Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “Will do, Mrs. Jeffries.” Phyllis grinned broadly and raced for the back door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said as she flew past Wiggins, who’d just come downstairs.

  “Oy, where you off to in such a ’urry?” he called after her.

  “Where’s she goin’?” Luty demanded.

  “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?” Hatchet added. “Well done, Mrs. Jeffries, well done.”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’ve sent Phyllis off to the East End.” The housekeeper frowned worriedly. “Frankly, this time, I’m not certain I’m right, but I might be. I do hope Betsy and Smythe get here soon. We’ve much to discuss.”

  “And we’ll need Smythe and Wiggins to get out and keep an eye on things,” Mrs. Goodge said. The kettle boiled, and she grabbed a pot holder and hurried to the cooker. “I’ve had one of my feelings again, and I know all of you make light of them, but I was right on that other case we had last year.” She poured the water into the teapot and then put the kettle back on the cooker.

  “Keep an eye on what?” Wiggins pulled out his chair.

  “Let’s wait until everyone arrives . . .” Mrs. Jeffries’ voice trailed off as they heard the back door open and footsteps pounding up the back.

  “Slow down, Amanda.” Betsy’s voice warned her daughter. “You’re going to fall.”

  A moment later Amanda came racing into the room. She skidded to a halt beneath the archway and looked around the room, then she ran flat-out toward Mrs. Goodge, who quickly put the teapot on the table before scooping up her goddaughter into her arms. “Hello, my lovey,” she cooed as the little one snuggled close.

  Wiggins yanked out the cook’s chair and steadied her by putting his hand under her elbow as she eased into her seat, arranging Amanda comfortably on her lap.

  “Ruth is right behind us,” Smythe announced as he and Betsy appeared.

  Within a very few minutes, everyone was seated around the table.

  Wiggins spoke first. “What’s goin’ on? Why’d you send Phyllis to the East End? Where do ya want me and Smythe to go?”

  “You’ll understand in just a moment,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “First of all, I need to tell you what we found out from the inspector and Constable Barnes.” She told them everything, speaking quickly but clearly so they’d follow her reasoning. “So I’ve sent Phyllis to speak to Janice Everly, to see if she can confirm something which must have happened if my theory is correct. But I also need someone to verify something else, but I’ve no idea which of you has a source that would know the answer to this question.” She paused, took a deep breath, and then told them what she needed to know. For a moment, no one said a word. Then Smythe said, “One of my sources might know. But ’onestly, it’s doubtful. I think ’e’d already ’ave told me if ’e did.”

  Betsy suddenly stood up. “If Amanda can stay here, I’ve got a source that will know.”

  “Betsy, no.” Smythe grabbed her hand. “You don’t need to do it . . .”

  “I do.” She smiled at her husband. “She’ll know, and I need to do this, if for no other reason than to break the hold the past has on me.”

  “We’ll take care of the little one,” Luty offered. “Unlessin’, of course”—she looked at the housekeeper—“you need me and Hatchet to get out and about.”

  “Only Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’ve a task for him, if he’s willing.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “What about what you want me and Smythe to do?” Wiggins asked.

  “Are we close to a resolution on the case?” Ruth reached for the cream pitcher and added a bit more to her tea.

  Mrs. Jeffries hesitated. “It will depend on if we can find out a few more bits and pieces that might or might not have occurred between Saturday night and Monday evening. The truth is, I’m simply not sure.”

  “I am,” the cook announced. “You always get this way at the end of a case, but I know you’ve figured it out.” She looked at Wiggins. “And we want you and Smythe to keep an eye on the Crying Crows.”

  Mrs. Jeffries smiled as she looked at Hatchet. “If Luty doesn’t mind, we’d like you to keep an eye on Nigel Nivens’ house.”

  “Course I don’t mind. I’m goin’ to be here with the little one and the two of you.” Luty gestured at Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries.

  “Is there anything specific I’m to watch for?” Hatchet asked.

  “I’m not certain,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted, “but you’ll know it when you see it. If, indeed, anything happens at all.”

  “Something’s goin’ to happen alright,” the cook muttered.

  Hatchet got to his feet. “I take it you’d like me back for our afternoon meeting?”

  “Yes, and let me apologize in advance. You might end up spending most of the day waiting for absolutely nothing to happen. My reason for wanting you to keep Nivens in sight is hazy at best. I might be acting precipitously here once again.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned.

  “You’re not,” the cook announced. “Something is going to happen. I’ve told you, I’ve got one of my feelings and, sneer at them all ya like, but I know I’m right.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Are you alright, Constable?” Inspector Witherspoon asked as the cab turned onto Leman Street.

  “Yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

  “You’ve been very quiet.”

  Barnes smiled self-consciously. “I’ve been thinking, sir.” He stepped out as the hansom pulled in front of the police station. “I’ve figured out why Susan Callahan looked so familiar to me,” he said. He took care of the driver and then they headed for the front door.

  “How very interesting,” Witherspoon said as they went inside. “Why was it?”

  “I think she’s someone else, someone I knew quite well when I worked around these parts,” Barnes said as they crossed the room. “I’m going to ask Constable Rhodes what he thinks. He might be able to help a bit.”

  “Morning, sir.” Rhodes nodded respectfully at Witherspoon. “Help with what?” he asked Barnes.

  “With my memory,” the constable replied. This was the tricky bit. He’d thought about the situation on the ride over, and the only way it might make sense is if he could get confirmation of her identity and, more important, find out a few other essential facts. Facts that might only be available from old records, and Barnes wasn’t even sure where such old records might be stored.

  From behind them, they heard the front door open.

  “Remember when I asked if Susan Callahan looked familiar to you?” Barnes asked.

  Rhodes nodded. “I do. It was just a couple of days ago. Why?”

  “Do you recall a pickpocket that lived around here, a woman named Millie Slavik? It was a long time ago.”

  Rhodes’ brows drew together. “Millie Slavik . . . Oh yes, yes, now I remember her. She was a lovely little thing. Mean as a contrary goose and slippery as an eel, but she disappeared years ago . . .” His voice trailed off and his expression changed. “Good gracious, I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Mind you, I’ve only seen her a time or two, and she looks so different now. She’s gained a good two stone in weight, and her hair is red, but women can make their hair a different color. My wife claims a lady at the Women’s Institute dyes her hair.”

  Barnes interrupted. “You think Susan Callahan could be Millie Slavik?”

  “Now that you’ve pointed it out, I do.” Rhodes’ gaze moved over Barnes’ shoulder. “What the devil is he doin’ here?” he muttered. “Good day, Inspector Nivens. Can I help you with something?”

  “I’ve just come to pick up my post and water Maude.” Nivens shoved away from the far wall and headed for the duty inspector’s office. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Rhodes scowled at Nivens’ back. “He usually comes in the evening to water that wretched plant.
I wonder how long he was standing there?”

  “Standing where?” Witherspoon blurted the question before he could stop himself. He was a bit confused, but he had enough trust in Constable Barnes not to interrupt or ask too many questions until the two of them were alone.

  “Just inside, against that back wall.” Rhodes pointed to a spot beside the door. “He moved when I saw him.”

  “Was he eavesdropping?” Barnes asked.

  “Probably.”

  “John, you’ve been here for years”—Barnes leaned on the counter—“and you’ve a decent memory.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He laughed. “I didn’t remember Millie Slavik until you mentioned her.”

  “Nonetheless, was Inspector Nivens ever in this part of the East End? Could he have arrested Millie Slavik?”

  “I doubt it. For starters, Millie did her best work in the West End. What’s the use of pickin’ pockets here? Most people are too poor to have much except a few ha’pennies. Also, when Inspector Nivens was first assigned here, it was obvious he’d never been in this part of London before.”

  “Where would Nivens’ service records be kept?”

  Rhodes shrugged. “The Yard, I guess. I don’t know.”

  “I do.” Witherspoon chuckled. “Really, Constable, have you forgotten where I used to work?”

  Barnes thought for a minute and then he laughed. “Silly of me, sir. Of course, the records room at Scotland Yard.” He broke off as Inspector Nivens stepped out of the duty inspector’s office and into the short hallway.

  “He’s right here. Why don’t you just ask him?” Rhodes said softly.

  Barnes shook his head as Nivens came into the room proper. He nodded at Witherspoon and headed for the door.

  “Why does he come every day to water a plant? My wife waters ours twice a week,” Barnes said as soon as the door closed behind Nivens.

  “Is it that aspidistra by the window?” Witherspoon asked. “If so, I do believe he’s overwatering the poor thing. It’s half dead.”

  “He comes in most evenings when things get a bit quiet,” Rhodes said. “I told Inspector Havers about it, but he said that as long as Nivens didn’t interfere with police business, to leave him be.”

  “Well, that’s probably a wise course to follow.” Witherspoon started toward the corridor. “I’ll just nip into the office and get the file on this case. I’d like to look at Dickie Stiles’ statement again before we interview Mrs. O’Dwyer.”

  Barnes chatted quietly with Rhodes as they waited for Witherspoon. But a good five minutes had passed when the inspector came rushing out, slamming the office door behind him.

  Barnes shoved away from the counter as Rhodes straightened up.

  “It’s gone,” Witherspoon cried. “It’s gone. The entire Santorini file is gone.”

  “Blast a Spaniard,” Barnes muttered, borrowing one of Smythe’s sayings, “I’ll wager I know who took it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Betsy stepped out of the hansom and paid the driver. Smythe had wanted to come with her, but she’d told him that she needed to do this herself and reminded him he was needed elsewhere.

  She turned and faced Mattie Mitchell’s shop. Betsy had dressed in the same outfit she’d worn before. The only difference now was that she had half a dozen sovereigns in her purse rather than banknotes. Mattie was always partial to fancy coins.

  Taking a deep breath, Betsy crossed the cracked pavement and stepped inside. Mattie stood behind the counter, watching her. Neither woman said anything for a long moment, then Mattie cackled. “I knew you’d be back.”

  “How very clever of you,” Betsy said. “Since you knew I’d be back, care to have a guess as to why I’m here?”

  Mattie reached into the open box of tobacco tins she’d been unpacking, pulled one out, and placed it next to the others on the counter. “Same reason you were ’ere the first time. You’re wantin’ to stick yer nose in somethin’ that’s none of yer business.”

  “That didn’t stop you from taking my money.” Betsy crossed the small shop. If anything, the place looked even worse than the last time. The layer of dust on the display case was thicker, more dirt was caked on the floor, and the windows were so streaked with grime, it was hard to see the street. The place was falling apart and that meant one thing: Mattie was in dire straits.

  “That’s true.” Mattie carefully placed a tin on the bottom shelf of the small glass display case on the counter, angling the colorful tobacco case to hide the beginning of a long crack. “What do you want to know now?”

  “I want to know everything you know about Susan Callahan.”

  Mattie stopped, her hand resting in midair before she picked up another tin. “Susan Callahan? Why do ya think I’d know about ’er? She’s not goin’ to be friendly to the likes of me, not that one. Walks around with ’er nose in the air like she’s too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us.” She put the tin in the display case. “Nah, I don’t know anythin’ about that one. You’ve wasted yer time comin’ ’ere.”

  Betsy pulled the smart gray suede purse out of her pocket, opened it, and pulled out a sovereign. “That’s too bad, Mattie. I brought several of these with me. But seein’ as you’ve just said you can’t help me, I might as well try elsewhere.”

  “Just a second,” Mattie cried. “Let’s not be hasty ’ere. Maybe I do know a thing or two. I was just ’aving a go at ya because of the way ya stomped out of ’ere last time.”

  “I’m in no mood to play games, Mattie. If you know something, tell me.”

  “How many of them do you ’ave?” Mattie jerked her chin at the coin.

  “Enough. Start talking, Mattie, and don’t try lyin’ to me. I’ve plenty where this came from, and if you lie, I can make your life right miserable.”

  “There’s no need to threaten me—I’ll not lie.” She snorted.

  “How long has Susan Callahan been here?” Betsy asked.

  “Seven years, maybe seven and a half.” Mattie put another tin in the case. “Old man Callahan went up north somewhere—Leeds, I think it was—and when he came back, he was married to her.”

  “Was she from Leeds?”

  “Course not—tried to pretend she was, but you could tell by the way she talked that she’d not been born or bred up there, and her name ain’t Susan. It’s Millie Slavik, and she was born less than a quarter mile from that pub she owns now.” Mattie stared at the coin in Betsy’s hand. “I think I’ve earned that one.”

  “Not yet.” Betsy clasped the coin tighter. “I already knew that bit. You’ll get this when you tell me something I don’t know.”

  Mattie snorted. “You didn’t use to be such a ’ard one.”

  “You think you know who I am?”

  “Course I do. You’re Betsy Berry,” she said, using Betsy’s maiden name. She looked Betsy up and down, once again taking in the expensive clothes and shoes. “And you’ve done well for yerself. You think you were ’ard done by when you used to come in ’ere, but I was poor, too, and I needed every penny I could lay me ’ands on to keep this shop goin’.”

  “I’m sure you believe that’s true.” Betsy refused to feel anything other than contempt for this old hag. The memory of how her family had been treated, how her mother died flooded back in a rush. But she forced the memories away. “Let’s get back to business here. What else do you know about her?”

  “She killed old man Callahan, that’s for sure,” Mattie announced. “One day he had a touch of bronchitis, and the next day, he was dead. The day before he died, Susan was at the chemist’s buying a big bottle of laudanum. But when the undertakers come to get his body, most of the bottle was gone.”

  Betsy handed over the coin. “You’ve earned this one. If you want another one, keep talking.”

  * * *

  * * *


  Hatchet pulled back the blue velvet curtain covering the carriage window and stared at Nigel Nivens’ home on the other side of the street. He’d had the coachman pull the carriage up to a spot farther along the road, rather than directly in front of the house. He had a good view from here, but the trouble was thus far, there was nothing to see.

  He yawned and shifted on the seat. The only thing that had happened since he’d arrived was the housekeeper had gone out with her shopping basket. He wasn’t concerned with any of the neighbors getting curious about him; Luty’s expensive carriage fit in perfectly in this neighborhood.

  He was bored, but he wasn’t going to desert his post. He’d no idea why Mrs. Jeffries had sent him here, and apparently she hadn’t a clue herself. Nonetheless, he would do his duty, no matter how dull it was. Just then, a cab stopped at the corner, and a man stepped out and hurried along the pavement. The hansom stayed where it was.

  The man wasn’t quite running, but he was moving fast. His bowler was slightly askew, and he had some sort of small box clutched to his chest.

  Hatchet squinted at him and wished he’d brought his spectacles. But they were on the table next to his bed. The man reached the short, paved walkway leading to Nivens’ home, turned in, and raced for the door. Hatchet realized it was Nivens.

  He had no idea why he was suddenly sure that he needed to find out what Nivens was up to—he’d only been told to keep an eye on the place. Perhaps it was because Mrs. Goodge had insisted that something was going to happen today or perhaps it was because Nivens was acting so odd, but nonetheless Hatchet decided to take a look for himself.

  He waited a moment until Nivens went inside and then got out of the carriage. Glancing up, he nodded at Cecil, the coachman, and crossed the road. He didn’t need to look around to know the layout of the property; the first thing he’d done when arriving here had been to take a walk past the place.

  He plunged down the side of the house, moving fast and trying to be as quiet as possible as he approached the window. He stopped, peered inside, and saw nothing but a nicely furnished drawing room. He moved to the next window, and, as Luty would say, he hit pay dirt. Nivens was there. He was at his desk, still wearing his coat and reading the papers on his desk.