“Was he alone when he tumbled down the stairs?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. It wasn’t an idle question. Mrs. Jeffries and the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens knew more about foul play than the average domestic servants. They worked for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and they’d helped their dear inspector solve more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Not that he had any idea that they assisted him, and they were determined to keep it that way.
“He was and he wasn’t. Mrs. Perrin—she’s the Soameses’ housekeeper—saw the whole thing. According to Hannah, Mrs. Perrin said that Mr. Soames made such a racket when he left his room that she heard him. Her quarters are at the back of the house on the third floor. She got up because she thought someone was trying to break into the house, and she spotted him just as he reached the back stairs,” Phyllis explained. Like everyone else in the Witherspoon household, she understood the importance of details, and she’d questioned Hannah quite thoroughly.
“Why on earth was the master of the house using the back stairs?” the cook exclaimed. “Especially an old snob like Soames?”
“Hannah said she overheard Mrs. Perrin tell their cook that Mr. Soames was drunk, that she’d seen him take a bottle of whisky up to his room.”
“He does drink a fair bit,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “He was so drunk at Christmas that he wandered out into the communal garden and thought Mrs. Enright’s bulldog was a pig. He tried to catch the poor animal for his Christmas dinner. The Enrights were not amused by the incident.”
“I shouldn’t laugh, either.” Phyllis giggled. “But it was funny, especially when Mrs. Enright started smacking him with a tree branch. Anyway, Mrs. Perrin went after him to see if there was something wrong and then saw him trip over his own feet and go flying down the back stairs.”
“At least now that he’s dead, poor Mrs. Soames will have a moment’s peace.” The cook leaned down again and grabbed the bread bowl.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at the cook, her expression shocked. “Mrs. Goodge, what a thing to say.”
“Now don’t get on your high horse, Hepzibah,” the cook said, using the housekeeper’s Christian name, which she generally only said when the two of them were alone or when she wanted to make a point. “You couldn’t stand him, either. I’m just being honest. He was a dreadful man. I’m amazed that his wife hadn’t pushed him down the ruddy stairs ages ago.” She reached for her tin of flour and pried open the lid. “Besides, he threw rocks at Samson and would have kicked poor Fred’s head in if Wiggins hadn’t stopped him.” Samson was the cook’s bad-tempered tomcat, and Fred was the household dog. Upon hearing his name, Fred looked up from his rug by the cooker and thumped his tail.
“Mrs. Goodge is right,” Phyllis said. “He’s a horrid tyrant, Hannah said he constantly criticized poor Mrs. Soames, was always late paying their quarterly wages, disinherited his own daughter because she married a man he didn’t like, and worst of all, turfed out that young housemaid last year just because she chipped his teacup.”
“That may all be true—he was a nasty human being,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “But still, a death is never to be celebrated.”
“If I was Mrs. Soames, I’d be celebrating.” Wiggins knelt down as Fred leapt up and trotted over to him. He’d just come inside after helping the laundry boy carry the big wicker basket of linens out to the wagon. He was a tall, brown-haired young man in his twenties with fair skin and a handsome face. Though technically a footman, Wiggins did everything and anything that needed to be done in the household. “And I think everyone at the Soames home will be breathin’ a bit easier now that the old man is gone,” he continued. “Fred wasn’t doin’ anything except tryin’ to find a spot to do his business. He was only walkin’ past when Mr. Soames started kickin’ at him, and he’d have killed him if I’d not heard the poor dog screamin’. Anyone who kicks a dog just for the fun of it is downright evil.” He gave the animal one last, loving stroke and stood up. Fred went back to his rug, curled up, and went back to sleep.
Mrs. Jeffries knew when she was beaten. “I’ve no doubt you’re right. Still, it seems wrong to make light of the man’s death.”
“God works in mysterious ways,” the cook murmured. “Perhaps the Almighty got tired of watching that wretched man bullying and browbeating everyone. Strange, isn’t it, that death means freedom for some, while for most others, it’s a heartbreaking moment.”
“It means things will change in the Soames household.” Phyllis got up and went to the cupboard next to the pine sideboard. Opening the bottom cabinet, she pulled out her feather duster and a bundle of clean rags. “Now Mrs. Soames can help her daughter; she’s goin’ to have a child.”
“Death always means change,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “If it wasn’t for a death, none of us would be here.”
“What do you mean?” Phyllis tucked the duster under her arm.
“Well, if the inspector’s Aunt Euphemia hadn’t died when Smythe returned from Australia, none of us would be here, and we certainly wouldn’t be helping him solve murders.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Wiggins mused. “But you’re right. None of us would be here if it hadn’t been for Miss Witherspoon’s death. She took me in when I was just a lad, and she was a nice mistress. She didn’t put on airs, and she treated us decently. It was right awful what ’appened. When Smythe come in and took over, I was ever so happy. He did everything he could to save ’er, but the poor lady died anyway.”
“What happened?” Phyllis looked at the footman curiously. Compared to the others, she was relatively new to the household. She’d heard of Euphemia Witherspoon, and she knew some, but not all of the details of how they’d all come together.
“She got ill with bronchitis and sent me for the doctor,” Wiggins explained. “Mind you, I don’t think he was much good at doctoring—he just said for her to put a smelly poultice on her chest and keep to her bed. But she got worse and worse. She was so ill, she couldn’t get out of bed. That’s when the other servants started pinchin’ her stuff.”
“They started stealing?” Phyllis exclaimed. “That’s terrible, especially as she treated them well.”
“That doesn’t matter to some people.” Wiggins shrugged. “But all of a sudden, some of her jewels went missing from her room, and some of the nice things from the house started to disappear. When I complained and said they oughtn’t to do it, the butler cuffed me so hard on the ’ead I saw stars. I remember goin’ back upstairs and tryin’ to take care of her, but I was just a young lad, and I didn’t know what to do.”
“Couldn’t you go to the neighbors?” Phyllis sat back down and put the feather duster and the rags on the chair next to her.
He shook his head. “No, for some reason they didn’t seem to like the mistress—not that she minded, she had lots of other friends. I’d decided I was goin’ to go and find Mr. Brooker—he was her special friend and very wealthy. Trouble was, I didn’t know where he lived. But then that mornin’, she roused enough to tell me where to find ’im. I was puttin’ on my coat to go get ’im, but then I saw the housekeeper and the butler huddled together in the front hall, you know, like they was plottin’ somethin’ bad. I wasn’t scared of them, but I wasn’t goin’ to leave her on her own.” His handsome young face clouded as he remembered those awful days. “By this time, all the other servants were doin’ whatever they liked. Eatin’ everythin’ in sight, drinkin’ her liquor, and that awful housekeeper, Mrs. Gowdy, was even wearin’ her pearls. I didn’t know what to do.
“Then Smythe turned up. It was like a miracle. He used to work for the mistress; he’d been her coachman before he’d gone to Australia, and when he’d come back to England, he stopped in to pay his respects. Well, he took one look at what was goin’ on and took matters in hand, he did.” Wiggins smiled at the memory. “He sent me for a proper doctor and turfed out the rest of ’em. Mr. Cuccinelli—he was the butler�
�tried to bluff ’im out, but Smythe just twisted his arm around his back and showed him the door. That whole bunch got out of here right quick, I tell ya.” His expression darkened. “But it was too late for the mistress. She died two days later.”
Mrs. Jeffries patted his arm. “Wiggins, I’m sure that you helped make Miss Witherspoon’s last days bearable. If you hadn’t been there for her, she’d have had no one to take care of her.”
“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled gratefully. “She were a nice mistress, and she’d have approved of what we’ve been doin’. You know, ’elpin’ our inspector with ’is murder cases.”
“She sounds like a really good person,” Phyllis said.
“She was,” he continued. “I was there when she made Smythe promise to stay on here and make certain our inspector wasn’t taken advantage of by anyone. Smythe might ’ave been just a coachman, but he made sure that you”—he looked at the housekeeper, then at the cook—“Mrs. Goodge, and even Betsy were decent people before he let you in the ’ouse.”
“He told the inspector who he could and couldn’t hire?” Mrs. Goodge laughed as she dumped a cup of flour into her bowl. “Gracious, I didn’t know that.”
“Not directly, but by the time our inspector moved in, he relied on Smythe and me to ’elp ’im out a bit. He’d never lived in a big, fancy house like this before. He and his mum hadn’t had servants. He became a policeman because he needed to earn a living to take care of the both of them. When he inherited his aunt’s fortune, it made it hard for him, and our inspector saw that Smythe knew what ’e was doin’. He’s a good judge of character, is our Smythe.”
“The inspector’s mother had died by the time he inherited all this?” Phyllis waved a hand around the huge, well-equipped kitchen.
“She died a few months before Miss Witherspoon.”
“It must have been a sad time for our inspector.” The cook dusted the flour off her hands. “Losing his mother and his aunt. He barely knew Miss Witherspoon, but it’s never nice to be alone in the world. Mind you, some good came of the situation. It brought all of us together. If I’d not got this position, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“Surely you’d have found another position, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis said. “You’re a wonderful cook.”
“Ta, Phyllis. That’s nice of you to say. But most households wouldn’t have wanted to hire someone my age. The only reason the clerk at the domestic employment agency sent me here was because no other qualified cooks wanted to work for a policeman and, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t either.”
Phyllis gasped in shock. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. The cook had never struck her as someone who placed any importance on the status of her employer.
Mrs. Goodge looked at her. “Don’t be so surprised. You’ve been in service long enough to know there’s as much snobbery belowstairs as there is above. I was no better than most other servants of my generation. Our position, the way we were treated by our family and the neighborhood, was determined by the standing of the master of the household where we worked. Even if the wages were awful, most people would rather have worked for a stingy baronet than a generous butcher. I’d worked for lords and ladies, country gentry, and members of Parliament; it was quite a comedown to take a position with a mere policeman, no matter how wealthy he might be.”
“It’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “When she first arrived, she did look down her nose at us a bit.”
The cook chuckled. “But that didn’t last long. Before I knew it, Mrs. Jeffries had everyone out asking questions about those horrible Kensington High Street murders, and, despite myself, I realized I wanted to help. What’s more, being here has given me a real purpose in life. Our investigations are the most important thing I’ve ever done.”
Wiggins nodded in agreement. “They’re the most important thing any of us has ever done.”
“I know I don’t contribute as much as the rest of you do.” Mrs. Goodge stepped away from her worktable, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “But I’m happy to do what little I can.”
“You do your share, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis protested.
“Of course you do,” the housekeeper echoed. “Why would you think you do less than the rest of us?”
“Because I don’t leave the kitchen. The rest of you get out and about, talking to people and gatherin’ clues, but all I do is stay in my kitchen and listen to gossip.”
“Gossip that often turns out to be very important,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted. “There are a number of cases we’d never have solved if it hadn’t been for information you have passed along.”
“Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, you’ve worked in some of the finest houses all over the country, and you stay in touch with all your old friends. The sort of gossip and information you’ve found out is right important. You’ve done as much as any of us.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” The cook smiled as she glanced at their faces. “I just wish I could do more. Fighting for justice is so important.”
“As you and Wiggins have said, it’s the most important thing any of us have done and you do your fair share,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “We all do. Each and every one of us.”
“I wish we had another one to work on,” Phyllis muttered, then she realized what she’d said. “Oh dear, I don’t mean that the way it sounded. Murder is never right, even when the victim is a dreadful human being. But let’s be honest here—life is so much more exciting when we’re on the hunt.”
Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. When Phyllis had first arrived at the Witherspoon household, she’d been a shy, frightened girl so terrified of losing her position she wouldn’t even consider helping them with the inspector’s cases. But now she was a vibrant, confident young woman who was saving her money to open her own detective agency! Life was simply full of surprises.
“She’s right, Mrs. Jeffries.” Wiggins gave the maid a broad smile. “None of us like to admit it, but life is excitin’ when we’re out and about and doin’ our best to make sure innocent people don’t face the ’angman’s noose. But it’s done somethin’ else for me—it’s made me realize that one of these days, I can be more than what I am now. Don’t get me wrong, I love livin’ ’ere and bein’ with all of you, but one of these days, I’m goin’ to take what I’ve learned and start my own business.”
“What kind of business?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“A private inquiry agency.”
“You’re going to open a detective agency?” Phyllis yelped. “But you know that’s what I was planning to do.”
“I can do it, too,” he countered. “Cor blimey, if anyone should do it, it’s me. I’ve been at this longer than you.”
“But that’s not fair,” she argued. “I had the idea first.”
“So what difference does that make? Besides, I might go abroad and open mine. I’ve always wanted to go to Canada or America. They need detectives there as well.”
“Now you two quit squabbling,” the cook interjected. “There’s room for more than one detective agency in this world.” She cocked her head, her expression speculative as she looked at the maid. “Are you absolutely sure that Mrs. Perrin didn’t give Mr. Soames a shove down those kitchen stairs?”
CHAPTER 2
Inspector Nigel Nivens yanked open the door of the Leman Street Police Station and strolled inside. But despite being ten minutes late for his shift, he wasn’t in a rush. Nivens was a middle-aged man with a shape that had once been muscular but was now running to fat. He boasted a walrus mustache and a full head of once-dark blond hair that was now almost completely gray. He whipped off his bowler as he nodded curtly to the duty officer behind the counter.
“Inspector Havers wants to see you, sir,” Constable Rhodes said.
“What’s he still doing here?” Nivens came to a halt. “Surely, he didn’t take it upon himself to stay simply
because I’m a few minutes late.”
Rhodes, an old veteran of a copper who’d seen more than one like Nivens, wasn’t impressed with Nivens’ haughty manner. “I’ve no idea, sir”—he shrugged as he spoke—“but he’s waiting for you in the duty inspector’s office.”
Nivens’ mouth flattened in displeasure as he turned into the short corridor toward the duty inspector’s office. He stopped in front of the closed door and lifted his hand to knock. But then he hesitated. What could this be about? It was unusual for the night inspector to stay this late on a quiet day unless something important had happened. Had there been a murder in the night? But if that was the situation, Inspector Havers would have caught the case himself. What’s more, there were always murders in this dreadful district.
So why did Havers want to see him? They weren’t working any cases together. Then he understood. Oh. He smiled as he realized what it meant. Thank God, he told himself, thank God and my own clever initiative that it’s finally happened. It had taken these fools long enough. That burglary trial had been over for weeks, and he’d almost given up hope.
But now it was here—his ticket to freedom, his way out of the most miserable district in all of the Metropolitan Police Force. He hadn’t expected to receive the news from Havers. By rights, he should have been called to Scotland Yard and given his transfer or his promotion by Chief Superintendent Barrows himself. It was a slight, and he was sure a deliberate one, but once he was out of here and back in a decent district, he’d make certain Barrows paid for this as well as all the other affronts.
Nivens lifted his chin and rapped on the door.
“Enter.”
He stepped inside and came to an abrupt halt when he saw that Havers wasn’t alone. Chief Inspector Boney, the most senior officer in the district, was sitting behind the desk. Havers sat in a chair next to him.
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 3