She already knew where Ann Holter lived, but of course she had to keep up the pretense, so she reached into her pocket for a coin. But as she’d handed it to the boy, she’d taken a moment to really look at him. His arms were as thin as matchsticks, his clothes frayed and dirty, and the ill-fitting jacket he wore so threadbare it could do nothing against the cold December winds.
Suddenly she had a moment of awareness that was so strong she felt tears come into her eyes. She was different now. Working for justice had changed her; it had made her see not just that the innocent shouldn’t hang, but that all manner of injustice walked this world. This child wasn’t responsible for being born poor, just as it hadn’t been her fault she’d been born into a family that could neither afford her nor feed her. She blinked to hold back a sob as a weight of guilt lifted off her shoulders. She’d always felt that somehow she’d deserved going hungry and being cold and worrying about keeping a roof over her head, but that was foolish. Being born into poverty wasn’t her fault, nor was it this young boy’s. She had grinned at the lad. “No, I won’t pay you yet.”
His face had crumpled. But before he could cry, she said, “I’ll buy you a cup of hot tea and some buns first. Is that okay?”
His jaw had dropped. “You’re not havin’ me on, are ya?”
In answer, she’d taken his hand, led him to the café, and ordered hot tea and buns.
“Ta, miss.” He grabbed the pastry, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed like a madman.
“Don’t eat so fast. You’ll choke. I’ll buy you another one.”
“That’d be good, but can I take it home with me?”
“Don’t worry about saving it for your supper. I’ll give you enough to buy a meal.”
“That’s not it.” He looked down at the scratched linoleum floor. “I’ve got a little sister and a bun would be a real treat for ’er.”
“Then we’ll order two of them for her,” Phyllis said softly. “Now, tell me what you know about Ann Holter. I mean, other than the fact that she’s a right mean old cow.”
He grinned. “She drinks a lot. So I hang about her house and as soon as the old lady leaves for the station, Miss Holter comes out the back door and sends me to Maywood’s. She says the same thing every time: ‘Be careful, now, Jamie, make sure you don’t break them.’” He sneered. “I’m not a baby, you know. I know how to carry so it don’t break.”
“What do you bring her, Jamie?” She felt guilty for not having asked him his name. He had a name and she should have done him the courtesy of decent introductions.
“Two bottles of red wine.”
“Two bottles of red wine each time you go, or two bottles altogether for the week?” Phyllis wanted to make sure she understood what he was saying.
“Two on Saturday and two on Tuesday.” He grinned. “She likes that sour stuff, can you believe it? I tasted it once when my uncle Jonas come to visit and it was ruddy awful.”
“When you speak of the ‘old lady,’ who is that?”
“Her mother. Old Mrs. Holter. She goes to visit her sister in Rye on Saturdays and Tuesdays. That’s when Miss Holter drinks herself silly—leastways, that’s what my mum says. Miss Holter don’t want anyone to know how much she drinks so she waits until her mother’s gone.”
“Don’t they have servants?” Phyllis had seen the Holter house and it was four stories tall, in a good neighborhood, and only slightly run-down. It was the sort of place that had to have servants.
He shrugged. “There’s a housekeeper, but she only comes twice a week, and there’s a maid, but Mrs. Holter is half-blind so the maid has to take her to the station and fetch her in the evenings.”
Phyllis was fairly certain she could guess the rest. The maid knew what was what and once she took the mother to the station, she took her time coming back. Phyllis didn’t blame her. She’d have done the same if she’d ever been lucky enough to find herself in such a situation. “But surely when her mother came home, she’d see her daughter had been drinking.”
“I told ya, she’s half-blind, and my mum says when you get old, your sniffer don’t work worth a tinker’s damn, so she’d not even smell the liquor.”
“You’re right, I’d not thought of it like that.” He was obviously a smart lad. Why was he working the streets? “Why aren’t you in school?”
“I’m eleven,” he declared. “I’m just small for my age. My mum needs me to bring in some coin and they don’t pay you for goin’ to school.”
“Did you like school?” Phyllis had gone to a church school until she was twelve and had loved learning.
“It was alright, but I ’ave to bring in coins, otherwise we’ll not have enough to eat. It takes all my mum’s wages to keep a roof over our heads. Are you goin’ to get me that bun?” Tommy asked, his expression anxious.
She nodded and bought three more buns. “Can you wrap them in paper, please,” she asked the serving girl.
Jamie’s eyes widened with delight when she handed him the bundle. “Here, this is for you and your family. Why did you call Miss Holter a mean old cow?”
“’Cause she is.” He tucked the bundle under his arm. “She never smiles when she pays and she’s got a nasty tongue. I move as fast as I can when she sends me off to Maywood’s, but no matter how quick I get back, she complains about how long it took me. Once, she even forgot to pay me what she owed. She just left me standin’ at her back door. I thought she’d gone to get me money, so I waited and waited, but she never come back, so I went inside. I was scared, too, but I needed that money to buy a half loaf for our supper.” He took another quick sip of his tea and Phyllis wished she’d bought him another cup. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t just thirsty; he’d picked up his cup to hide his face. He looked as if he was trying not to cry.
“Did she pay what she owed?”
“No, and she was actin’ right funny—she scared me so bad that I left and I almost didn’t go back the next time.” He put the cup down. “But I needed the coins, so I made myself knock on her back door the followin’ Tuesday as soon as I saw old Mrs. Holter and the maid gettin’ into a hansom. She acted like nothing was wrong.” He looked at her, his expression disbelieving. “She just handed me the money for Maywood’s and told me to be quick about it. I don’t think she even remembered what she’d done.”
“What happened that day, Jamie? How did she scare you? I know it’s hard to remember some things, but this is important.”
Jamie angled his chin and stared at her. “You’re not wantin’ to take a note to her, are you? That was just a way to find out about her, wasn’t it?”
She couldn’t lie to him. “That’s true. I know this isn’t easy for you to understand, but I work for someone who is trying to catch a killer.”
“You mean like the police or one of them detectives.”
“That’s right, so please, tell me what happened that day.”
“Miss Holter didn’t kill anyone,” he replied. “Mind you, I think she could.” He took a deep breath. “Anyways, like I said, I thought she’d just gone to get my money, but when she didn’t come back I went into the house. I called her name, but she never answered. I wanted my coins, but goin’ into someone’s house is scary, so I decided to leave. But then I heard thumping, like footsteps comin’ from one of the front rooms. So I went down the hall and when I got to the big parlor, there she was …” He broke off and shuddered.
“What was she doing?”
“She was dancin’ around the room, holding this fancy dress up. I didn’t know what to do, but I wanted my money … and then all of a sudden she saw me and she stopped. I tried to tell her I’d just come to get my coins. She stared at me for a second and then went to a cabinet by the window. I breathed a bit easier ’cause I thought she was goin’ to pay me. But when she turned back, I could see her pointin’ somethin’ at me. The room was so dark, I couldn’t see what it was. So I asked her to pay what she’d promised, but she just kept comin’ toward me, and then I saw w
hat she had in her hand.” He swiped at his eyes as they filled with tears.
She knew the memory was causing him pain, but her instincts told her it was important. “What was it, Jamie? What did she have in her hand?”
“I kept tellin’ her I’d just come for me coins, that I meant no ’arm. I was backin’ away as fast as I could, but she kept comin’ toward me. I’ve never been that afraid in my life, so I just kept tellin’ her that I was sorry, that I’d never trouble ’er again, but she kept pointin’ that thing at me. I knew what it was and I knew it could hurt me bad. My aunt Helen, the one that no one in the family will speak to because my mum says she’s taken to the streets, she had one and she showed it to me last Christmas when I saw her outside Brackman’s Pub. She said she carried it in case that Ripper feller come back.”
“What was it?” Phyllis repeated, but she suspected she knew exactly what it was.
“It was a gun. It was a little one, like I said, just like Aunt Helen’s, but I knew from the way Miss Holter was lookin’ at me, that if I didn’t get out of there, she was goin’ to use it on me.”
• • •
“One doesn’t like to repeat gossip, Lady Cannonberry, and normally, I’d not say a word about such a delicate situation, but honestly, she was quite rude to me at Lydia Benson’s tea last week.”
“I’m so sorry, that must have been dreadful for you.” Ruth smiled sympathetically at her fellow women’s group member, Marion Tavistock, and silently prayed they’d not be interrupted. Marion was a portly woman with curly light brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and a prominent overbite. She had only recently joined their cause and Ruth didn’t know her well. But this morning, she’d gone to visit her friend Octavia Wells, the treasurer of their group. Octavia knew all the gossip about the moneyed classes of London and she used that knowledge for the fight for equality and women’s rights. Unfortunately, her friend was suffering from a bad case of laryngitis and for the first time in all the years Ruth had known her, she couldn’t talk. When Ruth explained why she’d come, Octavia wrote her a note that read, Talk to Marion Tavistock at today’s meeting. She loathes Hazel Bruce. Ruth had sought Marion out and Octavia had been right, it hadn’t taken more than a mention of Hazel Bruce’s name to get the woman talking.
“It most certainly was. But I’m trying very hard to be a bigger person and, as our Lord says, to turn the other cheek.” She gave Ruth a brief stiff smile. “You being a vicar’s daughter can certainly understand that.”
“I try to understand it, but the truth is, turning the other cheek has always been very hard for me. I’ve prayed about it many times, but I’m afraid it’s still a character flaw the Almighty has not seen fit to correct in my nature,” Ruth replied. It wasn’t true, at least she hoped it wasn’t true, but she wanted to establish a sense of shared trust with Marion. She had seen the surprise on the woman’s face when she’d sat down with her and started chatting. “You must be a very special person, Marion, and I envy your character.”
Marion’s homely face transformed as she smiled in delight. Ruth felt momentarily guilty and silently vowed she’d make a special effort to get to know her better. She refused to be the type of person who was only being nice to get information out of a person.
“That’s very kind of you to say,” Marion said.
Ruth patted her hand. “I’m not being kind, I’m being truthful. I’ve never met Mrs. Bruce, but I’ve heard she has quite a sharp tongue.”
Marion’s pleased smile disappeared. “You’ve heard correctly. The woman has no manners. I couldn’t believe the way she spoke to me.” She put the elegant rose-patterned teacup down so hard it rattled loud enough that the ladies at the next table turned to look at them.
Marion caught herself. “Just because her family has money, she thinks she can say what she likes without any social consequences. Well, she has another think coming. I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get invited to the Shipleys’ ball next month. Leona Shipley is a dear friend and one word from me and Mrs. Bruce will be taken off the guest list.” She snorted delicately. “She thinks too highly of herself because of her family’s wealth. But there’s more to society than just money. Breeding and ancestry are far more important than a bit of silver in the bank. I’m from an ancient and honorable family with a lineage that goes back to the Conqueror.”
Ruth refrained from pointing out that most people’s lineages, whether peasant or king, went back just as far. But she wanted information so she held her tongue.
“We’ve connections to court, you know. But that didn’t stop her from publicly saying, in front of everyone at the luncheon, ‘Isn’t it sad that some bloodlines traded on ancient lineages rather than modern-day success?’”
“I take it she aimed that comment at you specifically? Why? Does she resent you for some reason?”
“Of course.” Marion smiled bitterly. “Her family’s company built our conservatory last year, the large one we added onto the main house. But they made a mess of it: bad workmanship, inferior materials … the place leaked terribly and the paint began to chip less than a week after it was applied. The conservatory was so badly constructed we couldn’t use it and we had to hire another firm to come fix their mess. Naturally, my husband refused to pay them what they claimed was owed and they’ve threatened us with a lawsuit. Well, I say let them sue us, then everyone will see what shoddy work that firm does.” She stopped her tirade and smiled self-consciously. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t get so upset about it. I suppose it was my bad luck to run into the woman at the tea and, of course, she was rude.”
“That was unfortunate,” Ruth murmured.
“She sat there with her nose in the air as if she was better than the rest of us. I did my best to ignore her comments, but everyone in the room knew we were in the midst of legal actions. What’s more, from what I know, she’s no right to hold herself in such high regard. She’s no better than a Whitechapel street tart.”
Ruth’s eyes widened. “Really!”
“No, that’s not correct. She’s worse than a tart. Hazel Bruce has been unfaithful to her marriage vows.”
• • •
Mrs. Jeffries put the linens into the cupboard, closed the door, and then leaned against the wood. She stared out the small third-floor window over the landing and saw nothing except the skeletal branches from the top of a tree. But she wasn’t interested in the view; she was trying to assemble all the facts they’d learned thus far into an idea or a theory she could work with.
To begin with, the first picture they had of the victim was wrong. He’d been incredibly rude on the night of the murder, yet other people claimed he was a kind and decent man. Which was it? Something Witherspoon had said tugged at the back of her mind, but it was gone too quickly for her to make sense of it. She bit her lip, trying to force it back, but the only thing she could recall was that it was a tidbit she’d heard the first time they’d discussed the case.
She closed her eyes and tried again. What did they know? But because she’d not been listening properly and, more importantly, hadn’t been thinking about what was being said, the few details she could recall didn’t make any sense. Leon Webster hadn’t gone straight home that night, Florence Bruce took laudanum, Newton Walker owned the Bruce home and apparently paid someone to spy on his son-in-law, Abigail Chase was furious her dinner party had been ruined, and Robert Longworth was dying.
But none of these facts pointed her in any direction whatsoever.
She sighed. She was in a mess of her own making and they were all going to suffer for it unless they got this case solved. At least Phyllis and Wiggins seemed to have come to their senses and even Hatchet had come along a bit. But Betsy and Smythe were both still angry at the situation and, though she could understand why, she knew they’d hate themselves if they didn’t do what was right.
“Hepzibah,” Mrs. Goodge shouted up from the bottom of the back stairs. “We’ve company. It’s Dr. Bosworth.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook hers
elf and raced down the staircase. When she came into the kitchen, the cook had the kettle on the boil and was at her worktable slicing a malt loaf.
“Dr. Bosworth, how nice to see you.” She smiled in genuine pleasure. If Bosworth was here, he had something important to tell her.
“Forgive me for barging in, but I had a bit of luck with the late Mr. Gilhaney’s postmortem and I wanted to tell you what I’d found out.”
“Don’t say anything until I’ve the tea made,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. She put a slice of cake in front of him. “It’ll just be a minute.”
He looked at his plate and then at the two women. “Aren’t you two having any?”
Mrs. Goodge poured the boiling water into the waiting kettle. “We’ll have ours with the rest of the household. They’ll be here shortly.”
“Would you like to stay?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. The others knew he could be trusted, as he’d worked with them many times before.
“I’d love to, but I’ve an appointment soon.” He forked up a bite of cake.
They spoke of pleasantries until the tea had brewed and all of them had a cup in front of them.
“Now, what have you found out?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“As I said, we had some luck on this one.” Bosworth grinned. “Dr. Sullivan—he’s that friend I told you was interested in pathology—did indeed watch the procedure. He not only got a good look at the bullet wounds before Dr. Spicer arrived to do the postmortem, but he took specific measurements.”
Mrs. Jeffries smiled in delight. “Gracious, Dr. Bosworth, you ought to be so proud. Obviously, your ideas and methods are having an impact on the whole profession.”
“I like to think so.” Bosworth grinned in pleasure. “I shouldn’t admit it, but I am rather pleased about it. A number of the younger doctors seem to be following my lead. But I digress. From the measurements of the bullet holes, Sullivan was certain the shots were fired from a small weapon. He is of the opinion they were fired from a revolver.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women Page 16