Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “Not now, Phillip,” he ordered.

  “But it’s Mrs. Cory. She says it is urgent, sir.”

  “That’s a coincidence,” the constable muttered.

  For a few seconds, Pierce said nothing but then he nodded. “Send her in, Phillip.”

  He looked at the two policemen. “We might as well get this over with. You can speak to Mrs. Cory now.”

  “Coincidence or not, we’d prefer to interview her alone,” Barnes said.

  “That is our general policy,” Witherspoon added, “but as she’s here, I see no reason not to take her statement.”

  “Mrs. Cory, sir.” Phillip ushered a dark-haired young woman into the room and stepped back.

  She stopped and stared at the two policemen for a moment before turning her attention to Pierce. “Oh dear, James, I’ve interrupted you. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be, it’s actually good that you’ve come.” James’ face softened as he smiled at her.

  Witherspoon found himself gawking. She was lovely. Her hair was a deep, rich brown and her eyes the same shade. High cheekbones, a perfectly proportioned nose, and a mouth that was full enough to save her face from being too perfect. Slender and petite, she wore a hunter’s green fitted jacket with matching skirt and hat. He shifted in the uncomfortable seat as an image of Ruth Cannonberry popped into his head.

  “The police are here about Stephen Bremmer’s death. They’d like to speak with you as well,” James explained. He glanced at his secretary. “Bring in another chair, Phillip.”

  A few moments later, the introductions had been made and Elise Cory was seated next to Witherspoon. “I don’t see how I’ll be very helpful, but I’ll do my best to answer your questions. Please go ahead,” she said.

  The inspector nodded; he was a tad distracted by the faint scent of her perfume. He got himself under control. This would never do. This young woman was very beautiful, but there was no one in the world like his dear Ruth. “Ah, er . . . I understand you were once acquainted with Stephen Bremmer?”

  “I was, but that was many years ago,” she replied. “I’ve only recently returned to England from the United States.”

  “Have you had any contact with Mr. Bremmer since you’ve returned?” the inspector asked.

  She shook her head. “No, the Lighterman’s Ball was the first time I’ve seen him since I’ve been back.”

  “Did you speak to him when you saw him?” Witherspoon shifted again, still trying in vain to get comfortable.

  “No, I was preoccupied. There were so many of my old friends and acquaintances there that I was rather busy greeting everyone,” she answered. “I didn’t even realize he was in the room until Mrs. Pierce, James’ aunt, mentioned him.”

  “What did Aunt Mary have to say about him?” James demanded.

  “Nothing, James. Mrs. Bingham asked who he was and your aunt Mary answered her,” she clarified. “It was perfectly innocent.”

  “Mrs. Bingham is the wife of our freight cashier,” he explained.

  “Mrs. Cory”—Barnes looked up from his notebook—“can you tell us why you came back to England?”

  “That’s a personal question, Constable, and I don’t see what it has to do with Stephen Bremmer’s death,” Pierce protested.

  “It’s alright, James. I don’t mind answering. The constable isn’t the first person to wonder why I came home now.”

  “But you shouldn’t be subjected to answering questions about what are essentially private matters.” He shot the constable a glare. “It’s no business of the Metropolitan Police why you came back to England.”

  “It’s our business if her coming home has anything to do with Stephen Bremmer’s death,” Barnes argued. “I’m not saying Mrs. Cory has anything directly to do with it. What I am saying is her showing up in London at this time might have been the spark that set the fire. All the rest of the guests at the top two tables have been in London all along; Mrs. Cory is the only new element in the mix.”

  Witherspoon nodded. He knew exactly what the constable was saying but wasn’t sure if James Pierce or Elise Cory understood. “Er, what the constable means—”

  “I know what he means,” she interrupted. “And he’s right, perhaps my coming back to London did act as a precursor to Stephen Bremmer’s death. I would hate to think so, but it is possible.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Pierce muttered. “You’ve had nothing to do with him for eight years.”

  “Thank you for understanding, Mrs. Cory,” the constable said.

  “To answer your question, Constable, my husband passed away January a year ago. He had a number of business interests in both California and Nevada so it took me some time to take care of everything. When everything was finally sold, my mother-in-law and I returned to England. Without Bartholomew, Nevada was just too lonely for both of us.”

  “Your mother-in-law is English?” Witherspoon asked.

  “She’s originally from Stepney.” Elise smiled broadly. “And she has two sisters still living in her old neighborhood, so she’s very happy to be home and close to family.”

  “Are you happy to have come back?” The constable pretended to look down at his notebook, but he kept his gaze on Pierce’s face. He wanted to watch the man’s expression as he listened to Mrs. Cory answer his question.

  “I am,” she declared. “I loved my time in America, but I’m glad to be home.”

  Pierce smiled slightly and looked relieved.

  “When did you first become acquainted with Mr. Bremmer?” Witherspoon thought it wise to learn as much background information as possible. It often came in very handy.

  “Years ago, Inspector. My father was hired to do a series of murals for Lyndhurst Shipping. I don’t recall the exact time or place, but think it was about then that I met Mr. Bremmer.”

  “Elise’s father was the artist Dounton Newcomb,” James interjected. “He did excellent seascapes. His work was commissioned by a number of shipping lines.”

  “Were you and Mr. Bremmer friends?” Barnes looked up from his notebook. He wanted to see her face as she answered.

  “Not at all.” She grinned. “My father was simply the hired help, Constable. Stephen Bremmer barely spoke to us if we happened to be in the same place at the same time.”

  Barnes tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “When the lights went out,” Witherspoon continued, “did you hear anyone leave your table?”

  “No, but there was a lot of noise and I wasn’t really paying all that much attention.”

  “Did you leave your seat?” the constable pressed.

  “See here, Constable.” Pierce leapt up again. “This is getting absurd. You can’t possibly think that Elise had anything to do with Bremmer’s death. That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s a standard inquiry in cases like this,” he replied.

  “Why would it be a standard inquiry?” Pierce sat back down, his expression hard. “She’s got nothing to do with him.”

  Both policemen ignored him. “Ma’am, we’ve been told that you disliked Mr. Bremmer,” Witherspoon said. “As a matter of fact, the exact words our witness used to describe how you felt about Stephen Bremmer eight years ago was that you loathed him. Is that true?”

  “Don’t answer that, Elise,” Pierce commanded. “I’m going to send for my solicitor immediately. They’ve no right—”

  She interrupted him. “There’s no need for that, James. I had nothing to do with Bremmer’s death so I’ll answer whatever they ask.” She looked at the inspector. “It is true, at one point in my life, I loathed Stephen Bremmer.”

  “Can you tell us why?”

  “A number of reasons, but mainly, I objected to how he treated my father. He was disrespectful and rude. My father was a brilliant artist and often obtained commissions such as the one for L
yndhurst Shipping. But he always wanted a show at the Bryson Gallery in the West End. He did a series of seascapes and Bryson’s was going to show them when all of a sudden, they rescinded the offer. I’m an artist as well, Inspector, but my specialty is portraits. I found out from one of my clients that it was Stephen Bremmer who had pressured Bryson’s to withdraw the offer.”

  “Why did Bremmer do it?”

  “Because he liked to strut around pretending that he was refined and cultured. At some stupid tea, Bremmer made some comments about art and my father exposed his ignorance. He couldn’t have the ‘hired help’ making him look like a fool so he took his revenge by making certain the show was canceled.”

  “No wonder you hated him,” Pierce murmured. “Why didn’t you come to me, Elise? I might have been able to help.”

  “You were busy building the business with your father.”

  “Did you confront Bremmer?” Barnes asked.

  “Yes. He laughed at me and said that there was nothing I could do about it.”

  “Except hate him,” the constable said.

  “I did. I was young and idealistic and I took things very much to heart. Bremmer was a boor and a bully who enjoyed hurting others. But over the years, I find that those particular characteristics manifest themselves in a large number of people.”

  “So you didn’t hate him when you came back to England?” Witherspoon pressed.

  “I haven’t given him a thought, Inspector. Why should I? Life, as they say, teaches us that the passions of youth often become the embarrassments of the present.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Witherspoon admitted.

  She laughed. “My father was very philosophical about it. He told me I was a fool if I let the actions of a man like Bremmer control my emotions. As he put it, a show at the Bryson would have helped his career, but not having one certainly didn’t hurt him.”

  “So you no longer had a grudge against Mr. Bremmer?” Barnes clarified.

  “Not anymore, Constable. He simply wasn’t important to me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Ida Leacock picked up her fork and eagerly attacked the apple tart. “Mrs. Goodge, you’ve still got the touch. Your tarts were always miles ahead of anyone else’s.”

  “Why, thank you, Ida. I’m pleased you still like them. How have you been?” Mrs. Goodge poured them both a cup of hot, strong tea.

  “Excellent.” Ida grinned. “Business is doing well, the family is good, and frankly, I’m enjoyin’ life.”

  Though close to each other in age, she and the cook couldn’t be further apart in appearance. Her curly hair still had enough brown in it to be called salt and pepper, she was as thin as Mrs. Goodge was portly, and instead of wearing spectacles, her deep-set hazel eyes saw everything going on around her.

  Ida Leacock and Mrs. Goodge had worked together years earlier. Ida had left service and managed to save enough money to open a tobacconist shop that had proved successful. She now owned three tobacconist shops, but the reason Mrs. Goodge wanted to see her was simple: Ida loved to gossip. She’d talk the paint off a fence post if she couldn’t find a person to chat with. She had the ability to get complete strangers to tell her the most intimate stories about their family, friends, lovers, and employers. She also kept up a steady correspondence with her former colleagues who lived far away and made sure to take tea or have a pint with those who lived close.

  “So am I, which brings me to the reason I wanted to see you.” Mrs. Goodge helped herself to a slice of tart. “You’ve heard about the man that was poisoned last night.”

  “The one at the Wrexley Hotel.” Ida clucked her tongue. “Two murders in as many years; Lord, that must be killing their business. But yes, I have heard about it. I dropped by my shop in Deptford this morning and got an earful. What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you know,” Mrs. Goodge replied. Ida, though a talker, was discreet about the information she passed along about the inspector’s cases. The woman believed in justice and, like the Witherspoon household, was sick and tired of the rich and powerful getting away with murder. “Sorry, I should say I’d like to know anything you’ve heard about the people sitting at the dead man’s table.” She took a breath and then rattled off their names.

  Her guest listened carefully. “Some of those names sound very familiar, but not all of them. I’ve never heard of Nicholas Parr. But everyone in Deptford knew the Bremmer family. At the shop this morning everyone was sayin’ that Stephen Bremmer had so many enemies it’ll be hard for the police to sort it out. The Bremmer family had a big house out toward Greenwich, and when old man Bremmer passed away, he left a string of debts that never got paid.” Ida frowned thoughtfully. “Let me think for a minute, I know I’ve heard of some of those people . . . yes, that’s right.” She nodded to herself. “Louise Mannion, she’s one of the Lyndhursts—you know, the shipping people.”

  “Rich, then?”

  “Very,” Ida replied. “Oh yes, now I recollect. She had a brother named Leonard and he almost drowned. Yes, yes, that’s right. The Pierce boy, James—his family owned a barge business—he pulled him out of the estuary. Old Mr. Lyndhurst was so grateful to the Pierce boy for saving his son that he gave them a lot of business after that.”

  “He’d not been doing business with Pierce and Son before?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ida admitted. “But I do know that the accident caused a lot of talk. Leonard Lyndhurst claimed he’d been pushed into the water.”

  “Couldn’t he swim?”

  “I don’t think so.” Ida shook her head. “Otherwise, he’d have just swum to the edge and pulled himself out. But he didn’t, and if young James Pierce hadn’t been there, the boy would have drowned.”

  “Wouldn’t he have seen who shoved him in?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

  “I think it happened at night.” Ida frowned again. “It’s an old story, Mrs. Goodge, and I could easily have the details wrong. But I do know that afterward, Leo and James became fast friends. What’s more, Lyndhurst claimed he’d been shoved into the water till the day he died.”

  “He’s dead?”

  Ida nodded. “He died about eight or nine years ago. I think it was from one of those tropical diseases; he’d just come back from the Far East. His passing just about killed old man Lyndhurst. Leonard was the heir to the company as well as being the favorite.”

  “Men often favor the brother over the sister,” Mrs. Goodge commented.

  “True, and Louise Lyndhurst was rumored to be a bit of a wild one. Mind you, the young man’s death kept all the tongues from wagging about the other scandal.”

  “What scandal?”

  “Supposedly Louise had fallen in love with someone most unsuitable. Someone who she insisted she was going to marry whether the family liked it or not.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  “I wish I did.” Ida forked another bite of tart. “Maybe when her brother died, she came to her senses and broke it off. She must have; she ended up marrying Osgood Mannion and he was a prime catch. He had more money than the Bank of England. But wanting someone unacceptable happens a lot these days. Just look at Camilla Houghton-Jones. Everyone thought she’d be a spinster till her dying day—God knows the woman doesn’t have much going for her except a good lineage and that big house. Yet she’s now engaged to Montague Pettigrew and he’s going to inherit a ruddy fortune.”

  “Why would Montague Pettigrew be unacceptable?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “They’re both from the same social class.”

  “It has nothing to do with his class.” Ida cackled. “Remember that footman that worked at the Deeney house? The lad that was so handsome that every lady in the household would stop and stare when he came out the Deeneys’ front door?”

  “Oh, goodness, he was a handsome one.” Mrs. Goodge smiled as she reca
lled the man’s perfect face.

  “And remember how he never even noticed the ladies taking note of him?” Ida continued.

  “Gracious me, yes, now I remember. He ran off with that Italian count.”

  “He did quite well for himself.” Ida shrugged. “The count left him a lot of money.”

  It took a moment for Mrs. Goodge to understand. “So you’re saying that Pettigrew is unsuitable . . .”

  “Because he’s like the Deeney footman and the Italian count.”

  “That’s right, but apparently he’s rich enough that Miss Houghton-Jones either doesn’t know, or if she does know, she doesn’t care.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “We’ll have better luck getting a hansom at the station.” Barnes frowned at the steady stream of loaded and empty wagons moving up and down the road in front of the warehouse.

  Witherspoon pulled on his gloves. “Right, then, let’s go. I’d like to interview Mrs. Bremmer before it gets too late today.”

  “We’d better get crackin’, sir.” Barnes started across the road. “She lives on the other side of town and the traffic this time of day is fierce.”

  “Constable Barnes, Inspector Witherspoon.”

  The two policemen stopped as Constable Griffiths, who’d just come around the corner, hurried toward them.

  “Looks like the police surgeon’s report came in, sir,” Barnes said.

  The inspector had left instructions at the station that if the autopsy report arrived, Constable Griffiths was to read it and then track them down. He’d left a list of the witnesses, their addresses, and the order in which the witnesses were going to be interviewed so that Griffiths needn’t run all over London trying to find them. Both Witherspoon and Barnes knew it was important to find out if Bremmer had indeed been poisoned.

  “Sorry to shout, sir,” Griffiths said breathlessly. “But I was afraid you were heading to the station. I’d never find you there.”

  “Take a moment to catch your breath,” the inspector said.