This afternoon, Smythe reported that Bremmer had a separate source of income from his wife. She let that idea play in her head for a moment and then shoved it aside. Until they knew exactly where the money came from, it was pointless to speculate. For all they knew, he might have been selling off trinkets he’d found in his wife’s attic.
A wave of tiredness washed over her and she gave up thinking about the case. Instead, she let the bits and pieces she’d learned today come and go as they would. The inspector thought everyone was trying a bit too hard to pretend that the victim was nothing but a boor and a nuisance, but was that the truth? Bremmer was more than an obnoxious pest to someone. Perhaps one of them at that table hated him enough to want him dead. Perhaps someone did manage to put poison in his glass or perhaps they put it in their own glass and then made a quick switch when the lights went out.
Bremmer wanted to leave his wife but Anne Bremmer wouldn’t give him a settlement, and until proven otherwise, he’d no money of his own. She was prepared to put up with a miserable marriage to get what she wanted, but if there was so much as a breath of a scandal attached about her, she’d never be presented at court. But now it seemed that Mrs. Bremmer’s troubles were over. She was a respectable widow, and as long as she didn’t remarry, she could have her moment at Buckingham Palace. Thus far, she was the only one who actually benefitted from Bremmer’s death.
Of course, they’d also found out that both Camilla Houghton-Jones and her fiancé, Montague Pettigrew, might have reasons to be glad that Bremmer no longer walked among the living. Especially if he knew about Pettigrew’s past indiscretions. From what they had learned about the victim, he had the sort of character that delighted in the misery of others. But they had no evidence Bremmer was aware of the situation.
She smiled as she remembered the inspector’s expression when he spoke about Elise Cory. For a moment, he’d looked like a love-struck lad. But it was Mrs. Cory who was the unknown quantity in the mix. As the inspector had said when she’d brought up his dinner tonight, all the others at the top two tables had been here all along, but she’d just come back from America. Perhaps she was the ingredient that finished the recipe, perhaps her appearance had either caused someone else to commit murder, or perhaps she still hated Stephen Bremmer enough to kill him.
Mrs. Jeffries realized she was jumping to conclusions. Don’t be a fool, she told herself, Elise Cory coming to London might just be another coincidence. God knows this case was simply full of them. Yawning, she got back into bed and pulled up the covers. But just as she was falling asleep she realized what that nagging feeling in the back of her mind was trying to tell her.
* * *
• • •
“That’s all I’ve got this morning, Mrs. Jeffries, and you’ve probably already heard most of it from the inspector.” Constable Barnes picked up his tea.
“You’ve added a bit more detail,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. “That’s always helpful.”
“We’ve heard a few bits that might be useful to you and the inspector,” Mrs. Goodge added. “I had a word with my friend Ida Leacock yesterday and found out a few things.” She told him everything she’d learned and then glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. “Your turn.”
“Let me start with what Wiggins told me this morning,” she said. “He wasn’t here for our meeting yesterday afternoon, but he did find out a few things.” She told him what the footman had reported and then added to the narrative by repeating what the others had found out. “The last thing I’d like to mention, Constable, is the number of widows and widowers who seem to be suspects.”
“I know; the inspector and I were talking about that yesterday,” Barnes replied. “Three people under the age of thirty and they are all widowed. It’s odd to say the least.”
“It might just be coincidence,” the cook suggested. “We’ve had a bushel full of them in this case.”
“True.” Barnes put his cup down. “But I’m still going to look into the circumstances of how they died.”
“Even Mrs. Cory? From what I understand, her husband died in Nevada.”
“Are you going to send a telegram to the local sheriff?” Mrs. Goodge asked eagerly.
“I don’t think I’ll need to go that far.” The constable chuckled. “Her mother-in-law came back to England with Mrs. Cory. I’m going to ask her how her son passed away.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “I imagine if there was any foul play suspected in her son’s death, she’ll tell you about it.” In truth, she had completely forgotten that the widow Cory’s mother-in-law had come back with her.
Barnes got up. “I’ll leave you to it, ladies. See you tomorrow morning.”
He disappeared up the stairs. The two women tidied up the kitchen and readied it for the morning meeting.
Everyone was at the table only a few moments after the inspector and Barnes had left by the front door.
“You go first, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries instructed, “and when you’ve finished, I’ll report what the inspector told me last night as well as what the constable told Mrs. Goodge and I this morning.”
Wiggins told them about his encounter with the maid from the Wrexley Hotel. “At first I was disappointed when she told me she’d not even been at the hotel when Bremmer was murdered, but after Mrs. Jeffries told me everything you’ve all found out, I’m thinkin’ I ought to go back again,” he concluded.
Mrs. Goodge put her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist. “Sorry, I’m not following. Why would you go back to the hotel?”
“It’s ’ard to explain, but when Mrs. Jeffries was tellin’ me all the other bits and pieces we’ve learned so far and then she said that it was even possible that Bremmer wasn’t poisoned when the lights went out, it made me think that maybe someone played about with the flute before the party even started . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw the skeptical expressions on their faces. “I didn’t say it made sense, but seems to me it makes more sense than someone droppin’ the poison into his flute in full view of the musicians and everyone else in the room.”
“But it wouldn’t have been possible for anyone to know which glass Bremmer was going to have,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “What’s more, the only two people who were even at the Wrexley prior to Bremmer’s murder were James Pierce, who was there several weeks earlier, and Louise Mannion. She was there that day, but thus far, she’s the only person who doesn’t seem to have a motive for the murder. What’s more, I doubt she was given leave to roam the hotel’s pantry or storage rooms at will.”
“I know that,” he protested. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was certain there was something they weren’t seeing, something right under their noses, and he was determined to find it. “But look, it’ll not take long to go back and do a bit of snoopin’. Who knows, I might find out somethin’ useful.”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” Mrs. Jeffries looked doubtful. “But there is a lot more territory to cover on his case. It’s important that someone makes contact with the households of the others that were at Bremmer’s table.”
“I can try the Mannion household and perhaps I’ll even have time to do Camilla Houghton-Jones today,” Phyllis offered.
“Nicholas Parr lives off the Marylebone High Street”—Betsy shot the footman a quick smile—“and I’ve been wanting to do a bit of shopping.”
“You’re not takin’ our baby, are ya?” Luty hugged the child so close she giggled. “It’s too cold out there today.”
“The girl from upstairs is going to watch her,” Betsy lied. In truth, she’d hired Mrs. Packard, who was from upstairs but was hardly a girl, to help out now that they had a case. But as her new employee wasn’t just a nanny, but a proper housekeeper as well, Betsy didn’t want anyone around this table wondering how she and Smythe could afford it.
“I might have a go at James Pierce’s neighborhood,�
�� Smythe offered. “I’ve got to meet another source today, but I should have time to do both.”
“The only one left is Elise Cory,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.
“She’s only been in London a few weeks,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Maybe her servants won’t know anything.”
“Why don’t you let me try to find out about Mrs. Cory?” Hatchet proposed. “She’s an artist, so my source might know something about her.”
“So I’ll go to the Wrexley this mornin’.” Wiggins grinned and started to get up.
Phyllis grabbed his arm and he flopped back into his chair. “Aren’t you forgetting something? You’ve still got to tell us what you found out from Ellen.”
“Cor blimey, I almost forgot.” It didn’t take long for him to relate what he considered the pertinent details of his meeting. The only thing he left out was his feeling that Ellen had gone a bit sweet on him. They didn’t need to know that. There were simply some things a fellow could only share with a sympathetic soul like Phyllis.
* * *
• • •
Nicholas Parr lived in the top flat of a four-story redbrick town house in Marylebone. Barnes reached for the shiny brass door knocker just as the door flew open and a middle-aged woman wielding a shopping basket and wearing a checked cloak stepped out.
Surprised, she gaped at them. “Oh dear, you’re the police. You’re here bright and early today.”
“Yes, ma’am, and we’re here to speak to—”
“You’re here to see Mr. Parr,” she interrupted. “Mr. Parr told me to send you up. He’s right at the top. Go on, then, he’s been expecting you.”
They entered the foyer and started up the carpeted staircase. By the time they reached the final landing, both men were out of breath. Barnes waited till they’d stopped panting before he knocked. A dark-haired man who appeared to be in his early thirties wearing navy blue trousers and a white shirt opened the door. “Excellent, you’re here at last. Did Mrs. Guthrie let you in?” He waved them inside.
“Yes, she was just going out to do her shopping,” Barnes explained as he and the inspector stepped across the threshold. The sitting room was furnished with an overstuffed green and gold chesterfield sofa, a matching chair, two end tables, and three bookcases filled with books.
“I’m Nicholas Parr.” He motioned them toward the sofa. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Witherspoon made the introductions as they sat down. “Mr. Parr, you obviously know why we’re here.”
“Of course. It was a dreadful business, Inspector.” Parr sat down across from them. “I’ve seen death before, but that was my first time witnessing a murder.”
“It’s never an easy thing to see, sir,” Witherspoon said. “Mr. Parr, I understand you are on the board of Pierce and Son?”
“That’s correct, that’s why I was at the Lighterman’s Ball.”
“How long have you known Mr. Pierce?”
“Several years,” Parr replied. “We’ve been in partnership with Pierce and Son since James took over after his father died. My family’s company, Parr Customs Brokers and Freight Forwarders, is in New York; we’re agents for Pierce and Son. I met James when he came to New York to find a firm to handle his business interests.”
“And that’s your company?” Barnes said.
“Correct. When James found out I was moving to London, he invited me to be on his board. My company is hoping to expand into Europe, and England is a very good place to start.”
“Thank you, sir,” Witherspoon said. “Background information is always helpful to us. Was this your first time at the Lighterman’s Ball?”
“Yes. I’ve been to London several times, but this was the first time I’d been invited to the ball.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual when the lights went out that night?”
“Nothing, Inspector. I was blinded when the room went dark.”
“What about hearing something?” Barnes added.
“I heard plenty, but there was nothing that sounded unusual or out of place. It was what one would expect to hear; chairs scraping, people coughing, someone dropped some silverware, that sort of thing.”
“Can you recall if you saw anyone hovering around the head table prior to everyone sitting down?”
Parr’s eyebrows drew together. “That’s a difficult question to answer. I saw a number of people around the table, including the victim. But I don’t remember seeing any one person specifically.”
“What time did you arrive at the ball?” Witherspoon asked.
“It was just past six forty-five. I wanted to get there early to have a word with James Pierce.”
“Was Stephen Bremmer there when you arrived?” Barnes asked.
“I don’t recall seeing him, but I wasn’t paying all that much attention. I wasn’t looking for him. I needed to see James. I wanted to let him know that the letter of credit from New York had arrived.”
“I see.” Witherspoon nodded. “How long have you known Stephen Bremmer?”
“I met him on January eighteenth of this year,” Parr replied.
“You recall the exact date?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.
“Of course. It was the first meeting of the proposed board for Pierce and Son. We didn’t do any official company business; it was organized simply to introduce me to the rest of the board.”
“That was your first encounter with Mr. Bremmer?” Witherspoon asked.
“No, but that was the first time I met the man.” Parr smiled slightly. “I had ‘encountered’ his reputation previously. Would you care for some tea?”
The inspector shook his head. “No, thank you. What do you mean, you’d encountered his reputation?”
Parr looked down at the floor and then took a deep breath before raising his chin. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but in this case, I’ll make an exception. When I walked into that first meeting and was introduced to Bremmer, I was quite shocked. Unfortunately, I’d heard some very unsavory things about the fellow and I’d heard them from a source that I trusted implicitly. Naturally, I couldn’t raise any objections to the man coming onto the board publicly, because what I’d heard was just gossip, but it was the sort of gossip that I felt James needed to hear.”
“What did you do, sir?” Barnes pressed.
“I waited till everyone had left the meeting and then I told James what I’d heard about Stephen Bremmer.”
“And what was that specifically?” the constable urged.
“That Stephen Bremmer was a blackmailer and that his victims were members of his own social circle.” Parr’s lip curled in disgust. “That’s right, he preyed on his friends, people who trusted him.”
Witherspoon leaned forward. “What did Mr. Pierce say when you passed along this information?”
“At first he just stared at me, then he sighed and said, ‘I know.’”
* * *
• • •
Phyllis walked as slowly as she dared around Barlow Square. It was cold and miserable but she was determined to do her best to find someone from the Mannion household. But so far, no one had come out the lower ground-floor servants’ door of number fourteen. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could last. Not only was the weather not cooperating, but she’d already had to duck behind an oak tree when she’d seen Jenny Marshall striding toward her swinging a shopping basket. This neighborhood was too close to Upper Edmonton Gardens for her liking. There were too many like Jenny who knew her and could get in her way if someone happened to come up those servants’ stairs.
She rounded the square, her gaze on number fourteen, when she heard a door slam and, a second later, footsteps pounding up the heavy metal steps. She stopped and looked at the pavement, pretending she’d dropped something. A blonde-haired young woman wearing a maid’s cap and a short red jacket stepped onto
the pavement. She carried a wicker basket on her arm.
Phyllis dawdled for a few seconds before she dashed across the empty road after the girl. She followed her, waiting until they’d both turned the corner and were out of sight of the house before she made her move. Servants were more likely to speak freely if there were no prying eyes watching from their employer’s windows. “Excuse me, miss,” she called.
The girl stopped and looked over her shoulder, her expression wary. “Were you speaking to me?”
Now that she was closer, she could see the girl had brilliant blue eyes and even, pretty features.
“I was.” Phyllis smiled. “I’m so hoping you can help me. You see, I’m lost and my mistress will be ever so cross with me if I’m late getting back. But I don’t know this part of London. I told her that before she sent me here but she insisted I come anyway.”
The girl’s expression grew a bit less wary. “Where are you lookin’ to go?”
Phyllis was ready for this question. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Patton’s, it’s her dressmaker’s. My mistress wants me to pick up her new gloves.”
“I know the place. You’re not far from there. Come along, you can walk with me. I’m going that way as well.”
“Thanks ever so much.” She fell into step next to the young woman. “My name is Phyllis Jones.”
“I’m Marie Parker.” The girl gave her a shy smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Phyllis. You don’t work around here?”
Phyllis hesitated before she answered. There was a good chance that if she lied, she might run into Marie at some time in the future and that wouldn’t do at all. “Actually, I do work nearby, I just didn’t want to sound like a country bumpkin so I fibbed a bit. I’m so sorry, but I’ve not been here long and I didn’t want you thinking I was stupid. I get enough of that where I work. I’m a housemaid.”
“Your mistress a harsh one, then?” Her steps slowed.
Phyllis adjusted her pace. Perhaps Marie wasn’t in a hurry to get back to work. “Not as harsh as some, but she gets angry easily.”
Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods Page 13