Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “That’s not surprisin’,” Smythe muttered. “I didn’t think you’d find out anythin’.”

  “I didn’t say that. Ya told me to report anything peculiar that I ’eard. One of the blokes picked up a fare on Saturday night and took her to Belgravia.”

  “Saturday night?” Smythe frowned. “But that was two days before Santorini’s murder. What’s odd about that?”

  “He picked up a woman on the Commercial Road and took her to an address in Belgravia, and then later that night, the same woman waved him down and he brought her back ’ere, that’s what’s peculiar about it. What’s more, it was only an hour or so between the time he dropped her off and the time she waved him down.”

  “Did you ask what she looked like?”

  “Course I did.” Jimmy took a quick sip from his mug. “But it didn’t do no good. Harry said he couldn’t see her face. She was wearin’ one of them widow’s veils—you know what I mean—the old-fashioned kind.”

  “I don’t suppose he remembered the exact address?” Smythe asked.

  “Nah, only that it was in Belgravia.”

  “What time of night was it?”

  “Late. The pubs had all closed, and that was another thing that was strange. There aren’t too many women out on their own after dark unless they’re workin’ girls, if you get me meaning. When he picked her up, he was annoyed because Harry lives just off Bethnal Green, and he was sure that at that time of night, he wouldn’t be able to find a fare back to Whitechapel. But he hung about the neighborhood a bit, looking for a fare, and he was right surprised when the same woman suddenly waved him down and told him to take her back to Whitechapel.”

  “Did he pick her up at the same spot where he dropped her?”

  “I didn’t think to ask.” Joyner shrugged. “You never said I ’ad to find out every little thing.”

  “He was certain she was the same person?”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Harry thinks it probably was—those were his words, not mine. But he said it was dark and her face was covered.”

  “In other words, it might or might not have been anyone to do with the Santorini case. It could just as easily ’ave been a workin’ girl. There’s a brothel in Whitechapel that sends them out to the West End if the customer puts enough cash about.”

  “Yeah. I’ve taken a couple of ’em myself to the fancy parts of town.”

  Smythe sighed heavily and got to his feet. He pulled a shilling out of his coat pocket and put it down next to Joyner’s half-full mug. “Ta. This is for your trouble.”

  He nodded his thanks as he picked up the coin. “Should I keep on askin’ about?”

  Smythe considered the question. “Nah, don’t bother.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Constable Clyde Donner was a skinny rabbit of a man with wispy blond hair slicked back with pomade, buck teeth, and a slightly receding chin. He and Constable Barnes were sitting at a table in the small interview room. The door was open and the hall filled with officers coming off or going on duty. From the looks tossed Donner’s way, it was obvious to Barnes that he wasn’t a popular officer.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you.” Donner tugged at the top of his uniform. “I don’t know Inspector Nivens all that well.”

  “But I was given to understand you were friends.”

  “Oh no.” Donner ducked his head. “I’d hardly say we were friends. He’s a senior officer.”

  Barnes nodded as if he agreed. “We’ve heard that you know him better than any of the other lads. You go drinking with him at the Crying Crows.”

  Donner smiled awkwardly. “Not all that often, Constable. We sometimes have a pint together.”

  “Did you have a pint with him last week?” Barnes asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How many times?”

  “Thursday evening and then on Saturday as well,” he explained. “Generally I only drink on Saturday nights, but Inspector Nivens invited me out on the Thursday, and I didn’t like to refuse.”

  “Thursday?” Barnes asked sharply. “Wasn’t that the day Inspector Nivens brought the dueling pistols into the station?”

  “Yes.” Donner nodded eagerly. “He was very proud of those guns and showed them to everyone at the station. Actually, he showed them to everyone at the Crying Crows as well.”

  “So he had them with him when the two of you were at the pub?” Barnes asked.

  “Oh yes—we were sitting at the end of the bar, and he opened the case and held them up for people to see,” Donner explained.

  Barnes pictured the pub in his mind. “Which end?”

  “Which end of what?”

  “Which end of the bar? The one by the snugs or the one at the other end?”

  “Snugs?” Donner looked confused. “Oh, you mean the one by the private-like booths. It was that end. Usually Inspector Nivens likes a table, but we were late getting there and the place was crowded, so we grabbed the last two spots at the bar.”

  “After he showed them off, where did he put the gun case?”

  Donner’s thin face creased in thought. “He left them on the end of the counter.”

  “At any time did he leave them unattended?”

  “Of course not—they’re very valuable,” Donner replied. “Wait a minute, I tell a lie. There was a few moments when we weren’t paying attention. One of the customers had too much to drink and started a dustup with another fellow. Both Inspector Nivens and I as well as several of the other lads leapt up to put an end to it, but a customer showed the fellow the door.”

  “So your attention was diverted, right?” Barnes clarified.

  “Only for a moment or two,” Donner explained.

  “Did you leave the bar?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Well, yes, but it was only for a minute or two. Not long enough for anyone to have taken the gun.”

  “Which was it, lad?” Barnes snapped. “A moment or a minute?”

  “It was a minute, perhaps two.”

  “Did Inspector Nivens check the case when you came back to your seats?” Barnes flipped to the next page in his notebook.

  Donner bit his lip. “No, I don’t recall him opening the case. But he might have done so when he got them home.”

  Barnes said, “You also had a drink with the inspector on Saturday night.”

  “That’s right.” Donner cleared his throat. “We had a pint after we both got off duty.”

  “What time did you get there?” Barnes asked.

  “We got there around eight that evening, and we stayed until closing.”

  “Were you both drinking beer?”

  “I was. Inspector Nivens was drinking whisky.”

  “How much did he drink?”

  “I’m not sure. I wasn’t keeping count,” Donner stammered.

  “Take a guess,” Barnes snapped.

  “Maybe three, maybe four,” Donner replied. “Honestly, I don’t think it was more than that. He wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re asking. Inspector Nivens can hold his liquor.”

  “How did Inspector Nivens seem?”

  Donner stared at him with a blank expression. “How did he seem? I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It’s quite simple, Constable Donner. Was he nervous or upset?”

  “I don’t think you could describe him like that.”

  “How would you describe him? Did he make any comments about the O’Dwyer trial or Bert Santorini?” There was an edge to Barnes’ voice now. “Ye gods, you were with the man for almost three hours—what did you talk about? What was his mood? It’s not a hard question.”

  “To tell the truth, he was a bit cross.” Donner swallowed nervously. “Not at first, mind you, at first everything was just fine. But as the night wore on, he got more and more—” He broke off, h
is expression puzzled. “I’m not sure how to describe it.”

  “Try using English.” Barnes wondered how this man had ever become a policeman. He seemed to have trouble understanding simple questions.

  “Irritable,” Donner said. “The inspector got irritated. He was watching Mrs. Callahan—she’s the owner—and then he started in on how she looked so familiar and it was driving him insane. He couldn’t recall where he’d seen her before, and so I suggested that maybe she simply looked like someone he used to know. That comment didn’t go down well. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about and that he wasn’t a half-wit who’d be fooled by a resemblance. Then he spotted Dickie Stiles. He’s a local pickpocket—”

  “I know who he is,” Barnes interrupted. “How did he react to seeing Stiles?”

  “Dickie got lucky there—the inspector only spotted him as he was leaving. But when he first come inside, Dickie was standing right behind us, and if Inspector Nivens had seen him, he’d have tossed him out on his ear.”

  “Had Inspector Nivens ever arrested Stiles?”

  Donner shook his head. “No, but everyone at Leman Street knew who he was and that he was a pickpocket. Funny thing is, Stiles was one of Bert Santorini’s mates. That’s why it was so surprising seein’ him come into the Crying Crows. Santorini and his friends weren’t welcome there. But I think Dickie was looking for someone. He knows that Mrs. Callahan would have chucked him out as soon as look at him.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Sorry I’m late,” Smythe said as he slid into the chair next to Betsy. “But I was talkin’ with a source.”

  “We’ve only just started.” Mrs. Jeffries poured his tea and passed the mug across to him. “Who would like to go first?”

  “Mine won’t take long.” Mrs. Goodge put a plate of currant scones on the table and took her seat next to Wiggins. “I finally heard from one of my sources, but she didn’t have much to tell me.”

  Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t heard anyone in the kitchen today. “Someone was here today?”

  “Not in the flesh.” The cook pulled a letter out of her apron pocket and held it up. “It’s a note from my friend Ida Leahcock. You remember her—she’s the one who owns the tobacconist shops. One of them is in Whitechapel, and, as you might recall, Ida loves gossip more than she loves breathing. I sent her a message and asked if she’d see what she could learn from her Whitechapel shop.” She sighed. “It’s not much. She only had two bits to share. The first, and to my mind, the most interestin’, is that Frida Sorensen was seen walking down the Commercial Road, less than a quarter of a mile from Felix Mews at a quarter to six.”

  “That’s close to the time of the murder,” Betsy pointed out.

  “True,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed with a shake of her head. “But I don’t recall that the inspector asked her for her whereabouts when Santorini was killed. He’s only interviewed her once, and at that time, he’d no idea she had a personal relationship with the dead man. But now that he does, I know he hopes to talk to her again.” She glanced at the cook. “We must be sure and mention this to Constable Barnes tomorrow morning. What’s the other piece of information Ida sent you?”

  “Just a bit of gossip—the woman who runs Ida’s Whitechapel shop says that Susan Callahan dyes her hair.” She shrugged. “Mind you, she wouldn’t be the only woman in London to do that, so it’s hardly important. That’s all I’ve found out. Sorry it’s not more.”

  “Nonsense, you’ve told us a great deal,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “Who wants to go next?”

  “I’ve not got much to report,” Phyllis said. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure it has anything to do with the murder, but as Mrs. Jeffries always says, we never know what will or won’t help solve the case. I had an interesting chat with the barmaid at the Crying Crows.” She told them about her encounter with Janice Everly. “The poor girl was terrified she was going to get the sack,” she finished. “It was only when I pointed out that it might be months before that storage room is opened again that she relaxed. Anyway, I know it isn’t much.”

  “Actually, it does give us insight into Susan Callahan’s character,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Though I’m not sure that has anything to do with Santorini’s murder.”

  “I wonder why the lady is so secretive,” Hatchet speculated.

  Phyllis shook her head. “Janice thinks she’s like that because she’s a woman on her own. You know—she’s wary of letting people know anything about her personal life.”

  Luty snorted. “Sounds to me like she’s got somethin’ to hide. Besides, everyone already knows she was practically livin’ with Bert Santorini. Maybe he knew somethin’ about her and that’s why she killed him.”

  “But if that were the case, why would she wait six months to do it?” Betsy countered. “Crimes of passion happen in the heat of the moment, not six months after you’ve tossed a cheating man out of your life.”

  “We don’t know that ’e cheated on ’er,” Smythe protested. “No one ’as proven that Santorini was courtin’ Alberta Miller at that time. All we’ve ’eard is a bit of gossip that he was sweet on the girl.”

  “Don’t be daft,” she replied. “Of course he was cheating on her. You think Susan Callahan would have shown him the door if he hadn’t been? She liked him enough to make sure she kept a decent bottle of wine for him on hand, so it wasn’t just a passing fancy on her part.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “Too much speculating at this point can easily lead us astray. Now, who’d like to go next?”

  “I will,” Smythe volunteered. He told them what he’d learned from Jimmy Joyner without, of course, mentioning that he’d paid Joyner. “Trouble is, my source wasn’t sure that the woman that the hansom driver took back to the East End was the same woman he took to Belgravia only an hour earlier. What’s more, even if she was, she might have been a . . . uh . . . well, I guess you’d call ’er a workin’ girl, if you get my meanin’.”

  Betsy patted him on the arm. “We understand what you’re saying.” She knew her husband was slightly embarrassed to bring up the subject of prostitutes in front of Phyllis.

  “I’ll go next.” Ruth glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “I’ve a meeting with my women’s group soon, and unfortunately, it’s at my house so I must be there.” She paused and took a breath. “It’s not very much, but I might as well share what little it is. I went to a charity luncheon today, and I happened to spot Conrad Bryson and his wife.”

  “The man who owns Bryson’s Brewery?” Betsy asked.

  Ruth nodded. “That’s him. It was a buffet, so when I got my lunch, I made a point of sitting at the same table as the Brysons. After we introduced ourselves, I asked him what I thought was a simple question about how pubs are financed. I thought that might lead him to saying something about the Crying Crows, which is apparently a very nice place and perhaps even that other pub, the Thistle and Thorn. I know it sounds silly, but I’ve not been able to contribute very much to this investigation, and as the victim seemed to have connections to both those pubs, I was hoping to find out something useful.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid all I did was bore every single person at the table. It was dreadful. Mr. Bryson went on and on about how his brewery takes great pains to make sure they only make loans to fine, upstanding citizens, and they have such strict rules about how their beer and whisky is brewed to ensure it’s of the best quality. Then he began talking about the loans Bryson’s called in because they found out some poor publican was accused of watering down their liquor or had been arrested in their past or didn’t pay their vendors promptly.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Honestly, Mr. Bryson talked for half an hour, and he only stopped because his wife reminded him to eat his lunch. I’m afraid the entire experience was a terrible waste of time.”

  “You weren’t to know that,” Hatchet said. �
��And, as Mrs. Jeffries has mentioned many times, none of us knows what snippet of information will turn out to be important.”

  “Anyone else have anything to report?” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Luty and Hatchet, both of whom gave a negative shake of their heads.

  “I’m hopin’ tomorrow is a better day than today,” Luty complained. “I tell ya, you’d think findin’ out a few bits and pieces about this murder would be a darned sight easier.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Baxter’s Restaurant was located on the ground floor of a busy corner on Oxford Street. Barnes pulled open the door, and he and Witherspoon stepped inside. They stopped in the elegant, wood-paneled foyer and hovered by the archway leading to the restaurant proper.

  It was a large room with more than a dozen tables covered in white damask cloths. Crystal chandeliers hung from the cream-colored ceiling. Dark wood wainscoting went halfway up the yellow painted walls, and on the street side of the room, three long windows were draped in gold and green striped curtains beneath extravagant valances. White-shirted waiters with stiff peaked collars scurried about, carrying trays of folded serviettes and putting out silver-topped salt and pepper vessels. A lad pushing a cart topped with pitchers of water emerged from the kitchen and disappeared a moment later behind an intricately carved screen at the back of the room.

  “This is a fancy place, sir,” Barnes murmured. “It’s only a few minutes past five, but only a couple of tables have customers. Which means that if Nivens was telling the truth when he claimed he was here for an early supper on Monday evening, someone on the staff should remember him.”

  A waiter carrying a tray of water glasses spotted the two policemen. He stopped and put the tray down on the nearest table and hurried toward them. “May I help you?”

  “We’d like to speak to the maître d’ or whoever was in charge this past Monday evening,” Barnes said.

  “Just one moment and I’ll get Mr. Caladini.” He turned on his heel and rushed off, scooping up his tray as he moved between the tables and disappearing through the door on the far side of the room. A few moments later, a portly man with slicked-back black hair, a thin mustache, and dressed in a black coat, white shirt, and maroon cravat stepped into the dining room and hurried toward them. “Good evening.” He smiled broadly. “I am Auguste Caladini. I understand you wish to speak with me?”