Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “I’m not sure,” Witherspoon said. “But it happened a month before Gilhaney changed professions. I’ve no idea if it has anything to do with his murder, but my ‘inner voice,’ as Mrs. Jeffries likes to call it, is telling me that Gilhaney’s unusual past may have some bearing on it.”

  “It’s worth looking into, sir, and perhaps after we’ve finished the interviews at Walker and Company, we should go to Clapham and have a chat with one of Gilhaney’s old mates.”

  • • •

  Wiggins was determined to make up for his negligence. He pulled his jacket tighter against the cold wind as he walked past the Chase home. He’d decided to start here because this was where Gilhaney set out on the journey that ended his life.

  He reached the corner and started to cross the road when he saw two young women come out of the walkway on the side of the Chase home. One was wearing a heavy coat and muffled in a red scarf while the other was buttoning a short green jacket over her housemaid’s dress.

  Wiggins crossed the road and knelt down. He pretended to tie his shoe as he watched them. The maids turned the corner and he gave them a few moments to get ahead of him before going after them. Moving as quietly as possible, he darted back to their side of the street and got as close as he dared.

  They chatted as they walked, but he couldn’t hear everything they said, just the occasional word. But he heard enough to know that one of them was going to the shops while the other one had her day out. They turned the corner onto the high street and Wiggins rushed to catch up, moving past them as they came to the omnibus stop. He kept on walking till he reached a haberdasher’s shop. He stopped and pretended to examine the goods displayed in the window while watching them from the corner of his eye.

  They stood there for a few moments until the omnibus arrived and he saw one of the housemaids get on. He hesitated for a split second, wondering if he ought to jump aboard the vehicle before it pulled away. He might have more luck getting the maid on her day out to chat, especially if she had a long journey. But girls were leery of men on public conveyances and there was always the chance she was taking the omnibus to the train station. If he kept following her, he might end up somewhere in Kent. So he made a quick decision and stayed put, staring in the window while the other maid went past.

  He watched her amble up the busy street, obviously in no hurry to get back to her duties, until she reached the greengrocer’s stall. Wiggins stayed where he was until she went inside and then he made his move, hurrying so that he could be in the right spot when she came out. He leaned against the corner of the bank next door to the stall and waited. He was taking a big risk, but it was a trick that had worked before. The trouble was, if he timed it wrong he might do some real damage and there was always the chance she might get angry, no matter how much he apologized. But he was desperate to find out something to bring to the meeting.

  The maid reappeared, holding a bundle of vegetables wrapped in newspapers. Looking down as if searching for something he’d dropped, Wiggins shot forward and directly into the lass.

  She yelped as the bundle went flying into the air before landing with a thud on the pavement. Potatoes, carrots, and a turnip spilled out and rolled in different directions. “Oh no,” she cried as she dived for the potatoes.

  “I’m so sorry, miss, it was all my fault.” Wiggins scrambled to grab the runaway vegetables, scooping up the turnip and the carrots. “I didn’t mean to run into you like that. I was looking for a sovereign I dropped and not payin’ attention.”

  She captured the rolling potatoes and then reached over and yanked up the newspaper before turning to him. But he didn’t give her a chance to speak. “I’m ever so sorry, miss. I’ll be happy to replace anything that’s ruined. If you’d like, I’ll take your veg inside and have them wrapped again.” He cradled the remainder of her vegetables against his middle. “I feel awful about this, miss. I hope I didn’t hurt you?”

  “I’m fine,” she muttered. She stared at him for a moment. “And the vegetables seem fine as well. Let me just wrap them up.”

  “No, please, let me.” He tugged the paper out of her hand, squatted down, and spread it out. He put the turnip and the carrots in the center and then took the potatoes she handed him. Wrapping it all up, he stood up. “I’m so sorry, miss.”

  She’d recovered a bit and now looked at him with interest. “It’s alright. If I’d dropped that much money, I’d look for it, too.” Her hair was blonde and curly, her face as round as one of Mrs. Goodge’s mince tarts, and her eyes blue.

  “I’d just found it when I run into you.” He smiled and she blushed. Wiggins wasn’t conceited, but he knew he was nice looking. “Please, miss, let me make it up to you. There’s a café up the street, it’s a decent place, and I’d be pleased to buy you a cup of tea if you’ve the time.”

  “Well, I should get back, but the cook usually pops upstairs for a lie-down about this time and the mistress isn’t home. Alright, I’d love one.”

  Five minutes later, Wiggins put their tea down next to the plate of buns he’d bought and sat down opposite her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You never said your name.”

  “It’s Albert, Albert Jones,” he lied. He always used a false name when he was on the hunt. If she happened to speak to the inspector again, the only thing she could possibly say was that a fellow named Jones had asked her a few questions. “What’s yours?”

  “Margaret Newley, but everyone calls me Peggy.” She smiled shyly.

  “Do you work around here, Peggy?”

  “I’m a housemaid nearby.”

  “I work for a newspaper.” He was making it up as he went along and he thought he might have come up with a way to get down to business quickly. “I’m just a copyboy now, but I’m hoping to get promoted soon.”

  She helped herself to a bun. “To what?”

  “A reporter. But the only way for that to happen is if I can bring my guv something interestin’—you know, something about a bank robbery or a murder, or something like that. But it’s hard.” He reached for his cup and took a sip. He’d sensed she was pleased with the attention he gave her and he expected she’d want to impress him a bit. He was counting on her knowing the police had been to the Chase home to talk to the master and mistress and hoped the word “murder” might get her chatting.

  “I know something about a murder.” She glanced around the café.

  He pretended to be shocked. “Are you teasin’ me?”

  She giggled. “Of course not, I’m serious. You know that man that was killed on Guy Fawkes Night, the one all the papers said was a robbery?”

  “Of course I do. I’m in the business, remember. What about it?”

  “Before I say anything, you’ve got to promise you’ll not tell anyone that I was the one you heard it from. I mean, it’s not all that interesting, but you might be able to use it to get your promotion.”

  “I’ll make sure your name never leaves my lips. Go on, then, tell me what you know.”

  “The Chases have been decent to me and I’ll not say a word against them, so don’t you go sayin’ they did something wrong just to sell newspapers.”

  “Peggy, I just gave you my promise and I never go back on my word.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring and trustworthy smile.

  “I’m sure you don’t.” She returned his smile with a shy one of her own. “Well, the police have been around to see the Chases again. It turns out the fellow wasn’t just robbed. I overheard the mistress say the police now believe it was straight-out murder and the killer only took a few of his things to make it look like a robbery.”

  “Really?” Wiggins reached for a sticky bun. “A straight-out murder? Now that could be useful to me. What do you remember about that evening?”

  “It was a dinner party for Bonfire Night and Mrs. Chase had been looking forward to it because she was anxious to meet Mr. Gilhaney. Mr. Chase had spoken about him several times. I serve at dinner and I’d overheard him.”
She took a quick bite of her bun. “I was serving at dinner that night. Mrs. Chase had called in Mr. Wicket to serve as well—he’s from a domestic agency and costs the earth, so she only brings him in when it’s a very fancy do. Anyway, it was obvious, even to us downstairs, that the dinner wasn’t goin’ very well and then, of course, when the guests started leaving it went from bad to worse. All of a sudden, everyone was dashing to and fro; poor Mr. Wicket sent one of the street lads to get Mr. Walker’s carriage and even us girls were sent out that night.” She broke off and frowned. “I don’t know what else to tell you. It wasn’t a very successful do and poor Mrs. Chase was at her wits’ end.”

  “Did you happen to see anyone suspicious hanging about the neighborhood?” Wiggins was beginning to think he should have followed the other girl. Peggy wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. “I mean, when you went out to find a cab.”

  “I only went out the one time.” She made a face. “I was out there for ages and ages waitin’ for a hansom, but I didn’t see anyone. Mind you, it was Bonfire Night and there were lots of people about the streets.”

  “I guess that’s why it took you so long to get a cab,” he muttered. Blast a Spaniard, by the time he got out of this situation, it might be too late to learn anything today.

  She snorted. “There were two cabs at the stand, but one was a growler and the other a four-wheeler. Mr. Bruce told me to make sure I got a hansom, so I had to stand about in the cold until one pulled up.”

  “Why would he have wanted a hansom?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but Mr. Bruce was adamant that I was to send a hansom and nothing else.”

  • • •

  Gordon Chase led the inspector into the office. “This was going to be Gilhaney’s, but the poor man never even got to see it. Please, sit down.” He motioned toward a leather chair as he took a seat behind the ornate carved desk.

  Witherspoon took a seat and studied the room. The firm had gone to some trouble to make the place appealing. There were green-and-coral-striped drapes on the window, an etching of the Old Bailey courthouse over the unlighted marble fireplace, and a shiny brass bucket filled with coal on the polished hearth. The walls were painted a deep forest green and there was a colorful Oriental rug on the floor.

  “Newton has told me you’re to have a free hand in interviewing the staff,” Chase said. “I’ve put your constable in the staff room and he won’t be disturbed while he’s conducting interviews. Will this space do for you?”

  “Yes, this will do nicely,” Witherspoon replied. “But before you go, there’s a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “Of course, though I’m not sure what I can tell you, I only met Mr. Gilhaney twice. What little I know of the man is only what I’ve heard from others.” He gave a rueful smile. “But do go ahead with your questions.”

  “Mr. Gilhaney had been in London since the middle of October. When was he due to start his employment here?”

  “He was originally supposed to start on Monday, November ninth. But at our executive committee meeting, which was November fifth, Newton suddenly told us that he’d be starting Friday morning, not Monday.”

  “Did Mr. Walker give a reason for the change of plans?”

  “No, and Theodore Bruce was quite put out about it.” He steepled his fingers together. “I was quite surprised as well …” He broke off as there was a sharp knock on the door. A moment later, a young clerk with rolled-up newspapers under his arm and carrying a bundle of wood stepped inside.

  “Mr. Walker sent me to build a fire, sir,” he explained. Chase nodded and the lad hurried to the fireplace.

  “You were saying, Mr. Chase?” Witherspoon pressed.

  Chase hesitated, with a glance at the kneeling clerk, who’d just put the newspapers under the grate and struck a match. “As a matter of fact, we were all surprised.”

  The lad put a bundle of kindling on the grate and then fanned the flames on the paper.

  “Why was that?” Witherspoon coughed softly as a shaft of smoke wafted in his direction.

  “Because Mr. Walker generally isn’t one to make changes at the last minute—” He broke off, frowning, as a billow of gray smoke burst out of the grate. “Be careful, Hodges.”

  “The wood is a bit damp, sir.” Hodges leaned across the bucket, picked out several hunks of coal, and placed them on the smoking grate.

  “You were saying?” Witherspoon’s eyes began to water as even more smoke poured out of the fireplace.

  “Mr. Walker likes order, Inspector, and considering there had already been a row about the mistake in Mr. Gilhaney’s desk and that was only being sorted out that afternoon, it was simply surprising that he insisted on changing anything else. But he did, and despite Mr. Bruce’s objections, he told him to have all the company books on Gilhaney’s desk—” He broke off again, choking, as the room filled with smoke. “Ye gods, Hodges, what have you done? You’re going to suffocate us. Open the window.” He got up, as did the inspector, and both men headed for the door as the hapless Hodges raced to the window. He tugged at the bottom frame but had no success in raising it. “It’s stuck, sir,” Hodges called.

  • • •

  Down the hall, Barnes looked up from his notebook. “Do you smell smoke?”

  Lloyd Ridgeway, Newton Walker’s secretary and the chief accounts clerk, sniffed the air and then pursed his lips. “Don’t worry, Constable, it’s not a fire. It’s that silly Hodges being too lazy to go downstairs and get the dry kindling from the porter. He’s used the leftover damp wood from yesterday. The office gets terribly damp at night—we’ve complained about it, but it does no good. You’d think a huge building firm like ours could have premises that kept the wet out, but apparently, that’s impossible.”

  Barnes was relieved he didn’t have to run for his life, but he did want to get this interview over. “Tell me what happened here on November fifth. I just need a general statement as to what went on here that day.”

  Ridgeway stroked his short, rather sparse beard. “It started out like any other. I typed the agendas for the executive meeting and gave them to Mr. Chase. He asked if the correct desk for Mr. Gilhaney’s office had been delivered yet and I told him they were going to exchange the desks that afternoon. He was annoyed and asked why it had taken so long. He said Mr. Walker was quite upset about the mix-up and it needed to be sorted out before Mr. Gilhaney started on Monday. I told him it wasn’t our fault—I even showed him a copy of the original order that we sent to the shop and it specified the carved mahogany desk. But the clerk at the shop had the audacity to claim that someone from here had used that infernal contraption to contact them and change the order. Gracious, Mr. Walker had a fit when he saw they’d sent an oak desk instead of the mahogany one. I overheard him and Mr. Chase have a rather heated discussion about the matter. Mr. Chase claimed he’d not been the one to ring the shop and tell them to bring the cheaper desk. Of course, he’d not admit it if he had, would he. But just between you and me there’s only the three managers in the office that are allowed to touch that infernal contraption—”

  Barnes interrupted. “By ‘infernal contraption,’ do you mean the telephone?”

  “That’s right.” Ridgeway shuddered. “Every time the wretched thing rings I just about have a heart attack. But as I was saying, Mr. Bruce, who generally isn’t near as concerned with keeping expenses under control as Mr. Chase is, was very indignant when he found out how much that mahogany desk cost.”

  Barnes knew he shouldn’t have asked such a broad question. Good Lord, the man was going to tell him every little detail about that day. “Yes, that’s all very well. What happened next?”

  “Then Mr. Chase came out and told me to get the complaint file ready so that he and Mr. Bruce could go over it after the meeting. After that, the managers went into their monthly meeting and we got on with our work. When the meeting was over, I grabbed the complaint file and rushed it in to Mr. Chase’s office and then Mr. Bruc
e left rather quickly as he had a meeting with Manfred Stowe, which was odd as well, because I’m in charge of the appointment calendar and there was nothing listed for Mr. Bruce, but then again, he and Mr. Chase and even Mr. Walker often got called away when there was a problem at one of the building sites.” He leaned across the table. “Let me tell you, sir, taking care of the appointment calendar for all the management is a very difficult task, very difficult indeed.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Barnes remarked. “Go on, please.”

  “There’s really not much more to tell. Uh, let me see, Mr. Walker left rather abruptly, but of course he didn’t tell us where he was going.” He shrugged. “The only other incident of the day was the desk for Mr. Gilhaney’s office. They delivered it and then there was a bit of a row between Mr. Chase and the deliveryman. The fellow kept insisting that we’d only paid for the oak desk, not the mahogany—”

  Barnes interrupted. “Did anything else happen?”

  Ridgeway drew back. “No, nothing untoward happened for the remainder of the day. You asked for an accounting, sir, and that was what I was giving you.” He sniffed. “There’s just no pleasing some people.”

  • • •

  “She’s a right mean old cow.” The boy used his grubby sleeve to wipe his nose. “But at least she pays a bob or two more than most.”

  Phyllis nodded in understanding. “Would you like another bun?”

  She and the lad were standing at the counter of a workmen’s café by the river. She’d spent the morning on the high street, questioning the shopkeepers and clerks about Ann Holter. She’d been using the old “lost address” trick, but despite her best efforts, she’d found out nothing. She’d almost given up hope when this young lad had followed her out of the butcher’s. “I know that lady,” he’d said as he tugged on her elbow. “If you give me a tuppence, I’ll show you where she lives.”