Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “How long have you known Mr. Bremmer?” the inspector asked.

  “All of my life. My family is in the shipping business as well. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. Lyndhurst Shipping.”

  “Indeed I have, ma’am.” He tried to think of another question, but until they got the police surgeon’s report and verified that the death was a deliberate poisoning as well as how the poison had been ingested, he was wary of saying too much. She was, after all, a suspect. He glanced at Barnes, who gave a small shake of his head. He stood up and Barnes slapped his notebook shut and got to his feet as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Mannion. I may have more questions for you at a later time.”

  “Of course I’ll do anything I can to help.” She smiled sadly. “Stephen could be rude and obnoxious, but he didn’t deserve to die so horribly.”

  They waited till they were outside the house before either of them spoke. “What did you think of her, sir?” Barnes flicked a quick look up and down the road, hoping to spot a hansom. “I think we’d best head for the high street if we want a cab.”

  Witherspoon thought for a moment as they began walking. “I’m not sure, Constable. She’s certainly a beautiful woman and I imagine she is still somewhat in a state of shock.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  “I do. When we first arrived, she was almost uncooperative. That comment she made that she hoped we wouldn’t take too long—it was almost as if she blamed us for her friend’s death. I’ve seen that before in witnesses. The police intrude and all of a sudden the whole nightmare becomes real. But then she seemed to come to her senses. Perhaps she realized we’re only doing our job. What was your impression?”

  “She wanted to protect Bremmer’s reputation. But that’s understandable considering her class and the fact that she’s known the man all her life,” Barnes said. But he wasn’t sure he was willing to give Louise Mannion or anyone else who was at that table the benefit of the doubt. In his experience people were often murdered by someone they thought was a friend. “Mind you, sir, according to what Wiggins heard from the young lady he escorted home last night, Stephen Bremmer was heartily disliked by the women at Pierce and Son. But I doubt any of them could have done it. The one he’d molested wasn’t there and Ellen was sitting with Wiggins. Where to next, Inspector?”

  “Let’s go and have a word with Camille Houghton-Jones. She lives in Belgravia. We know that she didn’t like the victim. Perhaps she’ll have something interesting to tell us.”

  “Right, sir. When do you think we can get the surgeon’s report?” Barnes saw a hansom coming down the road so he stepped to the curb. “It’s difficult asking the really useful questions. We need to find out how that bloke was poisoned.” He raised his arm and waved until the driver spotted him.

  “If we’re lucky, it might be at the station when we check back this afternoon. Who did you put in charge of questioning the hotel kitchen staff?”

  “Constables Griffiths and Evans, but I don’t hold out much hope it was one of them. Unless one of the hotel workers is a lunatic, I don’t think any of them would have a reason to kill off one of the guests. It’s bad for business.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Phyllis held fast to her shopping basket as she rounded the corner and headed into a strong gust of wind. The cold blasted through her thin jacket and she gasped as she stepped into the entryway of a bank to catch her breath. Today wasn’t going well. She’d made a fool of herself at the morning meeting and now she wasn’t even sure she was in the right place. Was this the closest shopping street for the Bremmer household? Perhaps there was a smaller high street somewhere in the depths of Belgravia that only the locals used. Drat, she should have asked Wiggins when he walked her to the omnibus stop; he knew this area like the back of his hand. But after raising a fuss about him wanting to question Ellen again, she’d been too embarrassed to say much at all.

  There was no point in worrying about it; she was here now and she’d either find out something useful or not. She stuck her head out far enough to survey the street. A greengrocer’s, a chemist’s, a baker’s shop, and an ironmonger’s were on one side of the street. A grocer’s, a butcher shop, a fishmongery, and a haberdashery were on the opposite.

  Stepping out from the shelter of the entryway, she headed for the greengrocer’s. The wind had quieted, but it was still miserably cold. Tomorrow I’m wearing my heavy overcoat, she promised herself as she dodged to one side to avoid a trio of matrons walking abreast. Pausing by the entrance, she surveyed the small, open-air shop. Only one customer was inside, and more important, the clerk was a young man. Phyllis stepped inside and, keeping a smile on her lips, walked up to the counter.

  “May I help you, miss?” The shop assistant handed change to an elderly gentleman, who counted it carefully and pulled a coin purse out of his pocket.

  “Miss?” the clerk prompted.

  The other customer put the purse in his pocket, tucked his paper-wrapped vegetables under his arm, and turned to leave.

  “Yes, thank you, yes.” She stalled for time as she pretended to examine the bins of vegetables. Past investigations had taught her that people talked more freely when it was just the two of them. As soon as they were alone, she turned her attention to the young man.

  “I’d like a pound of carrots, please.” She widened her smile and he gave her a shy nod as he grabbed a newspaper from the stack by the till and moved to one of the bins farther down the aisle. She waited patiently till he’d weighed the vegetables and wrapped them securely. “Will there be anything else, miss?”

  “Actually, I’m hoping you can help me.” She dug some coins out as he shoved her order across the counter.

  “Of course, miss, if I can.”

  She handed him the money. “I’m afraid you’ll think me a silly person, but my mistress read in the morning paper that one of her acquaintances had passed away. She gave me a condolence card for his household but I’ve lost the address. I’m sure he lives nearby. His name is Stephen Bremmer. Would you happen to know his address?”

  “He’s dead?” The clerk’s face fell. “He owes us for last month’s account. Oh no, this is bad news. It’ll take ages to collect now.”

  “Oh dear, my inquiry seems to have distressed you.” She gave him what she hoped was her most sympathetic smile. “Please forgive me. I’m so very sorry.” She picked up the paper-wrapped bundle. “I’ll ask someone else.”

  “Not your fault, miss,” he said quickly. “I was just shocked, that’s all. We’ve had trouble getting our money the past few months. My guv isn’t goin’ to like this news.”

  “But surely his wife will see to it that the household bills are honored,” Phyllis said.

  “She will, but it might take her a while, dependin’ on how angry she was. Accordin’ to my auntie Peg—she works there part-time when the old girl will pay for a bit of heavy cleanin’—the Bremmers aren’t what you’d call a happy couple. She’s the one with the money, and when she gets annoyed at him, she don’t pay the household bills. Auntie Peg says she does it deliberately, that she likes embarrassin’ him, that she does it every chance she gets.”

  It was important to keep him talking, so Phyllis leaned toward him in a manner she hoped would flatter him. “Gracious, really? She did that? But if Mrs. Bremmer won’t pay the household bills, what do the shopkeepers do? I don’t know about such things.” She gave him a shy smile. “Most shops can’t afford to give their goods to someone who won’t pay.”

  “Don’t worry, miss, we get our money,” he boasted. “Mind you, sometimes it’s not easy and the guv himself has to go ’round to the Bremmer house to have a word with the housekeeper. But we don’t get cheated.”

  She contrived to look confused. “Then why were you so concerned when you found out he was dead?”

  He blushed a bit. “The guv said I was to get a raise in me wages next month, but if he can’t collect everything
that’s owed for this month, he might put it off.”

  “And you’re afraid that Mrs. Bremmer will delay paying?”

  “She’s done that before.” He looked glum. “And I was countin’ on that increase. It’s not much, but every little bit helps. But she’ll do what she wants; the rich always does. Just ask Mr. Bruce at the tailor shop. Last week, Mrs. Bremmer refused to pay him and the tailor told Mr. Bremmer he couldn’t have his fancy suit until the tailor got his money. Mr. Bremmer stormed off in a rage and my auntie Peg was there when he got home. She says they had a blazing row about it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Camilla Houghton-Jones lived in a six-story Georgian town house in Mayfair. “The mistress is in here.” The housekeeper, clad in a severe black dress that swished noisily, led them into the drawing room.

  The two policemen stopped just inside the open double doors. Witherspoon surveyed his surroundings while Barnes pulled out his notebook.

  The room was dark and dismal. Walls papered in a dark gold rose above wood paneling so old it looked black, and the scuffed oak floors were covered with a set of faded Oriental rugs, half of which were missing the fringe. Dozens of paintings cluttered the walls and two huge potted ferns in corroded brass stands stood sentry on either side of the mantelpiece, above which was a portrait of the Queen as a young woman. The windows were draped with heavy cream and brown striped curtains and the old-fashioned mahogany carved furniture was upholstered in a dull russet material patterned with some sort of gigantic flower.

  A man wearing a navy blue suit and a woman dressed in a high-necked gray blouse and black skirt stared at them from the settee. “I’m Camilla Houghton-Jones, Inspector. I understand you’ve some questions for us.”

  “Indeed, I do, ma’am.” He nodded toward Barnes. “This is my colleague, Constable Barnes.”

  Both of them ignored the constable and kept their attention on the inspector. “I’m Montague Pettigrew,” the man said. “Miss Houghton-Jones is my fiancée. I knew you’d have questions for me so I thought I’d come along as well; kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  Witherspoon acknowledged the introduction with a slight inclination of his head. He didn’t approve of interviewing those who might be suspects together, but at this point in the investigation, he wasn’t sure objecting would do any good. If he felt it necessary, he could always come back at another time. “We generally prefer to take witness statements separately, but as you’re already here, for the sake of efficiency, we’ll take both your statements.”

  She gestured to the two chairs on either side of the settee. “You may be seated.”

  They moved in separate directions. Barnes took the chair on the left and Witherspoon took the opposite one. The constable balanced his notebook on his knee, took out his pencil, and looked expectantly at the inspector.

  “Miss Jones,” he began.

  “Houghton-Jones,” she corrected. “My mother was one of the Sussex Houghtons.”

  “Sorry, Miss Houghton-Jones, you and Mr. Pettigrew were seated at the head table with the victim, Mr. Stephen Bremmer. What time did you arrive at the hotel?”

  “We got there just before seven.” She smirked. “Normally a ball would never start that early.”

  Her fiancé snickered. “I would hardly call it a ball. That’s a rather silly affectation that James’ father adopted years ago.”

  “Are you referring to your host, James Pierce?” Barnes asked. He knew who they were talking about, but he wanted to rile them a bit to see if he could loosen their tongues.

  “Don’t be rude, Montague,” Camilla chided him. “And yes, he was talking about Mr. Pierce. I do hope that the comments made here will remain confidential. James is very sensitive to any implied criticism of either of his late parents, especially his father.”

  Barnes wanted to tell them if that was true, they should have kept their sneers a bit more private; instead, he just glanced at the inspector and said, “That’s up to the inspector, Miss Houghton-Jones. He determines what information gets shared with the other witnesses.”

  “Now see here,” Pettigrew snapped. “You’ve no right to speak to us like this. It’s a simple enough request.”

  “Montague, please.” Camilla frowned at him before turning to Witherspoon. “Inspector, my fiancé should have chosen his words more carefully. We’ve no wish to cause James any distress. We’re both going to be on the Pierce and Son board of directors and sometimes people can misconstrue a silly remark and blow it completely out of proportion to what the speaker intended.”

  “I understand, Miss Houghton-Jones.” Witherspoon knew exactly what his constable was doing. It was a good technique and it had shown him something very important. They both wanted to be on the board, but they certainly didn’t consider James Pierce one of them. “I’ve no wish to repeat unkind comments unless there is a specific and necessary reason to do so.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “Both of you are going to be on the board?” Barnes queried. “Not just Mr. Pettigrew? Isn’t that unusual?”

  “It’s unusual but not unheard of.” She smiled slightly. “Mrs. Mannion is also going to be on the board, as is Anne Bremmer. James is a very modern man. You know, he allows the women typists to work in the same office as the male clerks. I’m not sure I’m all that modern, but I think being on the board of his company is appropriate. The world is changing.”

  “And sometimes not for the better.” Pettigrew patted her hand. “But in this case, it’s very much the right thing to do and I’m very grateful to James for including me.”

  Witherspoon nodded. “When you arrived at the hotel last night, did you see Mr. Bremmer?”

  Montague answered. “Yes, he was standing across from the musicians’ platform near the head table. He appeared to be speaking to one of the hotel staff.”

  “Then Mrs. Mannion went over to speak with him,” Camilla added.

  “Did Mr. Bremmer take his seat then?”

  “No, he walked toward the front of the room, but I didn’t pay any attention to where he went. We were a bit late, so we gave our coats to one of the hotel staff and took our places. James had been adamant that all the board members be there on time.”

  Barnes stopped writing and looked up. “Exactly when did Mr. Pierce tell his board he expected them to be there and on time?”

  “At the board meeting earlier that afternoon,” Camilla replied. “James made it clear that we had specific duties and obligations to the company. One of them was being at the ball and on time for the toast.”

  “What time did the board meeting end?” Witherspoon asked.

  “About half past three.” She looked at her fiancé. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “It is, dearest. I remember checking my pocket watch as we left. I wanted to make certain I had time enough to pick up my new shirt from the tailor’s on Bond Street.”

  “Were either of you aware that the lights were going to go out?” Witherspoon relaxed back against the chair and then shoved his foot onto the carpet to keep from sliding off the slippery seat.

  Camilla nodded. “Everyone was aware of it, Inspector. Not only was it the custom at this affair but Mrs. Mannion had told us about it. She was helping James with the arrangements. He’s a widower, you know.”

  “Had you been to the Lighterman’s Ball previously?” Barnes asked.

  Both of them gave a negative shake of their heads.

  “Please understand, Montague and I lead very quiet lives. Despite the impression we may have given you, we liked and respected James, but neither of us particularly like that sort of social occasion,” Camilla explained. “We only went because James insisted. Previously, the event was a small affair held at some sort of pub in Barking and it was just for the employees. It’s only been this year that James opened it up to their suppliers and
allowed the employees to bring guests.”

  The constable nodded, as if he understood their point of view. “Is being on the board a paid position?”

  Neither said anything. They just looked at each other with shocked, rather confused expressions.

  “It seems a simple enough question.” Barnes already knew the answer. “Is Mr. Pierce payin’ you?”

  “We’re not getting paid.” Montague sniffed. “But our time is very valuable and there is an honorarium of fifty pounds annually. James insisted on it.”

  “I understand you weren’t overly fond of the deceased.” Witherspoon directed the question at both of them. “Why was that?”

  Again, both of them looked surprised. It was Camilla who recovered first. “I don’t know who has told you such a thing. But it most certainly isn’t true.”

  Montague interrupted her. “You know perfectly well it was Louise who told them. You shouldn’t have asked her to seat us as far away from Stephen as possible.” He looked at the inspector. “It’s true. Neither of us cared for the man but it was worse for my dearest Camilla; she’s actually related to that boor.”

  “Montague, please, do have some respect for the dead,” Camilla pleaded.

  “Just because he’s managed to get himself poisoned is no reason for us to pretend we liked him,” Montague shot back. “As for respecting him, on what grounds should he be respected? Can you name one virtue the fellow possessed? Was he kind, was he decent, was he charitable? No; he was none of those things. Just because he’s gone I’m not going to pretend he was worthy of being mourned.”

  Witherspoon cleared his throat. “Could you explain why you disliked Mr. Bremmer?”

  “It isn’t just us, Inspector.” Montague snorted in derision. “I can’t think of one single person that actually liked the man, and that includes that poor woman that was married to him. He was rude, mean-spirited, cheap, obnoxious, and constantly lording his ‘heritage’ over the rest of us.”