooksey and his wife, Louisa.
They live in Hammersmith. The other one’s a barrister and his wife by the name of Caraway—”

“Elliot Caraway?” Blimpey interrupted.

“You’ve heard of ’im?” Smythe was shocked.

Blimpey sneered. “He took the brief for a friend of mine in a stolen-goods case. Poor bloke was innocent but he ended up doing six years in the Scrubs.”

“Bad luck,” Smythe murmured.

“Luck had nothin’ to do with it.” Blimpey’s eyes flashed angrily. “Caraway’s an idiot and poor Rysington got six years for a crime he didn’t commit. And it weren’t the first time it had happened, either. Word I got is Caraway’s so bad he can’t get criminal briefs at all anymore. Stupid old git.”

“Well, find out what you can about the bloke and about the other names I give you.” He threw back the rest of his beer and started to get up, when he remembered there’d been another guest in Miss Gentry’s house the day the dog had been poisoned. “And find out what you can about a fellow named Eddington, too. Phillip Eddington.”

“Where does ’e live?” Blimpey asked.

“I’m not sure…wait a minute, it’s on Forest Street. On the other side of St. Matthew’s Church.”

“Right.” Blimpey finished off his gin and got to his feet. “Meet me back here tomorrow evening around eight, I ought to have something for ya by then.”

“I knew that this case was going to be quite difficult, Constable,” Witherspoon said to Barnes as they made their way down Forest Street. “I had a bad feeling about it.”

“You always think that, sir,” Barnes replied, “and we always end up solvin’ the case. Besides, sir, we’ve done quite well. At least we found one person who had business dealings with the deceased. It’s a start, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Witherspoon sighed and started up the steps of a large, Georgian house. “We’ve got a place to begin. Let’s see what this Mr. Eddington may know.” He banged the heavy brass knocker against the polished white door.

The door opened a moment later. “Yes? Can I help you?” A gray-haired woman wearing a soiled white apron and holding a cleaning rag in her hand stared curiously at Barnes.

“We’d like to see Mr. Eddington,” Witherspoon said. “We’re—”

“Who is it, Jane?” a voice from inside the house interrupted.

“It’s the coppers,” Jane screeched. She threw the door open wide.

Witherspoon winced then quickly recovered as a middle-aged man with dark curly hair worn straight back from his broad face came down the wide hall. “Why, goodness, it
is
the police.” He sounded very surprised.

“They want to see you, sir,” Jane said, eager to learn more.

“Thank you, Jane, you may go now and finish cleaning the stove. I’ll see the gentlemen into the drawing room.”

Jane’s round, eager face crumbled in disappointment. Then she nodded glumly and shuffled off toward the back of the house. Eddington turned back to the policemen. “Gentlemen, do come in.”

“Thank you.” Witherspoon and Barnes stepped inside the foyer. “I do hate to trouble you, sir, but we’d like to ask you a few questions regarding a Mr. Stanley McIntosh.”

“Who?”

“I take it you are Phillip Eddington?” Witherspoon wanted to make sure he was talking to the right person.

“I am, indeed.” He frowned slightly. “But I don’t
know what this is all about. Perhaps we ought to go into the drawing room.” He turned and led the way.

They followed; their footsteps sounded loud on the polished wood floor. They went through a double oak door into a formal drawing room. It was large and pleasant but not opulently furnished. There was a plain brown settee with a matching set of chairs. Several tables, a bookcase full of books on the end wall, plain white muslin curtains at the windows, and framed hunting prints on the walls. “Do please sit down,” Eddington instructed, gesturing at the settee.

As soon as they’d sat down, Constable Barnes whipped out his little brown notebook. He looked expectantly at his superior.

Witherspoon cleared his throat. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. We’ve come to ask you a few questions regarding Mr. Stanley McIntosh. He was the caretaker at Helmsley’s Grammar School. We’ve reason to believe that you knew Mr. McIntosh.”

Clearly puzzled, Eddington stared at them for a few moments and then his expression brightened in understanding. “Oh, you’re talking about old Stan. Of course, how silly of me. I’m sorry. I didn’t quite realize who you meant. I did know him, actually. As a matter of fact, I saw him just yesterday. What’s this all about, inspector? Is he in some sort of trouble?”

His voice had a slight inflection to it, one that the inspector couldn’t quite place. Almost, but not quite, an accent. “What was your business with Mr. McIntosh, sir?”

“I would hardly call it business, Inspector. More like charity.” Eddington shrugged. “I felt sorry for the poor chap. He’d mentioned the board of governors at Helmsley’s had found a buyer for the property and his job might be coming to an end. I wanted to see if he wanted some work.”

“He was going to lose his position?” Witherspoon wondered why the secretary of the board of governors hadn’t mentioned that fact when they’d spoken earlier today.

“That’s what he told me.” Eddington smiled kindly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really know him very well. But, you know how it is, I’d seen him in passing and I’d spoken to him a time or two, exchanged pleasantries, that sort of thing. The last time we spoke, he mentioned that he was going to be out of work. I’ve got a bit of painting that needs to be done around here and I thought he might like a go at it. It’s not exactly a position, but I thought it might help him make ends meet until he could find another job.”

“So you went over to the school to see if he wanted to work for you?” the inspector clarified.

“That’s right.” Eddington relaxed back against the cushions.

“What time was this, sir?” Constable Barnes asked.

“Oh”—Eddington’s face creased thoughtfully—“let me see, it must have been about eleven-thirty or so. Oh dear, I’m not exactly sure what time it was. But it was late in the morning. Before noon.”