“You’re not answerin’ my question.” Joy grinned. “Come on, then, I’ve played along nicely. What kind of crime is it, then?”
“Murder.” Phyllis decided there wouldn’t be any harm in sticking as close to the truth as possible. “Miss Holter isn’t as clever as she thinks she is—she’s been seen waving her gun about.”
“I don’t doubt that, she’s quite a stupid woman.” Joy sighed. “Who did she kill?”
“I didn’t say she’d killed anyone.” Phyllis reached for her teacup. “Why? Do you think she’d capable of such a thing?”
“Of course she is—that woman doesn’t have a heart. She’s a nasty, mean-spirited, vindictive cow. She looks down on the rest of us like we were bugs. I should have left that house a long time ago. Maybe if she’s killed someone and arrested, I can go.”
“Why do you have to wait till she’s arrested?” Phyllis couldn’t believe the turn this conversation had taken.
“Because then old Mrs. Holter will have to go live with her sister.” She laughed. “The only reason she keeps the house here is because her sister and Miss Holter can’t stand each other. Once Mrs. Holter is safe there, I can scarper. The only reason I stay is because I’m scared of what would happen to her if I go. The old woman’s been good to me and I’ll not leave her with that horrid excuse for a daughter. Do you know, I once saw her slap Mrs. Holter—smacked her right across the face—and then told me if I mentioned it to the neighbors, she’d sack me. I kept my mouth shut because even if I’d said something, no one can do anything about it, not if Mrs. Holter refuses to leave.”
Shocked, Phyllis stared at the housemaid. But before she could say anything, the girl kept on talking. “Look, you think I’m hangin’ about the streets here for the fun of it, but I’m here because Ann Holter drinks herself silly on the two days of the week her mum’s gone and she’s a mean drunk with a gun. Oh, why am I tellin’ you all this? I guess it’s because you’ve a nice face and I get so lonesome and bored hangin’ about waiting to get Mrs. Holter off the ruddy train when she comes home.”
“But isn’t she mean when you and Mrs. Holter get home?” Phyllis blurted out. In truth, she was so stunned she could barely think of anything to ask.
Joy shook her head. “She’s passed out. By then she’s had a whole bottle of wine and she’s dead drunk and snoring in her bed.”
• • •
“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir,” Constable Griffiths, who was on duty behind the counter, said when Witherspoon and Barnes stepped into the station. “I’ve put him in the duty inspector’s office.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s from Manchester, sir, and he says he’s a solicitor.”
They hurried past him and into the corridor that led to the offices and the cells. Witherspoon got there first, flung open the door, and stepped inside. A short, burly man with a handlebar mustache and wearing a dark blue suit stood up as they entered.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Are you Inspector Gerald Witherspoon?”
“I am”—he nodded toward the constable—“and this is Constable Barnes. Who might you be, sir?” He went around the man to the duty desk and sat down. Barnes closed the door and leaned against it.
“I’m Barnabas Smalling; I’m from Manchester. I’m a partner at Smalling and Truelove. I came as soon as the Manchester police contacted me. I’m here about Christopher Gilhaney.”
“Were you his solicitor?” Witherspoon asked.
“I was, and until his estate is settled, I still am.” He sank back into the chair, his expression confused. “I don’t understand any of this, Inspector. Why wasn’t I notified of his death?”
“We only just found your name in the late Mr. Gilhaney’s personal property.” Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, who was tight-lipped with anger. The inspector felt just as furious but was determined not to let his fury show. Once this case was over, he was going to speak to Chief Superintendent Barrows. Inspector Nivens hadn’t just made a mess of the case—his failure to go through the deceased’s effects to find out who should have been notified of the death was dereliction of duty, plain and simple.
“That’s hardly an excuse, Inspector. From what I understand, my client was murdered six weeks ago. Is that correct?”
“That’s right. I’m surprised it wasn’t in the Manchester newspapers. He was a well-known local businessman.”
“It probably was, Inspector.” He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “But it was six weeks ago and I only recently returned from the continent. However, had the firm been notified, I’d have come back immediately. But that is neither here nor there. Where is Mr. Gilhaney buried?”
Witherspoon gaped at him. “Where is he buried?”
“That’s right.” Smalling leaned down and picked up a briefcase. He propped it between his knee and the edge of the duty desk. Opening it, he yanked out a set of bound papers and waved them at the inspector. “According to Mr. Gilhaney’s will, upon his death, he was to be buried at the Fulham Palace Road Cemetery. He wished to be buried beside a young lady named Polly Wakeman. When he had Miss Wakeman’s body moved from a pauper’s grave to the cemetery, he made arrangements to spend eternity alongside her.”
“I’m not sure where he’s buried,” Witherspoon admitted. “I’ll make inquiries. You do realize if he’s already in the ground—”
Smalling interrupted. “He’ll have to be exhumed and reburied. Don’t concern yourself, Inspector. I’m aware of what needs to be done. I’ve done it before. As I said, Miss Wakeman’s remains were not only exhumed and moved, but rehoused, as it were, in a very nice casket. So if you’ll just find out where Mr. Gilhaney is currently resting, I’ll start the necessary steps to get him moved.”
Barnes shoved away from the door. “I take it Mr. Gilhaney had a will?”
“Of course.” Smalling smiled slightly as he looked at the constable. He flattened the bundle of papers on his lap and began to leaf through the pages. “He was a very wealthy man.”
“Was he married?” The constable didn’t think it likely, but if there was a wife who didn’t even know he was dead, that would be very bad indeed.
“No, he was not.”
“Did he have any other relatives?” Witherspoon asked.
“He had some distant cousins, but they aren’t his heirs. He didn’t know them and left them nothing. Mr. Gilhaney did not believe blood was thicker than water.” Smalling had reached the last few pages and was skim-reading them.
“Who exactly are his heirs?” the inspector asked. “You understand, the man was murdered and knowing who benefited from his death could have a bearing on our investigation.”
“I understand, Inspector, and as he’s dead, I’ve no objection to telling you—ah, here we are,” he said. “His estate is worth approximately sixty thousand pounds.”
“That’s a lot of money for an accountant,” Barnes muttered.
“He was a smart man, Constable, and he lived simply and invested wisely. He’s left ten thousand pounds to be divided amongst three of his old friends from the Fulham Workhouse. The other fifty thousand has been split as follows: Twenty-five thousand pounds to be placed into a scholarship fund in the name of Polly Wakeman; according to Mr. Gilhaney, she was a very talented artist herself. The scholarship is to be administered by the trustees of the Fulham Workhouse and given to young persons residing in the workhouse and showing talent in painting or sculpture.” He ran his finger farther down the page. “Ah, here it is, the final twenty-five thousand pounds is left to Mrs. Theodore Bruce, nee Walker, currently residing in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, London.”
“Mrs. Theodore Bruce,” Barnes repeated. He looked at the inspector. “Now, that’s going to put the cat amongst the pigeons. Why on earth would Christopher Gilhaney leave Hazel Bruce twenty-five thousand quid?”
CHAPTER 10
“I’m here, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins called as he raced down the corridor to the kitchen. Fred, who was get
ting a bit deaf, raised his head from his spot by the cooker and started to get up as the footman sped into the room. He stopped and knelt by the dog. “Stay still, old boy. I’ll take you out later.” Fred thumped his tail and curled back onto his rug. “Sorry to be late, but I was havin’ a bit of luck.” He leapt up, shedding his jacket as he raced to the coat tree, and then took his seat.
“We’ve only just started, lad.” Mrs. Goodge cut a huge hunk of Victoria sponge cake, plopped it onto a plate, and put it next to the tea she’d just poured for him.
“Ta, Mrs. Goodge. Did I interrupt?”
“Nope, I’d only said a couple of words,” Luty said. “But like I was sayin’, I went back to one of my sources and got an earful. I shoulda spent more time listening the other day when I saw him.” She’d gone to see Nelson Biddlington again, and this time, she’d not been in a hurry to leave. “Seems that Newton Walker came out of retirement a year or so ago because he was worried about what was happenin’ to all the money. The company is very successful, they’re building things left and right, have been for years, but somehow, there never seems to be as much profit as there should be. There’s no sign someone was embezzling or stealing—there just doesn’t seem to be as much money as there should be.”
“Then someone must be doin’ one of those things,” Smythe pointed out. “Either that, or Walker overestimates how much money should be coming into his coffers.”
“That’s what I think, and apparently, it’s worse now that the company has gone public. That’s why Newton hired Gilhaney—he wanted someone who was really good to have a look at the books. But I think we’d all pretty much guessed that already. That’s all I heard.”
“Everything is useful information, Luty.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Phyllis, who was staring down at her tea with a puzzled expression on her face. “Is everything alright, Phyllis?”
She looked up and saw everyone staring at her. “I’m fine, it’s just I’m trying to understand what I heard today. It’s somewhat shocking and I’m not sure what to believe.” She told them about her encounter with Joy Kemp. When she finished, she shook her head in disbelief. “The question is, the maid claims she’s staying on at the Holter house because she’s afraid of what Ann Holter might do to her own mother. Which means she’s sure the woman is capable of violence.”
“But is she tellin’ the truth?” Smythe asked. “Or is she bein’ a bit dramatic. Wasn’t it old Mrs. Holter that tossed Polly Wakeman in the street?”
“That’s quite common, Smythe,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But it doesn’t mean that it was Mrs. Holter that made the decision. It was an old-fashioned household so it was probably Mr. Holter that made his wife sack the poor girl.”
“Joy said that Mrs. Holter complains to her that her daughter is just like her father,” Phyllis added. “Oh, I forgot to mention the most important thing—she carries her gun when she goes out, especially at night. So she had it with her the night Gilhaney was murdered. That’s all I have.”
Hatchet grinned at Phyllis. “My day was almost as interesting as yours. I had a nice chat with my friends and I found out why Miss Holter has a wedding dress but no husband.” He repeated what he’d learned from the Manleys and then sat back with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Your friends didn’t know for certain that it was Gilhaney who convinced the fiancé not to go through with the wedding?” Mrs. Jeffries poured herself another cup of tea.
“They did not, but one of them made a very compelling argument that it must have been him and I’m inclined to agree with that assessment. That’s the extent of my information.”
“I’ll have a go next,” Betsy offered. “I didn’t find out much, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. I tried to find someone from the Webster house to chat with, but there was no one about, so when it got close to one o’clock, I went back to the Bruce home.”
“Findin’ another housemaid.” Smythe poked her in the arm.
“Yes, and I’m glad I did,” Betsy retorted. “This one was Molly, the girl that Newton Walker is paying to spy on Ted Bruce. She didn’t have much to tell, but she did say that Hazel Bruce has a revolver—”
Wiggins interrupted. “Cor blimey, does every woman in London carry one of them things? What’s this world comin’ to?”
“It’s no worse than it’s ever been,” Ruth said. “But remember, those Ripper murders frightened everyone, most especially women.”
“But guns are dangerous.”
“I know how to handle mine,” Luty declared.
“And many upper-class women know how to handle them as well. Hunting is done by both sexes and shooting parties are a part and parcel of their world.” Ruth shot Betsy a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry, do go on.”
“There’s not much more to tell.”
“How did the maid know Hazel Bruce owned one?” Luty demanded. “I’ve got my Peacemaker, but I don’t go showin’ it to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.” She waved her hand around the table. “All of you know about it because of what we do, and some of my help knows about it, but most of ’em don’t.”
“She claims she saw it.” Betsy was reluctant to admit she simply wasn’t sure Molly hadn’t been lying her head off. The truth was, she’d had to bribe the girl to get anything out of her and it might have been the sight of the sovereign rather than real facts that had loosened her tongue. On the other hand, this was a murder and if she had doubts about the truth of what she’d been told, she had to pass her misgivings along. “But I’m not sure I believed her.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“I’m not certain, but I had a feeling about her. There was something sly in her manner,” Betsy admitted. “And supposedly, she’d seen the gun weeks ago when Mr. Bruce put it back in his wife’s vanity after cleaning it. The only other thing she said was that Mr. Bruce has a ‘hidey-hole’ in his office that no one knows about. He had it put into the floor under his desk chair when his wife was on one of her trips to Manchester and he did it when all the servants were out of the house.”
“Then how did Molly find out?” Phyllis asked.
“When Bruce gave everyone the day off, she suspected he was up to something.” Betsy laughed. “She crept back into the house and saw the workman tearing up the floorboards. That’s it for me.” She smiled at her husband. “What about you? Find out anything?”
Smythe narrowed his eyes. “Not as yet, but I’m seein’ my source tomorrow mornin’.” Blimpey should have something useful by then, he told himself.
“I’ve not much.” Wiggins shot the cook a quick, intense glance. “But it wasn’t because I was larkin’ about. I tried my best, but sometimes ya just can’t find anyone who’ll give you the time of day.”
She patted his arm. “I know. Go on, then, tell us what you did find out.”
“I finally got an accounts clerk from Walker’s to talk to me.” Wiggins didn’t add he’d had to bribe the lad by buying him a pint and paying for his lunch. “The only thing he had to say was that he caught a tongue-lashing when Newton Walker came into the office the morning after Gilhaney’s death. Mind you, none of them knew he was dead at that point, but he said Walker came stompin’ out of Gilhaney’s office, demandin’ to know why the ledgers and financial documents weren’t on Gilhaney’s desk.”
“And why weren’t they?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Because Mr. Chase hadn’t told anyone to have them at the ready,” Wiggins explained. “About that time, Mr. Chase and Mr. Bruce arrived and there was a nasty row about who was supposed to have told the clerks to get them ready.”
“So who was supposed to have told them?” Mrs. Jeffries really didn’t care; it seemed like a silly argument. People made excuses when something hadn’t been done and no one wanted to shoulder the blame.
“Mr. Chase, but he insisted Ted Bruce had said he’d do it.” He scooped the last bite of sponge onto his fork. “That’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ve something.” Ruth had deliberately waited
till the others were finished. She didn’t like being the center of attention, but she wanted to make certain all of them listened to what she had to say. She knew it was important. “Hazel Bruce told the inspector that she’d met Christopher Gilhaney socially while visiting friends in Manchester. But that’s not true. At least, that’s not what my source told me.”
Ruth had spent the entire day racing around London in her carriage and calling upon everyone that loved to gossip. She’d even gone back to the Wells mansion and asked Octavia, who still had laryngitis, to tell her what she knew. Luckily, Octavia was a very fast scribbler and the two of them had communicated by note. Little by little, Ruth pieced together what she learned and realized there was only one conclusion. “Hazel Bruce and Gilhaney were lovers. They’d carried on an affair for several years.”
“Is that why she kept goin’ back to Manchester?” Wiggins asked.
“I expect so,” Ruth replied. “Apparently, they were very serious about one another and one of my sources told me Gilhaney was the reason Hazel Bruce wanted a divorce. But her father refused to help her and so she broke it off with him.”
“Why? Was her husband gettin’ wise to her?” Luty suggested.
Ruth shook her head. “No, my source says that Gilhaney wasn’t Hazel’s first liaison and that Ted Bruce has looked the other way for years while his wife does what she wants.”
“Maybe she didn’t want her father findin’ out,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.
“But why would Gilhaney be with her?” Wiggins’ forehead wrinkled in thought. “He thought Mrs. Bruce’s father and husband had a hand in Polly Wakeman’s death. So why would he have anything to do with the woman?”
“’E might not have known who she was when he approached her,” Smythe said. “If they met socially and he didn’t know of her connection to Newton Walker or Theodore Bruce, he might ’ave fallen for ’er before he understood how she was related to that lot.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women Page 21