But what to do? He stopped by the hearth and drummed his fingers along the marble top of the fireplace. He couldn’t count on help from the rank-and-file lads at Leman Street Station. They hated him. He didn’t think any of them would deliberately hobble the investigation, but they wouldn’t go the extra mile to prove him innocent, either.
He’d have to do this investigation on his own. But even as he made the decision, he was suddenly overwhelmed with fear. The truth was, he wasn’t a very good investigator, and he knew it. Thus far, his path to success was based on two important factors: informants who he relied on to point him in the right direction whenever he had a burglary case, and his mother’s very considerable influence with the Home Secretary and a number of other cabinet ministers.
But now one of those informants was dead and, if he knew anything about the others, they’d stay well away from him while he had this cloud over his head. Most worrying for him was the issue of money. He didn’t have any. He’d not expressly been put on leave, but he knew it was coming and that meant his salary would be suspended as well.
It had never occurred to him to be frugal. There was plenty of cash in Mama’s coffers, so he’d spent his policeman’s salary on fine dining, good clothes, membership fees to the right clubs, and entertaining.
Nivens glanced at the telegram again. His mother hadn’t expressly threatened to cut off his access to her money, but he had a feeling that might be coming next. Lord Merton, his mother’s new husband, married her because she was rich, and Merton, like so many others of his class, was broke. Even before Nivens received today’s dispiriting telegram, there had been signs that dear Mama was closing the doors of her bank vault to him. He couldn’t let that happen. Without the ability to pay for information, he hadn’t a hope in Hades of finding out anything. Not by himself. But he wasn’t sure he could stop it, and without cash to pay out for information, he was doomed.
Or was he?
He closed his eyes as the strange idea settled inside him. He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the silly notion, but it clung to him tighter than a barnacle clings to a piling. No, he told himself, don’t even consider that course of action; the very thought of it is absurd.
He stood there for a few minutes, playing about with the notion, and then realized as insane as it appeared, it might be the solution to all his problems. It could well be a way to both prove his innocence and to prove he’d been right about that other matter and had been for years.
The ornate French carriage clock struck the hour, jerking him out of his thoughts. He saw that it was already too late to do anything this evening. He’d have to make his next move tomorrow morning, and he’d have to be very, very convincing if he was to succeed.
* * *
* * *
The next morning, Constable Barnes put his mug on the kitchen table and got up. “You’ve done well to remember everything, Mrs. Jeffries. Yesterday we learned so much so quickly that if I didn’t have my notebook, I’d be a bit lost.”
As was his usual custom when they had a homicide, the constable called at Upper Edmonton Gardens; supposedly it was because he and the inspector often went to parts unknown rather than the station when they were on a case. But the second and, to his mind, most important, reason was to have a quick word with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge before going upstairs to the inspector.
On one of his early cases with Witherspoon, he’d realized that the inspector was getting information from a source outside the investigation itself. It hadn’t taken him long before he realized the source was right here in the Witherspoon household. At first, he’d been alarmed. He hated the idea of a bunch of amateurs sticking their collective noses in police business because they’d all read too many of Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories in the Strand Magazine. But then he’d realized that not only was the information useful, but that Mrs. Jeffries and her band of sleuths could get people who wouldn’t give a policeman the time of day to tell them all sorts of things.
More important, Barnes had come to learn that all of them in their own way had resources that were simply unavailable to the average policeman. Mrs. Goodge had colleagues up and down the breadth of the land, and she’d stayed in contact with most of them; Smythe had a source at the docks that was privy to the most sensitive of information, while Wiggins, Betsy, and Phyllis could cover a whole neighborhood and get everyone from the local shopkeepers to the street lads to talk their heads off. Luty Belle Crookshank ruthlessly used her connections to the rich and powerful to track down clues, while Hatchet had friends in the art, theater, and—he suspected—the criminal world. Like the others, Lady Cannonberry helped as well. She had a vast network of friends and acquaintances who supplied her with useful bits and pieces. Mrs. Jeffries had the most difficult task of all: She was the one who took every little morsel of information and put it all together. Quite simply, she was the best detective he’d ever known.
Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “To tell you the truth, Constable, I cheated. Before retiring last night, I wrote down most of what I’d learned from our inspector, and you very kindly supplied us with a bit more information. I’m sorry that we had so little to give you.”
“It’s early days yet, and your lot will do your share.” He started toward the back stairs. “I’ll see you two tomorrow morning.”
Ten minutes later, they heard the front door open as the two policemen left. A few minutes after that, the others began to arrive for their morning meeting. Betsy and Smythe were the last to arrive. Betsy’s eyes were slightly red and her mouth set in a flat, grim line as she crossed the room and took her usual spot at the table. For once, neither Luty nor Mrs. Goodge asked where Amanda was.
Smythe, his face set in a frown, pulled his chair out and flopped down next to his wife. “The little one was fussy today, so we’ve left her with our neighbor,” he muttered. He didn’t look at Betsy nor did she so much as glance in his direction.
It was obvious to everyone that this morning, something had gone badly wrong between these two. But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t have time to worry about the state of their marriage; that was their business. “We’ve much to cover this morning,” she announced. “If no one objects, I’ll tell you everything we’ve found out from the inspector and Constable Barnes.” She repeated each and every detail they’d learned, and when she finished, she sat back in her chair. “I don’t think I need to tell any of you what you must do. You know that already.”
“I’ll try Mrs. Sorensen’s lodging house.” Wiggins got up. “I’ve already been in the Crying Crows, for all the good it did.”
“Don’t say that,” Phyllis objected. “We’ve only just started and, from what Mrs. Jeffries told us, Inspector Nivens drinks there when he’s off duty. I think it’s worth having another go at it.”
“Good luck to ya, but don’t be surprised if you come away with nothin’. That barman keeps his mouth closed tighter than a bank vault,” Wiggins warned her. “You’d do better chattin’ with the barmaid.”
“But you found out a few bits from him.” She grinned. “Even if it was just some complaining about their guv.”
“Right then, I’ve a source that might be able to ’elp,” Smythe offered. “After that, I’ll ’ave a go at chatting up some hansom drivers.”
The others, except for Betsy, volunteered to tap their various sources, and the meeting broke up. Both Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge noticed that Betsy practically ran for the back door while Smythe took his time in leaving. When the kitchen was quiet except for the two of them, the cook looked at the housekeeper. “I wonder what’s going on between Betsy and Smythe.”
“I think they’ve had a disagreement,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “And, what’s more, Betsy deliberately didn’t say where she was going this morning.”
* * *
* * *
Betsy stared at the spot where Bert Santorini had been killed and then turned on her heel and hurried o
ut of the mews. Her mood was even worse now than this morning. Tears sprang into her eyes and she hastily swiped them away. She wasn’t going to act like a silly schoolgirl just because she and Smythe had quarreled. He hadn’t wanted her to do her part; he’d wanted her to stay home and pretend like she’d never seen or heard of the East End. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. They’d argued something fierce and it ended only when Amanda had started to cry. They’d reassured the child they’d only been pretending to be angry with each other and had cuddled and soothed her between them. But they’d both still been blooming furious.
“How did he expect me to feel,” she muttered to herself as she came out onto the Commercial Road. He’d conveniently forgotten that she’d grown up in this part of London and knew it like the back of her hand.
She’d not learned a ruddy thing by looking at the spot where Santorini had been killed, but she’d still been in such a foul mood, she didn’t want to risk going directly to Mattie Mitchell’s nasty little shop.
Betsy turned off the busy road and continued walking until she reached a row of shops, above which were three stories of ugly flats filled with London’s poorest citizens crammed inside like rats on a sinking ship. Mattie’s place was tucked between a shoe repair shop and a knife-sharpening kiosk. She stopped at the corner and waited till a brewery wagon loaded with barrels rolled past. She studied Mattie’s shop and could see that the place hadn’t improved since she’d last seen it, almost ten years ago. She only hoped that Mattie herself was still alive and still the same grasping, greedy cow she’d always been. But Mattie had one saving grace: She knew everything that went on in the East End, and for a few bob, she’d share that knowledge.
Betsy started across the road, dashing in front of a coal wagon, past a cockle seller pushing his cart out of a rut hole, and onto the crumbling pavement.
She paused in front of the dusty window and peered into the shop. It was supposedly a tobacconist shop, but Mattie had crammed it full of junk. Wicker baskets hung inside the doorjamb, and a row of used trousers and shirts hung along a makeshift line on the wall behind the counter. Along the back wall there were shelves where the tinned goods used to be, but the window was so dusty Betsy couldn’t see if they were still there. Along the counter proper, baskets of potatoes and carrots stood next to a display of tobacco tins, cigarette papers, and chewing tobacco.
Her hands clenched into fists as memories flooded back to her. Mattie, standing behind the counter and cutting off the moldy bits of day-old bread. “That’s all ya get for a ha’penny,” she’d said as she’d shoved it toward Betsy. “If you find any more of the blue bits, just scrape ’em off.”
She shook herself. Now wasn’t the time to let her emotions rule; she needed information, and Mattie might be the one who had it.
Betsy frowned. The shop looked the same, but there wasn’t hide nor hair of Mattie. Maybe she’d died. But if that was the case, who owned the shop? Mattie didn’t have any family or, for that matter, any friends. But someone was running the place.
Just then a door at the back of the room opened and Mattie, her arms loaded with a bundle of what looked like rags, stepped into view. Betsy opened the door, went inside, and winced as the scent of stale tobacco, vinegar, cockles, and day-old fish assailed her nostrils. Good Lord, the place still smelled bad.
Mattie looked almost the same. She was still thin as a rail and her stringy white hair was still rolled into a messy bun at the nape of her skinny neck. But her blue eyes were now watery, and her pale skin had more wrinkles than a linen skirt on a hot summer day.
Mattie dumped her burden onto the counter next to a display of Tinder’s Best pipe tobacco. She said nothing as she looked Betsy up and down, her sharp gaze taking in the expensive burgundy coat, the handmade lace on the collar of the white blouse peeking above the neckline, and the elegant black kid gloves.
Betsy had worn the clothes deliberately. She was determined not to be intimidated by anyone, least of all a miserable old woman who’d once had the power of life and death over her family. But those days were long gone. She wasn’t a hungry twelve-year-old begging for a few days’ credit to buy a loaf of stale bread.
Mattie gave her a thin smile. “You don’t look like you’re from around ’ere.”
“You need to get some spectacles, Mattie. I grew up ’round these parts.” Betsy cocked her head to one side and smiled. “Don’t you recognize me? I used to come into this shop often.”
Mattie’s eyes narrowed for a moment but then she shrugged. “Whoever you are, you’ve obviously done well for yourself. Now, we can spend the day playin’ guessin’ games, or you can tell me why you’ve come to me shop.”
“I need to find out some information and, if you’re still the same person as you used to be, you might be able to help me.”
“What kind of information?”
“I want to know about a man named Bert Santorini.”
“Him? He was murdered Monday night, but that’s been in the papers so you already know it.” She eyed Betsy curiously. “Why ya wantin’ the goods on ’im?”
“That’s my business.” Betsy pulled her small, gray suede purse from her coat pocket and opened it. “But I’m willing to pay a bit if I think what you tell me is useful.”
“How much?” Mattie folded her arms over her chest.
“That depends on what you know.” Betsy shrugged. “Like I said, Mattie, I come from ’round here and you’re not the only one that knows what’s what. If you don’t want to help me, I can always go see Lizzie Camber or Harry Black.”
“Go ahead, try ’em.” Mattie laughed. “Lizzie Camber’s gone senile and Harry died last winter, but let’s not split ’airs over who knows what. I know about Santorini, and the one thing I’ll tell ya for free is that there won’t be many mourning him at his funeral.”
“He wasn’t well liked?”
“Nah, the O’Dwyers hated him, but that’s the least of it. He’s ’ad fallin’ outs with lots of people.” Mattie stared at her with a cunning, speculative expression. “You’ll be wantin’ to know names, but that’s goin’ to cost a few bob.”
“I’ve got a few bob.” Betsy pulled a florin out of her open purse and handed it to Mattie. “This should buy me a few names.”
Mattie’s eyes widened as she stared at the coin for a moment and then tucked it into her pocket. “Santorini had his latest dustup with his landlady, Frida Sorensen.”
“What kind of dustup?”
“The gossip was that she found out he was playin’ about with the barmaid at the Thistle and Thorn. A night or so before ’e was killed, the two of them ’ad a right old shoutin’ match.”
“Where at?”
“Where else?” Mattie snickered. “The Thistle and Thorn. The barmaid’s name is Alberta Miller.”
“The Thistle and Thorn?” Betsy repeated. Mrs. Jeffries had mentioned it at their meeting this morning, but she’d not recognized the name and had no idea where it might be. “Where’s that? I don’t remember a pub with that name ’round ’ere.” She caught herself as she realized listening to Mattie was influencing her own speech. She’d worked hard to learn to speak properly and she wasn’t going to start speaking like a street urchin now.
“It used to be called the Hungry Badger, but one of the big breweries took a loan on it and made Horace Fielding—he’s the owner—change the name.”
Betsy nodded. She remembered the old pub, so finding the place shouldn’t be difficult. “Did this dustup between Santorini and his landlady get violent? Did she threaten him?”
“She threatened to toss ’im into the street, but I’ve not ’eard that there was any fisticuffs. Just a lot of shoutin’ and screamin’.”
Betsy was sure she could get the rest of the details of this encounter from someone at the pub. “Who else was on the outs with Santorini?”
“Well, Harvey Macklin hated
him.” Mattie laughed. “He thought he had a good chance to marry the widow Sorensen, but six months ago, Santorini got kicked out of his room at the back of the Crying Crows and moved into Frida’s lodgin’s. Within a few weeks of his movin’ in, Santorini had Harvey’s room and ’is lady.”
“Where does this Harvey Macklin live?”
“He’s still at Frida’s, but she’s chargin’ him a bit more rent these days. He can afford it.”
“Where does he work?”
“At Stanton’s over on the Commercial Road.”
“Anyone else?”
Mattie thought for a moment. “He had a fallin’ out with Susan Callahan—she owns the Crying Crows—but that was six months ago. I ’eard gossip that there was someone ’round ’ere that just got out of Pentonville. Supposedly, it was someone that claimed Santorini’s lies put him in the nick.”
“Do you know this person’s name?”
“Well.” Mattie scratched her chin. “The problem is, when you get to be my age, the memory gets a little foggy. I’ve ’eard the feller’s name, but I’m not sure I can recall it . . . It’s on the tip of my tongue, so to speak.”
“Would another florin get it off the tip?” Betsy asked, her expression skeptical.
Mattie laughed again, an ugly sound that had nothing to do with humor. “It might. Hand one over and we’ll see.”
“I’m not fallin’ for that old trick, Mattie.” Betsy gave her a smug smile. “You tell me the name and then I’ll give you the florin.” She looked around the small, cramped shop and realized it was in much worse shape than it had been ten years ago when she’d left the neighborhood. Back then, the hardwood floors had been occasionally scrubbed, but now they were streaked with dirt and caked with mud in spots. The shelves behind the cash drawer, which used to be crammed full of tinned tobaccos and boxes of tea, were now half-empty, as if Mattie couldn’t afford to keep them stocked, and the glass of the display case at the far end of the counter was cracked in two separate places. The case was also empty. Betsy remembered that it used to be filled with day-old pastries and bread that Mattie bought on the cheap from the bake shop.
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 10