Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  Mattie’s eyes narrowed as she watched Betsy survey her premises. “’Ere, there’s no reason to say somethin’ like that. I’d not cheat ya.”

  “You would and you did, lots of times,” Betsy snapped. She couldn’t control her feelings now—this place brought back too many horrible memories. Begging for a bit of onion and a carrot or two so she could make her dying mother some soup, only to have Mattie tell her she only had enough money for a half-rotten spud. “I told ya, I’m from ’ere. I’ve been in this miserable dump of a shop lots of times, and each and every time, you had your thumb on the scales when you were weighing out those disgusting vegetables that you sold to us. You know, awful stuff the greengrocer was throwin’ out. You sold me moldy bread and bacon that wasn’t fit to eat and charged a pretty penny for it because you knew my family didn’t have the means to shop anywhere else. You’d cheat me, Mattie, over and over again, but this time I’ve plenty of coin, and I’ll be passin’ it around someplace else.” She turned on her heel and stomped toward the door.

  “’Ere, ’ere, don’t get all huffy on me. I was only tryin’ to make a livin’. For God’s sake, I was poor, too. Come back. I’ll tell ya what I know. You’ll regret not ’earin’ me out.”

  But Betsy kept going to the door.

  “Don’t be daft. I know somethin’ that can ’elp you. It’s only a bloomin’ florin. From the way you’re dressed, you can bloody well afford to pay me.”

  Betsy ignored her.

  “At least tell me who ya are,” Mattie cried.

  Betsy reached for the doorknob, grabbed it, and then turned to look at her old enemy. She started to say her maiden name and then stopped. She’d love to see the look on the old witch’s face when she found out that the poor, struggling young girl was now a wealthy woman who wore a coat that was worth more than all the inventory in Mattie’s shop. That would be sweet revenge. But even sweeter revenge would be to leave her in the dark. Mattie hated not knowing.

  “I’ll leave you to figure that out. You always thought you were so much smarter than the rest of us.” With that, she pulled the door open and went outside.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Dirty Duck Pub wasn’t open for business yet, but that didn’t stop Smythe from stepping inside. He’d come to see the owner, Blimpey Groggins, and he wasn’t in the mood to waste time. It had been a bleeding bad morning. He’d had words with Betsy, which was rare for the two of them, and those words had Amanda in tears, which upset both of them even more. But, blast a Spaniard, why the Hades couldn’t the woman understand that he didn’t want her going back to the East End?

  He understood that she was a proud and independent woman, but, blooming Ada, she’d known nothing but pain and heartbreak when she lived there, and he didn’t want her going down that road again. But instead of understanding that he was trying to protect her, she’d gotten a bee in her bonnet that he was trying to keep her off the case. Women! He’d never understand them. He stalked down the short corridor to the public bar, stopped, and surveyed the room. Blimpey was sitting in his usual spot in front of the fireplace, reading a newspaper, and Eldon, Blimpey’s man-of-all-work, was shoving a keg onto a shelf below the bar.

  Blimpey, a portly man with a ruddy complexion and sharp blue eyes, put his paper down. He was a buyer and seller of information, and he knew everything that went on in southern England. He had sources at every newspaper, police station, magistrate’s court, the Old Bailey, insurance companies, hospitals, shipping lines, and Parliament; and there were whispers he even had a source at Buckingham Palace.

  He charged a pretty penny for his services, but Smythe could well afford them. He’d come back from Australia a wealthy man and, because of the circumstances of the Witherspoon household, had kept his financial situation a secret from everyone except Betsy. Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out, of course, but he’d never told the others; and now so much time had passed, he was worried that if he did tell them, they’d resent him for keeping it a secret.

  “Nice to see ya, Smythe. ’Ave a seat.” Blimpey nodded toward the empty stool opposite him. “I wasn’t expectin’ you quite so soon.”

  “And I didn’t expect to be here this fast, either, but ya know ’ow it is—sometimes life moves a bit faster than you think it will.” He sat down. “What do ya know about that murder in the East End?”

  “Bert Santorini?” Blimpey shrugged. “Not much, but one thing I do know is that Santorini ’ad more than ’is fair share of enemies.”

  “He testified against them Irish brothers, the O’Dwyers,” Smythe muttered, thinking back to what Mrs. Jeffries had told them this morning. “But who else ’ated him?”

  “Before we get on to who else might ’ave wanted the bloke dead, there’s somethin’ ya need to know about the O’Dwyer brothers,” Blimpey said. “Now, I’m not tellin’ ya they are pure as driven snow—they’re not. The lads are thieves, but they’re not violent.”

  “But they coshed that butler on the head and left ’im for dead,” Smythe argued. He’d read the reports of the burglary in the papers.

  “No. Whoever burgled that ’ouse coshed the butler on the ’ead,” Blimpey insisted. “But it wasn’t the O’Dwyers.”

  “’Ow can you be so sure?”

  Blimpey’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be daft, Smythe. It’s my job to know such things. The O’Dwyers never, ever enter an occupied ’ouse, and, as the butler was there that night, they’d ’ave not gone inside.”

  “Maybe they didn’t know ’e was there?”

  “But they would. Seamus O’Dwyer— ’e’s the eldest—always takes a look before they hit a place, and that night, there were lights on in the kitchen. Seamus wouldn’t ’ave missed that and ’e’d ’ave called the burglary off. Someone else robbed that place, not the O’Dwyers.”

  “So you’re sayin’ the O’Dwyers know that Santorini lied in court and now have a motive for killin’ him,” Smythe said.

  “Course they do, but they couldn’a done it—they was in the nick when ’e was shot.”

  “But they have family and friends that might ’ave done it.” Smythe leaned forward.

  “True, but think on this: Santorini was more useful to the O’Dwyers alive than dead,” Blimpey explained. “If they could prove the fellow lied under oath, they’d get out of jail.”

  “But ’ow could they prove that Santorini lied? He’d never admit it.”

  “Because Fiona O’Dwyer, the boys’ mother, ’ired me to find some evidence that does prove it, and that’s exactly what I’m goin’ to do.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Witherspoon stared at the front of the Crying Crows Pub as he waited for Barnes to pay the hansom driver. The building was just off the Whitechapel High Street on a short road that dead-ended at the back of a derelict flour mill. It was a two-story brown brick structure with a huge, brilliantly painted sign showing two crows, their mouths wide-open and their wings spread in flight, mounted over the double doorway. The pub was separated from the other buildings on the road by a narrow passageway filled with cast-off broken junk on one side and a larger, paved walkway leading to a side door on the other. Along the very top of the building was a crimson sign with gold lettering that read Bryson’s Ales and Stouts, one of the largest breweries in southern England.

  He and the constable had debated whether to start here or at the Thistle and Thorn. They’d settled on this pub because it was connected to both Nivens and Santorini. It also had the advantage of being the closest one to the Leman Street Station.

  Barnes joined the inspector, yanked open the door, and they stepped inside. “No wonder the lads like coming here. It’s not just decent, sir—it could give a pub in Mayfair or Belgravia a run for their money.” He shook his head. “It didn’t look like this twenty-five years ago.”

  In the center of the room hung a five-branch brass chandelier with pale pink globes covering
the gas burners. The floors were polished oak and the walls covered in a red and gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper. The pub was shaped like an L, with the bar facing the door and a row of private booths enclosed in wood partitions and topped with delicately etched glass running along one side. Tables with curved wooden chairs, potted plants on brass stands, and several padded love seats were strategically placed to maximize the number of people that could be served.

  “You’ve been here before?” Witherspoon asked.

  Barnes nodded. “Yes. Back then, the walls were whitewashed, the floors just plain old planks, and there wasn’t a fancy mirror behind the bar. But as they say, times change.”

  It was only a few minutes past eleven o’clock, opening time, so the place wasn’t full. A dark-haired young man dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black waistcoat stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. He glanced at them as they crossed the floor. “What’ll it be, sir?” He directed his question to Witherspoon.

  “We’d like to speak with Mrs. Callahan,” the inspector said.

  He put the glass down on the counter tray. “She’s in her office, but she’ll not thank me for interrupting her.”

  “This is police business, lad.” Barnes gave him a hard stare. “And we’ll not thank you if you waste our time. Please tell Mrs. Callahan we’re here and that it’s important.”

  The barman blinked in surprise. “Alright, alright, there’s no need for threats. I’m just tryin’ to ’ang on to my job here. There’s many of your lot that comes in ’ere and we always treat ’em right. Keep your shirt on and I’ll get ’er.” He tossed his towel on top of the polished glasses and disappeared through a door at the far end of the bar.

  Barnes turned to the inspector. “In this part of London, sir, you’ve got to show ’em that we’re not to be trifled with. Take my word for it, most of the people here would just as soon spit on a constable’s shoes rather than tell him anything.”

  “I quite understand, Constable.” Witherspoon knew Barnes wasn’t one to use his position to intimidate or bully others. Furthermore, his knowledge of the East End far surpassed Witherspoon’s own. “The barman appeared to be more frightened of his employer than of us.”

  “He probably is—jobs in this part of the city are hard to come by. I expect this one pays pretty well.”

  The door opened and a middle-aged woman with dark red hair and thick spectacles emerged. She wore a cream-colored blouse with a high collar and puffy, leg-of-mutton sleeves. A blue and cream striped skirt topped with a wide blue sash circled her thick waist, and a ladies’ timepiece dangled from a gold chain around her neck.

  “I’m Susan Callahan,” she announced. “My barman claims you want to speak to me.”

  “We do, Mrs. Callahan. I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he replied. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”

  She crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “What’s this about, then?”

  “Bert Santorini,” Barnes said.

  “Oh, him.” She looked at the barman. “We’ll be in the snug, Alex. Call Janice to give you a hand when we start filling up. We’ll start getting busy when the lunch hour comes ’round,” she explained as she lifted the wooden top of the counter and stepped through. “And half our customers will be your lot. It’s this way.” She led them around the bar to the row of private booths and into the first one. She slid onto the leather seat and nodded toward the opposite side. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  They took their places and Witherspoon waited till Barnes pulled out his notebook before he spoke. “Mrs. Callahan, as Constable Barnes said, we’re here to ask you a few questions about Bert Santorini.”

  “He was murdered night before last, but what’s that got to do with me? I didn’t kill him.”

  “We’re not accusing you of murder, Mrs. Callahan. We’re merely trying to learn what we can about the victim. Now, may I ask you how long you’ve known the deceased?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s been around five or six years.”

  “He was a customer here?”

  She nodded. “Yes—that’s when I first met him. He came in most evenings and had a drink or two, but in the last few years, he delivered ice when I needed it. We don’t use it often, just when the weather gets hot.”

  “You became acquainted with him as both a customer and a supplier?” Witherspoon wanted to make sure he understood the relationship the victim had with members of the local community.

  “A customer first—it was only later that he started making deliveries. Santorini got the ice cart and horse about three years ago. Before that, he did odd jobs and, if he could get it, day labor at the docks. He also did a bit of translating for some of the local tradespeople, especially the importers. Italian was his mother tongue.”

  “He must have done quite well to be able to afford to buy the cart and horse. That’s a good business,” Barnes commented.

  “He was always a hard worker,” she replied. “But he was a lucky sod as well. Santorini bought the ice cart and the pony on the cheap. The owner was arrested for stealing and had to sell fast.”

  Barnes glanced at Witherspoon before he spoke again. “What was the name of the man Santorini bought it from?”

  “Philip Graves. He got sent to Pentonville but he’s out now”—she smiled wryly—“and from what I hear, he’s been looking for Santorini.”

  “Do you know where we can find Graves?” Barnes asked.

  “I don’t know his address, but I’ve heard he’s got a bed at Tilson’s over on Clouston Road. He shouldn’t be hard to find—your lads have their eyes on him. They helped me toss him into the street when he showed up here last week.”

  “What do you mean?” Witherspoon asked.

  “He walked in just after evening opening and swaggered up to the bar like he owned the place. Started bothering poor Alex about where I was and where Santorini was, and when Alex told him it wasn’t any of his business where either of us might be, he got rough. That’s when a couple of your lads told him to get out.”

  “You mean police officers,” Witherspoon clarified. When she nodded, he continued. “I understand why Graves might threaten Santorini, but why did he make threats against you?”

  She smiled slightly. “Because I’m the one that had him arrested.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Wiggins walked past Frida Sorensen’s lodging house for the third time and hoped that no one had noticed him. The people in this part of London were a sharp-eyed lot; they had to be if they wanted to survive.

  His steps slowed as he reached the corner. Stopping, he wondered if he ought to try finding someone at the Thistle and Thorn. That was the pub Santorini frequented before he was killed. Wiggins’ luck here was downright miserable, his feet were cold, and he was afraid of being spotted. But just as he made up his mind to move on, the front door of the lodging house opened, and a clean-shaven tall, lanky man with thinning brown hair stepped outside. He came down the short walkway, turned, and set off at a brisk pace. Wiggins waited a few moments and then followed in pursuit.

  The man moved quickly, dodging past two grim-faced women carrying shopping baskets and a cluster of skinny children squabbling over a ball. When his quarry reached the crowded pavements of the Commercial Road, Wiggins moved closer. He followed him for a good five minutes until the man turned a corner and stepped inside a building.

  It was a pub called the Pig and Ale. Wiggins hesitated; at their meeting this morning, no one had mentioned this pub and he might be wasting his time. But he’d not learned anything today, and this fellow had come out of the lodging house. There might be a chance he knew something useful. Wiggins yanked open the door and went inside.

  The place was small. There were two tables in front of the benches along the wall next to the door; a short, old-fashioned curved bar;
and a couple of rickety-looking chairs in front of the empty fireplace at the far end. He inhaled sharply to catch his breath and then wished he hadn’t, as the sour scent of spilled gin, stale beer, and greasy mutton hit his nostrils.

  The man he’d been following stood at the bar. Wiggins slid into a spot next to him just as the barman said, “You’re here earlier than usual, Harvey. You get sacked?”

  “Mr. Stanton’s closed the shop for the day so he can go to a funeral. His wife’s sister passed away and she’s bein’ buried today. You know my guv—if he’s not there, he’ll not open up, so I lose a day’s pay. But what can you do? I need to work, especially now.”

  “You want your usual?” the barman asked.

  Harvey nodded.

  The barman glanced at Wiggins. “What’ll you have?”

  “A pint of bitter.”

  It took a few moments for both of them to get served. While he waited, Wiggins glanced at Harvey, who was staring morosely at the wooden counter. The man’s shirt was fraying at the collar, his shoes were scruffed, and there was a hole in the sleeve of his coat. But then again, that wasn’t surprising. Almost everyone in this part of London was poor, even the ones that had work.

  As soon as they’d both been served, the barman said, “Hey, Harvey, give us a shout if anyone else comes in. I’ve got to go to the back and count out the kegs.” He stopped long enough to see Harvey nod and then he disappeared through a narrow doorway at the end of the bar.

  Wiggins took a sip, sighed, and then smiled. “I’m hopin’ this’ll make up for a misery of a day.”

  “It’d take more than one pint to end my misery.” Harvey took a sip from his beer, put it down, and continued to stare at the wood as if it held the secret to life.