Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  Octavia laughed. “Of course I do. How on earth did you know I’d be here?”

  “Your housekeeper told me.”

  She motioned to a bench halfway down the long gallery. “Let’s sit, my feet are killing me.” She took Ruth by the arm and marched her toward the seat. “I think we’re going to get a sizeable donation from one of those ladies.” She nodded toward the exit door. “The mother won’t give us so much as a ha’penny because she’s got ridiculous views about what women should and should not do. But the daughter has money of her own and she is quite sympathetic to our cause. I imagine she’ll be very generous. She wants to be an artist. But as you’d expect, Mama won’t hear of it. But you didn’t track me down for a report on our finances.”

  “No, I didn’t, though I hope they’re in excellent shape.”

  “They are, but we can always use more money. Unfortunately, most of the wealth in this country is controlled by a bunch of reactionary old men who seem to think giving women the right to vote will cause the ruination of the British Empire. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you might know something about a man named Stephen Bremmer. He died last night at the Wrexley Hotel and it appears his death might be murder.”

  “I take it your inspector got the case?”

  “He did.” Ruth trusted her implicitly. Octavia had provided information about suspects in a number of their other cases. Her knowledge about the finances and the habits of London’s monied classes had proved invaluable. Additionally, she was committed to both the rights of women and the rights of the poor. More important, she knew how to be discreet. “We’re trying to find out as much as we can about both the victim and the others who were seated at his table.”

  “It was the Lighterman’s Ball, wasn’t it?” Octavia asked.

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “Oh yes, it’s a ball put on every year by Pierce and Son. Mrs. William Pierce was one of our biggest supporters. She was a busy woman so she rarely came to a meeting, but she sent us a generous donation every quarter. After she and her husband died, the son, James, continued doing so. I do hope he isn’t the murderer; I should hate for us to lose that money each quarter. It’s a hefty amount.”

  Ruth tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help herself. “Well, then, I hope it’s not him as well. He was sitting at the same table as Bremmer, but not right next to him. His wife, Anne Bremmer, was at the table as well.” She rattled off the names of the others.

  “Let’s start with Anne Bremmer,” Octavia said. “She’s the one with the money and it is completely in her control, not her husband’s.”

  “Really.” Ruth’s eyes widened. “How on earth did she manage that? Even with the Married Women’s Property Act, it is still difficult for females to manage their own financial affairs.”

  “She didn’t, her father did. I don’t know all the details, but before he let her marry, he supposedly took all the family money and set up a series of trusts that she controls and that specifically exclude her husband.”

  “That must mean he didn’t want Stephen Bremmer to get his hands on it,” Ruth murmured. “That’s strange; Bremmer is from one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England.”

  “Yes, but sometimes that isn’t enough; apparently it wasn’t for Anne’s father. She was older than he was and was well on her way to being a rich spinster when he suddenly appeared in her life. I know this because I had my eye on her before she married. I thought she might be a good candidate for our group, or if she didn’t want to join us, she might help financially.” She broke off and grinned. “But I was way off the mark there. She has no interest in women’s rights.”

  “That’s a pity,” Ruth muttered. “But she’s luckier than most married women; she controls her own money.”

  “From what I’ve heard, she might have been happier if she’d stayed a spinster,” Octavia said. “Supposedly, her marriage has made her miserable. She controls the purse strings while he constantly taunts her.”

  “How so?”

  “Apparently, Bremmer is one of those pathetic creatures who waste their lives boasting about their ancestors instead of doing anything useful themselves. According to him, she’s simply a rich man’s daughter while he’s from one of England’s oldest and most distinguished families. He torments her by telling her she’ll never get her life’s wish.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re not going to believe this.” Octavia snickered. “That silly woman wants to be presented at court.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Witherspoon got out of the hansom and stared at the redbrick building that housed James Pierce’s offices. The place was a stone’s throw from Liverpool Street Station and one of many warehouses in the area. Two flatbed wagons were pulled up and unloading in the bay doors.

  Barnes paid the hansom driver and then joined Witherspoon. They walked between the two wagons and into the warehouse proper. On the wall of the left side of the cavernous space the word INBOUND was written in huge letters and on the opposite one the word OUTBOUND was in even bigger script.

  A ten-foot-wide aisle separated the two sides. Barrels, tea chests, covered furniture, roped bundles, bales of wire, wooden crates, trunks, and all manner of goods covered the floor down the length of the room on both sides. Men in flat caps and open shirts hauled wheelbarrows, pallets, and handcarts from the wagons to the outbound side of the room. Tally clerks, both male and female, moved among the cargo, shouting at young lads to move various boxes and crates from one spot to the next. On the outbound side, a rope had been strung halfway up the wall and hung with signs of exotic place names like Singapore, Hong Kong, and Jakarta.

  The worker closest to them stopped and leaned on his handcart, his gaze moving from Witherspoon to the constable’s uniform. “You lookin’ for the guv?”

  “Yes, is he here?” Barnes asked.

  “Offices are upstairs.” He nodded toward a staircase on the other side of the open bay door. “He’s there. Mr. Pierce is the first door on the left. He’s expectin’ you lot.”

  “Thank you.” Witherspoon nodded politely.

  Upstairs, they reached a corridor with offices on both sides. They could hear the clatter of typewriter keys as they approached Pierce’s office. Witherspoon glanced in the open door. A middle-aged man sat behind a high counter above which hung a sign saying FREIGHT CASHIER. Behind him were three desks running down the center of the room, two of them occupied by women typing while the last one sat empty. Next to them was a row of male clerks, all with open ledgers on their desks.

  James Pierce’s office door was open. He sat behind an enormous desk with an open file in front of him. Glancing up, he spotted his visitors and rose from his seat. “Come in, Inspector, Constable, I’m all ready for you. Would you like tea?”

  “That’s kind of you, sir, but no,” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes stepped inside. Bookcases filled with books, ledgers, and box files lined the walls. Light filtered in from the huge window and a bright Oriental rug covered the floor in front of the desk.

  “In that case, have a seat and we’ll get started.” Pierce motioned to the two straight-backed chairs in front of his desk.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pierce.” Witherspoon sat down and winced as his bony backside flattened what little stuffing was left in the thin maroon cushion. He glanced at Barnes and saw that he had pulled out his brown notebook and was at the ready. “Mr. Pierce, you told us last night that Stephen Bremmer had a number of enemies.”

  “I did. It was truly the only talent the man had.”

  “Were any of his enemies sitting at the table with him last night?”

  Pierce sat back in his chair. “I don’t wish to cast aspersions on any one particular person, but I know that most of us at the table didn’t like him. I’ve already told you my reasons for putting him on the board.
”

  “You did, sir, but once he was on your board, how could you be sure he wouldn’t try to influence your management of the business?” Witherspoon asked. He didn’t think wanting to rid oneself of an interfering board member was much of a motive for murder, but he wanted to lay it to rest if possible.

  Pierce laughed. “Because he’s a lazy sod. I’ve known him for years, Inspector, and he’ll show up for the quarterly board meetings, but he’ll not take any interest in business. His father was the same way. He’s the only one on the board who hasn’t invested in the business.”

  “The other board members are also investors?” Barnes asked.

  “Correct. We’ve raised a substantial amount of capital so that we can expand the business. Admittedly, some of the new board members didn’t invest very much, but they invested enough to have a genuine interest in the business continuing to grow.”

  “But you retained a controlling interest, is that right?” Witherspoon wished he knew more about the business world.

  “Of course. But I don’t think my business affairs are why Stephen was killed,” Pierce said. “As I said, he wasn’t interested in the business.”

  “When the lights went out, did you hear anyone at your table moving about? Did anyone get up?” the constable asked.

  Pierce thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Is it possible someone from the next table could have quietly slipped past you to get to Mr. Bremmer?” Witherspoon asked.

  Pierce’s expression changed. He now looked wary. “I doubt it.”

  “Who was sitting there?” Witherspoon shifted again, trying to get comfortable.

  “Phillip, my secretary; Mr. Bates, the operations manager, and his wife; Mrs. Taft, she types the correspondence; my aunt Mary and her son, Paul. Mr. and Mrs. Bingham, he’s our freight cashier; and Mrs. Cory. None of them would want to harm Stephen.”

  “Not even Mrs. Cory?” Barnes asked softly. “We understand that she loathed the man.”

  “Whoever said such a thing is lying,” he snapped. “Mrs. Cory has only recently returned to England. She’s lived in America for years. What reason could she possibly have to murder Stephen Bremmer?”

  “That, sir, is precisely what we need to find out.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wiggins watched the back door of the Wrexley Hotel from across the street. He was cold and confused and wondering why he’d decided to come here instead of going to Ellen’s office. He’d planned on having a quick word with her when she came out for lunch. But when he’d arrived at the Shepherd’s Bush, instead of taking the train to Liverpool Street Station, he’d sent Davey Marsh, a street lad, to the inspector’s home with a message saying he’d be late tonight. Then he’d hopped on an omnibus and come here.

  He cupped his gloved hands under his chin and around his nose, breathing hard to generate a bit of warmth. He’d not changed his mind because of what Phyllis had said, no, absolutely not. He’d come here because he could learn more from a chambermaid or one of the kitchen workers than he could from Ellen. Besides, he didn’t even know if Ellen left the office for lunch. She might have brought food from home—lots of people did—and what’s more, he told himself, if he showed up when she got off work, he’d find out everything that Ellen had seen or heard the entire day. Yeah, that’s why he’d come here, he assured himself. Just because Phyllis stared at him like a wounded puppy this morning didn’t mean she had any influence on what he did or didn’t do.

  Across the busy road, the back door of the Wrexley flew open and a woman wearing a gold and gray striped wool hat and an oversized gray coat charged out and raced down the stairs. He stepped onto the pavement to get a better look and then took off at a dead run across the road. He caught up with her just as she reached the end of the mews. “Hello, miss, remember me?”

  She stopped for a moment and stared at him. Her eyes were blue, her jaw square, and beneath her hat, he could see tendrils of brown hair sticking to her forehead.

  “You’re that reporter, aren’t you? The one who was here when the other bloke got murdered?”

  “I am,” he admitted. He tried to remember her name, but it wouldn’t come. “I’m Albert Jones. Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  She shrugged nonchalantly. “If ya like. But I know the only reason you’ve turned up is because of that man droppin’ dead. Mr. Cutler, he’s the day manager, said we’re not to say the fella was murdered even though we had the police there half the night.”

  “So you weren’t there when it happened?”

  “Nah, only Mr. Cutler’s special favorites got asked to work extra last night.”

  Wiggins wasn’t sure what to say, so he took her elbow and started toward the front of the hotel.

  But she jerked to a stop. “Not that way. I don’t want anyone seein’ me with a reporter, and that nasty Bendal is right there at reception.”

  “Right, that’s fine. We’ll go whichever way you like. I’m grateful you’re willin’ to talk to me. My guv will ’ave my guts for garters if I don’t show up with something for ’im to write about today. Who is Bendal?”

  “He’s that smarmy little desk clerk at reception. I used to think he was nice but he’s a right old tattletale, always running to Mr. Cutler or Mr. Stargill, the night manager, tattlin’ on someone about some silly thing.”

  “He sounds a right nasty sort.” Wiggins walked slowly, his hand politely but firmly on her arm. There was a lot of time to kill before he needed to get across town and meet Ellen. He might as well use it to find out what he could. Pity this one hadn’t been there last night, he thought, but he knew that people liked to talk. Hopefully, this young lady had listened closely.

  “He is and he’s worse now that we’ve had another”—she broke off and sneered—“incident at the hotel. Everyone is as nervous as a cat in a room full of hungry hounds. Honestly, it was bad before, you know, since Mundy was murdered. Business has been so awful they’ve cut everyone’s work hours. Look at me, I got less than half me shift today, only two hours! Who can live on that? But do they care that I need my full wages to help keep a roof over our heads and food on the table? No, they bloody well don’t.”

  Wiggins glanced at her as they rounded the corner onto a residential street filled with prosperous town houses. Her lips trembled and her expression was pure misery. He looked away. Like everyone in the inspector’s household, he was grateful he’d ended up working for a man who was not only decent, but would take the food out of his own mouth to make sure the people who depended on him could eat. He heard her sniffle and he peeked at her again. Cor blimey, the poor girl was crying. “I’m sorry, that sounds like it’s a terrible place to work.”

  “It is.” She swiped at her face. “It’s awful but we all need our jobs so there’s naught we can do about it. But no matter what we do, no matter how hard we work, it is never enough for that lot. They didn’t use to treat us like this, but this past year, ever since Mundy was murdered, they’ve become horrid and cheap. They’re always watchin’ us, waiting for us to make a mistake or say the wrong thing to a guest. But you know what’s worse? If one of them, one of the customers, steals a towel or a bar of soap, they take it out of our wages. Can you believe it? It’s just goin’ to get worse now that we’ve had another death. It’s already started.”

  “How do ya mean?”

  “The Wrexleys are havin’ a fit because of the stuff the police took away.”

  “What stuff?” Wiggins thought he knew, but he wanted to be sure.

  “The china and cutlery and the champagne flutes from the head table. God, from the way Mr. Cutler was carryin’ on this morning, you’d think we’re waiting to get the bloomin’ crown jewels returned.”

  “Maybe that’s just because everyone was still upset because of last night,” Wiggins suggested, hoping to comfort her.

  She shook her head. “No, l
ike I said, it’s goin’ to get worse. The Wrexleys spent a fortune tartin’ the place up and hiring Mr. Sherwood to bring in a bit of outside business, but they’ve taken the cost out on those of us who work there. Poor Joey Finnigan is scared that he’s going to get the sack because there’s some missing glassware, and Boris—he’s the maître d’—is terrified the police will tarnish the silverware or break one of them expensive champagne flutes that they took away.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks again. “I don’t know what I’m goin’ to say to my gran when I get home. We live in her house and this is the second time in a week they’ve sent me home early so I’ll not get all my wages.”

  Wiggins stopped and pulled her around to face him. It was time to be a decent person, not a pretend reporter. “I’m so sorry you and the other people who work there are goin’ through such misery. It’s not right and it’s not fair. But I can tell you something that I know for certain, because I’ve been through misery as well.”

  “And what’s that?” She stared at him, her expression skeptical.

  “It’ll get better, miss, it really will. Because nothin’ lasts forever, not even bad things.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “That is a ridiculous assertion,” Pierce argued. “Mrs. Cory has been out of the country for the last eight years!”

  “Hatred can last longer than that, sir,” the constable replied calmly. “Do you have Mrs. Cory’s address?”

  Pierce got up. “Why do you need her address? I’ve just told you, she’s nothing to do with Stephen Bremmer.”

  “We heard what you said, sir.” The constable stared at him expectantly. “And if you refuse to tell us, we can easily find out where she lives. Our constables wrote down the addresses of everyone who was at the ball. I thought it might be faster to get it from you.”

  Just then there was a sharp knock and the door opened. A young man stuck his head inside. “Sorry for interrupting, Mr. Pierce, but you’ve a visitor.”