Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “She’ll be angry if you’re late?” They’d come to the corner and stopped, waiting for a break in the heavy traffic.

  “I exaggerated a bit, well, because I needed your help. I really was lost, and if I can be honest, I wanted someone to talk to. Do you ever get like that? I mean, there’s another housemaid, and of course, there’s a scullery girl who helps the cook, but they’ve both been there for a long time and I just got hired a few weeks ago. They’re not real friendly.” She was making it up as they walked, hoping that her pathetic tale would loosen Marie’s tongue. “What’s it like where you work?”

  “The girls are friendly enough,” Marie replied. “But the mistress can be hard. She’s a sharp tongue and likes to find fault.”

  “Oh dear, it sounds like your mistress might be worse than mine,” Phyllis exclaimed.

  “I’m thinking of looking for another position.” Marie shifted her shopping basket to her other arm. “But finding work isn’t easy and I’m not sure I can get a reference.”

  “Without a reference, finding another place is almost impossible.” Phyllis yanked her handkerchief out of her pocket and swiped at her nose.

  “Impossible or not, I’m going to try,” Marie vowed. “I’m fed up. She’s gone too far this time and now she’s having a fit over a stupid serviette, can you believe it? Ever since the master died, she’s gotten meaner and meaner with money. Right after his funeral she started takin’ the cost of our tea and sugar from our wages, but this is too much.” She came to a halt and turned to Phyllis. “I’ve looked all over the ruddy house for her stupid serviette, but it isn’t anywhere to be found, but she keeps on at me about it, telling me over and over that I’ve got to find it, that it was handmade in France ’specially for her.” She snorted. “That’s a bloomin’ lie. It’s just a plain white serviette like every other one in the house. I can’t afford to keep workin’ for her. Last quarter I had to pay for a plate I dropped and a cracked cream pitcher that I swear was already damaged before I touched it.”

  “Oh dear, that sounds dreadful. How awful for you. When did this serviette go missing?” Phyllis felt bad for the girl. “Sometimes when I lose something, I retrace my steps. Perhaps that will help.”

  “Not this time. The stupid serviette disappeared three days ago when she had that awful man who just got murdered to tea. I was tidying up like I always do and I’m real careful these days, but before I could finish clearing up properly, Mr. Pierce came to the house unexpectedly and she shoved me and the serving cart out of the drawing room so she could entertain him. By the time I got back in the room, the serviette was nowhere to be found.”

  “Someone was murdered?”

  “Mr. Bremmer was killed the next day. He was poisoned.” She shot Phyllis a curious glance. “Don’t they get newspapers where you work?”

  Phyllis lowered her eyes, hoping she looked embarrassed. “They do, but I don’t read very well.”

  “I’m sorry, that was mean of me.” Marie touched her arm. “It’s just the last few days have been a misery.”

  “It’s okay.” Phyllis kept her head lowered as she swiped at her dry eyes and then gave Marie a shy smile. “I’m fine. At least my mistress hasn’t had one of her friends murdered.”

  “Mrs. Mannion was actin’ peculiar well before Mr. Bremmer was killed.” Marie started walking again. “The day he was comin’ to tea she had me running up and down the back stairs like she was expecting the Queen and not an old friend she’s known most of her life. First the silver jam pot wasn’t good enough so I had to go down and fetch the old china one, then she wanted the matching ceramic spoons that haven’t been used in donkey’s years so I had to spend half an hour in the butler’s pantry findin’ the ruddy things, and then, mark me, if she didn’t split the scones and slather them with cream. She was probably afraid Mr. Bremmer would use too much.” She heaved a sigh.

  “You poor thing.” Phyllis nodded sympathetically. “I tell you what, if you’ve time, there’s a café on the high street; I’ll treat you to a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it. Believe me, I know what it’s like to work for someone bad-tempered, unpredictable, and miserly.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was early in the day, not yet half ten, and Wiggins knew he was taking a risk by coming to the Wrexley. Mid-morning wasn’t a normal time for changing shifts, but he knew that the hotel was cutting their employees’ working hours so there was a chance someone might come out.

  A cold, damp wind slammed into him and he wished he were back in the warm kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens. If they didn’t have a murder, he’d be sitting down to morning tea next to Phyllis. The others would be there, too, but it was only the housemaid he wanted to think about now. He couldn’t understand the lass—one moment she was treating him like her brother but then the next she was getting her nose out of joint because he was hanging around Ellen. She’d tried to hide it yesterday but he could tell she’d been really irritated when he announced he was going to Pierce and Son. Last night, he’d made it clear that he wasn’t interested in Tommy’s sister but now he wasn’t so sure it had been a good idea for him to be so honest with Phyllis. Maybe she’d like him more if she thought he liked someone else? He caught himself as the idea raced through his mind. Nah, that was stupid, and he was headed for a fall if he read too much into Phyllis’s attitude. Across the road, the back door opened and a young man wearing a black coat and flat cap stepped out and hurried down the stairs.

  Wiggins caught up with him as he was turning out of the mews. “Can I ’ave a quick word?” he asked.

  “If it’s about that ruddy murder—” The fellow looked over his shoulder toward the hotel. His face was narrow, his skin pale, and his hair brown. “We’re not to talk about it.”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.” Wiggins gave him a confident smile. “I’m a reporter and if I don’t show up with somethin’ my guv’s goin’ to be right annoyed. Come on, there’s a pub just up the road. You look old enough, I’ll buy ya a pint.”

  He hesitated. “Alright, but not that pub. I don’t want anyone seein’ me talkin’ to a stranger. There’s a crowded one by the station, let’s go there.”

  They didn’t talk as they made their way to the pub. The place was full but Wiggins saw two men at a table at the end of the bar get up. “Grab that spot and I’ll get us a couple of pints.”

  A few minutes later, Wiggins put their beer on the table and sat down on the stool. “My name is Albert Jones.”

  “I’m Joey Finnigan.” He took a sip of his beer and closed his eyes in pleasure. “This ’ere is just what I needed. Thanks.”

  The name sounded familiar to Wiggins. “What do ya do at the hotel?” He took a quick sip as well.

  “I’m supposed to be a waiter, but these days they ’ave us doin’ all sorts of things. I spent half me time this mornin’ workin’ in the storage room.” He took another drink. “What’s more, this bloomin’ murder is makin’ what was already a bad situation even worse. We’ve had two big cancellations since that bloke was poisoned and Mr. Sherwood—he’s the new catering manager—is having a right old fit about it. It’s not fair, I tell ya, just not fair.”

  “So the staff is havin’ a tough time,” Wiggins suggested.

  “That’s puttin’ it mildly. I was supposed to work till noon today but they sent me off at half ten. They’re on the warpath about every little thing, cuttin’ back people’s work time, countin’ every bit of glass or plate that we need to use. We’ve got to serve people. Honestly, a ruddy glass or two disappears and Mr. Sherwood and Mr. Cutler both think we’ve a thief in the kitchen. But we don’t. The police took away all the stuff that was on the table where Mr. Bremmer was murdered, that’s what happened to the missing glasses. I know, I was there and I saw them take ’em away.”

  Wiggins was beginning to think he’d made a mistake. Joey was telling him th
e same bits and pieces he’d heard yesterday. “Speakin’ of the murder—” he began only to be interrupted.

  “We weren’t talkin’ about that, there’s naught left to say on the subject,” Joey declared. “Poor bloke got himself killed and it’s all of us workers at the Wrexley who are payin’ the price. Mr. Cutler and Mr. Scargill have both hinted that if business doesn’t pick up soon, some of us will be let go and I know it’ll be me. Tableware is expensive, and when the police send the items back, it ’ad all better be there. Especially them damned champagne flutes, they cost the earth. Mind you, Hilda Jackson—she helps Mr. Sherwood—she claims one of the flutes went missing before the ball that night, but Hilda likes to talk and make herself sound important, you know, like she knows more than the rest of us, so I don’t know if I believe her.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I do hope that Mr. Pierce will still be in his office when we finally get there.” Witherspoon grabbed the handhold as the hansom swung hard around the corner and into the heavy traffic of Oxford Street. “I know it makes sense to interview Mrs. Cory first. Her home is in Kensington and much closer than Pierce’s office, but I’m very anxious to speak to him.”

  Barnes braced himself with his feet. “I don’t think it’ll take that long to interview Mrs. Cory. Look, sir, I know you want to ask Pierce about Mr. Parr’s claim that Bremmer is a blackmailer, but I think it’s important we have a word with Mrs. Cory as well. You were right, sir, there is and was something strong between Pierce and Mrs. Cory and it could have some bearing on this case. As we discussed before, sir, she’s the only new factor that was introduced into this mix of suspects. All the rest of them have been part of the same social set for years.”

  “That’s true.”

  “The gossip I heard was that James Pierce was fixing to marry Mrs. Cory and then she up and left the country. Could be her leaving had something to do with our victim.”

  “You were told specifically that the two of them were going to get married?” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Who told you this?”

  Barnes cringed inwardly. He was exaggerating a bit as no one had really confirmed the two of them were going to marry, but considering the information he’d learned from the household, he knew he was on the right track. The worst that could happen was that Elise Cory would deny the rumor. “My wife’s cousin. She visited last night and she couldn’t wait to tell me. She’s a real talker, sir, and she’s got the best memory I’ve ever seen. Truth to tell, Mary only came to see us because she lives in Dagenham and wanted to tell me what she knew.”

  “Do you think her information is reliable?” Witherspoon jammed his heel into the floor as the cab hit a pothole.

  “Absolutely. She and her late husband used to run a pub on Crown Street and as I said, sir, she loves to chat.”

  “And your wife’s cousin claimed that the previous relationship between Pierce and Mrs. Cory was far more serious than either of them have admitted.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Do you think Mrs. Cory returned to England because she knew Pierce was now a widower?”

  “Well, there’s something strong between them. As you pointed out, sir, Pierce did his best to protect her when we started askin’ questions,” Barnes said. “And I got the feelin’ she answered us so quickly to make sure we didn’t poke him too hard, if you get my meaning. I’ve just got a feelin’ about it, sir, a feelin’ that we need to take a closer look at how everyone who was there that night might be connected. You know, sir, it’s like that ‘inner voice’ of yours.”

  The inspector nodded. “I understand exactly what you mean. I think all policemen have a sort of instinct, or as you and Mrs. Jeffries put it, our ‘inner voice.’ So, let’s hope that Mrs. Cory isn’t out shopping or visiting.”

  Elise Cory lived on Rutherford Way, a quiet street off the Kensington High Street. They stepped out of the hansom and Witherspoon studied the house while waiting for Barnes to pay the driver. It was a two-story brown brick house with a cream-colored ground-floor façade and a lower ground floor surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence.

  Barnes led the way up the short walkway and banged the knocker. A moment later, a young housemaid opened the door. “You’re the police. Mrs. Cory said you might be coming.” She opened the door wide and ushered them inside.

  The foyer was narrow with white walls, a mirror in an intricately carved wooden frame, a coat tree, and a polished oak parquet floor that stopped at the carpeted staircase.

  Witherspoon swept off his bowler. “Mrs. Cory was expecting us?”

  “Not particularly, sir, but she said you might be coming to ask her more questions and if she was home, I was to show you in. I’ll take your hat, sir.” She hung it up and led them past the staircase and into the drawing room.

  Elise Cory rose to her feet. “Hello, Inspector, Constable, please come in and have a seat.”

  Witherspoon nodded politely. It was difficult not to stare at her. She was as lovely as he remembered, and to avoid looking like a fool, he focused his attention on the room.

  The walls were painted a pale yellow, the carpet a muted shade of patterned gold, and the furniture a mix of armchairs upholstered in bright flowered prints, side tables stacked with books and magazines, and a hunter’s green settee. The furnishings were neatly arranged around a white-painted stone hearth. A beautiful seascape held pride of place over the mantelpiece and on the opposite wall was a portrait of a man. A painter’s easel and worktable were next to the window. Despite the gloomy overcast day, the room was cheerful and inviting. “Thank you, ma’am.” He sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs. “I hope we’re not keeping you from anything, but we do have a few more questions for you.”

  “I expected you would.” She sank down on the settee. “You’re not keeping me from anything, Inspector. I’ve got a luncheon engagement later today but that’s not until one o’clock. Would you care for tea or perhaps coffee? I have both.”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Witherspoon assured her. “Mrs. Cory, exactly how long have you been back in England?”

  “I arrived here on January fifteenth. My mother-in-law and I came on the Lucania. We landed in Liverpool, spent the night there in a hotel, and then came to London. I’d already rented the house and arranged for a small staff, so after a stop at the estate agent, we came straight here.”

  “Your mother-in-law lives here as well?” Barnes balanced his notebook on his knee.

  “That’s right. She’s in Stepney at the moment, visiting.”

  Barnes made a mental note to come back and have a word with the other Mrs. Cory. “Was the Lighterman’s Ball the first time you’d seen Stephen Bremmer since you’ve been back?”

  “My answer is the same as when the inspector asked me that question when we were in James’ office. That night was the first time I’d seen him since I returned home. The truth is, I’ve tried to avoid running into some of my old acquaintances. But in his case, it couldn’t be helped.”

  “What do you mean?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I couldn’t avoid going even though I suspected Bremmer might be there. When I accompanied my mother-in-law back to her old neighborhood in Stepney, I ran into James’ aunt and she insisted I go to the ball. Unfortunately, my mother-in-law joined in, and before I knew it, I’d agreed to go.”

  “Was there any particular reason you wanted to avoid your previous friends and acquaintances?” The inspector deliberately added the word “friends” to see how she’d react.

  “Of course, Inspector.” She laughed. “I was very angry and upset when I left England. My father had died and circumstances had forced me to move in with my cousin. Nora treated me as well as can be expected, but one doesn’t like living as a poor relation. When I was given an opportunity to leave, I took it.”

  “You were offered a position?” Barnes aske
d.

  She nodded. “As a governess. I’d been giving drawing lessons to Abigail Franklin, and when her parents decided to go to San Francisco, they offered me a position. I worked for them for a year.”

  “You told us before you were an artist,” Barnes reminded her. “You do portraits.”

  “Before my father died, I’d done two portraits, but neither of them paid very well. Frankly, once he was gone, I didn’t have the heart to go on painting. It took me several years before I picked up a brush again. So when I moved in with Nora, I started giving drawing lessons.”

  “What did you do after leaving the Franklins?”

  She looked amused. “I got married and moved with my husband first to Sacramento and then to Carson City.”

  “Mrs. Cory, you previously told us your dislike of Stephen Bremmer was because you blamed him for your father losing the chance to show his work at a gallery,” Witherspoon said.

  “He was also a boor, a brute, and a bully,” she added.

  “But according to your previous statement, you weren’t in the same social circle,” Barnes pointed out. “So how often were you even around him?”

  Her expression hardened. “Too often for my liking. I know it sounds ludicrous, but due to some very odd circumstances, we often found ourselves at the same events. My father’s work was constantly in demand by the shipping companies for their ships and their offices. When a painting was being displayed for the first time, there was usually a small celebration and, as my mother passed away years ago, I often accompanied my father. Stephen was almost always a guest at these events, probably because of his family’s previous involvement in the industry. Add to that, I lived next door to the Pierce family and they were socially acquainted with the Lyndhursts. So we’d find ourselves at the same village fetes, teas, that sort of thing.”

  “I see,” Witherspoon muttered. “When you arrived at the Lighterman’s Ball, did you go to the head table before the festivities started?”