Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “Alright, then, but I don’t want you thinkin’ ill of me.”

  “I’d not think that,” he assured her.

  “Mr. Bremmer used to come to the office sometimes to see Mr. Pierce—now there’s a right gentleman if ever I saw one and he’s ever so nice. He never yells at the staff and always remembers everyone’s name.”

  “Yeah, he seems like a nice fellow. Go on, then, what about Bremmer?”

  She snorted again. “He’s one of them men that thinks he’s got a right to do what he likes with us and we’re to just put up with it. Genelda, she comes in once a month to help me get the invoices done, twice he’s cornered her in the cloakroom and put his hands where they don’t belong. First time it happened, poor Genelda just stood there. She was shocked but scared if she said anything, she’d get sacked. She told me what he’d done and I marched right in and told Mr. Pierce. The second time it happened, Genelda slapped him away and run into Mr. Pierce’s office. Mr. Pierce told him in no uncertain terms he was to leave the office girls alone. Usually, there’s only me and Mrs. Taft—she does the correspondence typing and she’s fifty if she’s a day—but we’ve a right to work in peace. ’Course in a big company, we’d be safer. The large firms don’t allow the men and the women to work in the same work area, so then Mr. Bremmer wouldn’t have had a chance to bother us. But Mr. Pierce is a modern man and says that if we can share the same streets we ought to be able to share the same workplace. Besides, his own mother ran the office for years when they was building up the business, and from what I’ve heard, she’d have boxed Mr. Bremmer’s ears right and proper.”

  Wiggins didn’t think Genelda had much of a motive for murder, but it didn’t hurt to find out as much as he could. “Was she there tonight?”

  “No, she couldn’t come.”

  “What did Mr. Bremmer say when Mr. Pierce told ’im off? Did he lose ’is temper and cause a fuss?”

  “Of course not, he might think he’s better than the likes of us, but he’d not want to make Mr. Pierce angry. He tried to make light of it. He laughed and said women shouldn’t be working in the first place, that they should stay home.” She stepped off the pavement as they came to the hansoms lined up by the cab shelter. “Bremmer was a fool. Does he think we’re spending all our time poundin’ them keys because we like it? We do it for the same reason everyone works; we need our wages. Tommy brings in decent enough, but there’s seven of us in the house and every penny counts.”

  Wiggins guided her to the first hansom in the line, gave the driver the address, and then helped her inside. He climbed in and closed the door. “Why was he hangin’ about your office? Did he have some sort of position there?”

  “No, but he’s known Mr. Pierce for a long time. He didn’t start comin’ around all that much until he found out the company was takin’ in a limited number of investors.”

  “He was going to invest.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but I know he wanted to be on the board of directors. I overheard him talkin’ to Mrs. Mannion about it the day after Mr. Pierce had me type up them letters. I remember it because Mrs. Taft had been home with a bad cold for days and I’d been stuck doing all the correspondence as well as my own work. Mr. Bremmer and Mrs. Mannion came into the office but they had to wait because Mr. Pierce was meetin’ with half a dozen people in the conference room. They wanted to wait in Mr. Pierce’s office, but Phillip, he’s Mr. Pierce’s secretary, said they couldn’t because there was confidential papers on the desk and he didn’t want to interrupt Mr. Pierce’s meetin’ to see if it would be alright to let them into the office. Mr. Bremmer got angry and started to make a fuss, but Mrs. Mannion shushed him and pulled him over to the little waiting area the other side of the freight cashier.” She paused and sucked in a deep breath. “But Mr. Bingham, he’s the freight cashier, was in the meeting. Mrs. Taft’s desk, where I was sitting, is right behind the counter and I overheard Mrs. Mannion tell him that if he wanted to be on the board with her and the others, he’d better learn to watch his tongue with the staff. James, that’s what she called him, wouldn’t tolerate him bullying the office help.” She snorted for a third time. “That’s what she called us.”

  Wiggins braced his feet against the floor as the cab swung around a corner. “How long ago was this?”

  She thought for a moment. “Mr. Pierce wanted the final list of the board of directors confirmed before January fifteenth, so I think it was the first week of the new year. That’s right, that’s when Mrs. Taft was out and I was doin’ her work and mine. Believe me, typing confirmation letters is a lot harder than doin’ the invoices.”

  “Confirmation letters?” Wiggins repeated.

  “Of course, the letters confirmed they’d agreed to be on the board and that there was an allowance of fifty pounds a year for each of them for their time and trouble.”

  “Do you remember who was asked to be on the board?” Wiggins knew nothing about the upper management of the business world, but he did know that events and actions that happened within a few weeks of a murder often had a bearing on the crime.

  She grabbed the handhold as the cab gathered speed and started to sway. “Let me see, there was Mr. Pettigrew and Miss Houghton-Jones, Mrs. Mannion, and oh yes, Mr. Parr. Then, two days later, Mr. Bremmer was added.”

  “There were women on the board?” Wiggins pretended to be shocked, but in truth, from what he’d seen of females the past few years, he was of the opinion that most companies would be better run with women.

  “Like I told you”—she grabbed his arm as the cab lurched forward—“Mr. Pierce is a modern man. He’s well educated and he even studied in America. I once overheard him telling Mrs. Taft that in San Francisco, they had women working in banks and running all sorts of concerns. Can you imagine that? Female bank clerks? Whatever will they think of next?”

  * * *

  • • •

  William Stargill slumped in his chair. He’d taken off his coat, loosened his tie, and had an open bottle of whiskey on his desk. He held a half-filled glass in his hand. “Please tell me that the gentleman’s death was an accident.”

  “For both our sakes, I wish I could, Mr. Stargill, but I’m afraid that both of the doctors who examined Mr. Bremmer agree that it’s most probably a murder.”

  An expression of hope flashed across his face. “Most probably?”

  “We won’t know for certain until the official postmortem is completed,” the inspector said.

  “Oh, Lord.” Stargill took a quick, huge gulp. “The Wrexleys are going to have a fit. They’ve spent hundreds of pounds upgrading the hotel, adding better electrics, redoing all the carpets, new upholstery in the lobby, and they were going to put in a lift this summer. Now that it’s happened again, I suppose we’ll be lucky to keep the doors open.” He drained his glass and then poured another one. “Oh, sorry, Inspector, would you or the constable care for a drink?”

  “Thank you, no, we’re on duty,” Witherspoon replied. “Mr. Stargill, I understand this is difficult, but I’ve some questions.” He hoped the fellow wasn’t too drunk to answer properly.

  “Of course.” Stargill gave him a drunken grin. “Ask away.”

  Witherspoon decided to continue. If the fellow’s answers were obviously ridiculous, they could come back tomorrow and go through it again. “Did anyone go in or out through the kitchen either prior to or right after the electric lighting went out?” He thought it prudent to make sure the killer wasn’t someone from the outside.

  “No, the electricity went off in the kitchen as well, but as we knew it was scheduled, several gas lamps had been lighted. Kitchens by their very nature can be dangerous and I didn’t want one of the under chefs chopping off a finger in the dark.”

  “You’ve asked the staff?” Barnes clarified.

  “I’ve been through this before, Constable.” He smiled cynically. “As soon as I
heard the police had been sent for, I went to the kitchen myself. Everyone agreed that no one, not even the staff, moved about during the darkening. What’s more, once the ball started, the double doors to the dining room were closed and the desk clerk assured me that no one went inside the room.”

  “When was this event planned?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Mr. Pierce got in touch with me last month.” Stargill reached for a stack of letters, thumbed through them, and pulled one out. He handed it to the inspector. “As you can see, he wrote to us on January seventeenth. He said he’d seen our ad in the newspaper offering our premises to be let for private meetings, parties, and other festivities.”

  Witherspoon nodded as he scanned the neatly typed page. “It’s odd, isn’t it, to have an outside function here at a hotel?”

  Stargill shook his head. “Business has been off since that dreadful Mundy incident, and frankly, with all the money the Wrexleys have spent, they wanted to see a bit of return on their investment. It was their idea to let the premises for private functions. Apparently they got the notion when they were in New York. I checked the advance reservations and saw that we weren’t particularly full for the night he wanted to use the dining room and our catering service. I wrote back saying we’d be pleased to host him. Mr. Pierce came by the following day. Mr. Cutler, our day manager, gave him a tour of our facilities and he made the booking immediately. Which reminds me, Inspector, the items you took into evidence, we’ll get them back I presume? The champagne flutes are quite expensive and the cutlery is of the finest commercial quality.”

  “We’ll get them back to you as soon as we ascertain what object contained the poison. That specific piece will have to be kept in evidence until a trial is over.”

  “I doubt our flatware is at fault,” Stargill muttered. “Seems to me it would be hard to put poison on a knife.”

  “You’re probably correct, sir, nonetheless, everything will need to be tested,” Witherspoon said. Dr. Bosworth had told the police surgeon he was of the opinion the poison was in the champagne flute. The police surgeon had agreed. “Can you tell me, sir, exactly how long were the lights out?”

  “The room was supposed to be dark for a full two minutes, but there was some sort of problem and Mr. Tibbet from the electrical company hadn’t shown up, so when the sparks started flying in the dining room, I flipped the switch back on.”

  Barnes interrupted. “You were handling the electricals?”

  He nodded. “That’s right, there’s a switch box in the passageway between the kitchen and the dining room. When Mr. Tibbet didn’t show up, I was afraid something might go wrong so I did it myself. We’ve had some problems ever since they supposedly improved the system. The room was probably dark for no more than a minute and twenty or perhaps thirty seconds. I knew that Mr. Pierce might be disappointed, but once I saw the sparks flying off the sconce, I couldn’t risk anything happening to the property.”

  “How many people knew about this?” Barnes asked

  Stargill looked confused by the question. “Knew what?”

  “About the lights going out,” Witherspoon interjected.

  “Mr. Pierce explained that going dark was their company custom, Inspector, so I assume everyone in the room knew about it beforehand.”

  “Yes, of course.” Witherspoon nodded. “But how many people here at the hotel would have known?”

  Stargill’s jaw dropped. “Are you suggesting that one of our staff members had something to do with that man’s death? That’s absurd. None of the waiters or kitchen staff even knew Mr. Bremmer. I believe that’s the dead man’s name.”

  “You can’t know that, sir,” Barnes chided. “Have you added any new staff since Mr. Pierce booked your premises?”

  “No, the Wrexleys will spend their money to tart the place up but they’re far too cheap to let me employ additional staff. Having enough people on hand to service tonight’s function was difficult enough—I had to press three chambermaids into service in the kitchen and two more to handle the cloak room. I tell you, this whole business has been nothing but a dreadful nightmare. It’s even worse than the other time. God knows what the Wrexleys will say once they find out it’s happened again.” He closed his eyes and drained his glass. “I’ve sent them a telegram, and I expect by tomorrow, the situation here will be hideous, to say the least.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The moment he walked through the front door, Mrs. Jeffries could see the inspector was exhausted. “Oh, sir, you do look tired. Are you hungry or do you want to go right up to bed?” She glanced at the hall clock and noted it was ten past eleven. Wiggins still wasn’t home, and though she trusted in his ability to take care of himself, it was still a worry.

  “I’m ravenous, Mrs. Jeffries, so I’ll eat and then get right upstairs.”

  “Go into the dining room, sir, and I’ll bring your dinner right up. Mrs. Goodge has made a lovely lamb stew as well as an apple crumble for pudding. Would you like me to bring you a sherry as well?”

  He gave her a wan smile. “You just bring me my dinner. I’ll get us both a sherry, I’ve much to tell you.”

  Mrs. Jeffries had his dinner on the dining room table in less than five minutes. “Now, sir, do have a bite to eat before you say anything.”

  He shoved a forkful of stew into his mouth while she sipped her sherry. She had one ear cocked toward the back door. If the lad wasn’t home soon, Mrs. Goodge was going to have a fit.

  After several huge bites, the inspector put his fork down, reached for his sherry, and took a drink. He sighed in pleasure as he put the glass down next to his plate. “I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries, this has been a very tiring day. I was tied up in a trial at the Old Bailey, and when I finally got back to the station, there had been a bit of fisticuffs and the duty officer, Inspector Halloway, had been knocked over and ended up with a broken foot.”

  “That’s dreadful, sir. Will he be alright?”

  “Oh yes, he’ll be fine but the consequence was that I was there when the call came in that there’d been a murder, and you’ll never guess where it was.” He took another quick sip.

  “Where, sir?”

  “The Wrexley Hotel.” He speared a piece of lamb and carrot then shoved it into his mouth.

  “The Wrexley? Gracious, wasn’t that where Thomas Mundy was murdered?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Who was killed? One of the guests?”

  He thought for a moment as he chewed. “Not precisely. Actually, the hotel has had a difficult time recovering from the Mundy murder so they’ve taken to letting their premises for outside functions. The victim was a guest at an event called the Lighterman’s Ball. It’s an annual party that a company called Pierce and Son gives to their employees and suppliers. A chap named Stephen Bremmer was poisoned with arsenic. At least that’s what Dr. Bosworth and the police surgeon both think.”

  “Dr. Bosworth?” Mrs. Jeffries realized how annoying it was to pretend ignorance. “What was he doing there?”

  “Apparently, he was escorting his widowed aunt to the festivities. She’s one of the company’s suppliers. What I found strange was young Wiggins being on the scene, so to speak. Is he upstairs?”

  “He’s not home as yet.” She decided to stick to the truth as much as possible. “I believe he was escorting the sister of one of his friends to the event. You know Wiggins, sir, he’s very much a gentleman and he’s probably late because he’s seeing the young lady to her front door.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Though I do want to have a word with him. He’s a very intelligent young man and he might have seen or heard something useful. Have him pop into the dining room tomorrow at breakfast.”

  “Of course, sir. With so many people in attendance, how on earth will you narrow down your suspects?” She cocked her head toward the back of the house as she heard a
faint thump and then the barest hint of footsteps. Relieved, she knew that Wiggins had made it safely home and had the good sense to come in quietly.

  He took another quick sip of sherry. “We had a bit of luck there.” He told her about the lights going out. “So you see, if the timeline for the darkness is correct—and we’ve no reason to think it isn’t—then the killer, if indeed this is a murder, could only have been at the same table as the victim or possibly the table beside it.”

  “And both the police surgeon and Dr. Bosworth were sure he’d been poisoned with arsenic?” She wondered how Dr. Bosworth could be so certain.

  “They can only confirm it once the tests are performed, but they’re both experienced doctors, and so until we learn differently, I’m going on the assumption they’re correct.”

  Mrs. Jeffries refilled their glasses as they continued chatting. As Witherspoon ate the remainder of his supper, he told her everything that had happened at the Wrexley. He put the last bite of apple crumble in his mouth, chewed, and then sat back with a happy sigh. “That was a delicious meal.”

  “Mrs. Goodge will be pleased to hear you enjoyed it, sir, but I expect it was especially good as you were very hungry. What will you do tomorrow, sir?”

  “I’ll take statements from everyone at the head table and see what we can find.” He yawned and got to his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning, Mrs. Jeffries.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Downstairs, Fred butted his head against Wiggins. “You need to go walkies, old fellow?”

  “He just wants your attention,” Phyllis said. “I took him out earlier. He’s fine.”

  Wiggins grinned at her. “That was nice of ya. Truth is, I’m tired. Mind ya, I’m glad I was there tonight, give us a head start on the investigation. I found out some bits and pieces when I was takin’ Ellen ’ome.”