“I’ll go next, it won’t take long,” Phyllis offered. She told them about her encounter with the greengrocer’s clerk. When she’d finished speaking, she helped herself to another cup of tea.
“I heard that as well,” Ruth added. “My source said the same, that Anne Bremmer deliberately torments her husband by not paying his bills. Apparently, it’s a miserable marriage.” Without mentioning Octavia Wells by name, she repeated their conversation. “But she was bound and determined to marry him, even though she was a good ten years older than him. I also found out that it was Anne Bremmer’s father that set up her inheritance as a series of trusts so that Stephen Bremmer couldn’t touch it. Everything, even the house they live in, belongs to her and she doesn’t let him forget it.”
“Bremmer was so angry when he found out about not bein’ able to touch his wife’s money, he tried to take old man Lester’s estate to court,” Smythe added. “Oh, sorry, Ruth, I didn’t mean to jump in front of you.”
“I was finished. You go on and tell them what you found out.”
He told them the rest that he’d learned from Blimpey.
“You mean he’s got such a miserable reputation he couldn’t even get a danged lawyer?” Luty cackled. “Nell’s bells, that’s about as low as a person can go.”
“True.” Smythe leaned forward aggressively. “But as the father of a daughter, I know why her father did it the way he did. Let’s be honest here: There’s some men that’ll ’unt down a woman with a fortune and won’t care about her feelin’s at all. All he’ll want is her money.”
“Yes, but most women aren’t mindless children,” Ruth protested. “And from what my source told me, Anne Bremmer was no innocent girl. Her father made it perfectly clear that Bremmer was a fortune hunter but she wanted to marry him anyway.”
“That’s my point. If the woman is desperate enough and hasn’t had a chance to marry, she’ll be an easy mark,” he argued. “But it’s man’s duty to do what he can to protect the ones he loves. I’d die before I’d let some rotter like him marry my little . . .” He broke off as his wife gave him a sharp kick under the table. The others were staring at him and he realized he’d raised his voice and been a tad too intense for someone just reporting what they’d heard. Most of those here at the table had no idea he was rich, and right now, he wanted to keep it that way. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get carried away, it’s just that men like Bremmer give the rest of us a bad name.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Accordin’ to my source, he’s been a foul-mouthed, mean-spirited fellow for years. What’s more, he gets his own back on his wife by lordin’ it over her that she only comes from money and he comes from landed gentry. He’s been trying to get a divorce or a settlement out of her for years. But she made it clear he’d only get one over her dead body.”
“But he’s the one who was probably poisoned,” Hatchet pointed out.
“’E was definitely poisoned.” Smythe leaned forward. “Bremmer had enough arsenic in him to kill a ruddy ’orse.”
“Arsenic?” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Was your source sure?” Something tugged at the back of her mind, some fact or idea, but she couldn’t recall exactly what it might be. Smythe nodded. “He was.”
Amanda suddenly heaved a cranky cry as her good mood vanished. “Now, now, pet, don’t get upset.” Mrs. Goodge tried to soothe her. “It’s alright, whatever’s wrong with our baby, we’ll fix you right up.”
“That’s not going to work, Mrs. Goodge. She’s wanting her supper.” Betsy got up. “We’d best get home. Tomorrow I’ll have another go at finding someone from the Bremmer household, and if I can’t find anyone, I’ll have a go at one of the others who were at the table when he was killed.”
“I’ll go ’round the pubs near the Pierce and Son offices.” Smythe got up. “And I’ve a few other ideas as well.”
Phyllis rose. “I’ll do the Mannion neighborhood, which I think is also close to Camilla Houghton-Jones’ home.”
“And I’m goin’ to see a bunch of stuffy old bankers.” Luty grinned and chucked Amanda under the chin. “But then I’m goin’ to dinner, and like I said, I’m goin’ to git me an earful.”
“As I reported earlier”—Hatchet made his way to the coat tree to get Luty’s peacock blue cloak—“I’m seeing several sources, and hopefully, one of them will know something useful.”
“I’ve people coming tomorrow.” Mrs. Goodge reluctantly handed a now frowning Amanda over to her father. “And we’ll see if a bit of madeira cake and plenty of tea will loosen a few tongues.”
* * *
• • •
Inspector Witherspoon came in the front door only moments before Wiggins came in the back.
“Inspector, you must be exhausted.” Mrs. Jeffries reached for his bowler and his heavy black overcoat. “It’s already past eight.”
“It’s been a very full day, Mrs. Jeffries, and though I’m tired and hungry, I’m more in need of a glass of sherry and a chat before I have my dinner.”
“Of course, sir.” She led the way to his study. “Mrs. Goodge has a pot roast in the warming oven and it will keep until you’re ready and there’s a lovely rice pudding as well.”
Witherspoon headed for his chair while Mrs. Jeffries went to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sherry and two glasses. She poured their drinks, crossed the small space between them, and handed him his glass. “Here you are, sir. Now, you must tell me all about your day. You know how I love hearing about your cases.”
He took a sip. “To begin with, I want to tell you that the postmortem report revealed that Dr. Bosworth was correct. Stephen Bremmer was poisoned with arsenic. The grains were still visible in the poor fellow’s stomach.”
“How was the poison administered, sir?”
“The champagne flute tested positive. They found five grains in the bottom of his glass,” he replied.
“And they knew for certain it was the glass that Mr. Bremmer had been drinking out of?” She had no idea why that question had popped into her head and out of her mouth, but she’d learned to trust her instincts.
“Absolutely.” Witherspoon took another drink. “Luckily for us, Dr. Bosworth is a police surgeon. He supervised the collection of the evidence and the items taken from each place setting were clearly marked. It was most definitely the victim’s glass that contained the arsenic and it was a massive dose.” Witherspoon frowned slightly. “Though the report did mention that it was odd the victim didn’t disgorge what was in his stomach rather than going into spasms. Still, the report also mentioned that could have been caused by any number of other factors including Mr. Bremmer’s general health. Apparently, he was in the habit of taking a number of medicines for gout and arthritis.”
Mrs. Jeffries sipped her sherry. Again, there was a tug at the back of her mind, and once again, the thought escaped before she could grab it.
“We interviewed Louise Mannion. I thought it wise to see her first as she was sitting beside the victim,” Witherspoon continued. “At first she was rather uncooperative but then she seemed to realize that this was a murder inquiry.” He told her what they’d learned at the Mannion home. “She helped James Pierce arrange the ball and had been to the Wrexley earlier that day to make certain things were going to run smoothly.”
“Who decided upon the seating at the head table?” Mrs. Jeffries took another sip of her sherry.
“She did, but she made it clear she made the arrangement based on what the others who were going to be at the table requested. Apparently, Camilla Houghton-Jones and her fiancé didn’t wish to be seated next to Stephen Bremmer.”
“Did she say why?”
“They thought him a boor,” he replied. “But the one question I was most interested in was how close to the table the victim was sitting.”
“You mean you wanted to know if he was back far enough for someone to have slipped in
and put the arsenic in his champagne?”
“Mrs. Mannion wasn’t certain about it. When the lights went out there was a good bit of noise and, to some extent, confusion, so she simply couldn’t say one way or another. After we saw her we took statements from Camilla Houghton-Jones and Montague Pettigrew. Unfortunately, though I usually don’t approve of questioning witnesses together, Mr. Pettigrew was in Miss Houghton-Jones’ drawing room when we arrived. Frankly, to my way of thinking, they’d already been together long enough to concoct any sort of story they wished, so insisting on taking their statements separately seemed rather like closing the barn door after the horses have bolted.”
“I see your point, sir.”
He took another drink. “In this case, it worked out quite well.” He told her about his visit, taking care to repeat all the details. Repetition helped him keep things arranged properly in his own mind. Sometimes, when discussing the witness statements with his housekeeper, he’d found a completely different way to assess what people had told him.
“How so, sir?”
“Miss Houghton-Jones was defensive when I asked them about not liking Stephen Bremmer,” he continued, “but Mr. Pettigrew stepped up and told what sounded like the truth. He verified Louise Mannion’s comment. Neither of them liked the victim, but it sounded to me it was just a general dislike rather than a true hatred of the fellow. Actually”—he frowned and ran his finger along the rim of his sherry glass—“all of the witnesses we spoke with gave us that impression.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t quite understand?”
“Well, everyone seemed to want us to think that though they didn’t like Bremmer, they saw him more as a boor and a nuisance rather than an enemy.”
“In which case, it means that none of them would bother to murder him; most people don’t kill just because someone is a boor or a nuisance.”
“Exactly my thoughts, Mrs. Jeffries. But despite what they all have told me, we’ll keep digging. Someone hated him enough to kill him.” Witherspoon sighed, took another drink, and drained his glass. “What’s more, I’m not sure I believe any of them. Take for instance Elise Cory: She’d been in the United States for years and only recently came back to London. According to Montague Pettigrew, before she left England, she made it quite clear she hated Stephen Bremmer. Yet she also was careful to give us the impression that he no longer mattered to her in the least.”
“Is she a suspect now?”
“I’m afraid so. When we spoke to Anne Bremmer, she stated that when she arrived at the hotel, she saw Elise Cory hovering at the head table before everyone sat down.”
“So you think she could have added the poison to Bremmer’s glass?”
“It’s possible,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, both Constable Barnes and I are beginning to doubt that Bremmer’s glass was poisoned while the lights were out.”
“Why did you come to that conclusion?” she asked.
“For a number of reasons.” He repeated what Anne Bremmer had told them. “She was very sure that no one could have slipped close enough to put anything in Bremmer’s glass. When the lights went out, everyone was blinded. She wasn’t the only one to make that assertion; I believe Wiggins told Constable Barnes the same.” He glanced at his now empty glass. “I say, let’s have another one, it’s been a very trying day.”
“Of course, sir.” She refilled their glasses and returned to her seat.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He took a long drink and sighed in pleasure.
“When did Mrs. Cory return to England?”
“A few weeks ago. She’d been living in Nevada, in a town called Carson City.”
“Nevada; where’s that, sir?”
“In the West, right next to California,” he said. “She’s widowed and when her husband died, she and her mother-in-law, who was originally from Stepney, decided to return to England. Apparently, her late husband left her quite well-off.”
“Is there any evidence she’s had any contact with the victim since she’s been back in England?”
“Not so far, but it’s early days yet. I must say, Mrs. Jeffries, she is a remarkably lovely woman.” Witherspoon stared off into space with a dazed half smile on his face.
“You saw her?” Mrs. Jeffries suspected it was the two glasses of sherry on an empty stomach talking rather than the inspector.
He gave himself a small shake. “She came to James Pierce’s office when we were interviewing him. I think he’s got very strong feelings for the young woman.”
“Why is that, sir?”
“Before she arrived, he was most cooperative and answered all our questions quite easily,” Witherspoon replied. “But once she was there, when we asked her about her dislike of the victim, he got very aggressive and tried his utmost to shield her.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
Witherspoon repeated as much of the interview as he could now recall. When he was finished, he put his glass on the table and stood up. “Gracious, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m quite light-headed.”
“You’ve had a very busy day, sir.” She got up. “Go on to the dining room. I’ll bring your dinner right up.”
Downstairs, Wiggins was tucking into his own meal. “Cor blimey, I’m hungry enough to eat a ’orse.” Fred, who was sitting next to him, bumped his head against his knees. “I’ll take you walkies as soon as I’ve finished, boy.”
“I already took him out.” Phyllis hung the dishcloth she’d been using on the bottom edge of the plate rack so it could dry.
“That was nice of you.” Wiggins stuffed another bite of stew into his mouth.
“He gets lonely for you and I couldn’t stand to see him pacing back and forth along the back hall.” She sat down across from him. “You were very late tonight.”
“I know and I didn’t want to be. Cor blimey, I thought I’d never get out of there. I met up with Ellen after she got off work because I wanted to find out what was what.”
“And did you?” Phyllis knew she had no right to question him but she couldn’t help herself. Mrs. Jeffries had left strict instructions that no one was to pester the lad and that he was to have his supper and then go up to bed.
“’Course I did.” He grinned. “You know the day after a murder they’d all be talkin’ about it at her office and I was dead right.” His smile disappeared. “But I think I might have made an awful mistake.”
“What was that?” Phyllis struggled to keep her tone casual. In truth, she was dying to know more.
Wiggins tried to think of the best way to put it so he didn’t sound like a conceited idiot. “It’s hard to say it straight out.”
“Just go ahead and tell me,” she demanded.
“Alright, I will, but before I do, you’ve got to promise me you won’t think I’m bigheaded or thinkin’ too ’ighly of myself.”
“I’d never think that, Wiggins,” she promised. “Give me a little credit. I know what kind of person you are.”
“Well, when I first got to the warehouse and she saw me walkin’ toward her, she got this big, bright smile on her face and it weren’t just a friendly, nice smile. It was the special sort that someone might give someone they were a bit sweet on. That’s when I realized she might ’ave got the wrong impression. So as soon as I got up close, I told her that I was seein’ one of me mates off at Liverpool Street Station and that I needed to speak to Tommy and could I walk home with her.”
“You didn’t want her thinking you were interested in her as a sweetheart or anything like that.” Phyllis was incredibly relieved. “Is that it?”
“That’s it exactly. Mind you, once I got to ’er ’ouse, Tommy was there and he bent me ear for over an ’our talkin’ about football.” He took another huge bite.
“That must have made things easier,” she murmured.
He chewed and swallowed, all the while shaking his hea
d. “Nah, it got right awkward after that. Ellen disappeared into the kitchen to help her mum with supper while Tommy and I was chattin’ in the sittin’ room. Then Tommy’s dad come home and he went upstairs to change his clothes, then the minute he came back down, Tommy’s mum came out and asked me if I wanted to stay for supper. I didn’t know what to say, Phyllis. I know they’ve not much money, and truth to tell, even Tommy and his dad looked surprised by her invitin’ me. Tommy’s always complainin’ that food is scarce at his house.”
“So what did you do?”
“I told them the household here would be waiting dinner for me. That none of you would eat until I got home.” He sighed. “I lied.”
CHAPTER 6
Mrs. Jeffries sat up, tossed the covers to one side, and climbed out of her warm bed. She put on her house slippers and grabbed her thick wool dressing gown from the foot of the bed. Slipping it on, she moved to the window and stared at the gas lamp across the road. Sleep was impossible. She’d spent hours tossing and turning, trying to decipher and make sense of what little they knew about this case, and the only conclusion she’d reached was they had some facts but not as many as they needed.
Her eyes unfocused as she gazed at the pale light and thought about the meeting they’d had this afternoon. On the surface, it appeared they’d learned quite a bit, but had they? There had already been indications that Stephen Bremmer was heartily disliked by everyone from his spouse to the local shopkeepers, so getting confirmation of that fact didn’t add to what they knew about the victim.
A town coach went by, momentarily blocking the lamplight, and she blinked. To begin with, what did they really know about the victim? He was rude, obnoxious, cheap, and arrogant. But half the aristocracy in London shared those same characteristics and they didn’t end up poisoned. But Bremmer had, so he probably wasn’t just murdered over a general dislike of his character. No, someone wanted him dead for a specific reason.
Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods Page 12