Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  Anne Bromley Bremmer, a chubby woman with graying blonde hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a sharp nose, took her seat next to her husband. She ignored him; her attention, like everyone else’s at both the two tables, was on the front of the room. “Good Lord, I thought she was dead.”

  Louise mumbled something.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.” Bremmer cocked his ear toward her.

  “I said he’s making a spectacle of himself,” she muttered.

  “She’s got half the men in the room staring at her.” Anne smirked at Louise.

  “Indeed, my dear. Isn’t it convenient that she’s back. It’s more than a year since James lost his wife. There won’t be any gossip if he remarries now.”

  “He’s not interested in her,” Louise said softly. “He’s just being nice to an old friend.”

  “An old friend he’s bringing up here.” Anne shot a malevolent glance at Louise. “I expect one of us will have to move.”

  “No, no.” Bremmer nodded toward the table next to them. “Look, he’s sitting her next to his aunt. I must say, she’s even more beautiful now than she was eight years ago.”

  “She’s widowed, too.” Camilla Houghton-Jones and her fiancé, Montague Pettigrew, had quietly joined them. “We use the same dressmaker. She’s been back in London for several weeks now and she’s no longer a penniless artist. Apparently, she married when she left here. Her late husband left her very rich.” Camilla was a broad-faced, thin-lipped woman in her late twenties and wore her dull brown hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Montague Pettigrew, a good five years older than his intended, had thinning black hair, a widow’s peak, and pale white skin.

  James returned and took his seat. “Sorry.” He smiled apologetically at the others. “I wanted to make certain Elise was seated comfortably. Now we can get the festivities started. Thank you all for being here on time.”

  “Of course.” Louise nodded at the maître d’, who was standing in the aisle leading to the kitchen. He stepped out and banged a gong, the signal for all to be quiet.

  James stood up and waited a few moments for everyone’s attention. “First of all, I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. My father would have been so pleased as he loved this annual event more than anything. I know it is usually a much smaller affair and I know some of you are missing the Morningtide Arms in Barking, where we had it for so many years, but this year I wanted it to be a genuine celebration of my father’s legacy.”

  He paused as the crowd cheered. “As most of you know, my father started out as an apprentice lighterman and by hard work and a lot of luck he ended up owning the company. But Michael William Pierce never forgot where he came from and he never forgot that it was the hard work and honest labor of his employees which helped make us a success.”

  “Your father was a good man, treated his people decent,” someone shouted.

  James grinned. “He was indeed. Most of you know what’s coming next, but as we’ve more guests tonight than we ever had at the Morningtide Arms, I’ll explain our custom. In the past, we toasted with beer or ale, but companies grow and change so this year we’re toasting with champagne. The waiters will fill your glasses and then we’ll all stand. The lights will go dark for two minutes; one in honor of my father and one to honor all brave men who lost their lives this year on the sea, the river, or the canals. When the lights come back on, we’ll raise a glass in their memory.”

  Again, Louise nodded at the maître d’ and a long line of waiters and bellmen carrying champagne bottles trooped out. They fanned out to the tables and began pouring.

  Louise smiled at James as they sat down. “You’ve done your father proud. It was nice of you to be so gracious to Elise Newcomb. I’d not heard she was back in London.”

  “She’s only been back a few weeks.” James glanced at the dark-haired woman sitting between two elderly women. “She ran into my aunt Mary yesterday, and you know my aunt—she insisted Elise come tonight.”

  “Mary’s such a thoughtful woman.” Louise hated his aunt. The feeling was mutual.

  The waiters finished, and as the last one retreated to the kitchen, James got to his feet and motioned for everyone to stand. The electric lights went out, and for thirty seconds there was coughing, chairs scraping, and the muted noise from the kitchen. Then the room fell silent, and as the seconds ticked by, the clip-clop of horses and the jangle from their harnesses could clearly be heard. All of a sudden, one of the light sconces sputtered and sparks flew off in every direction. Someone yelped in surprise, gasps were heard around the room, and people shifted in their seats. The lights came back on.

  James was the first to react. “That was unexpected,” he exclaimed. “And I’m not sure it was a whole two minutes, but nonetheless, we honored our people. Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses and toast to Michael William Pierce, the founder of Pierce and Son and the Lighterman’s Ball, and to all those who are no longer here with us. May they rest in peace.” James hoisted his champagne flute high and then drank. Everyone else did as well.

  Louise motioned to the musicians and they struck up a lively tune. The waiters returned bearing covered silver serving trays and platters of food. They put them on the buffet table and took their serving stations as the maître d’s staff began herding the guests to the food, table by table.

  Montague started to rise. “Sit down,” Camilla ordered. “We don’t eat until everyone else is served.”

  “But that’s ridiculous.” He pointed to the crowd. “We’re far more important than them . . .” He broke off as James fixed him with a hard stare.

  “If you’re equating human worth with social class,” James said, “you’re not going to be very useful to me as a director.”

  “He didn’t mean it like that, James,” Camilla interjected. “Monty’s hungry and he says things he doesn’t mean when he hasn’t eaten. We’re delighted you invited both of us to be on the board.”

  “And I’m pleased to have you both, I just need to ensure that Montague understands that at Pierce and Son, we value character and hard work, not social class or lineage—” James broke off as Bremmer began to cough and wheeze. “Are you alright?”

  Stephen didn’t reply. He sucked in huge gulps of air and shoved back hard in his chair. His eyes rolled up in his head and his feet kicked against the floor. Foam poured out of his mouth and his body jerked, his arms flailing up and down against the tabletop with enough force to make the centerpiece sway.

  “Dear God, he’s having a fit,” Anne cried as she leapt up and grabbed his shoulders, trying to hold him down. “Someone do something.”

  James stood up. “Is there a doctor in the house?” he bellowed. “A doctor, is there a doctor here?” He shoved back his chair, intending to go to the lobby and have them send for a physician, when he saw an auburn-haired man leap up from one of the tables by the front window and race in his direction. Running flat out, the man shoved a young lad and a waiter out of his path.

  “I’m a doctor,” he shouted. “Help me get him on the ground,” he ordered as he shoved Anne Bremmer out of his way. “Put him on his side.”

  The others at the table had scrambled to their feet, Montague stumbling backward while simultaneously trying to help Camilla out of her chair.

  James and the doctor eased a now retching Stephen Bremmer onto the floor. The physician pried open the man’s mouth, shoved his fingers inside and checked for obstructions, then loosened his tie and shirt collar and checked his pulse rate. By now, Bremmer’s twitching had subsided, his skin had gone a deathly white, and his mouth was agape.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Louise cried. “Is he having a stroke or a fit?”

  The doctor flopped him onto his back, balled his hand into a fist, and banged it hard against Bremmer’s chest, once, twice, and three times.

  Anne Bremmer screamed. “What’s he d
oing?”

  “He’s trying to start his heart,” James soothed. “I’ve seen it work on seamen who’d gone in the water.”

  But it didn’t work on Stephen Bremmer. After a fourth unsuccessful try, the doctor shook his head. He bent close and ran his finger around Bremmer’s mouth. He examined the matter for a moment before rubbing it gently between his fingers and then looking at it again. Finally, he stood up. “I’m so sorry, but this gentleman is dead.”

  “Oh my God.” Anne Bremmer shook her head, her expression stunned. “This can’t be happening. I told him he ought to exercise more. The doctor warned him to be careful of what he ate and drank because of his gout, but he didn’t listen. He’d been warned his heart wasn’t good as well.” She looked at the doctor. “It was his heart, wasn’t it?”

  “Looked like a stroke to me.” Camilla stared at the dead man. “He was twitching like a rabbit in a snare.”

  “It wasn’t a stroke or a heart attack.” The doctor looked at James. “Mr. Pierce, as the person in charge of this event, you’d better summon the police. What’s more, I’d like everyone at this table to step away. Nothing here should be touched. It’s now evidence.”

  “Of what?” Louise demanded. “This is outrageous. The poor man simply died. It’s unfortunate, but hardly a crime.”

  “Who are you?” James demanded. “Why do we need to call the police?”

  “I’m Dr. Bosworth. I’m on the staff of St. Thomas’ Hospital, but more important, I’m also a police surgeon for the Metropolitan Police. And the reason you need to call the police is because this man has been poisoned.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Phyllis, the housemaid for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, glanced at the window above the sink. “It’s getting late, Mrs. Jeffries. Where’s the inspector? Shouldn’t he be home by now?”

  “He said he might be delayed tonight,” Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, replied. “He had a court appearance at the Old Bailey today and then there was a meeting at Scotland Yard. But you’re right, even with all that, he should have been here by now. It’s almost nine o’clock.”

  Phyllis hung up the dishcloth and dried her hands on a clean tea towel. She was a slender young woman in her early twenties with dark blonde hair, porcelain skin that was the envy of most of her friends, and a sweet-natured disposition that had more than one young man hoping for a bit of her attention. But tonight her sapphire blue eyes were worried. “It’s not like him to stay out so late without sending us a message. He’s always so considerate. His supper will be ruined.”

  Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. She was a woman of late middle age with dark brown eyes and once-dark auburn hair that was now more gray than red. There was a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and a ready smile upon her lips. “Don’t fret, Phyllis. Mrs. Goodge’s stew can stand up to a warming oven and she’s made fresh bread and his favorite pudding.”

  She understood the girl’s concern. Gerald Witherspoon had solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force and, of course, one didn’t solve so many crimes without making enemies—and not all those enemies were in prison or had faced the hangman’s noose. Many of them were walking the streets of London.

  The fact that the inspector had substantial help with his cases wasn’t common knowledge, even among the criminal classes. It was his name in the newspaper when a killer was brought to justice and his name bandied about on the lips of thieves, felons, and fences. It would be him who would face the consequences of his own success. Not her, not any of the household, even though they, along with some of their friends, were instrumental in bringing murderers to justice.

  “But he always sends a message when he’s going to be really late,” Phyllis persisted. “I know I’m being a nervous Nelly, but I couldn’t stand it if something were to happen to him. I’ve never worked for someone like him before. He’s been so good to me.”

  “He’ll be fine, Phyllis.” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, came into the kitchen. A fat orange tabby cat followed at her heels. She pushed her wire-rimmed spectacles up her nose as she lowered her stout body onto a chair, moved it out from the table, and patted her lap. “Come on, Samson lovey, you come have a nice cuddle.” The cat jumped up and gave the other two women a good glare before making himself comfortable.

  “Then why haven’t we heard from him?” Phyllis exclaimed. “And Wiggins isn’t here tonight so we can’t send anyone to the station to see what’s what.”

  “Wiggins will be late tonight as well.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “But if the inspector isn’t home or we haven’t received a message by ten o’clock . . .” She broke off as they heard the back door open and footsteps pounding up the corridor.

  Breathing heavily, Wiggins, the footman, raced into the room. Fred, the household’s black and brown dog, got up from his spot on the rug by the cooker and trotted over to him. “Hey, old boy, we’ll have to do walkies later.” He petted the dog as he caught his breath.

  “What are you doing home so early?” Mrs. Jeffries got up.

  “There was a murder.” Wiggins gasped. “At the hotel, the Wrexley. A bloke at the top table was poisoned.”

  “How do they know it was poison?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “Dr. Bosworth was there. He tried to save the fellow but he died. He made ’em send for the police. We’d just ’ad the toast when the man started gaspin’ and twitchin’ and makin’ a right spectacle of himself. I slipped up to the front when the doctor went up, and when it was over, I heard him tell them the man ’ad been poisoned and to send for the police.”

  “Maybe that’s where our inspector went,” Phyllis said hopefully.

  “The Wrexley,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Wasn’t that the same hotel where Thomas Mundy was murdered?”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “Goodness, that’s a strange coincidence.” The cook stroked Samson’s back.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Apparently, that’s not the only one. Wiggins and Dr. Bosworth were both on the scene, so to speak.”

  “Funny thing, coincidences, I’da not been there if Tommy hadn’t sprained his ankle and he needed someone to escort his sister. She’s a typist at the company that was ’aving tonight’s do.”

  “You took Tommy’s sister?” Phyllis stared at him in surprise. “You kept that a secret.”

  Wiggins grinned as he got up. “Well, I was a bit embarrassed to say much. Ellen, that’s Tommy’s sister, hadn’t even made up her mind she was goin’ until early this afternoon. She didn’t have anyone else to escort ’er and she didn’t want to show up on her own since the firm allowed single people to bring a guest. So she asked me. But I’ve got to get back. I’ve got to get ’er safe ’ome.”

  “But what if our inspector sees you?” Phyllis protested.

  “That won’t matter. Wiggins has a good reason to be there.” Mrs. Jeffries turned to the footman. “It’ll be faster if you take a hansom and use one to escort the young lady home as well.”

  She didn’t need to tell him what else he should do; that was understood. As well as seeing the young lady safely home, he was also to find out everything he could about the murder. The Wrexley Hotel was in Witherspoon’s district, and she was certain the inspector was now on the case.

  * * *

  • • •

  As Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and Constable Barnes entered the front door of the hotel, William Stargill, the night manager, came out from behind the reception counter and rushed toward them. “This will not do, Inspector. The Wrexleys are going to be furious.” Stargill’s round, fleshy face was red and perspiration beaded along the top of his dark handlebar mustache.

  Witherspoon was a slender man of medium height with a pale, bony face, thinning brown hair, and a mustache. Behind his spectacles, his deep-set blue gray eyes
were sympathetic. “I understand, Mr. Stargill. It’s a dreadful coincidence that your establishment has had another violent death.”

  “He’s saying it’s a murder, Inspector.” Stargill’s bluster disappeared and he looked like he was going to cry. “There’s a police surgeon in there telling all and sundry that we’ve poisoned one of the party guests. Oh, goodness, this will be our ruin. We’ll never recover from a second one.”

  “Mr. Stargill, please, I know this is upsetting, but if you’ll give me some time, I’ll speak to you when we’ve concluded the preliminaries.”

  His shoulders slumped and he nodded. “I’ll be in my office.”

  Constable Barnes, a tall man with a ruddy complexion and a headful of wavy iron gray hair under his policeman’s helmet, said, “Let’s see what’s what, sir.” He led the way across the lobby and into the dining room.

  Witherspoon had expected a scene of chaos, but the constables had the room in very good order. The ball guests were sitting at the tables, most of them talking quietly as they ate their meal. The musicians’ platform was empty save for their instruments and music stands. Three constables were standing guard near a makeshift barrier composed of tablecloths draped between chairs, which the inspector assumed had been hastily arranged in order to conceal the body.

  “Who is in charge?” Witherspoon asked as he and Barnes made their way forward. Constable Griffiths, holding a wooden box, stepped into view. “I took charge, sir,” he explained. “The police surgeon for our district is on his way. I’ve segregated the guests away from those that were sitting at the head table with the victim.” He nodded at the box he was holding. “Constable Reid and I have collected all the glassware and such from the table so it can be tested.” He handed off the box to one of the constables standing guard. “The deceased is Stephen Bremmer, sir. He’s one of the guests.”