Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  He said nothing for a long moment. “You’ve not done anything I haven’t been doin’ as well. The first day we were supposed to be out on the hunt, I spent ten minutes in front of the victim’s lodgin’ ’ouse before giving up and nipping down to see Craven Cottage. That’s where Fulham plays and I was hopin’ to see some of the players, but I didn’t. And today when I said I’d talked to a housemaid from the Bruce house, I didn’t so much talk to her as chase the poor girl, who was tryin’ her best to get away from me.”

  “But she told you things.”

  “I made part of it up.” He smiled sheepishly. “I mean, I know it was true because Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge told us that the Bruce ladies went home in a hansom on their own and I just guessed the rest about when Mr. Bruce come in.”

  “But what about the perfume bottle and the missing medicine and—”

  He interrupted. “That was all true, but like I said, the girl was more worried about gettin’ the sack than talkin’ to the likes of me. But that wasn’t the worst. This was early today and I could have stayed out on the hunt. We’ve a half dozen suspects. I could have gone to their houses, waited about, and found a footman or another housemaid. But you know what I did? I went to Hammersmith because I knew my mate was gettin’ off work early. We met up and then went to his pub and talked football for two hours. So you’re not the only one that’s been shirkin’ a bit. I ’ave, too.”

  She said nothing, but simply looked at him, and then she giggled. “Oh, goodness, we are a pair, aren’t we? I wonder how Mrs. Goodge and the other ladies knew we’d been larkin’ about?”

  “They’re smart, that’s how.” He laughed, delighted that he’d made her smile. “But come tomorrow, I’m goin’ back out there and doin’ what’s right. I love football and I ’ope I get to see the ones I’d planned on seein’, but if I don’t, that’s alright as well. Justice is more important.”

  “Me, too, no more trips to the theaters. Tomorrow I’m going back on the hunt. Oh dear, it’s getting dark. I’d better finish dusting and get down to help Mrs. Goodge with dinner.”

  • • •

  Upstairs, Mrs. Jeffries stood at her bedroom window and stared out at the darkening day. Her mood had darkened as well. She wasn’t sure what to do. What on earth had gotten into Luty, Ruth, and most especially Mrs. Goodge? She’d never known any of them to be anything other than helpful and encouraging, but today, all three of them had implied that the others were shirking their responsibility, putting their own wants before the cause of justice. Well, she wasn’t going to stand for it.

  After the inspector came home and dinner was finished, she’d have a word with the cook. But just as she made that decision, another, more unwelcome thought entered her mind. The three women hadn’t just implied the others were the only ones shirking their duty; several of their looks and comments had been aimed at her as well.

  Shocked by the realization, she stood there until she heard the clip-clop of a hansom come around the corner. She shook herself as it pulled up in front of the house. The inspector was home. She hurried downstairs and was waiting at the front door when he came inside.

  “How was your day, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for his bowler and waited for him to unbutton his overcoat.

  He paused, his fingers hovering over the row of buttons. “It was strange, Mrs. Jeffries, truly one of the oddest days I’ve ever had as a policeman. I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts about it.”

  Intrigued, she hurried after him. She had their sherry poured and was sitting across from him within a very short amount of time. “Do tell me, sir, what was so unusual about today.”

  He took a sip and then stared at the liquid in his glass for a few seconds. “Let me start at the beginning. It helps me to understand the investigation if I go through my day in the order it happened.” He told her about his interviews, starting with his visit to Gilhaney’s lodging house. “We didn’t have time to get back to the station this evening to go through everything. We’ll do that tomorrow morning. Hopefully, there will be something amongst his things that will answer some of our questions. After leaving the station, we interviewed Leon Webster.”

  She listened closely, interrupting him with a question halfway through his narrative. “Brass knuckles, sir? Was there a mention of that in Inspector Nivens’ files?”

  “Webster claims that he tried to tell Nivens what he’d seen that night, but that Nivens was in such a hurry to leave, he brushed him off. But no brass knuckles were on his person the night he was killed.”

  “Do you think the killer might have taken them?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s interesting, sir. I wonder if Leon Webster had met Gilhaney prior to the dinner party.”

  “He claimed he hadn’t, but I’m not sure I believed everything he said,” Witherspoon continued, taking care to tell her not just what Leon Webster had said, but his own impressions of the man. “After we finished there, we went to Walker and Company to have a word with Mr. Bruce. He was annoyed to be interrupted at work, but luckily, Mr. Newton Walker insisted he take the time to speak with us.”

  “Mr. Walker seems determined to see this matter resolved, doesn’t he?” she murmured.

  “He does.” Witherspoon nodded. “He’s quite a decent sort, Mrs. Jeffries. Not at all what you’d expect.” He told her about his interview with Bruce. She continued listening, making sure she understood everything he said.

  “After that, we went to see Robert Longworth.” He took a sip of his drink. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, his statement was very unusual.”

  “In what way, sir?” She took a sip from her own glass, but tonight she’d not have more than one. She needed a clear head; she needed to have a good long think about this case.

  “Thus far, Mr. Longworth is the only person we’ve found who admitted to having a reason to hate Christopher Gilhaney. Yet, I’m sure he’s innocent.” He told her about their meeting with Longworth.

  When he finished, she said, “So you think he’s telling the truth because he is dying?”

  “Not just me, Mrs. Jeffries, Constable Barnes shares my opinion.”

  She wasn’t sure what to think, but then she remembered something David, her late husband, had told her. He said that the police took deathbed confessions seriously, that the dying were the only people to have no reason to lie. “If you’re absolutely certain Mr. Longworth is soon to leave this world, sir, then I think I must agree with you and the constable. He’d have no reason to lie and he did himself no honor by telling you the truth about his embezzlement. What will you do tomorrow, sir?”

  She knew what she would do and she was now heartily sorry it had taken her so long to realize how foolish she’d been. It had cost them dearly. They’d lost several days, and it was her fault. She was their leader, the one they looked to for guidance, and she’d let them down badly.

  “As I said, we’ll go through Mr. Gilhaney’s personal items and hope we can discover where he put his money and who would have been likely to inherit from him.” He grimaced. “Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, one of the first rules of a homicide investigation is to find out who benefits from the victim’s death. But as far as we can tell, Nivens made no attempt to do that whatsoever. According to the Manchester police, he never contacted them. After that, we’ll just keep on digging. Gilhaney’s old mates from Clapham might have something useful to tell us, and if that fails, I may have to go to Manchester. Gracious, Mrs. Jeffries, I feel like I’ve made no progress whatsoever on this one. I fear we won’t have much of a Christmas this year.”

  Mrs. Jeffries knew what she needed to do. “Nonsense, sir. Considering all the obstacles you’ve faced, you’ve done a splendid job.” She jumped right in with both feet. “Inspector Nivens’ files were abysmally bad, you’ve had to conduct interviews and take statements from people who were insulted badly by the dead man, but you’ve persevered and learned more in a few days than Nivens did in six weeks. What’s more, we’ll have a splendid Christma
s. The tree is coming the twenty-fourth and we’re going to decorate it before the guests arrive for the party.”

  He stared at her over the rim of his glass. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. I appreciate the vote of confidence. I must tell you, I’ve been very afraid I won’t solve this one. I hate to admit it because it seems so vain, but I don’t want my record marred by a defeat … oh dear, that sounds so conceited. I truly wish to solve this murder because I believe in justice, but—”

  “You’re human, sir,” she interrupted, “and you’ve a remarkable talent as a detective, so it is perfectly understandable that you’d like to continue on in the same vein. Nonetheless, despite the difficulties you’ve encountered so far, I’ve every confidence you’ll catch Mr. Gilhaney’s murderer. The only difference between this case and the others you’ve solved is that this crime took place a few weeks ago. It’s really no different than if you’d come across a victim who’d been frozen in a winter lake for six weeks.” The moment she said the words, she realized they were true and not just for the inspector but for the household as well. They could solve this crime, they would solve this crime, and they’d get it done in time for Christmas.

  He looked at her, his expression hopeful. “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course, sir!” She laughed merrily. “You’ll do what you always do and keep digging until you find the truth.”

  “Yes, indeed I will.” He sat up a bit straighter. “I think I’ll go back to Walker and Company tomorrow as well.”

  “Why there, sir?” She was curious.

  “Because I’ve a feeling the reason for the murder has something to do with Gilhaney coming back to London.”

  • • •

  Mrs. Jeffries already had a pot of tea made when Mrs. Goodge, with a meowing Samson at her heels, shuffled into the kitchen. The cook stopped in her tracks. She hoped the housekeeper wasn’t still annoyed with her—they’d barely said two words to one another after yesterday’s meeting. She eyed the housekeeper warily. “You’re up bright and early.”

  “That’s because we’ve much to do today.” She grinned.

  “You’re not angry?”

  “Of course not. The three of you were rather rough on us, but you were right to do so. Come have a cup of tea before the others get up. We’ve a lot to discuss.”

  • • •

  Mrs. Jeffries got the meeting started as soon as the front door had closed behind the inspector and Constable Barnes. The constable had stopped in the kitchen and added a few details to the information Mrs. Jeffries had learned from Witherspoon. In turn, they shared what had been garnered by the household.

  “First of all, I want everyone to know that we’ve got much territory to cover in the next few days if we’re going to help our inspector have this case sorted by Christmas,” Mrs. Jeffries began. “The inspector learned quite a bit yesterday, so everyone listen carefully.”

  It took less than ten minutes to repeat everything. As she spoke, she noticed Luty, Ruth, and Mrs. Goodge exchanging knowing glances. She gazed at the faces around the table and noted that Phyllis and Wiggins were nodding eagerly as she spoke, but the others still looked mutinous. “Now, I know this case has many drawbacks, but we can do this, so let’s not be so down in the mouth about it.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Betsy grumbled. “We can’t make people talk to us.”

  “You most certainly can,” Ruth insisted. “You do on all the other cases. You’re very good at it, Betsy. All of you are.”

  Betsy opened her mouth to argue, then clamped it shut again.

  “This is a hard one.” Smythe patted his wife’s hand. “And we’re all het up because we had some nice plans.”

  “I imagine Christopher Gilhaney had some nice plans, too, but he’s dead now, ain’t he,” Luty charged.

  “You’re not being fair, madam,” Hatchet snapped. “It’s not as if the man was murdered recently. He was killed six weeks ago, so no matter how hard we try, we’ll probably not find out anything useful.”

  “So we only try to do the right thing when it’s easy,” she shot back. “All of ya brag about how important justice is to ya, how workin’ hard to do what’s right has made yer lives have a meaning beyond how the world sees ya. But here ya are, wantin’ to shove it aside when it interferes with your plans.”

  “That’s hardly the case, madam.” Hatchet’s eyes narrowed angrily. “What we’re all upset about is working our fool heads off for an investigation that’s impossible to solve. The killer will have gone free yet everyone’s Christmas plans will still be in shambles.”

  “Who says it’s impossible to solve,” Ruth interjected. “It’s not. Have more faith in yourselves! If you keep telling yourself it’s impossible you’ll be bound to fail. But I know each and every one of you and all of you are intelligent, resourceful, and, usually, determined. Sometimes, when it looks as if women will never get the vote, or even basic, decent equality, I think of the murderers all of you have helped to bring to justice. I think of the innocent lives that were saved because the wrong person wasn’t arrested and I’m inspired to keep on going, to keep on fighting for what is right regardless of the cost. So stop selling yourself short and just get on with it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Let’s hope Gilhaney’s strongbox has something useful in it.” Barnes closed the lid of the suitcase and flipped the clasps shut. “All we’ve found so far are the two rings and a key. Other than those, the only things in this were his clothes. Mind you, he dressed well—the labels on his suits and shirts were from Henny’s in Bond Street. They must have cost a pretty penny.” Barnes lifted the suitcase off the desk and put it on the floor alongside the one the inspector had just finished searching.

  They were in the duty inspector’s office at the Ladbroke Road Police Station and had just spent the last thirty minutes examining both cases.

  “Perhaps that’s why he may not have had an estate,” Witherspoon said. “He spent all his money on clothes. But be of good cheer, Constable. I’m sure the box will tell us something useful.”

  Barnes picked up the heavy wooden box and placed it on the duty desk. “It’s not a proper strongbox.” He examined it carefully. “It isn’t metal. But it’s got a good heft to it. I’ve never seen one like this. It’s been sanded and stained and the fittings are perfect.”

  The box was made of a dark hardwood and stood eighteen inches high with a brass handle on the top. Brass fittings had been screwed into the corners and there was a sturdy brass lock on the front. Witherspoon inserted the key and twisted. The mechanism resisted for a second and then turned, unlocking with a tiny click.

  “Our luck is holding.” He opened the lid and stared in dismay at the jumble of books and papers. “Gracious, going through all this is going to take some time. But we’ve no choice in the matter, not if we want to learn more about the victim. Let’s start with the books.” He pulled out the first one, looked at the title, and then handed it to Barnes. “It appears Mr. Gilhaney was interested in drawing.”

  “‘List of Colours and Materials for Drawing and Water-Colour Painting,’” Barnes read aloud. “‘Manufactured by Winsor and Newton, thirty-eight Rathbone Place, London.’ Perhaps he liked to draw, sir.” He flipped the cover open. “No, wait, there’s an inscription here.”

  “What does it say?”

  “‘For Polly, with hope for our new beginning.’” He looked at the inspector. “I wonder who Polly was.”

  Witherspoon pulled out another volume. “More of the same—this one is The Art of the Portrait, Techniques and Materials.” He opened the cover. “There’s no inscription here. Just a name, Polly Wakeman, and a date, March fifth, 1878.” He yanked out the third and last book. “This is just about accounting. Let’s keep on with the rest of it.”

  They searched through stacks of receipts, old invoices for Gilhaney’s clothes and personal items, and a half dozen letters from the Manchester Institute of Accountants, of which Gilhaney was apparently a member in
good standing. Beneath the stack of letters was a green file box lying flat on the bottom.

  “Hopefully, this is where Gilhaney kept his important documents,” Witherspoon muttered as he lifted it out. Laying it next to the strongbox, he undid the tiny metal latch and released the cover. He rifled through it. “It’s mainly correspondence. Let’s start with the top one.” He read it and handed it to Barnes. “It’s a letter from Harold Whitley, a trustee of the Fulham Workhouse. He’s agreed to recommend Gilhaney to apprentice as an accounts clerk, but the interesting part is the next paragraph.”

  Barnes scanned it quickly and then read it aloud. “‘Christopher, at nineteen you are far older than most candidates for this position, but I explained to Mr. Adderman that you’ve recently had a bereavement and that you wish to change your current circumstances. Additionally, I told him about your remarkable abilities with both mathematics and memory. He has agreed to bring you into the company but, unfortunately, cannot compensate you anywhere close to what you earned as a journeyman carpenter. He has asked that you report to his firm on Monday morning, July twelfth.’”

  “Interesting, isn’t it.” Witherspoon picked up another paper and unfolded it, and a yellowed newspaper clipping fell onto the desktop. “No one has mentioned that Gilhaney was a carpenter.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t know, sir,” Barnes suggested. “Frankly, I think there is a lot we don’t know about the victim.”

  Witherspoon had picked up the clipping and was reading through it. “You’re right, Constable … Take a look at this.” He handed it to him.

  Barnes squinted to read the tiny, fading print. “Now we know who Polly Wakeman is,” he said when he’d finished. “According to this article, she was killed when the roof of an unfinished office building collapsed. Ye gods, the poor thing was only eighteen years old. What was she doing there?”