Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “You think she had feelings for him?” Mrs. Goodge asked curiously.

  Barnes glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. He knew that the “Mrs.” in the cook’s title was a courtesy and that the lady had never been married. He didn’t want to be crude, but he thought it important to be as specific as possible. “Well, I’m not sure I’d say she had ‘feelings’ for the man, but I do think she liked being with him. According to what we’ve heard, Santorini was a handsome fellow.”

  Mrs. Goodge stared at him for a moment before she burst out laughing. “Gracious, Constable, you’re being so very delicate, but at my age, you needn’t bother. I may never have been married, but I do understand that some relationships between men and women are rather, how shall I put it, ‘carnal’ in nature. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “That’s it exactly.” He laughed.

  “But you think Alberta Miller really was in love with him?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “She was far more emotional about his death than Mrs. Callahan appeared to be, so, yes, I think she genuinely cared about him. Mind you, that could mean we ought to take a closer look at her. Murder is often committed by people who profess to love each other. On the other hand, Susan Callahan simply seemed to see Santorini as someone who ended up being a mistake in judgment and a terrible nuisance.” He glanced at the clock on the sideboard. “Time’s getting on. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  “Not very much.” Mrs. Jeffries told him what Smythe, Betsy, and Wiggins had discovered the previous day. “Unfortunately, you know most of this already, but I did think it prudent to repeat what they’d found out.”

  “What about that pickpocket Dickie Stiles?” Mrs. Goodge tapped her on the arm. “Luty said she’d found out that Santorini gave him a note on Saturday night. That might turn out to be important.”

  “Dickie Stiles?” Barnes frowned as he repeated the name.

  “Luty’s source said he was in the Thistle and Thorn on Saturday night and that Santorini had given Stiles a note,” the cook explained. “The important thing to remember here is that Stiles was standing right beside Santorini, so the note must have been for someone else. Now I ask you, who do you think that note was for? None of the people you’ve interviewed have said he contacted them in that manner, so who was it for?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “But we’ll definitely have a word with Mr. Stiles. Mind you, considering that Santorini was playing about with more than one woman at a time, maybe he was sending it to one of his ladyloves?”

  “The only way that makes sense is if he had a new lady that we don’t know about,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “He was at the Thistle and Thorn, so Alberta Miller was right there. Why send her a note? And he lived at Frida’s lodging house, so why send her one?”

  “You’re being too practical, Hepzibah,” Mrs. Goodge countered. “From the way you describe him, Bert Santorini was a philanderer, and the one thing they never want to do is anger one of their conquests, unless they’re wanting to be rid of her. Santorini could easily have intended that note for Frida Sorensen. Perhaps he sent it with an excuse as to why he wasn’t home that night. He might have realized she was beginning to suspect he was playing about with Alberta Miller and was hoping to throw her off the scent. After all, we know that on Sunday night, the night before his murder, Mrs. Sorensen confronted him at that very pub.”

  Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure what surprised her the most, that the cook’s analysis made sense or that she knew so much about how a philanderer behaved. “That’s very possible,” she finally said.

  “Nonetheless, we’ll have a word with this Dickie Stiles,” Barnes said. “Let’s just hope he knows how to read.”

  “And that he actually read the note,” the cook added.

  The constable chuckled. “Take my word for it, Mrs. Goodge. If he’s a pickpocket, he read the ruddy note. They’re not known for honor, honesty, or integrity.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Morning, sir, Barnes,” John Rhodes called as Witherspoon and Barnes stepped inside the Leman Street Station.

  “Good morning, Constable. Has the postmortem report arrived?” Witherspoon inquired as they crossed the short space to the counter.

  “The messenger brought it a few minutes ago. The witness statements are here, too.” Rhodes pushed a flat envelope and thin stack of papers across the reception counter.

  “Excellent.” Witherspoon picked them up and turned toward the duty inspector’s office. “I’ll go through the witness statements first. Someone must have seen something on Monday night.”

  Barnes glanced at Rhodes and smiled wryly. Rhodes merely raised an eyebrow, each man silently acknowledging what they both knew to be true. In this area of London, it was usually “See no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil.” But Barnes didn’t want to depress the inspector, so he said, “I’ll be right there, sir. I’d like to have a quick word with Constable Rhodes.”

  “Good idea. Perhaps he’ll know where we can find Dickie Stiles.” Witherspoon disappeared into the office.

  “I know exactly where and when you can find the little rotter,” Rhodes announced as Barnes turned back to him. “The Pig and Ale—that’s on Newcomb Street. Dickie shows up there at a quarter to one every day. Stiles likes that pub because it’s cheap and a bit dirty. None of us police frequent the place and Stiles, being a pickpocket, finds that adds to the charming character of the establishment.”

  “I’d forgotten what a wit you are, John.” Barnes laughed and leaned against the counter. “Ta. That’ll give us time this morning to interview Mrs. O’Dwyer.”

  “Good luck getting anything out of her,” Rhodes warned. “She’s convinced that Santorini lied on the stand. She’ll not have any reason to help find his killer.”

  “I know, but we’ve got to try. I’d best get moving.” He pushed away and started toward the corridor, stopped, and turned back to Rhodes. “John, have you ever been inside the Crying Crows Pub?”

  “A time or two. Most of the men from here stop in for a pint or a whisky, but I like to go home when I get off work. The missus worries.”

  “But you’ve been there. Have you ever seen the owner, Susan Callahan?”

  “Buxom, red-haired woman with thick spectacles?” Rhodes asked. He continued speaking when Barnes nodded. “I’ve seen her a time or two. Why?”

  “I’m not sure how to put this, but she seems so familiar to me. Did she look familiar to you, too?”

  “Really? Maybe I didn’t look closely enough, but I didn’t recognize her.”

  “I’m probably getting her mixed up with someone else.” Barnes shrugged and resumed walking toward the duty inspector’s office.

  “Wait a minute,” Rhodes called. “I just remembered something. Inspector Nivens asked me the same thing.”

  Barnes went back to the reception counter. “When was this?”

  “A couple of weeks after he was assigned here. He asked me how long I’d been at this station, and I told him I’d been here for over twenty-five years, then he asked the same question: Did Mrs. Callahan look familiar to me?”

  “Did he say that she looked familiar to him?” Barnes asked.

  Rhodes thought for a moment. “I believe he did.”

  Barnes nodded and then thought of something else he needed to ask. “I know that Inspector Nivens isn’t popular with the lads, but is there anyone here that he was close to, anyone he might have had a drink with?”

  “The only person I’ve seen him with is one of the newer recruits. His name is Clyde Donner, and he’s a bit of a bootlicker, if you know what I mean. I’ve heard that he goes to the Crying Crows with Nivens.”

  “Is he on duty now?”

  “He’s on fixed-point duty outside Whitechapel Station. But his shift ends at half past three, so he should be back here by four o’clock at the latest.”

  “Good, maybe w
e can have a word with him before he goes home. But if we miss him, can you tell him that we’d like to speak to him?”

  “Will do,” Rhodes said.

  “Ta. I appreciate it. It’s amazing how some things never change. Nivens is doing the same thing here as he’s done everywhere else. No one likes the man, but he always finds someone young and stupid to do his bidding.”

  “That would be Donner,” Rhodes agreed. “Mind you, we were hoping to have a few days without Nivens’ presence, but he’s still showing up.”

  “Nivens comes into the station?”

  “Not every day, but he’s been here twice to get his post and water that stupid plant his mum gave him.” Rhodes lowered his voice and leaned across the counter. “Seems his nibs is corresponding with a couple of detectives in New York and in Paris, and he’s having their letters sent here.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “What do you think? He’s trying to impress everyone and hoping that someone will mention his initiative and foresight to the brass at the Yard. Nivens is desperate to prove he’s a good detective and even more desperate to get away from here.”

  “And he thinks that will do it for him?” Barnes shook his head in disbelief. “He’s just fooling himself. A batch of letters from overseas isn’t going to get Nivens promoted. Maybe he should concentrate on doin’ his job a bit better if he wants to move up in the force.”

  Rhodes laughed. “That’ll be the last thing he thinks of doin’.”

  Barnes chuckled. “True. Thanks for everything, John.”

  “Before you go, I just remembered some gossip that might come in useful when you’re talking to Mrs. O’Dwyer. It’s just hearsay, bits and pieces, but, like I said, it might help to loosen her tongue a bit.”

  It took less than five minutes for Rhodes to pass along what he’d heard. Barnes listened carefully, thanked his old friend, and then went to the duty inspector’s office to meet Witherspoon. The inspector looked up as the constable stepped into the room. “Sorry that took me so long, sir. Constable Rhodes wanted to pass along a few bits he’d heard.”

  “Not to worry. It took me ten minutes to find the Santorini file, and I wanted to make certain today’s witness statements and the postmortem report gets added to it. I don’t know why people won’t put files away properly.”

  “Any luck with the witness statements, sir?”

  Witherspoon pursed his lips. “Not as much as I’d hoped. Most of the witnesses claim they heard and saw nothing. But the constables did a very thorough job. They interviewed the shopkeepers and clerks near the mews, as well as several locals who were on the scene. One of these witnesses stated that he saw Harvey Macklin in the crowd that gathered when Santorini’s pony and cart ran out of the mews.”

  “So that means Macklin was there.” Barnes nodded. “And he was the one who had words with the victim outside the Thistle and Thorn.”

  “Let’s see him right after we speak with Mrs. O’Dwyer.”

  “What about Dickie Stiles?”

  “We can interview him tomorrow,” Witherspoon replied.

  “Did the reports say anything else that might prove useful?” Barnes asked.

  “Not much—simply that none of the hansom cabdrivers in the area reported picking up or dropping a fare near the mews at the time Santorini was killed.”

  “That might mean the killer is a local,” Barnes speculated. “Which would let Nivens off the hook. On the other hand, Nivens knows the neighborhood, and he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to take a hansom. He’d have walked.”

  Witherspoon rose to his feet. “It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? But one which I’m sure we’ll solve if we’re given enough time.”

  Barnes’ brows drew together. “What does that mean, sir?”

  The inspector drew a telegram from his pocket. “This arrived while you were talking to Constable Rhodes. It’s from Chief Superintendent Barrows—he wants to see us tomorrow morning.”

  “But we’ve only had the case for two days,” the constable protested. “Surely he’s not expecting us to have caught the killer this quickly.”

  From the coat tree in the corner Witherspoon grabbed his overcoat and put it on. “I sincerely hope that’s not the reason we’ve been summoned, but what else could it be?” He looked at Barnes, his expression troubled. “Frankly, I’m worried about the situation. We both know there’s no love lost between our chief superintendent and Inspector Nivens, but I won’t be a party to an investigation that isn’t completely thorough, and we’re nowhere near that point as yet. We’ve not even interviewed Mrs. O’Dwyer.”

  “That’s not our fault, sir. This has been a complicated case from the start, and we’ve had to cover a lot of territory in a very short time,” Barnes pointed out. “But I don’t think the chief superintendent would have us do anything untoward in the investigation. Despite his dislike of Nivens, he’s a police officer first and foremost.”

  But Barnes wasn’t as sure of that as he sounded. He knew that Barrows’ political instincts were as finely honed as a surgeon’s scalpel, and the chief superintendent might see this situation as a way of getting rid of Nivens once and for all.

  “You’re probably right, Constable.” Witherspoon grabbed his bowler. “It’s just that this case is so very, very odd. Let’s get cracking, then, and if we’re lucky, Mrs. O’Dwyer will be home.”

  The O’Dwyer residence was on a short street between Whitechapel and Mile End. The houses were a cut above the rest of the neighborhood in that they were set back from the street a few feet with front doors that had a proper stoop. Witherspoon stopped in front of number 3. It was a two-story brown brick structure that was far enough away from the local factories to avoid being covered in soot. The door and the trim around the windows were painted white, and the brass knocker in the center was shined to a high gloss.

  “Let’s hope she’s here,” Barnes muttered as he banged the knocker against the wood.

  The front door was yanked open, and a middle-aged woman stared at them sullenly.

  She was short and stocky, with black hair streaked with gray, a thin mouth, and blue eyes. “What do you want?”

  “Are you Mrs. O’Dwyer?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I am, but I’ve nothing to say to any of you lot.” She started to close the door, but Barnes flattened his hand against it.

  “You can either speak to us here, or you can accompany us to the Leman Street Station,” the constable snapped. “But one way or another, you’re going to talk to us.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she stepped back, opening the door. “Come in, then, and let’s get this over with.” She turned on her heel, leaving them to follow her. “Close the door behind you,” she ordered.

  They followed her down a short corridor, through a narrow doorway, and into the parlor. The walls were papered with pink roses against an apple green background. A dark gray horsehair settee with two matching armchairs was grouped around a small, unlighted fireplace above which hung a painting of the Virgin Mary. White lace curtains hung at the two windows and a faded burgundy rug covered the floor.

  Mrs. O’Dwyer eased onto the settee, crossed her arms over her ample bosom, and eyed the two policemen suspiciously.

  “May we sit down, Mrs. O’Dwyer?” Witherspoon asked politely. “It’s quite damp today, and my knee is paining me.”

  She said nothing for a moment, then she finally nodded at one of the armchairs. “Go ahead, then.” She looked at Barnes. “You might as well sit, too. But don’t get too comfortable—you’ll not be staying long.”

  “Thank you,” the inspector said as he and Barnes took their seats. “We’re here because—”

  She interrupted him, leaning forward and uncrossing her arms. “Because someone did the world a favor and murdered that lying bastard Bert Santorini.”

  “Well, uh, yes,” Witherspoon replied.
“And, of course, considering your family’s somewhat unfortunate connection to the victim, I’m sure you understand why we’ve come to speak to you.”

  “I didn’t kill him.” She laughed. “But I’ll admit, there’s a big part of me that wished I had. I didn’t shed any tears when I heard what happened to him.”

  “Where were you on Monday evening?” Barnes asked. He’d taken out his notebook and propped it on the arm of the chair.

  “What time?”

  “About a quarter to six,” Barnes said. For once, because of Santorini’s horse bolting, they had a good idea of the time of death.

  “I was here fixing supper for Molly—she’s my daughter. Thanks to Santorini, she’s the only one I’ve got left home.”

  “How old is your daughter?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “She’s an apprentice seamstress at McGinley’s.”

  “What time did your daughter arrive home that day?” Barnes pressed.

  “Same time she always came home, at half past six,” she replied.

  “So you were here, alone at a quarter to six, the time when Bert Santorini was being murdered in the Felix Mews,” the constable clarified.

  “I was home alone, yes.” She smiled, revealing a set of remarkably white and even teeth.

  “Do you blame Bert Santorini for your sons going to prison?” Witherspoon unbuttoned his coat.

  “I do. The bastard lied on the witness stand and it was your copper”—she pointed a finger at the inspector—“that paid him to do it.”

  “That’s a very serious charge.”

  “Not as serious as what he did,” she snapped. “Nigel Nivens paid Santorini to lie, and they was sent away for five years, five bleeding years.”

  “You confronted Bert Santorini about this, didn’t you?” Barnes interjected softly. He’d repeated the gossip he’d heard from Rhodes as he and the inspector had made their way here. “We have it on good authority that you tracked him down at the Strand Hotel when he was making his ice and flower deliveries and threatened him in front of half a dozen witnesses.”