Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “What about your servants?” Havers asked. “Would one of them have taken it without your permission?”

  “They wouldn’t dare. Besides, I’m a bachelor and my household is small. The only person who lives in is my housekeeper, Mrs. Vickers. She takes care of me, and once a quarter, the heavy cleaning is done by a domestic agency. But we’ve used the same one for years, and none of them would dare touch my things.”

  “Well, if your servants wouldn’t dare touch it, and you trust all your friends, that leaves only you,” Boney said softly.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Nivens blustered. “Obviously the killer managed to get inside and take the weapon. I’ve no idea how, but I assure you, I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll find out who is trying to frame me, and I’ll bring Santorini’s murderer to justice. I’ll personally see to it that they hang.”

  Boney sat back in his chair and stared at Nivens. “Are you under the assumption that you’re going to have anything to do with the Santorini investigation?”

  “But of course. Santorini was murdered in this district, and by rights I should get the case,” Nivens argued. “I’ve had more experience with homicide than Inspector Havers. I caught the O’Connell murderer.”

  “You found the killer standing over O’Connell’s body moments after they’d had a shouting match about splitting up the cash from a robbery,” Havers snapped. “I’ve solved half a dozen murders. God’s truth, Nivens, are you completely delusional? No one in their right mind would think it appropriate that the man whose gun was the murder weapon be in charge of finding Santorini’s killer.”

  “But just because it was my gun doesn’t mean I had anything to do with Santorini’s death.” Nivens now had a hollow, sick feeling in his stomach. He’d noticed that Havers hadn’t bothered to address him by his proper police rank; he’d said “Nivens,” not “Inspector Nivens.” Fear snaked up his spine, his throat went dry, and he clenched his fingers tight to keep his hands from shaking as he finally realized that he might be in serious trouble.

  He knew he wasn’t a popular officer; his ambition and his disdain for friendships with both his fellow officers and the rank and file were now working against him. There wasn’t anyone on the force he trusted to prove he was innocent. He was far too hated for that. “But you must let me investigate this case. Both of you know there are many in the force who resent me, and I’m not sure that even the local lads will examine all the evidence properly. You must believe me, I’m innocent. For God’s sake, I’m a police officer, sworn to uphold the law!”

  “Just like you upheld the law when you withheld evidence in the Starling case,” Boney reminded him. “Let’s be realistic, Nivens. If it hadn’t been for your family’s influence with the Home Secretary, you’d have been sacked then. The last thing we need now is for the press to find out about that as well as the fact that you own the gun that killed Santorini.”

  “But the press doesn’t have wind of either of those things yet, and we can make sure they never find out,” he pleaded.

  “It’s too late for that.” Boney pulled a newspaper off his lap and slapped it against the desk. “Take a look at the lead article.” He shoved it across to Nivens.

  Nivens read the headline and felt the blood drain out of his face. Shaking his head, he frantically tried to think of something to say, some way to defend himself.

  There was a sharp knock on the door and then a constable stepped inside. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but you’ve had a telegram from the Yard.” He directed his comment to Chief Inspector Boney as he stepped inside, gave Nivens a wary glance as he moved past him, and handed over the telegram.

  Boney opened it as the constable hurried out. He read it and then gave it to Inspector Havers, who also read it. Havers smiled as he looked at Nivens. “I shouldn’t worry about us local lads not examining the evidence if I were you. The case has been handed off to another station, one I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

  Nivens ignored Havers and directed his question to the chief inspector. “Which one, sir?”

  “Ladbroke Road. Inspector Gerald Witherspoon has been put in charge.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “The post office just delivered a telegram from the Yard, sir,” Constable Barnes said as he returned to the duty inspector’s office. He’d taken the witness statements to the sergeant and had been at the front counter when the lad arrived. When he saw the telegram was for Witherspoon, he’d immediately guessed what it was about. “I’ve a feeling you’re going to get handed the Santorini case,” he commented as he handed over the message.

  The inspector ripped open the slender envelope, pulled out the paper, and read it quickly. “Gracious, how did you know?” He looked at Barnes.

  “The article in the Sentinel, sir.” Barnes chuckled. “Chief Inspector Barrows doesn’t want there to be even a hint of a scandal about this investigation, not with the press finding out the murder weapon is owned by Inspector Nivens.”

  “True, but that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with Santorini’s murder. Guns are frequently stolen.”

  “Agreed, sir, but this isn’t the first time Nivens has been accused of disreputable behavior. Remember why he ended up at the Leman Street Station. By rights, he should have been sacked rather than transferred, and I imagine our chief superintendent is concerned about the press getting wind of that information.”

  Witherspoon nodded and rose to his feet. “We’d best get cracking, then. Drat—the murder was last night and by now the body has been moved to a morgue.” He frowned. “This is most unsettling. Taking over a case after the victim’s been moved is the worst possible way to begin a proper investigation. I do like looking at the murder scene. One learns so very much from seeing the details of how the body lies and where the weapon was found.”

  “I’m sure whoever was in charge last night took care to note all the details, sir,” Barnes replied. “Your methods have become standard procedure.” The constable was well aware that many of the techniques used by Witherspoon had been in place for a number of years. But the implementation of their use had been somewhat haphazard from one police district to another until Inspector Witherspoon’s phenomenal success in solving murders.

  For ambitious officers, the fastest road to promotion in the Metropolitan Police Force was an ability to decipher a homicide and bring the killer to justice; the successful inspector’s name was always prominently mentioned in newspaper articles. Once Witherspoon began solving one murder after another, every district in the force followed the same methods. He’d popularized them.

  “I do hope so.” Witherspoon started for the door. “The first thing we’ll need to do is speak to whoever was in charge last night.”

  “That would be Inspector Havers.” Barnes followed him. “He’s probably waiting for us at the Leman Street Station.”

  They stopped at the sergeant’s desk, signed out, and left. Stepping outside, Barnes shivered in the cold wind; Witherspoon buttoned his coat and pulled on his leather gloves. The sky was overcast, gloomy, and the air damp.

  Barnes looked up and down the street but didn’t see any cabs. “We’ll have more luck getting a hansom on the High Street.”

  “Good idea. There are usually street lads on the High Street looking to earn a few pence carrying ladies’ shopping parcels or taking messages. We need to let our households know we might be very late tonight.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Davey Marsh loved going to the Witherspoon household. Inspector Witherspoon always gave more than most when he wanted you to take a message to his home, and, even better, Mrs. Goodge always gave you something to eat. He wasn’t disappointed this time, either.

  “Ta, Mrs. Goodge.” Davey, a slender, fair-haired lad grinned broadly as the cook put a plate with two jam tarts and three slices of buttered brown bread in front of him. “This is ever so
good. Uh, do ya mind if I take one of the tarts home for me little sister?”

  “Phyllis is wrapping up your sister’s tart as well as some bread for you to take home,” the cook replied. “Now, are you certain the only thing the inspector said was that he’d caught a case and would be home late tonight?”

  “That’s all he told me.” Davey started to grab a tart but then reached for a slice of bread instead.

  “I wonder where he was going.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down at the head of the table.

  Davey quickly chewed and swallowed the food in his mouth. “I know. They was goin’ to Whitechapel. I ’eard his constable tellin’ the hansom driver to take ’em to the Leman Street Police Station and that’s in Whitechapel.” He shoved another bite in his mouth.

  Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the cook, who was frowning. “Are you certain?” the housekeeper asked.

  “Heard it plain as day, ma’am. They was on their way to Leman Street Station.”

  The cook shoved the plate closer to Davey. “Go on, then. Eat up, Davey.”

  Phyllis, who had heard the whole exchange, moved closer to the housekeeper and whispered, “Should I get Smythe and Betsy?”

  Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “Yes, and if you can manage it, stop and have a word with Ruth as well. As soon as Wiggins comes downstairs, I’ll send him to fetch Luty Belle and Hatchet.”

  “Right, I’m off, then.” Phyllis rushed to the coat tree, grabbed her coat, and with a quick smile at Davey, raced down the corridor for the door.

  As soon as the lad finished eating, Mrs. Goodge handed him a brown-paper-wrapped parcel of food and bundled him out of the back door. She hurried to the kitchen. “You don’t think our inspector has the Santorini murder, do you?”

  “You read the article in the Sentinel. Why else would he be going to the East End?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  It was a newspaper they didn’t generally read, but today Wiggins had picked up a copy at the newsagents when he’d spotted the headline earlier this morning on his way back from getting Mrs. Goodge her rheumatism medicine from the chemist.

  Mrs. Jeffries plopped into her chair. “But I’m not sure how I feel about this situation.”

  The cook stared at her for a moment before taking her own seat. “Don’t be ridiculous, Hepzibah. If our inspector has a case, then we’re on the hunt.”

  “I know, but it will be strange to work on a case involving Inspector Nivens. I’m not sure I’m up to it.” She shook her head. “He’s tried so hard to hurt our inspector and, even though that newspaper article didn’t come right out and say it, the writer hinted that Nivens is the prime suspect.”

  Mrs. Goodge hesitated, not certain how to say what she thought. “Hepzibah, I understand Nivens has acted like a swine, and I’ve no great liking for him, either. But whether he is innocent or guilty shouldn’t have anything to do with our commitment to justice.”

  “I know,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But, on the other hand, why should we help someone who has spent years undermining Inspector Witherspoon?”

  “How do you know we’d be helping Nivens? Maybe we’d be helping someone innocent, maybe we’d keep someone from being hanged for a murder they didn’t commit. What’s more, we’ve already sent Phyllis for Smythe and Betsy as well as Ruth. What are we going to tell them? That we’re not even goin’ to look at this case because it might involve Nigel Nivens?”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Jeffries protested, but in truth, she had no idea what she was going to say or do about this situation. What’s more, she knew the cook was right, but somehow the thought of working on this case and possibly helping that odious man seemed wrong. Simply wrong. “First of all, we don’t know his being called to Leman Street Station has anything to do with the Santorini murder, and second, finding out anything will be very difficult. Santorini was killed in Whitechapel, the East End, the roughest part of London.”

  “We’ve gone into rough places before.” The cook crossed her arms over her chest and stared at her friend. “And if you’ll recall, Betsy spent most of her life there. She knows her way around, as does Wiggins, and even our Phyllis has learned a few tricks about taking care of herself when she’s on the hunt.”

  “But Ruth certainly won’t know anyone from the East End and, and . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized how foolish she was being. Closing her eyes, she sighed. “Forgive me; I’m being an idiot. Let’s just find out what the facts of the case might be.”

  Thirty minutes later, Betsy and Smythe arrived. Smythe was Inspector Witherspoon’s coachman. He carried their three-year-old daughter, Amanda, in his arms. Betsy, a slender, blonde young matron with lovely features and blue eyes, had been the household maid before marrying the coachman. They now lived a quarter mile away in their own flat. Smythe was a good fifteen years older than his wife. He had brown hair graying at the crown and temples, a tall, muscular build, and a hard face that was saved from being harsh by the smile in his brown eyes. He put his daughter down. “Blast a Spaniard. Even for this time of the year, it’s still ruddy cold outside.”

  Mrs. Goodge held out her arms. “Come see your godmother, and we’ll take off that heavy coat and hat,” she called. She, along with their friend Luty Belle Crookshank, and the inspector were the three godparents to the child. Amanda raced toward her, squealing in delight.

  The cook scooped the child up and sat down at the table with the toddler on her lap. She untied the ribbons holding the warm woolly hat on the little one’s head and then began unbuttoning her heavy winter coat.

  “Do we have a murder?” Betsy sat down across from the cook. But just then, they heard the back door open and the sound of footsteps.

  A moment later, Luty Belle Crookshank, a small-statured, white-haired American, scurried into the kitchen with Hatchet, her butler, on her heels. Wiggins brought up the rear.

  “I hear we got us another murder.” Luty skidded to a halt as she spotted Amanda on the cook’s lap. “Nells bells, my baby girl’s here.”

  Hatchet stopped abruptly to avoid crashing into his employer, causing Wiggins to stumble to a halt to avoid running into him. “Really, madam, don’t stop so suddenly. We might have had a most distressing accident.” He was a tall, white-haired man with a spine as straight as an admiral’s and a manner that was equally comfortable with a beggar or a duke. He was supposed to be Luty’s butler, but in truth, they were far more than that and very devoted to each other.

  Luty ignored him, flew across the room, and plopped down in the chair next to the cook. Amanda giggled happily as Luty chucked her gently on the chin.

  “Is Lady Cannonberry coming?” Hatchet asked as he took a chair next to Luty.

  “I’m not sure.” Phyllis put a pot of tea on the table. “She wasn’t home, but I left a message with Everton, her butler, that she was needed. He wasn’t sure when she’d be back, so I told him to ask her to stop in if she arrived back before lunch. If she isn’t back, I told him to make sure she knew to be here this afternoon.”

  “Then we’ll get on with it now that everyone else is here,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. She told them what little they knew thus far. “So you see,” she concluded, “I’m not really sure the case has anything to do with the murder of Bert Santorini.”

  “What else could it mean?” Luty declared. “Our inspector was sent there because he’s got a good reputation, and if he’s in charge of that murder, the police can’t be accused of covering anything up to protect one of their own.”

  “Yes, it does seem that way,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “But perhaps before we do anything, we ought to be sure of the facts.”

  Smythe shook his head. “Luty’s right, Mrs. J.—it’s the Santorini killing. I think Wiggins and I need to get to the East End right quick.” He glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “If we take the train, we’ve time to get there before the pubs close for the afternoon.”

  “W
hy should you two get to go?” Betsy frowned at her husband. “I’m the one that knows that neighborhood.”

  “I know where Felix Mews is and Wiggins and I can get there fast.” Smythe grinned and dropped a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “And the little one is goin’ to need ’er nap soon.”

  Wiggins was already on his feet. “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” he said as the two men disappeared toward the back door.

  * * *

  * * *

  After leaving Whitechapel Station, Smythe had gone into the Kings Arms, a big, crowded workingman’s pub on the Commercial Road, while Wiggins headed for the quieter streets in search of a smaller, more local place. It didn’t take him long to find the Crying Crows Pub.

  He opened the door, stepped inside, and then knew he’d picked the wrong place. For the East End, the pub was too fancy for most of the locals. Crimson wallpaper with an intricate gold fleur-de-lis pattern covered the walls, the bar was polished oak, and the planks on the wooden floor gleamed. There was a mirror running the length of the bar, and the keg taps visible over the top of the counter were a pale cream ceramic instead of wood. But worst of all, the place was empty save for one old man sitting at a table by the window.

  The barmaid was drying a tray of whisky glasses while a barman with a receding hairline was picking up empty pints and cleaning the tables. It was close to closing time, but Wiggins had hoped there’d be a few more people in the ruddy place. He almost turned and walked out, but just then the barmaid saw him. “You’ve time for a quick one if ya want,” she called.

  Feeling stuck, Wiggins went to the bar. “I’ll ’ave a pint of bitter, please. I ’ear there was a killin’ around these parts last night.”

  “You a reporter?” The barmaid picked up a glass, stuck it under the tap, and pulled the lever. She put the drink in front of Wiggins.

  “Nah, just visitin’ my auntie. I live in Chelmsford. My auntie told me there was someone murdered near ’ere.”