Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  CHAPTER 8

  “The two of ’em hate each other,” Flora Benning exclaimed. “All of us are tryin’ our best to find other positions, but it’s hard, you know.”

  “It is difficult, isn’t it? Good positions aren’t easy to find.” Betsy nodded in sympathy. She had gone to the Bruce home determined to have something to report at their afternoon meeting. What’s more, she knew that Smythe was back on the hunt as well and she didn’t want him to best her.

  She and Smythe had been fuming after yesterday’s meeting but by this morning’s meeting, their anger had turned to guilt. So after they left the Witherspoon house, they’d gone home, had a long talk, and discovered that both of them were willing to give up the Paris trip, but they’d been convinced the other would be crushed if it was canceled. After a good laugh, Betsy had asked Elinor to look after Amanda while her husband went off to see his main source, a source that Betsy knew would probably have plenty to say.

  “Especially without a reference, and Mrs. Bruce might not give me one if I was to leave.” Flora yanked a handkerchief out of her coat pocket and blew her nose. “It’s nice of you to walk with me. I get lonely on my afternoon out. My family lives on the south coast and that’s too far to go for just an afternoon, add to that the cost of the train fare.”

  She was a small slip of a woman with red hair twisted into an unattractive knot at the nape of her thin neck, a porcelain complexion, and a high forehead. The navy blue jacket she wore was so big the sleeves reached to her knuckles and the gold scarf wound round her neck was frayed in spots and missing half its fringe. At first, Betsy had thought her a young girl, but up close the lines etched around her mouth and eyes revealed she was closer to thirty than twenty.

  “I understand,” Betsy replied. “I used to get lonely on my afternoons out as well.” They were walking along the Chelsea Embankment and there was a cold, stiff breeze off the river. Betsy had waited till after the luncheon hour before going to the Bruce home. She knew the neighborhood and guessed that the Bruce home was big enough to need a substantial number of servants; that meant the maids couldn’t go for their afternoon out together, but had to go one at a time to make certain their masters weren’t inconvenienced in any way. She’d been right and just after one o’clock, Flora Benning had come out the servants’ entrance.

  It cost her a sovereign to make Flora’s acquaintance, because she’d immediately claimed the coin when Betsy pretended to pick it up from the pavement and asked her if she’d dropped it, but Betsy didn’t mind. She could afford it and poor Flora looked as if she needed it. “Why won’t she give you a reference if you get a better position?” she asked.

  “Because they have trouble keeping help.” Flora made a face. “And Molly Dunning told me that they wouldn’t give the last girl who left them a reference. Mr. Bruce said he was tired of the way Mrs. Bruce managed the house and if she couldn’t keep the servants she had, he’d not let her have any more. Of course, she laughed in his face when he said it. She told him straight-out that it was her father’s money that paid for their household and she’d have as many maids as she liked. Mind you, I don’t think she knows that Mr. Newton Walker—he’s her father—is payin’ Molly to tell him everything that goes on.”

  “Oh, my goodness, really? Why would he do such a thing? Doesn’t he trust his own flesh and blood?” Betsy slowed her steps. She didn’t want to reach the end of the embankment too quickly.

  “He trusts Mrs. Bruce; it’s Mr. Bruce Molly is to keep an eye on. Molly doesn’t know that I know what she’s up to, but I saw Mr. Walker payin’ her last month. I wasn’t spyin’ or anything nasty like that. I just happened to be under the back stairwell adjustin’ my stockin’s when Mr. Walker paid her. She gave him an earful, too. Told him all about how Mr. Bruce would slip out the servants’ door when he thought Mrs. Bruce had gone to bed—not that they shared a room, but that didn’t stop Mrs. Bruce from watchin’ him like she was afraid he was sellin’ off the family silver.”

  Betsy saw that they were almost at the end. “Let’s cross the road.” She took Flora’s arm and stifled a twinge of guilt. The woman was so desperate for company she was talking her head off. Betsy remembered how that felt and she knew how crushing it could be. “Flora, I hope you won’t think me overly bold, but there’s a nice pub around the corner, it’s a decent place with a female owner, and I’d like to treat you to a glass of wine or a nice whiskey. I’ve enjoyed your company so much and you’ve saved me from an afternoon on my own.”

  Flora smiled broadly. “That would be lovely. I’m usually too afraid to go in on my own, but there’s two of us.”

  • • •

  Clearly irritated at the interruption, Theodore Bruce looked up from his ledger. He frowned when he saw Inspector Witherspoon standing in his doorway. “What is it now?”

  Witherspoon stepped into the room. “I’ve some questions for you, sir. It won’t take long.”

  “Yes, yes, just get on with it. What do you want to know?”

  “I understand that Mr. Gilhaney was due to start work here on Monday, November ninth, but at the morning meeting on November fifth, Mr. Walker announced he’d be starting work the next day, Friday, November sixth. Is that correct?”

  “It is. What of it?”

  “Did Mr. Walker give a reason for this change?”

  “Walker never explains himself.” Bruce tossed his pencil onto the open ledger. “He merely said that Gilhaney was going to be here on Friday morning instead of Monday.”

  “I understand you were a bit upset by the change?”

  “Who told you that?” Bruce leaned forward.

  “Mr. Bruce, that doesn’t matter. But I would appreciate your answering the question,” Witherspoon said. He wished the man would offer him the empty chair in front of his desk. His knee was beginning to twinge.

  “Humph, it was probably Gordon, the man doesn’t know how to hold his tongue. Not that it matters, but yes, I was annoyed. We were up to our ears in work and bringing anyone new into the office is always disruptive.”

  “Even someone with Mr. Gilhaney’s background, someone who has been described to me as a genius who can recall everything he sees.”

  Bruce gave a short, harsh laugh. “Newton might believe that nonsense, but I certainly didn’t. No doubt Gilhaney was good at his work, but I hardly think he was a genius.”

  Witherspoon nodded. “Who recommended Mr. Gilhaney to Mr. Walker?”

  “I’m not certain. I think Newton said some business acquaintances in Manchester put forward his name.”

  “Your wife told us she was the one who recommended him to her father.” The inspector watched him carefully, but Bruce’s expression didn’t alter.

  “Perhaps she did, Inspector. But what does it matter? My wife has friends in Manchester that she visits often. It could well be that those friends and Newton’s business acquaintances are one and the same.” He reached for the pencil. “Now, if that is all you wanted to know …”

  “That’s not all, sir. After you learned that Mr. Gilhaney was to start the following day, what did you do?”

  Bruce looked puzzled. “Do? I’m not sure what you mean—I worked.”

  “Here in the office?”

  “For part of the day, yes,” he replied. “I went out for a few hours to meet someone and then I realized I’d left some papers at home so I dashed home and then came back.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bruce. I’ll try not to trouble you again.”

  • • •

  “I knew you’d come,” Blimpey Groggins announced as Smythe walked into the Dirty Duck Pub and sat down opposite him. Blimpey looked at the man polishing a tray of glasses behind the bar. “Ya owe me a quid, Eldon. I told ya he’d come.”

  Eldon groaned and then gave Smythe a good frown. “What ya doin’ ’ere now? One more day and I’da been the one winnin’ the quid.”

  Groggins was a buyer and seller of information with a network of informants all over the south of England. He ha
d people at the newspapers, the courts, the shipping lines, hospitals, the Houses of Parliament, and, there were even some rumors, at Buckingham Palace. He knew everything that went on in London and that knowledge was one of the reasons he owned the Dirty Duck as well as a half dozen other properties. He was a portly man with a broad smile, red cheeks, and wispy ginger hair.

  “I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend my money on this one,” Smythe admitted.

  “But you’ve ’ad a change of heart?” Blimpey laughed. “I hear you and your little family were goin’ to Paris right after Christmas.”

  “We were, and we are if we get this ruddy case solved. That’s why I’m ’ere.” Smythe wasn’t surprised that Blimpey knew of his plans, nor that he knew why he’d showed up today. He didn’t beat about the bush. “What can you tell me about Christopher Gilhaney? More importantly, can you tell me anything about who’d be wantin’ to kill ’im?”

  “I’ve not put my people on it,” Blimpey admitted. “I kept waitin’ for ya, but ya never came until today. Do ya want me to start now?”

  “How fast can you get me some information?”

  “By tomorrow, but it’ll cost ya extra.”

  Smythe thought for a moment. It wasn’t the money that worried him, it was that it was already too late. But he wanted to make up for the way he’d acted. He’d been sure Betsy would be crushed if their trip was canceled, but he’d been wrong. She’d only been sulking in front of the others because she thought he’d be crushed. Truth was, they could go to France anytime they wanted. “Do it. Gilhaney was killed in Chelsea, in Kilbane Mews after leaving a dinner party. He was due to go to work for Walker and Company; they’re a building firm. What else do you need to know?”

  “The guests at the dinner party, are they suspects?”

  “Yes, most of them were either employees, shareholders, or board members of Walker’s. I can tell you who they are …” He rattled off the names quickly, knowing that Blimpey could easily remember them. He stood up. “Do your best, Blimpey. Gilhaney was murdered in cold blood—shot three times—and then the case was handed off to someone who made a right mess of it.”

  “Nigel Nivens. He’s not known for his brains, but he’s got excellent connections. So he made a cock-up of it, did ’e. Sit back down, Smythe, I do ’ave a few bits to share with ya.”

  “Why didn’t ya say so,” Smythe complained. “Blast a Spaniard, we’re already behind on this one. Tell me what ya know.”

  • • •

  Hatchet shifted his weight and then realized he’d do better by sitting still. The chairs in the tearoom were harder than planks and attempting to find a comfortable position was pointless. But despite the posterior-numbing seats, the Oak Tree Tearoom was filled with patrons. Elegantly dressed matrons, giggling young women, and at least three courting couples occupied the small round tables.

  He nodded his thanks as a waiter brought them a pot of tea and a three-tiered plate filled with madeleines, petit fours, ginger cakes, almond slices, and mince tartlets. “I hope this is to your liking, Mr. Wicket. Please, help yourself.”

  Horatio Wicket’s watery hazel eyes widened at the sight of the food. “I didn’t expect all this, Mr. Willow, but I’ll gladly partake. Now, what was it you needed to speak with me about?”

  Hatchet, or Mr. Willow, as he called himself for the purposes of this meeting, had decided to go as close to the truth as he dared. “It’s a delicate matter which requires the utmost discretion. I have it on good authority that you were at the home of Gordon and Abigail Chase on November fifth.”

  “That’s right.” He reached for a ginger cake. “They were having a dinner party and needed a butler. They always ask for me; I’ve served there many times.” He took a bite.

  “Yes, I know.” Hatchet had visited every domestic agency in Chelsea and Knightsbridge before he’d found the one that supplied extra help to the Chases. Luty’s words had stung him to the core and he’d vowed to have something to say at this afternoon’s meeting. After finding out that his friends, generally one of his most reliable sources when it came to hearing the latest London gossip, wouldn’t be back in town until tomorrow, he’d embarked upon this course of action, and to his surprise it was turning out to be quite successful. “But what I’m trying to ascertain is if anything unusual happened that night?”

  “Mr. Willow, I’m not stupid.” Wicket took another bite, chewed, and then swallowed. “So don’t treat me as if I am. Of course something happened that night—the dinner party was ruined by an obnoxious guest who was then subsequently murdered.”

  “Yes, that’s precisely what I wanted to know. Did anything else happen that night, anything odd or unusual?”

  “Not that I can recall. The party was a shambles, the guests left early, the mistress was furious with her husband, and the minute she went up to bed, he took off like a shot.”

  Hatchet hadn’t heard this before. As a matter of fact, he’d definitely been under the impression that neither of the Chases had left the house. “Gordon Chase went out after the others had gone?”

  Wicket reached for a madeleine. “That’s right. He was gone for a long time. I remember looking at the clock in the kitchen just before Mr. Chase came in the back entrance. It was almost eleven.”

  • • •

  Hundreds of miles north, Inspector Nigel Nivens started down the wide staircase of Lord Ballinger’s Scottish estate. He was in no hurry to join the others in the drawing room and fervently wished he’d stayed in London for Christmas instead of nagging his mother into getting him invited to this wretched place. He’d foolishly assumed that the other guests would be interesting, witty, and able to help him climb the ladder at Scotland Yard. Instead he’d found himself in the company of social-climbing mothers trying to foist their daughters onto Ballinger’s only son and drunken aristocrats with empty titles and no influence whatsoever.

  He stopped halfway down the stairs as a roar of laughter bellowed out of the great hall; it was Lady Ballinger. She sounded like a horse being slaughtered. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the staircase. Good Lord, what was he to do? He didn’t think he could stand this much longer. Lord Ballinger’s ancestral home was nothing more than a pile of old stones that should have been torn down five hundred years ago. The rooms were damp and drafty, the furnishings ancient and smelling of mold, and most of the servants so old they could barely move. It took ages just to get a ruddy cup of tea and when you finally did, it was likely to be cold.

  What was worse, Ballinger was so cheap he wouldn’t pay to have the London papers delivered, so Nivens had no idea if Witherspoon had solved Gilhaney’s murder.

  Another screech filled the air and he bolted straight up, grabbing the pitted wood of the banister for support. Ye gods, he had to get out of here. He was hungry, cold, and worried to death that Witherspoon had solved that wretched case. He’d look a right fool if the great man had managed to catch the killer in just a few days.

  “There you are, Nigel.” Lady Ballinger, all fifteen stone of her, waddled out of the great room and propped herself against the archway. “We’ve been waiting for you. Come along and have a drink. Timmy’s brought a lovely whiskey.”

  Timmy, or Sir Timothy McClelland, as he reminded everyone in earshot, would drink rotgut gin if that was all he could get his hands on. “It’s a bit early for me.” Nigel started down again. “Actually, I was thinking I’d go into the village …” He broke off as the butler, moving slower than he thought humanly possible, appeared from the back corridor. “Mr. Nivens, sir,” he yelled as he held up a silver tray. “There’s a telegram for you, sir.”

  Nivens rushed down to the bottom, praying it was Barrows canceling his leave and ordering him back to London. He grabbed the envelope, opened it, and read the message. Witherspoon not up to snuff. Stop. Case dead as doornail. Stop. Barrows furious. Stop.

  “I do hope it isn’t bad news.” Lady Ballinger hiccuped.

  Nivens broke into a broad smile as he read the message a se
cond time. He’d paid one of his flunkies, a constable that was ambitious and willing to do anything a superior asked of him without question. “Just the opposite, Lady Ballinger. Actually, I do believe a drink sounds splendid.”

  • • •

  Mallings and Brockworth, Woodworkers and Cabinetmakers, was located on North Street in Clapham. Witherspoon glanced at Barnes as he paid the driver of the hansom cab and hoped he wasn’t pushing the constable too hard. After leaving Walker and Company, he’d noticed the lines of fatigue around Barnes’ eyes and he’d wanted him to go back to the station and then go home. But the constable had insisted on accompanying him here to interview one of Gilhaney’s old friends.

  “Let’s go see if Paul Woodford is on the premises,” Witherspoon said.

  Barnes stepped in front of him and pushed open the door. They entered a cavernous space filled with the scent of sawdust and the sounds of men hammering, sawing, and scraping as they labored behind their individual workbenches. Stools, armoires, and half-finished cabinets were placed along the side of the room. Hand tools were hung along the walls and wood shavings littered the floor. At the back, a large double door stood open to the elements.

  A tall, muscular man with black hair and a full beard standing behind the closest workbench put his saw down and walked toward them. “Can I help you?”

  “We’d like to speak with Paul Woodford. I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”

  “I’m Woodford.” His brown eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re a bit late, don’t you think. That fellow you sent here six weeks ago was about as useless as a headless hammer. So unless you’ve come to tell me you’ve found his killer, I don’t think I’ve much to say to you.”

  Witherspoon wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what the man was saying. “You’re understandably upset, Mr. Woodford. Your friend’s murder was not investigated properly and I’m heartily sorry about that.”

  “You lot couldn’t be bothered to listen to me properly before, so why are you here now?”

  “Because despite what you may think about the previous investigation into Christopher Gilhaney’s murder, it is different now. We’ll listen to anything you have to tell us. Constable Barnes and I will do our very best to ensure Mr. Gilhaney’s murderer is caught and brought to justice.”