Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “Yeah, it ’appens from time to time.” She went back to her task.

  “Guess it ’appens everywhere from time to time.” Wiggins took a sip. “Mind you, me auntie said the poor bloke was killed with a copper’s gun.”

  She stared at him a moment and then shrugged. She was an attractive young woman with brown hair piled high on the top of her head and held together in an elaborate twist with a trio of pale gray combs; her eyes were blue and her face long and narrow. “Don’t believe everything you hear. We get lots of police in here and most of ’em are a decent sort. You sure you’re not a reporter?”

  Wiggins wished he’d worn his old jacket and flat cap instead of the new one he’d bought at Christmas. “Do I look like a ruddy reporter?”

  “You’re dressed like one.” She looked him up and down. “That coat costs more than I earn in a month.”

  “I make a good livin’,” he retorted. “And this coat was a present from me auntie. Cor blimey, what’s wrong with the people in this part of town? Last I ’eard, it wasn’t a crime to be curious about a murder. I was only makin’ a bit of conversation.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude. You’re a customer, and we pride ourselves on treatin’ our customers right.” She flushed slightly and glanced toward the other end of the long counter. He followed her gaze and saw that just beyond the mirror was a closed door. “It’s just that the owner knew the man that was killed. To be honest, we all did.”

  “Was they friends?”

  “You could say that.” She managed a brief smile. “He stayed here for a few months, but then the two of ’em had a falling out, and he moved to a lodging house. But still, even if they did have words, it’s not nice to know someone who was murdered. Mrs. Callahan told us not to talk about him, especially if any reporters come around asking questions.”

  Wiggins realized he’d already made some headway here. She was talking about the murder, and he’d even picked up a tiny morsel of information. “Well, you can rest easy, miss.” He gave her his best smile. “I’m just a simple workingman. I’m in charge of the Inbound Department at Pierce and Son, not a newspaper reporter.”

  “Pierce and Son? They’re over by Liverpool Street Station, right? I walk right past there on my way home.” She gave him a long, assessing look. “You’re in charge of a whole department? You look awfully young for such a position.”

  Wiggins knew then he might have made a mistake. He wasn’t conceited, but he knew he was attractive. The last thing he needed was her dropping into the Pierce warehouse and having a look for him, but he couldn’t retreat now. As the saying went, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He laughed. “Why, thank you, miss. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”

  “My name is Janice, Janice Everly.” She smiled flirtatiously.

  “Christopher Carrow,” he lied. He never used his real name when he was on the hunt. “It must be terrible for all of you, I mean, seein’ as how you knew the man. Is your Mrs. Callahan afraid the killer will come after her?” Wiggins dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned closer as he spoke.

  “Nah.” She laughed. “She’s scared that if any of us talk to the newspapers, she’ll lose half her customers. We get a lot of business from the local constables and detectives. The Leman Street Station is close by, and Mrs. Callahan doesn’t want them upset and thinkin’ we’re talkin’ out of turn. Mrs. Callahan has worked hard to fix this place up and make it nice, you know, so that we attract the right sort of customers.”

  “She’ll have your guts for garters if she hears you.” The barman came from the far end of the bar and put a tray of dirty glassware on the counter. “Good Lord, Janice, she’s in a bad enough mood today”—he cast a quick glance at the door behind the bar—“and if she hears you, she’ll have your head on a pike and probably mine as well.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Alex. What’s wrong now?” Janice frowned at the barman and picked up the tray. She put it on the shelf behind her and then pushed it neatly down to the far end.

  “It’s the ruddy gin. We’re almost out of it,” he muttered, “and of course, she’s blaming me. But you know that I told her we weren’t just low on it, but that we were almost completely out. I told her to add it to today’s order, but when the brewery wagon came this morning, it didn’t bring much of anything except the whisky.”

  “I know you told her. I was standin’ right next to you when you yelled up them stairs on Saturday night that we needed more,” Janice agreed.

  “Now she’s sayin’ that she never heard me and that I should have made sure she knew we was almost out.” He tossed his cleaning rag onto the counter.

  “She had to have heard you—you was shoutin’ loud enough to raise the dead. Besides, she doesn’t like either of us goin’ upstairs to her quarters. Remember how she yelled at me when I went up to tell her that one of the keg handles broke.” Janice turned back to Wiggins. “You see what I’m on about, don’t ya? No matter what we do, if something goes wrong here, it’s our fault.”

  “Can’t you work somewhere else?”

  “We could, but Mrs. Callahan, for all her faults, pays better than most around here,” Alex interjected.

  “But still, if you get blamed for every little thing that goes wrong, that don’t seem right.”

  “For the most part, she’s not as bad as some I’ve worked for. I think she’s just upset because she was once friends with Bert Santorini, and she feels bad he was shot. Still, she shouldn’t take it out on us.”

  “That’s the trouble with bein’ a workin’man.” Wiggins took another sip of his beer. He tried to think of a way to keep them talking, but he suspected he was running out of time.

  “You’d best drink that up.” Alex nodded at the pint of beer that was still almost full. “It’s closing time, and Mrs. Callahan won’t let drinkers dawdle any later than the law allows.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Barnes yanked open the front door of the Leman Street Station. He and Inspector Witherspoon stepped inside and straight into a wrestling match between three constables and a black-bearded giant. They stopped inside the doorway.

  One of the constables managed to get the flailing man onto his back and promptly sat on him while the other two grabbed at his arms. “Get your bloody ’ands off me.” The giant flung one of the constables to one side as three more police rushed in from the corridor. “You can’t treat me like this.” He began kicking his legs into the air, trying to dislodge the constable sitting on his chest. One of the newcomers grabbed at a leg, managed to snag it, and held it down, while the other two flattened themselves onto all four of the prisoner’s limbs. Finally, they got him subdued, but it took five of them to hoist the fellow to his feet.

  “He’s a big one, sir,” Barnes muttered.

  “Indeed, Constable,” Witherspoon agreed. “He’s at least six and a half feet tall.”

  “And he’s a ruddy troublemaker,” the constable who’d been tossed to one side snapped as he got to his feet and joined the others surrounding the prisoner. They shepherded him toward the hallway.

  “You coppers are the troublemakers; I weren’t doin’ nuthin’ but mindin’ me own business when your lot set upon me like a pack of mad dogs,” he shouted.

  “Mind you search him properly,” the desk constable called as they disappeared into the corridor. “He carries a knife in his left boot.” He broke off and gave the new arrivals a faint smile before turning his attention to Witherspoon. “Welcome, sir. You must be the inspector from Ladbroke Road. We don’t normally greet guests like this, but, as I’m sure you know, it happens.”

  From the hall, they heard a keening and then a horrible, sad sob. “Why’d she do it, why’d she leave me like this?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Henry—she’ll be back,” an irritable voice replied. “She always comes back.”

 
“She won’t, not this time. My Sophie is gone for good.”

  They heard who they assumed to be the giant begin to cry in earnest, his sobs wrenching and heartfelt, so much so that the inspector gave a sympathetic glance in his direction.

  “Sorry, sir.” The desk constable frowned toward the corridor. “Henry’s a big one and not a bad one, but he gets drunk whenever Sophie takes it into her head to run off with someone else.”

  “Yes, well, that must be dreadful for the poor fellow. He sounds heartbroken. I’m Gerald Witherspoon,” he replied, “and this is Constable Barnes. We’re here to see Inspector Havers. Is he available?”

  The constable’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “They didn’t say it was you two who was expected.” His broad face split into a welcoming grin. “I’m right pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said to Witherspoon before turning to the constable. “Come on, Barnes—don’t you recognize me? The hair’s a bit grayer and I’ve put on a pound or two, but I haven’t changed that much.”

  Barnes stared at him curiously.

  “For goodness’ sakes, man, you and I patrolled these streets together twenty-five years ago.”

  “Ye gods, as I live and breathe—you’re John Rhodes. I’d have thought you would be retired by now.” Barnes laughed, extended his hand, and the two of them shook.

  “I could say the same about you,” Rhodes replied, “but I like my work, and this district suits me. I’ve had mainly desk duty for the last ten years. I’ve got to tell you, Barnes—you’ve made some of us old coppers right proud. You and your inspector have solved some of the most complicated murders this city has ever seen.”

  “It’s not just the two of us, John.” Barnes chuckled. “We have a lot of help from the other lads on the force. Everyone does their part.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Barnes”—Rhodes nodded—“but I expect you don’t have time to stand about and talk about the old days. Now that you’re here, I do expect you to let me buy you a drink when you’ve time for a pint. Inspector Havers is waitin’ for you in the duty inspector’s office. It’s the second door on the right.”

  They headed toward the office, Barnes knocked, and they entered. Inspector Havers rose from his chair and came around the desk, his hand extended. “Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes, welcome to Leman Street.” He shook hands with both of them and then pointed to two straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. “I’m all ready for you, so please sit down. Would you care for tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Witherspoon took his seat. “We’re fine. I appreciate your taking the time to see us. I know how busy you must be.” He glanced at Constable Barnes and saw that he’d taken his notebook and pencil out of his pocket.

  “True, this station does see a lot of activity”—he gave them a rueful smile—“as I’m sure you’ve just seen. Henry Spangler is as big as they come and, for the most part, a decent sort. He works down at the docks loading freight, but he can’t hold his liquor, and when he drinks, he generally gets into terrible mischief. Usually that only happens when his lady decides to hunt for greener pastures.”

  “That sort of thing happens at Ladbroke Road as well,” Witherspoon said. He cleared his throat. “Inspector Havers, I want you to understand that I’ve no idea why Constable Barnes and I were called into your district and given the Santorini case. I assure you—”

  Havers interrupted. “Don’t feel awkward, Inspector, I know exactly why. First, it’s because one of our officers appears to have some connection to Santorini’s death—Inspector Nigel Nivens’ gun was used to kill the man—and second, the press already have that story.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw today’s Sentinel.” Witherspoon unbuttoned his heavy overcoat. “Still, it’s odd that they’d call us in so quickly.”

  “Not really.” Havers shook his head. “No one, least of all the police commissioner and the Home Secretary, want even a hint of scandal on this case. If someone from this district were to investigate and found evidence that Nivens didn’t kill Santorini, the public could well think we were covering up for one of our own. The Metropolitan Police have had enough nasty publicity in the past ten years, but public faith in us has finally been restored, and the Home Secretary wants to keep it that way.”

  “I see.” Witherspoon was relieved that Inspector Havers didn’t seem to resent their coming here. “Well, in that case, we’ll get to work.”

  “Excellent.” Havers pushed the box file, which was on the side of the desk, toward the inspector. “Here’s the file and what few witness statements we were able to obtain. I had a word with the victim’s landlady, Mrs. Frida Sorensen. She was shocked and distressed, but she had no idea who Santorini’s next of kin might be, so we’ve not been able to locate any family members. Mrs. Sorensen thought Santorini had come originally from Turin in Italy. Unfortunately, you’ll need to visit the lodging house again. It was quite late when we got there last night, and frankly, the lighting in the room was so bad I decided to wait until today to do a proper search. Mrs. Sorensen assured me she’d keep it locked.”

  “He had a room to himself?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

  “He did. Santorini did quite well; he owned his cart outright, so all the money he made was his to keep. For the most part, he delivered ice, but he’d expanded his business to include evening deliveries of flower bouquets. He took them to the restaurants in the theater district,” Havers explained.

  “Where is Santorini’s body, sir?”

  “He’s been taken to the morgue at London Hospital. Dr. Robert Stapleton is doing the postmortem. He’ll be sending his report along today. Are you going to headquarter here or back at Ladbroke Road?”

  “We don’t want to be in the way, but it would be far more convenient for us to stay here,” Witherspoon said.

  Havers grinned. “Good. You can use this office.”

  “I don’t want to put you out,” Witherspoon protested.

  “You won’t be. The chief inspector will be gone for a few days, and he says the duty inspectors can use his office.” Havers pointed at the file box. “That’s the official information we have on the deceased, but if you’d like, I can give you the unofficial version.” He paused, and when both Witherspoon and Barnes nodded, he continued speaking. “As I’ve said, Bert Santorini was an iceman and has had his own cart for several years now. However, there was gossip that he was more than just a small businessman trying to make a living. He was often seen throwing a bit of cash about, and he had an eye for the ladies.”

  “What kind of gossip?” Witherspoon asked.

  “That he was involved in fencing stolen goods; supposedly, he used his ice cart to move stolen items from one place to the next. But we never found any evidence that Santorini was a fence,” Havers warned him. “Nonetheless, I think it’s a line of inquiry you might want to pursue.”

  “Especially as Inspector Nigel Nivens was and is considered one of the force’s experts on housebreaking,” the constable murmured.

  “True, and just so you’ll know, we’ve already interviewed Inspector Nivens. He claims he has no knowledge about this matter.” He shrugged. “But then again, that’s exactly what I’d expect him to say.”

  “When did Santorini come to England?” Witherspoon wanted as much information as he could get. In so many of their previous cases, it was often some tiny fact about a victim’s past that pointed to the killer.

  “I’m not sure, but one of the constables said he thought Santorini had come here as a child. He didn’t have a foreign accent.”

  “He testified at the O’Dwyer trial, didn’t he? Wasn’t he Inspector Nivens’ source?” The inspector tried to recall all the details of the case. But the only fact he could remember was that it involved three brothers.

  “He was. As a matter of fact, it was Santorini’s testimony that convicted them.” Havers sat back in his chair. “Unfortunately
, in this part of town, some of the local people don’t see anything wrong in dealing in stolen goods. For the most part, these people are dreadfully poor, and there’s a bit of resentment toward those that are better off. The O’Dwyers had a reputation for handing out a bit of cash when people were desperate. Some of the townsfolk were furious with Santorini for testifying against them.”

  Witherspoon thought for a moment. “The O’Dwyers gave money to people who were destitute? Really?”

  “Sounds like one of them silly myths that spring up about crooks,” Barnes scoffed. “Most criminals are just that—criminals that have decided it’s easier to rob, steal, defraud, or even kill instead of working for a living.”

  “I agree, Constable. I don’t know if the gossip about the O’Dwyers is true or not. I’m simply telling you what my lads have reported hearing from the locals.”

  “It doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not,” Witherspoon speculated. “What matters is that they had a reputation for reaching into their pockets to help those less fortunate.”

  “Exactly.” Havers nodded. “This might be important, because it could well be that someone took revenge on Santorini for testifying. All of the brothers are now in Pentonville Prison.”

  “Revenge is a pretty potent murder motive.” Witherspoon frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps it will be useful to find out who benefited from their generosity.”

  “That won’t be easy,” Havers warned him. “People around here don’t like telling the police anything. You should also know that the O’Dwyers have a lot of family and friends here. None of them had any love for Humberto Santorini. About the only place he was welcome these days is the Thistle and Thorn Pub on Nickels Street. That’s here in Whitechapel.”

  “Was Santorini ever arrested?” Barnes asked.

  “Not that I know of—at least there’s no record of him being arrested here in London,” Havers replied. “You’ve got his address, and the file also contains the O’Dwyers’ family address as well as a list of Santorini’s customers. Do you have any other questions?”