“Can you show us where he was killed?” Witherspoon rose to his feet.
“Of course. I’ll take you there now. But you’ll not find much. My lads searched the area thoroughly.”
“I’m not questioning the competence of your constables,” Witherspoon explained. “I like to see where the murder occurred. I find it very helpful.”
* * *
* * *
“Oh dear, I think I’ve made a dreadful mistake,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I shouldn’t have called you all here until I had more information. I’m so sorry to have wasted everyone’s time.”
“Don’t be silly.” Luty grinned and shot to her feet. “We’ve got the name of the victim, the supposed name of the killer, and we know where he was murdered. Felix Mews. That’s plenty to start with. I’ve got a source in that part of town, and I’ll bet he knows something.”
Alarmed, Hatchet stared at her in disbelief. “Madam, just what do you think you’re doing? I hope you’re not intending to race to Whitechapel and make contact with that disreputable—”
“That’s exactly what I’m goin’ to do,” she interrupted. “And he ain’t disreputable; he’s reformed. Brockton’s done his time. Like I said, he knows plenty about what goes on in the East End.” She glanced at the clock on the pine sideboard. “If we use the carriage, we should be able to git there and back by four o’clock. Maybe by then Smythe and Wiggins will be here.”
“Who are you going to see?” Phyllis asked curiously.
“Brockton Bellingham,” Hatchet muttered. “He’s nothing more than a confidence trickster and flimflam man.”
“I told ya, he’s reformed.” Luty glared at Hatchet. “Now you can either come with me, or you can sit on your backside doin’ nuthin’. Which will it be?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, madam. Of course I’m going with you.” He stood up and fixed her with a steely stare. “And just to be clear here: It will be a cold day in the pits of Hades before I let you anywhere near that dreadful person without me. He’s quite likely to steal your purse.”
“Come on then—let’s git goin’.” Luty laughed and then looked at the others. “We’ll be back for our afternoon meeting.”
Phyllis suddenly leapt up. “Take me with you? You’re right—we do have enough information to start our investigation.” She was still smarting over Wiggins and his theft of her idea; she’d never heard him mention becoming a private inquiry agent until she’d confided her own ambitions to him. “I can speak to some of the shopkeepers in the neighborhood. I might be able to find out all sorts of useful information.”
“But Phyllis, the East End isn’t like Holland Park or Putney,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “You’ll need to be very careful. It’s a rough place, and you might find it difficult to get anyone to tell you anything.” Wiggins and Smythe could take care of themselves, and Luty would have Hatchet with her. But Phyllis was a lovely young woman, and Mrs. Jeffries didn’t like to think of her on her own in that part of the city.
“She’ll be fine, Mrs. Jeffries.” The cook crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the housekeeper. “Our Phyllis knows how to take care of herself, and, what’s more, she’s not daft enough to get herself into any situations that might hurt her.”
“I’d go, too,” Betsy announced. “But I’ve got to get Amanda home for her nap.” She also had to make arrangements for their upstairs neighbor to take care of the toddler for the next few days. She wanted to be on the hunt as well.
“I’ll get my coat.” Phyllis hurried to the coat tree.
“Good, that’s settled then,” Luty announced. “Let’s get crackin’. It’s already a quarter past one.”
* * *
* * *
Frida Sorensen’s lodging house was in a better part of the East End, on a shady street off the Mile End Road. The three-story brown brick house was decent and well-kept, with the window frames painted a pale ivory and a black wrought-iron fence surrounding the tiny front garden.
“Santorini has done well for himself,” Barnes commented as they approached the front door. “A private room in this kind of lodging house costs a pretty penny.” He lifted the polished brass knocker and let it fall. A moment later, the door was opened by a red-haired young woman with a feather duster tucked under her arm. “You the police, then?”
“Yes. We’d like to speak to Mrs. Sorensen,” Witherspoon said.
“She’s been expectin’ you lot.” She cocked her head to one side and looked them both up and down. “You’re not the ones that were here last night.”
“That’s correct, but we’re the ones that are now in charge of the investigation into Humberto Santorini’s murder,” Witherspoon explained.
“If you say so.” She waved them inside and closed the door. “Wait here. I’ll let ’er know you’re back.”
“Thank you,” Witherspoon said as she disappeared past the staircase.
Barnes turned slowly, studying the foyer. The faint light of an overcast winter afternoon filtered in through the fanlight above the door. The walls were painted a pale yellow and hung with paintings of wildflowers. The small space was furnished with a walnut entry table holding a vase of decorative dried flowers, and opposite that was a yellow and green ceramic umbrella stand.
A tall middle-aged woman with blonde hair piled high in an elaborate chignon appeared in the hallway. Buxom, yet very much in proper proportion to her height, she was what many would call a handsome woman. Her eyes were blue, her cheekbones high, and her complexion unlined save for a few brackets around her eyes and mouth. She stared at them for a few moments. “You’re not the same police who were here last night.”
“No. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes. We’re now in charge of this case,” Witherspoon replied. “I take it you’re Mrs. Sorensen?”
“I am.”
“May we speak with you a few moments?”
She frowned in confusion. “But why? I’ve already told that other inspector everything I know.”
“It’s common procedure when the case gets passed to another inspector, Mrs. Sorensen,” Witherspoon said quickly. “This won’t take long.”
She sighed heavily. “Alright, let’s go into the parlor.”
They followed her down a short hall and through an open doorway. This room, like the foyer, was painted a pale yellow. It was furnished with a gray horsehair three-piece suite, a curio cabinet filled with figurines and knickknacks, and two side tables, both of which were covered with neatly stacked magazines and newspapers. At the far end of the room was a fireplace, over which hung a painting of the sea.
She waved them toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Witherspoon sat at one end and Barnes settled down on the other. Mrs. Sorensen sank into one of the overstuffed chairs. “I know this must be very shocking for you, Mrs. Sorensen, but we’ll try to be as quick as possible. Can you tell us how long Mr. Santorini has lodged here?”
“Let me see.” She frowned thoughtfully. “He came in September. That’s right, September tenth. I remember now because it was just the day after Mr. Pomfret left.”
“Where did he lodge before he came here?” Barnes asked.
“He had a tiny room at the Crying Crows Pub. But he got turfed out when the landlady needed his room for extra storage.”
“Do you know if he had any enemies?” Barnes asked.
She turned her attention to the constable. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“I mean, did he ever mention that there was someone in his life who wished him harm?”
“Why would he tell me that? I’m his landlady, not his father confessor.”
“He was a Roman Catholic?”
“I don’t recall him ever going to church, but I do remember that he once told me he’d been baptized in Turin. That’s in Italy.”
“D
id he get along with everyone here at the lodging house?” the constable asked.
“As far as I know, he got along with everyone just fine.” She shrugged. “But he wasn’t here much. He worked long hours—left right after breakfast and didn’t get in until late in the evening.”
“He did deliveries late at night?” Barnes asked.
“No, but he spent a good bit of time in pubs. He used to go to the Crying Crows, but after he got turfed out, he switched to the Thistle and Thorn.”
“I see. That’s very helpful, Mrs. Sorensen.” Witherspoon stood up. “May we have the key to his room, please?”
Barnes hastily tucked his pencil in his pocket, closed his notebook, and got up as well.
“It’s unlocked. Santorini’s room is the first one on the left at the top of the stairs.” She rose and led them out into the hallway to the bottom of the staircase.
“His room is unlocked?” Witherspoon frowned. “But Inspector Havers said you told him you’d keep it under lock and key until it could be searched.”
“I unlocked it when I heard Marianne letting you in.”
“Where did he stable his pony and cart?” Barnes put his hand on top of the newel post of the bannister. He knew the Leman Street constables had taken both the animal and the ice cart to a commercial stable near the docks.
“At Dartman and Sons. They’re just off Hanover Lane.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sorensen,” Barnes said as he and Witherspoon started up the stairs.
They reached the landing and stepped into the dead man’s room. The drapes were closed tight. The constable crossed to the window and pushed the heavy, old-fashioned navy blue and gold patterned paisley curtains aside. He turned and took a good look around the room.
A thick blue and gray carpet runner lay on the oak floor between the end of the iron bedstead and the wardrobe. A nightstand with a pitcher and bowl stood in the corner next to an overstuffed brown horsehair chair. A chest of drawers was on the far side of the bed.
“Perhaps carting ice and flowers about London pays well,” Witherspoon murmured.
“Or perhaps the gossip about Santorini was right, and he had more than one source of income. Shall I take the wardrobe, sir?”
“Good idea. I’ll take the chest of drawers.”
They each set about their assigned tasks. Barnes yanked open the door of the wardrobe. Inside, two white shirts hung on one of the pegs next to a heavy gray overcoat, and on the last peg were two pairs of trousers. A pair of scruffy boots covered in mud and a pair of black shoes were on the floor. Barnes pulled out the coat and stuck his hand into the front pocket but found nothing but a matchbox and two ha’pennies. The shirt and trouser pockets were empty as well.
There was a deep shelf at the top of the wardrobe and inside, pushed all the way to the back, was a square-shaped object. Barnes stuck his hand inside. “There’s something here, sir. It feels a bit like a strongbox, only it seems made of wood, not metal.”
“Excellent, Constable. The only thing in here is underwear and socks.” Witherspoon closed the drawer he’d been searching.
Barnes pulled the box down, crossed the room, and waited a moment for the inspector to move to one side before laying it on the top of the chest of drawers. “It’s fairly big, sir, about eighteen inches long and a good ten inches high. There’s a keyhole, which means it might be locked.” He tried the lid. “It is.”
“There was no mention of a key in the list of the personal property found with the victim,” Witherspoon said.
“Then it should be here somewhere.” Barnes went back to the wardrobe and stuck his hand inside the shelf and swept it from side to side. “Nothing up here. Let’s see if there’s anything in his shoes.” Bending down, he picked up one of the dress shoes and shoved his hand inside. Nothing. He tried the other one as well as the boots. “It’s not in the wardrobe.”
“I’ll check these drawers.” Witherspoon yanked open the top drawer and systematically searched through the undergarments for a second time, but found nothing.
For the next ten minutes, they searched for a key, checking the rest of the drawers, under the carpet runner, the mattress, and the floor around the bed. Barnes even got down on his knees to run his hands along the floor beneath the drawers. He did the same to the stand holding the water pitcher. Climbing to his feet, he dusted off his fingers and glanced around the room. “We’ve searched everywhere, sir. We’re going to have to break the lock.”
But Witherspoon was staring at the blue and white pitcher in the water basin. “Just a moment.” He crossed to the nightstand. Picking up the pitcher, he angled it toward the light and peered inside. A grin spread across his face as he turned the object upside down and a key fell onto the floor. The inspector bent down, grabbed the key, and hurried back to the box. He shoved the key into the lock, turned it, and the box opened.
Lifting the lid, the two of them looked inside. There were some papers, a thin stack of bills tied together with a bright red string, a red velvet drawstring bag, and two small glass bottles with cork stoppers—one was filled with brown liquid while the other one was a dark amber.
Witherspoon grabbed the stack of bills and tore off the string. “Good gracious, these are five-pound notes.” He counted them out. “There’s fifteen of them, that makes”—he stopped for a moment—“seventy-five pounds.”
“That’s a lot of money, sir,” Barnes said. “A lot more than one would think an ice vendor might have in his possession.”
“You’re right, of course, but he runs a business. Santorini might be one of those people who don’t trust banks,” the inspector said. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions until we have more facts. Right, let’s see what’s in here.” He picked up the drawstring bag, opened it, and a stream of gold sovereigns tumbled out, some clattering onto the top of the chest while the rest spilled onto the carpet runner. “My gracious!”
Barnes knelt down and scooped up the coins from the floor while Witherspoon counted out the ones on the chest of drawers.
“Here’s six, sir”—the constable placed them next to the box—“and there’s four here, so that makes ten. Ten sovereigns and fifteen five-pound notes. That’s a total of eighty-five pounds all together. That’s a lot of money for anyone, let alone a man running a business with a pony and cart.”
“We’ll take it into evidence.” Witherspoon frowned in confusion. “But I daresay, you’re correct. This is an extraordinary amount of money. Let’s see what else we have here.” He picked up one of the bottles. “It’s got the number four written on the front as well as a date. August twenty-third. This bottle is the same way, only the number is three and date is September first.”
“That looks like whisky.”
“Let’s see what it smells like.” Witherspoon pulled out the cork stopper and took a deep sniff. “You hit the nail on the head, Constable. It smells like whisky.”
Barnes picked up the second bottle, yanked out the cork, and took a whiff. “But this one smells like beer. But why would Santorini keep little bottles of alcohol under lock and key?”
“Perhaps there is more in there than just whisky or beer,” Witherspoon suggested. “We’ll take them into evidence along with the money and see what we can find.” He put the bottles to one side and reached for the papers on the bottom of the box. “We’ve got some receipts here from Dartman and Sons, a couple of bills for extra oats for the horse, and two letters.” He pulled one out of the envelope, read through it, and frowned. “It’s written in Italian, at least I think it’s Italian, but there’s a bit at the bottom that’s in English. ‘Your loving sister, Emilia.’”
“At least now we know who his next of kin is,” Barnes said as he put the papers back inside. “Is there an address in the salutation at the top?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “No.” He reached for the envelope and turned it over. “There’s one h
ere. Good, that should help. We’ll notify the Foreign Office. They’ll notify the local authorities in Turin to tell the poor woman her brother’s been murdered. I wondered if Santorini had a will. He does have an estate.” Witherspoon glanced at the stack of money. “Both that money and the horse and cart have value.”
“Perhaps his sister might know. I’ll send off a telegram as soon as we get back to the station.” Barnes closed the box and tucked it under his arm. “Where to now, sir?”
Witherspoon grimaced. “Unfortunately, as soon as we finish at the station, we’ll need to take a statement from Inspector Nivens.”
“He should be at home waiting for us.” Barnes started for the door. “But, knowing him, I imagine he’ll make this all as difficult as possible, and we’ll have to track him down.”
* * *
* * *
They stopped at Leman Street to put Santorini’s money as well as the box and its contents into evidence. Witherspoon had a quick word with the duty inspector while Constable Barnes sent off a constable to the post office with a telegram to the Foreign Office requesting assistance in notifying Santorini’s sister about his death. They worked quickly; nonetheless, it was late afternoon by the time they made their way to the Nivens home in Belgravia.
Barnes stepped out of the hansom, paid the driver, and wished he’d listened to his wife and worn another undershirt under his uniform. The weather had turned, and the sky was darkening fast; the air smelled of rain, and the wind was gusting something fierce. Witherspoon held on to his bowler as the constable rejoined him, and they stared at Inspector Nivens’ property.
The house stood at the end of a short row of three-story red-brick town houses, smaller than many other properties in this neighborhood, but so beautifully kept up that it was obvious the owner had money. The windows were encased in pristine white-painted wood, the tiny garden surrounded by a white wrought-iron fence, and the door painted a shiny black.
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 7