Phyllis took another sip of tea. She didn’t believe in giving false hope, but really, the poor girl was worrying about nothing. Still, she understood: When you were terrified you were going to lose your job, thinking clearly could be difficult. “I think you’re worrying about nothing. First of all, how will she know you were ever in the room? Second, why would she bother to check the pockets of an old coat; and third, even if she discovers them gone, why would she think you took them?”
Janice’s eyebrows drew together. “I’d not thought of it like that.” Her face cleared and she smiled. “Good Lord, you’re right—she’s no idea I was in the room. If she did, she’d have already sacked me. Mind you, I do hope she doesn’t go back in for a few months. That should be long enough to cover any footprints I might have left.”
Phyllis laughed. “Footprints—goodness, that floor must have been really dusty.”
“It was. That room hadn’t been opened in years, probably since Mr. Callahan died. There were streak lines on the floor where Mrs. Callahan had drug out an old trunk. She’d pulled it across the room and then shoved it back. When I went inside, I walked on the lines, but when I heard her flat door open, I wasn’t as careful. I just ran out of there, and I might have smudged into the dust on the floor.”
“I shouldn’t worry about that.” Phyllis took a sip of her tea. “Even if she goes in again, all she’ll see is a smear off one of the streaks, and she’ll probably assume she made it herself.”
“I hope so. Mind you, at least now I’ve satisfied my curiosity. I once asked Alex what she kept in there, and he said that when her husband died, she made him carry some of Mr. Callahan’s clothes down there. It was mainly old stuff she couldn’t sell. Alex said that when Mr. Callahan died, she started selling everything the old man owned.” She frowned. “I wonder why she didn’t sell the coat. It’s a nice one.”
“Maybe she was sentimental about it,” Phyllis suggested.
“I doubt that.” Janice looked disapproving. “You’re talking about a woman who tossed her widow’s weeds in a trunk the day after her husband’s funeral. I know that for a fact, because Alex saw her do it when he was carrying down poor Mr. Callahan’s chamber pot. The only reason she didn’t sell the pot was because it was cracked.”
“Why didn’t she throw it away?” Phyllis mused.
“She doesn’t like throwing things away,” Janice replied. “She’s an odd one, she is. But, then again, she’s a woman facin’ the world alone, so I expect she keeps her life private so people won’t try to take advantage of her.”
“You mean like this Bert Santorini did?”
“Exactly. She felt like he’d played her for a fool, and she isn’t one to take that sort of thing lightly.”
“Would she have been angry enough about it to have killed him?” Phyllis asked. “I mean, after all, the man was shot.”
Janice looked surprised by the question. “I doubt it. It happened six months ago. But she didn’t let him get off easy, either. She told everyone that he was a thief and that she’d banned him from stepping inside her pub.”
“I see,” Phyllis murmured. She wished she could think of something else to ask, something that might actually be useful in solving this case, but if Santorini hadn’t been inside the pub in months, there wasn’t anything else for Janice to tell her.
* * *
* * *
Once again Witherspoon and Barnes found themselves at Frida Sorensen’s lodging house, but this time, Frida was nowhere to be found.
“Sorry, but she’s gone.” The voice belonged to an older middle-aged man with reddish-brown thinning hair, a long face, and the palest complexion Barnes had ever seen outside of prison.
“She didn’t say when she’d be back.” The man started to close the door, but the constable blocked it by shoving his arm against the wood. “And who might you be?”
“I’m one of her lodgers.” Again, he tried to close the door and again, Barnes pushed hard against the wood.
“What’s your name, sir?” the constable asked.
“Harvey Macklin.”
“Good. If we can’t see Mrs. Sorensen, then you’ll do. We’ve been wanting to speak to you.”
Macklin’s long face seemed to grow even longer. “What for? I’ve got nothin’ to do with you coppers.”
“Oh, but you do, sir,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We understand you had a terrible disagreement with Bert Santorini a few days before he was murdered. We’d like to speak to you about the incident.”
Macklin eyed them speculatively and then stepped back, holding the door wide. “Alright. Come in, then. We don’t need to have our chat out here in front of God and everybody. Frida lets us use the parlor, so come inside.”
They followed him and when they were all seated, Witherspoon said, “Mr. Macklin, we have it on good authority that you and the victim had a dreadful argument a few days prior to the murder.”
“I wasn’t the only one who quarreled with him,” he insisted. “Most people who knew Santorini ended up squabblin’ with him. He was that kind of person, always swaggerin’ about and tryin’ to bully people.”
“What was the reason for your dispute with Santorini?” Barnes asked. He knew what it was, as Wiggins had told Mrs. Jeffries, who’d passed the information to him. But he needed the inspector to hear it.
“If you know we had a dustup, you must know what it was about.” Macklin’s cheeks turned red as he blushed. “It was about Frida. Santorini moved in here after he’d been turfed out of the Crying Crows and started sweet-talkin’ Frida. I told him that Frida and I had an understanding and that she weren’t for him. But that didn’t matter to a man like Santorini. He started workin’ on her, sweet-talking her and bringing her flowers. Before I knew it, I’d been tossed out of my room and given a miserable one at the top of the attic, and she’d raised my rent, while he had moved in and taken over.”
“Surely if you’d genuinely had an ‘understanding’ with Mrs. Sorensen, that wouldn’t have happened,” Barnes pointed out. He was deliberately trying to rile the fellow; lots of information comes out when people lose control of their tempers and their tongues.
“That’s not true,” Macklin cried. “We was goin’ to get married as soon as Mr. Stanton gave me a raise in my wages. I told Santorini we were almost engaged, but he just laughed at me and said that if I couldn’t hang on to my woman, I wasn’t much of a man. I’ll not be spoken to like that, and I told him so to his face.”
“Did the dispute between you and Santorini end in a physical confrontation?” Witherspoon asked.
“Huh?”
“Did anyone throw a punch?” Barnes stopped writing and glanced up. “Did you use your fists to get your point across?”
Macklin shook his head. “Nah. Santorini took off like the coward he was—told everyone he had deliveries to make, but he was just tryin’ to hang on to a bit of pride.”
Barnes glanced at Witherspoon. From the skeptical expression on his face, Barnes could tell that the inspector didn’t believe that Santorini was the least bit scared of someone like Macklin. The constable didn’t believe it, either. “Where were you on Monday evening?”
“Comin’ home from work. I work at Stanton’s, just off the Commercial Road.”
“What time does the shop close?” Witherspoon asked.
“Five o’clock.”
“Do you walk home?” Barnes asked.
“Most nights. Sometimes I stop in for a pint at the Crying Crows or the Pig and Ale, but that evening I come straight home.”
“Do you come along the Commercial Road?” Barnes kept writing as he spoke. “That would be the fastest way here.”
“Usually, but sometimes I don’t,” Macklin admitted. “Santorini was killed on Monday evening, and that night, I went along Lower Chapman Street. I had nuthin’ to do with Santorini’s murder. I didn’t like
the bloke, but I’m not a killer.”
“But you threatened him with physical bodily harm,” Witherspoon reminded him. “We’ve spoken to several witnesses, and they all say the same. What’s more, if you were walking home, you’d have gone right past Felix Mews about the time the murder was committed.”
“That’s stupid.” Macklin leapt to his feet. “I didn’t do anything, I tell ya, nuthin’. I hated him, but I’m no killer and accordin’ to the newspapers, Santorini was murdered with that copper’s gun. How would I have gotten my hands on that thing? Huh, tell me that if you two are so smart.”
“Sit down, Mr. Macklin,” Witherspoon said calmly. “We’re not accusing you of anything at the moment, merely trying to establish the facts of the case.”
Macklin stared at them belligerently but sat back down.
“You work at Stanton’s, right?” Barnes stared him directly in the eye. “And if I’m not mistaken, that’s a locksmith.”
The blood drained out of Macklin’s face. “So? I work for a locksmith, so what? I’m not one myself—I just run the shop while Mr. Stanton does the rest.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Five years.”
Barnes smiled slightly. “And in five years, I’m sure you’ve picked up a few pointers on how to open a locked door.”
Macklin’s mouth dropped open. “What locked door? I don’t know what you’re on about!”
“Inspector Nigel Nivens’ home,” Witherspoon said. “From what we understand, the inspector brought the dueling pistols into the Crying Crows, and we know for a fact that you were there that night.” This wasn’t exactly true. No one had said Macklin was there when Nivens had brought in the dueling pistols, but the inspector was hoping that Macklin wouldn’t recall precisely when he’d last been there. “As a matter of fact,” he continued, “you generally went into the Crying Crows because you knew you’d never run into Santorini there. He wasn’t allowed inside that pub.”
“Just because I was there doesn’t mean I knew anything about that copper’s gun,” Macklin cried. “He’d not be chattin’ with the likes of me, now would he?”
“Inspector Nivens is a bit of a braggart,” Barnes put in quickly. “And from what we’ve heard, he was flashin’ those pistols about and showing them off. Since you were there that night, you’d know that not only did Inspector Nivens have a weapon but that he was also going to be absent from his own home on the night prior to Santorini’s murder. A night when someone clever could pick a lock and steal a gun. That would be an easy way to rid yourself of your rival. A quick stop in the Felix Mews on your way home, and with one shot, your problems were over.”
“That’s daft, I tell ya, daft,” Macklin shouted. “You’re wrong. Dead wrong. I’ve nothing to do with a murder. How would I know that the copper wasn’t going to be home?”
“You’d know because on Friday and Saturday night, Nivens complained to several people in the pub about having to take care of his mother’s home starting on Sunday night; therefore, his own house would be empty,” Witherspoon explained. Again, he didn’t know if Macklin overheard Nivens complaining, but it was certainly possible. Two of the lads from Leman Street, Constables Farrow and Blackstone, had both reported that they’d overheard Nivens grumbling about doing his mother this favor. As neither officer was sitting with Nivens, Witherspoon was fairly certain he’d been carping loudly enough for half the pub to overhear.
“You’re out of your mind.” Macklin shook his head in disbelief. “How would I know where he lived? Yes, I’ll admit I was in the Crying Crows on both those nights, but that copper was across the room, and I’d no idea he had them guns with him.”
“But you admit you were there.”
“So what? I was standin’ on my own at the back of the pub drinkin’ a pint. The place was so crowded I had to lean against the wall. That policeman was sittin’ up front with another copper, and I couldn’t see anything, least of all that he had a set of pistols with him.”
“But you knew he was there, right?” Barnes pressed. “You’d seen him?”
“I’d seen him when I went to the bar to get my pint. Everyone knew who he was—he wasn’t shy about lettin’ you know he was a ruddy police inspector. But that means nothing. Even if I’d seen he had a gun, how would I have known where he lived?”
“You could have followed him,” Barnes said. “That sounds easy enough.”
“Why are you doin’ this? I’ve nothin’ to do with Santorini’s murder.” He leapt up again and began to pace. “You’re both just tryin’ to protect that copper—that’s why you’re sayin’ all this. But it’s a lie, I tell ya, a ruddy lie.”
“You’re the one that’s been lying, Mr. Macklin,” Witherspoon said calmly.
“Lied? No, I’ve told ya the truth.”
“No you haven’t. You said that on Monday evening you walked along Lower Chapman Street.”
“That’s what I did,” he protested.
“Then could you explain how several witnesses claim they saw you in the crowd outside the Felix Mews right after Santorini was killed?”
CHAPTER 8
“What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked as soon as he and Witherspoon were far enough away from the lodging house to avoid being overheard.
“Well, his excuse for lying to us does make sense. Admitting he was at the scene of the crime when the murder was committed paints him in a very bad light.” Witherspoon put on his bowler and glanced behind him. He smiled wryly as the curtain in the front window twitched. “I do believe Mr. Macklin was watching to ensure we actually left the premises. What’s more, I have a feeling his assertion that Mrs. Sorensen wouldn’t be home until late this evening was a ploy to get us out of her home and him back into her good graces.”
“Really, sir?” Barnes laughed as the two men headed for the main street. “Well, I suppose that, now that his rival is dead, he thinks he might have another chance to get his old room back and a wedding ring on the widow’s finger. But I was more concerned with whether or not you believed him.”
“I’m not certain what to believe,” Witherspoon replied. “The scenario we outlined when we questioned him is plausible, but it’s also the sort of situation that would take a great deal of organizing as well as substantial luck. Frankly, Harvey Macklin didn’t strike me as much of a planner. What’s more, we’ve no evidence he did know where Inspector Nivens lives or that Macklin could actually pick a lock.”
“I agree, sir. Even the way he described his relationship with Frida Sorensen sounded a bit haphazard. But if Nivens didn’t murder Santorini, then the person who did was either lucky, or they planned it down to the last detail.”
They came out onto the busy Mile End Road and stopped on the corner. “Constable Donner goes off duty soon,” Barnes reminded the inspector. “We were going to have a word with him about Inspector Nivens.”
“Let’s get a hansom, then. I’d like you to take care of speaking with Constable Donner. He might be more forthcoming speaking to you than me.” Witherspoon pulled his gloves out of his overcoat pocket and put one on. “I’d like to read the constable’s report from Baxter’s Restaurant again.”
Barnes spotted a cab dropping a fare in front of a fishmonger’s shop, going around an omnibus that had just pulled in to drop off passengers. He stepped out into the road far enough so the hansom driver could see him and waved his arms. “Was there something wrong with the report?” he asked as he rejoined the inspector.
“Not precisely wrong.” He put the other glove on. “But there was something about it that seemed a bit lacking.”
* * *
* * *
Smythe stared at the five hansoms lined up outside the cabmen’s shelter. The small, square green building was the closest one to where Santorini met his end. Nonetheless, it was over a mile away from Felix Mews. Smythe was cold, hungry, and thus far t
oday, he’d not found out much. He’d had a brief stop at Blimpey’s pub, but the only thing he’d learned was that one of Blimpey’s people had seen a portly man wearing a dark overcoat and a bowler hat go into Felix Mews around the time that Santorini was murdered. Smythe knew that description fit Inspector Nivens, but it also fit thousands of other men in London. Still, it was better than nothing, and if his source among the cabdrivers didn’t have anything for him, he’d at least have something to report at the meeting this afternoon.
The damp air turned into a drizzle, and Smythe buttoned up his coat as he walked past the row of tethered cabs, looking for a driver named Jimmy Joyner. Yesterday, he’d paid Joyner to keep his ears open. He’d told the cabbie he was a private inquiry agent, because once he’d mentioned Felix Mews and Santorini’s name, it was stupid to think the fellow wouldn’t have figured out exactly why he wanted information.
He spotted Jimmy heading into the cab shelter and hurried after him. Stepping inside, he was relieved that there were only three men sitting at the long, narrow table and tucking into a plate of what smelled like stewed rabbit. Jimmy was at the counter getting a cup of tea. He was a tall, wiry, balding man with a reddish complexion, high cheekbones, and a bristly handlebar mustache. Turning, he spotted Smythe. “You want tea?”
Smythe shook his head. After leaving here, he’d be going to Upper Edmonton Gardens for their afternoon meeting. Jimmy took his tea and went to the end of the table, as far away from the other drivers as possible.
Slipping onto the stool next to him, Smythe asked, “You found out anything?”
“Not a lot—there’s fewer cabs in this part of London,” Jimmy explained. “Most of our fares come from Whitechapel or Liverpool Street Station or the High Streets. I asked around, just like ya told me, but no one remembers pickin’ up a fare to or from the Felix Mews on Monday night.”
“Did anyone take a fare anywhere near that neighborhood on that night?”
Joyner gave a negative shake of his head.
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 18