“Enemies?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. She didn’t want the meeting delayed by these two having one of their never-ending arguments. “You mean other than the family and friends of the O’Dwyers?”
Luty nodded. “Brock claims that Santorini had a habit of usin’ people and then tossin’ them aside when he couldn’t git anything else out of them. But Brock wouldn’t give me any names when I pressed him. Just said that everyone knew to watch their backs if they was around Santorini.”
“I heard something like that as well,” Betsy added. She smiled apologetically at the elderly American. “Sorry, Luty. I didn’t mean to steal your thunder. I’ll wait my turn.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Luty said. “I only heard one more tidbit and that’s that Santorini had taken up with a pickpocket named Dickie Stiles.”
Again, Hatchet snorted.
Luty frowned at him. “Don’t be mean, Hatchet. Brockton’s changed and you know it. People can change—you know that as well as I do. I don’t know why you’re so set against the fellow.”
“I’m not set against him,” Hatchet replied. “I’m simply reserving judgment as to this supposed ‘change’ in his character.”
“Humph. I think you’re just jealous,” Luty declared. “You don’t like havin’ to play second fiddle to someone you think is beneath you.”
“That’s absurd,” Hatchet argued, but before he could say any more, Mrs. Jeffries interrupted him.
“Did your source know why Santorini had taken up with this pickpocket?” she asked.
“No, he just said that he was standing right next to Santorini at the Thistle and Thorn Pub on Saturday evening and that he’d seen Santorini give Stiles a note.” Luty reached for her teacup.
“I’ll have a go at finding out,” Smythe offered. “I’ve a source that might be able to ’elp with that information.”
“Good. That might be very useful. Did you find out anything today?” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the coachman.
“Not too much, but I found out a bit about the O’Dwyers.” Smythe repeated everything he’d heard from Blimpey Groggins. When he’d finished, the others were silent.
Wiggins frowned in confusion. “Let me make sure I understand. Mrs. O’Dwyer is ’irin’ your source to ’elp her prove that Santorini lied in court? Is that what you’re sayin’?”
Smythe wished he’d kept that specific bit to himself. He didn’t want to call attention to the fact that his source was someone who could be hired for cold, hard cash. That might lead to some very uncomfortable questions. “Yeah. It’s ’ard to explain, but my source ’as a lot of connections in London. Mrs. O’Dwyer knew this and that’s why she went to him for ’elp.”
“If what your source says is true,” Betsy murmured, “then she knows her boys are innocent. Watching your children go to prison for a crime they didn’t commit must be dreadful.”
“We don’t know that they are innocent,” Hatchet pointed out.
“But it makes sense,” Phyllis argued. “That’s probably why Santorini was killed. He lied under oath and three people were sent to prison. Why else would someone kill him?”
“But there could be another reason he was killed. According to my source, Santorini was good at making enemies,” Betsy said. “Oh, sorry.” She gave her husband a rueful smile. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Jumped in instead of letting you finish.”
“No, go ahead—I’m done.” Smythe squeezed her hand again. “It sounds like you found out a few bits today.”
“Just a few.” Betsy told them about her encounter with Mattie Mitchell. She left out the part where she paid for information and also where she’d given in to her memories, lost her temper, and then stormed out. “As you can tell, there were a lot of people who hated Santorini,” she concluded.
“One of them is right scared ’e’s goin’ to be blamed for Santorini’s murder,” Wiggins put in. “Oh, blimey, now I’m doin’ it. Sorry, Betsy. Finish your bit.”
“That’s it, I’m afraid. I only managed to speak to one person today and that’s all I was able to get out of her.”
“You’ve found out more than I did,” Phyllis muttered glumly. She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “I don’t think talking to the local shopkeepers is going to be very useful. None of the people I spoke to today knew anything about the man except that he’d been murdered.”
Just then, Fred stood up, and a moment later, they heard a knock on the back door.
“I’ll get it,” Phyllis offered. “Perhaps it’s Lady Cannonberry.” She hurried out of the kitchen and disappeared down the hall. “Oh, Ruth, we’ve been waiting for you . . . Good gracious, you’ve brought a visitor.”
“Please don’t be annoyed with Lady Cannonberry. I stopped her in the communal garden and insisted she hear me out,” a loud, male voice said.
“Cor blimey.” Wiggins half rose from his chair. “That voice sounds right familiar. Is that . . .”
But by that time, everyone knew who’d come calling with Ruth Cannonberry as she and her guest came into view, followed by a confused-looking Phyllis.
Nigel Nivens bowed toward the group gathered around the table. “I know I’m not particularly welcome here, but please, listen to me.”
“Please, everyone. Inspector Nivens claims he’s the victim of a dreadful miscarriage of justice,” Ruth explained. “I think we should hear what he’s got to tell us.”
“Inspector Nivens?” Shocked, Phyllis gaped at him.
There was a moment of silence as they all stared at Nigel Nivens. Finally, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Inspector Nivens, what are you doing here?”
“Do forgive me for barging in like this. But Lady Cannonberry took pity on me when I said I had to see you.” He gave Ruth a quick, grateful smile. “It’s quite literally a matter of life or death.” He darted a quick look at the empty chair next to Hatchet.
“Would you care to sit down?” Mrs. Jeffries offered. “We’ve tea as well. You’re most welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He moved quickly to the empty spot, almost as if scared she’d rescind the invitation.
Ruth took her usual seat. Phyllis gave herself a small shake and got another teacup and a plate from the sideboard. The room was eerily quiet as she poured a cup of tea and placed it and the plate in front of Nivens.
Mrs. Goodge pushed the scones toward their unwanted visitor. “Help yourself,” she muttered.
Nivens nodded politely and took one of the pastries. “Thank you. You’re all being very kind to me. I know you’re well aware of the fact that there has been some tension between myself and Inspector Witherspoon.”
“Not really.” Mrs. Jeffries gave him a polite but cool smile. “Our inspector doesn’t comment on police business nor on his assessment of his colleagues.” That, of course, was a bold-faced lie, but she knew Nivens couldn’t prove her words one way or another. Besides, she was rather annoyed at having to be civil to the man. “Now, Inspector Nivens, if you’ll be so good as to tell us why you’ve come here.”
“And what’s all this about something being a ‘matter of life or death,’” Mrs. Goodge scoffed. “That sounds like something out of one of Mr. Conan Doyle’s stories.”
Nivens, who’d shoved a huge bite of scone in his mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed. “But it is a matter of life and death. Mine. I’m in terrible trouble, and if I can’t find assistance, I’m going to hang for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Mrs. Jeffries knew good and well what he referred to, but it was essential to keep up the pretense. She was pleased that Mrs. Goodge had seemed to get what she was trying to do, and she only hoped the others would either keep silent or, if they spoke, not give the game away. “Why would you hang for a murder you didn’t commit?”
“I’m being framed for the murder of Bert Santorini.”
; “Isn’t that the murder our inspector is investigating now?” Phyllis looked at Mrs. Jeffries, her expression innocent.
“I believe that’s the name I overheard him and Constable Barnes discussing,” she replied before turning her attention back to Nivens. “But what’s that got to do with us?”
Nivens looked down at his plate and then lifted his chin. “I’ve heard rumors that you and the household assist the inspector in his inquiries,” he murmured. “And I’m hoping you’ll help me.”
Mrs. Jeffries said nothing for a moment. She merely stared at him with what she hoped was an expression of shock on her face. “You’ve heard rumors about us? Inspector Nivens, I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about how you and the others”—he waved his arm around, indicating all of them—“help Inspector Witherspoon. It’s no secret, Mrs. Jeffries. Everyone on the force knows he has assistance.”
“Blast a Spaniard, what’s ’e on about?” Smythe exclaimed.
“Have you gone daft?” Mrs. Goodge added. “Help our inspector? Well, I never heard of such nonsense. I’m a cook, not a policeman.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head, again with what she hoped was an expression of stunned disbelief. “I don’t know what to say to such a statement, Inspector Nivens. What you’re suggesting is absurd. We’re merely servants in the inspector’s household. I’ve no idea how or why such rumors might have started, but I assure you, it simply isn’t true.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” Nivens looked skeptical. “You honestly expect me to believe that Gerald Witherspoon has solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force?”
“Whether you believe it or not, it happens to be true,” she replied calmly.
“Please. Not that many years ago he was just a jumped-up clerk in the records room, and then all of a sudden, he’s the great hero who solved those horrible Kensington High Street Murders.” Nivens’ eyes narrowed speculatively. “That was just about the time you came to work for him, wasn’t it, Mrs. Jeffries?”
“It was.”
“And from what I recall, your late husband was a policeman, wasn’t he?”
“He was, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything. My husband was a village constable, which is hardly comparable to what Inspector Witherspoon does.”
“Nonetheless, I’m sure you learned something about police procedures before you came to London. It’s hardly surprising that, given Inspector Witherspoon’s remarkable rise from clerk to homicide detective, I’d think he had help.”
“He wasn’t a clerk,” Ruth interjected. “He was in charge of the records room and a fully-fledged police inspector. How dare you imply that he isn’t capable of solving murders on his own.”
Nivens seemed to realize he wasn’t making any friends with this approach. “I’m sorry. Please, I meant no disrespect—it’s just that I’m desperate. If I don’t get help, I’m going to hang for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Jeffries scoffed. “You should have more faith in your colleagues. The Metropolitan Police will do a thorough investigation and catch the person responsible for Mr. Santorini’s murder.”
He stared at her with a frightened, disbelieving expression. “You don’t understand, Mrs. Jeffries. They all hate me. No one is going to go out of their way to see that justice is done.”
“Are you saying that everyone on the force will deliberately seek evidence that you’re the culprit and ignore evidence that proves your innocence?”
Nivens felt the blood drain out of his face as her words hit home. For a moment, he couldn’t respond, but finally, he managed to speak. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll admit that I’ve never sought friendships within the force, and I’ll admit that I’m driven by ambition and not personal relationships. That, perhaps, was a foolish choice on my part, but nonetheless, it shouldn’t condemn me to hang.”
“But the newspaper said the gun that killed that poor fellow was yours,” Phyllis blurted. She wanted to hear what he had to say, wanted to find out as many details as possible before they went back on the hunt.
He looked at her. “That’s true, and I’ve no idea how the killer got the weapon; but, just so you know, my house was empty the night before the murder as well as the night of the murder.”
“Was there any evidence of a break-in?” Hatchet realized what Phyllis was up to and decided to help.
“No, but picking locks isn’t an unknown skill in the East End. That’s probably how the killer got inside my home.”
“Then I suggest you give the police a chance to prove that very thing,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “They’re not fools, you know.”
“No, they’re not fools, but I’ve a feeling you know as well as I do, that once the police have made up their minds that someone is guilty, they stop looking at anyone else. Take my word for it— they’ve already made up their collective minds that I’m guilty. But despite what anyone thinks, despite the false evidence laid against me, I’m not a murderer. You must believe me. Please, I’m begging you. I need your help. You’re my last hope.”
For a brief moment, Mrs. Jeffries felt sorry for him, but then she pushed that feeling aside. This was the man that had twice betrayed Inspector Witherspoon for his own self-interest. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, Inspector. It’s that we’re powerless to assist you.” She waved her hand at the people seated around the table. “For some strange reason, you have it in your head that those of us here have helped Inspector Witherspoon. But I assure you, that simply isn’t true. We’re only his servants and Lady Cannonberry is his friend. She’s merely come by to gain our assistance in planning a surprise for Inspector Witherspoon’s birthday. I don’t know what you want us to do, but I certainly don’t think we’d be of any help to you whatsoever.”
Nivens knew when he was beaten. He got up from the table. “I’m sorry to have intruded upon you. Thank you for listening.”
CHAPTER 6
The Thistle and Thorn was a far different pub from the Crying Crows. There were no potted plants, private booths, or fancy mirrors. Instead, the oak floor was blackened with age, the bricks around the small hearth were chipped, and the gas lamp globes were grimy and discolored. Yet even though it was almost time for afternoon closing, the pub was crowded. Workingmen and -women swathed in coats and shawls stood two deep at the bar. A row of bread sellers, their baskets stacked next to the hearth, had taken over the benches. Half a dozen people squeezed around each of the three small tables in front of the unlighted fireplace. Those that couldn’t find a place to sit or lean stood clustered in small groups.
The noise dimmed as Barnes and Witherspoon stepped inside. The inspector stood by the door while Barnes made his way through the crowd toward the barmaid working the counter. Two elderly women, their faces openly curious, made a space for him between them. The constable nodded his thanks as the barmaid slid a pint to her left, where it was deftly caught by one of the women.
“Looks to me like you’re in the wrong pub.” The barmaid stared at him. “The coppers around here usually give their business to the fancy place up the road. But as you’re here, what can I get you?”
“Nothing, ma’am. I’m on duty.” Barnes studied her for a moment. She was an attractive dark-haired woman with smooth white skin; even, unremarkable features; and brown eyes that were red rimmed as if she’d been crying. He guessed she might be in her mid-thirties. “I’d like to speak to Alberta Miller. Is that you?”
“Hang on, Pete,” she yelled at a patron at the far end of the counter who was banging his glass against the wood. “That’s me, but, as you can see, I’m the only one here, and we’re busy. It’s almost time for last orders, so if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to wait.”
Barnes started to remind her that he was here on official police business but then
thought better of it. This wasn’t the Crying Crows, which had been almost empty when he and Witherspoon had gone inside, nor was it some elegant saloon bar in Holland Park or Putney. This was a busy workingman’s East End pub, and if he pushed the woman too hard, he’d find out nothing. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said politely. “We’ll wait, then.” But she’d already dismissed him and moved farther down the bar.
“She’s asked us to wait until she closes up,” Barnes told the inspector when he rejoined him. He glanced around the crowded room. “And I think we’ll get more out of her if she’s not trying to do two things at once.”
“Did you tell her why we were here?” Witherspoon also surveyed the area.
“No, sir, but I’m sure she knows. She didn’t look surprised that I knew her name.”
Witherspoon nodded. “Right, then, we’ll wait.”
* * *
* * *
No one said a word until Phyllis returned from escorting Nivens to the front door. But as soon as she took her seat, everyone spoke at once.
“He’s got a bit of nerve, showin’ up ’ere.” Wiggins shook his head in disbelief. “Does he think we’re all stupid and that we can’t remember some of the mean things ’e did to our inspector?”
“Nivens always had plenty of nerve,” the cook commented.
“That’s because he always thinks that he’s better than everyone else,” Betsy added. “And that the rest of us should be grateful just to be breathin’ the same air as him.”
“Arrogant, upper-class sod,” Smythe muttered.
“That varmint’s got more nerve than a bobcat in the henhouse,” Luty declared.
“I don’t understand.” Phyllis looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Are you saying we’re not going to investigate this case?”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Jeffries replied calmly.
“I’m confused.” Phyllis frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “What does that mean? You flat out told him we wouldn’t lift a finger to help him.”
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 13