“Can anyone confirm that?” Witherspoon glanced at Barnes. The constable had already told him he’d heard from an informant that she’d been seen on the Commercial Road only moments before the body was discovered.
“No. Marianne—she’s the housemaid—sets the dining room up before she leaves at five.”
“What time do you serve supper?”
“Half past six. Some of the tenants don’t get in until then. I don’t offer a full evening meal—it’s usually just a hot soup and a plate of cheese and bread. Some of my lodgers take their dinner meal out.”
“What about one of them? Perhaps one of your lodgers can confirm you were here,” Witherspoon suggested.
“How would they know?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “They don’t come into the kitchen, and I don’t open the dining room until right before I serve.”
“At half past six you opened the dining room, and your lodgers can verify that?”
“Go and ask. Mr. Pruitt is upstairs. He can tell you I was here.”
“Bert Santorini was killed in the Felix Mews just after dark. That’s less than a twenty-minute walk from here. You could have done it and then got back here in time to serve your lodgers their supper.” Barnes stared at her as he spoke.
“That’s ridiculous.” She uncrossed her arms and put them at her sides, her hands bunching into fists. “I told you—we’d made up, so why should I want to kill him? Besides, I’ve told you, I was here all afternoon.”
“If that’s true, ma’am,” Witherspoon said, “then can you explain something for me? We have a witness that saw you on the Commercial Road within thirty yards of the entrance to Felix Mews only seconds before Santorini’s body was found.”
* * *
* * *
Betsy put the teapot on the table. She and the housekeeper were setting up the table for their afternoon meeting. The sun had come out, and she’d let Mrs. Goodge take Amanda out for a walk. She glanced at Mrs. Jeffries and noticed that the housekeeper’s expression was serious, as though she was worried. “Are you alright?”
“Oh yes, I’m fine.” She gave Betsy a quick smile. “It’s just this case. It’s a bit more complicated than I initially thought it would be.”
Guilt flooded Betsy. “I’m sorry I haven’t contributed very much.”
Mrs. Jeffries turned and looked at her. “You’ve done your fair share.”
“No, I haven’t.” Betsy plopped into a chair. “I’ve not even gone out except for that one time. The truth is, Mrs. Jeffries, I couldn’t face it, not after that first time I went back to the East End. I didn’t think it would bother me so much. I’ve been through the area a time or two in the last few years, but this was the first time I’d actually gone back to places I used to know.”
“That must have been very hard,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But you’ve no need to apologize, Betsy. Over the years you’ve more than done your part and, to be perfectly frank, no matter how many of us were working on this case, I’d still be in a dreadful muddle.”
Betsy drew back and studied the housekeeper. She realized that Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t just trying to make her feel better—she actually meant what she said. “But that’s nonsense. You’ll figure it out. You always do. Give yourself a bit more time—it’s only been a few days.”
Mrs. Jeffries gave her a grateful smile. “I hope you’re right. It’s a very puzzling case. The only person who appears to have a motive that fits all the circumstances of the crime is Fiona O’Dwyer. She’s the only person who could possibly have a motive to want Santorini dead and Inspector Nivens arrested. She did blame him for sending her sons to prison.”
“Plus, she sent her daughter off to Ireland on the pretense that Santorini threatened the girl,” Betsy added. “She might have done it so she could move about freely, you know, follow Nivens and find out where he lives. Besides, as you pointed out before, Mrs. O’Dwyer has a lot of connections because of her sons. She could easily have found someone to break into Nivens’ house and steal one of those guns—” She broke off as they heard the back door open and footsteps moving quickly up the corridor. A moment later, Phyllis hurried inside.
“The others are right behind me.” She took off her coat as she raced toward the coat tree. She spotted the teapot on the table. “Oh, good—it’s ready. I’ll get the milk from the wet larder.”
Within minutes, everyone had taken their places at the table. “Who would like to go first?”
“Mine will only take a minute,” Luty offered glumly. “The only thing my source knew was that Bryson’s Brewery is havin’ a tough time financially.” She glanced at Ruth. “Seems like that Mr. Bryson, who bored your whole table at that charity luncheon, wasn’t just talkin’ to hear the sound of his own voice. My source claims that he’s actively trying to find investors.”
“Oh, perhaps that explains his behavior,” Ruth murmured. “Helen Cavendish was at our table, and her husband is always looking for a good investment opportunity.”
“Anything else, Luty?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Afraid not.”
“Don’t be so miserable, Luty,” Smythe volunteered. “The only thing I found out was that some of the locals have said Susan Callahan’s barman was being paid to pass along any information he happened to overhear from the police to his boss. But my source couldn’t confirm it, so it might just be gossip because there’s so much resentment against that pub as well as the people who work there.” He’d been disappointed that this was all Blimpey had for him today, but, as Blimpey had explained, on this particular case, he had his people workin’ to help Fiona O’Dwyer. She’d hired him first. Blimpey was scrupulously fair in his business dealings.
Mrs. Jeffries forced a smile and glanced around the table. “Phyllis, did you have any luck today?”
“None,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
“I found out a little bit,” Wiggins said quickly. From the expression on the faces around the table, he could tell none of them had anything more to add. What was worse, he sensed that despite Mrs. Jeffries’ smiles and careful comments, she was worried, really worried they’d never solve this case. “It was a bit odd, and I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with the case, but I’ll pass it along.” He told them about his trip to the Crying Crows, skipping over the bit where no one would talk to him and going directly into his chasing after the elderly Enoch Dinsworth. He made certain to tell them every single detail, focusing on what he’d heard from Rosemary Dinsworth. “But when we got back to the Crying Crows, I decided to give it one more go to see if I could find out anything else.” He continued speaking, repeating the bits and pieces he’d heard from the other patrons and the barman. “It’s not much,” he concluded. “I wish I coulda learned more, but they’re a suspicious lot in that part of London.”
“Regardless of whether the information is useful or not”—Mrs. Jeffries gave him a genuine smile—“you did the right thing. That poor Mr. Dinsworth might have been badly hurt if you’d not been there.”
Everyone at the table echoed her words to such an extent that the footman was embarrassed. “It were nothin’ special,” he muttered as a blush crept up his cheeks. “Any of you woulda done the same.”
“Anyone else have anything to add?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
No one did.
* * *
* * *
When the inspector arrived home that evening, his mood was almost as melancholy as Mrs. Jeffries’. They had their sherry together, and she listened carefully as he described his day. But she could tell he was upset, especially as the pressure from Scotland Yard was mounting.
“I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Jeffries.” He put his empty glass on the side table. “If Dickie Stiles is telling the truth, and we’ve no reason to believe he isn’t, then the evidence po
inting to Inspector Nivens’ guilt is overwhelming. Not only that, but the only reason that Santorini would have instructed Nivens to bring cash is because he must have been blackmailing the inspector.”
“And you think that he was being blackmailed because he paid Santorini to lie on the witness stand?” Mrs. Jeffries sipped her drink.
Witherspoon pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t see that it could be anything else, Mrs. Jeffries. I know that Nivens is capable of behaving badly, but I simply cannot believe he is a killer. Unfortunately, I don’t know how much longer I can delay his arrest.”
“What about some of your other suspects?” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. This morning, she had told Constable Barnes her theory that Fiona O’Dwyer had the resources to commit the crime, and she knew that Barnes would have found a way to pass that idea along to the inspector.
“We’re taking a second look at Fiona O’Dwyer,” he said. “And Frida Sorensen. Neither woman has an alibi, and both may have had a motive to murder Santorini. But only Mrs. O’Dwyer had a reason to frame Inspector Nivens.”
“You’ll sort it out, sir.” She hoped she sounded better than she felt. “You always do.”
“I don’t know about this one, Mrs. Jeffries.” He exhaled sharply. “Nothing seems to be going right. We can’t even keep the reports sorted properly. This sounds petty, but honestly, this is the third time the case reports haven’t been in their proper place, so on top of being hard-pressed for time on most days, I’ve got to waste time searching the duty inspector’s office for the file. Someone keeps moving the ruddy thing.”
“Perhaps it’s the cleaners, sir,” she murmured. She was thinking hard about everything he’d told her.
“They don’t have cleaners, Mrs. Jeffries. The constables keep the place tidy, and once or twice a week the prisoners scrub the floors. Ignore me, please. I’m just frustrated and rather depressed, if the truth be known.”
“Of course you are, sir.” She brought her attention back to the present. “Your ‘inner voice’ is telling you Inspector Nivens is innocent while your rational side insists you look at the evidence. But as I said”—she paused and forced a cheerful smile—“you’ll sort it out. You always do.”
* * *
* * *
Mrs. Jeffries tossed and turned as one thought after another skittered through her mind. She tried taking long, deep breaths in order to marshal her errant ideas into some sort of logical sequence. But it was difficult. She flopped onto her back and forced herself to start at the beginning and to go over each and every morsel of information or gossip they’d heard thus far; but the bits and pieces wouldn’t behave, and she found herself drifting off as one thought after another poked into her brain.
She rolled onto her side as her own voice echoed in her head. “You read the article in the Sentinel. Why else would our inspector be going to the East End?” A second later, she wondered why Santorini had eighty-five pounds in his possession, ten of which were gold sovereigns. But that wasn’t all he’d kept in that box. Why keep bad whisky and inferior beer?
But try as she might, she simply couldn’t come up with an answer. She went over the suspects one by one. Philip Graves hated Santorini, but he’d never had anything to do with Nigel Nivens, so why would Graves go to so much trouble to make it appear as if Nivens was the killer? Surely if it was just general hatred of the police, Graves could have found an easier way to publicly humiliate them.
Harvey Macklin hated Santorini as well. But both the inspector and Constable Barnes had thought Macklin hadn’t the character to plan such a sophisticated crime. As she trusted both their judgment, she was inclined to agree with them.
Frida Sorensen and Alberta Miller were both involved with Santorini, and jealousy was a classic reason for murder. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, she thought as the idea took hold. Neither of them had alibis, and both of them may have had friends or relatives that could have helped them. She couldn’t leave Susan Callahan off the “woman scorned” list, either. They only had the widow Callahan’s word that she was the one that tossed Santorini out of her life. It could well have been him that left her.
She yawned as drowsiness overcame her. Just as she was falling asleep, she heard Constable Barnes’ voice. I just remembered something. Inspector Nivens asked me the same thing.
CHAPTER 10
The next morning, Constable Barnes was almost as glum as Inspector Witherspoon had been the night before. He added a few details to the information Mrs. Jeffries had heard from Witherspoon but was even less optimistic that they’d find any evidence exonerating Nigel Nivens. “Much as it pains me to say it, from the evidence, it looks like Nivens is guilty.”
“But Inspector Witherspoon seems sure he isn’t,” the cook pointed out. “And I can’t help feeling he’s right. But as I see it, that’s not the problem here. We all know that rather than arrest someone he doesn’t think is guilty, our inspector will quit the force.”
“It won’t come to that, Mrs. Goodge.” Mrs. Jeffries tapped the side of her tea mug with her finger. “He’s still got a few days before he has to take any action. The murder only happened on Monday evening, and surely Chief Superintendent Barrows will see reason about the matter.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, Mrs. Jeffries,” Barnes said. “Dickie Stiles’ statement is now part of the official report, and that’ll be on Barrows’ desk by tomorrow morning. The only reason it’s not already there is because we got back to Leman Street too late for it to be included in yesterday’s district report.”
“Isn’t there some way of delaying it?” Mrs. Jeffries needed time to think. The idea that had come to her in the wee hours of the morning needed to be examined against the witness statements, the bits and pieces of information they’d picked up from their collective sources, and local gossip they’d learned thus far. “Last night Inspector Witherspoon complained that the files on this case had been mislaid several times and that was just in the Leman Street duty inspector’s office. Surely there’s a way to ‘mislay’ yesterday’s report from getting to Barrows’ office for a bit longer.”
“I doubt it, Mrs. Jeffries.” Barnes shook his head, his expression gloomy. “You know our inspector—he’d not do something like that.”
“But that would give you both time to have another go at Fiona O’Dwyer,” Mrs. Goodge added. “The woman doesn’t have a real alibi, and she’s the only one who might have had it in for both Santorini and Nigel Nivens.”
“As far as we know,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. She made her decision. She’d planned on bringing up her idea at the morning meeting so the others could weigh in with their thoughts, add to what she had come up with. But they no longer had that luxury. She’d hoped the others could help put the pieces together in such a way that she’d have no doubt her theory was right. In truth, she could well be wrong, but that was just a chance she’d have to take. They were out of time.
Barnes put his mug on the table and started to get up.
“Constable Barnes, have you ever heard of someone called Millie Slavik?” Mrs. Jeffries blurted.
Barnes stopped moving in midair. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed a surprised O as he sank back into the chair. “Ye gods, I’ve not heard that name in years,” he murmured. He cocked his head to one side, his expression thoughtful. “Good gracious, no wonder she looked so familiar. It’s her. It’s really her, and Inspector Nivens must have recognized her, too.”
“Who?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “Who are you talking about?”
“Susan Callahan.” Barnes exhaled softly. “This might change everything.”
* * *
* * *
“We’ve much to do this morning,” Mrs. Jeffries warned the cook as they hurried into the kitchen to get everything set up for the morning meeting.
“I understand.” Mrs. Goodge grabbed her matches and lit the gas fire under the kettle. “I�
�m not sure what’s going on here, but I know you’re close to figuring it out.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but as of now, my theory is just that, a theory.” Mrs. Jeffries grabbed the mugs out of the pine sideboard and put them on the table.
“Is that why you asked Constable Barnes to confirm those two bits of information?”
“Yes. If I’m right, then there will have been some contact between them.” She broke off as she heard footsteps coming down the back staircase. “Good. Here comes Phyllis. I’m going to send her off before I do anything else.”
“Send me off where?” Phyllis asked as she came into the kitchen carrying a tray with the inspector’s empty breakfast dishes. She glanced at the housekeeper curiously as she crossed to the sink.
“To the East End,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “I want you to have a word with Janice Everly. I want you to waylay her before morning opening and ask her a few questions. You’ll need to play your role of being a private inquiry agent.”
Phyllis put the dishes in the sink and started to run the water.
“Leave the dishes,” the cook ordered. “I’ll take care of them. You get your apron off and get ready to go.”
“What should I ask her?” Phyllis struggled with her apron strings as she hurried toward the coat tree. She finally got the garment off.
“The questions won’t make a lot of sense at the moment, and I’ve no time to explain,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But you need to find out two things . . .” She trailed off as they heard the back door open and footsteps stomping up the hallway.
It was Luty and Hatchet. Mrs. Goodge ushered them in while the housekeeper finished giving Phyllis her instructions.
“Be as quick as you can and hurry back,” she told her as Phyllis buttoned her coat.
“What if Janice isn’t working today?” She put on her hat.
Mrs. Jeffries drew some coins from her pocket and held them out to the maid. “Then bribe someone for her address and go to her house. We need this information.”
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 23