Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (12 page)

Sutcliffe, a tall, gray-haired man with erect bearing and an air of authority, stood by the marble fireplace. His wife sat on the couch, watching Nivens.

“I’m aware of the reason you’re here,” Sutcliffe snapped. “Ronald Dearman was my sister’s husband and one of my most valuable employees. But that doesn’t give you leave to browbeat my household. My housekeeper told me that you reduced the downstairs maid to tears and scared the tweeny so badly she had hiccups.”

Nivens tried another approach. “Mr. Sutcliffe, I’m sure you understand that in dealing with the lower classes, one has to be stern.”

“That’s absurd,” he shot back. “People are people, and everyone in this household is to be dealt with in a respectful and courteous manner. Do I make myself
clear? Otherwise, Inspector, I shall personally go and have a word with the Home Secretary.”

Nivens swallowed uneasily. Blast and drat, he hated backing down, but he didn’t have a choice. The Home Secretary would love to give this case to that damnable man Witherspoon and his pack of demented helpers. If this rich toff complained that he was a beast and bully, they’d snatch this murder away from him faster than a doxie downed a gin. “That won’t be necessary, sir. Now, if you don’t mind, I should like to ask you a few questions. If it’s convenient, sir.”

“Go ahead.” Sutcliffe made no move to sit down nor did he offer the inspector a chair. “Ask your questions, I’ll be happy to cooperate. I want this killer caught and sent to the gallows.”

“I understand you were out of town when the murder occurred?”

“I was in Birmingham on business. I came home as soon as I heard what had happened,” he replied.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Mr. Dearman dead?” Nivens asked.

Sutcliffe glanced at his wife, who gave him a wan smile and the briefest of nods. He looked at Nivens. “Ronald Dearman wasn’t a particularly nice person, but I don’t know of anyone who actually wanted him dead.”

“But someone apparently did,” Fiona Sutcliffe murmured softly.

“Exactly what did he do at Sutcliffe Manufacturing?” Nivens asked.

“He was the deputy director, and he was in charge of the day-to-day management of the office.”

“Just the office or the whole company?”

Sutcliffe sighed. “Just the office. Until last September, he’d been in charge of both the manufacturing sites and the office, but I’d brought in another deputy director to handle the operations of the sites.”

“What’s his name, sir?”

“Henry Anson. He’s very capable. I brought him in to streamline our operations and upgrade our facilities. He came highly recommended.”

“How long exactly has Mr. Anson worked for you?”

“Since last September.” Sutcliffe moved away from the fireplace and sat down next to his wife. “I spend most of my time meeting with customers and suppliers. I didn’t have the time or the expertise to modernize the company. Henry does. He’s already put several time-saving processes in place at both the factory sites. Frankly, even if I hadn’t been wanting to upgrade our equipment and factories, the business has grown to the point where it’s far too much work for one deputy director to handle.”

“So Ronald Dearman went from being the only deputy director to sharing the duties.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he see this as a demotion?” Nivens wished he’d asked Morehead to stay with him while he interviewed these two. He was afraid he might forget something pertinent, and the constable, though not likable, did have a remarkable memory. But after his own disastrous attempt at questioning the servants, he’d sent Morehead and another constable downstairs to reinterview them.

“He didn’t see it that way because it wasn’t a demotion. His salary wasn’t decreased, only his level of responsibility,” Sutcliffe retorted. “My sister, Mrs. Dearman, had
complained that Ronald wasn’t feeling well, and I hoped that bringing Henry into the firm might ease Ronald’s burden somewhat.”

“How did Mr. Dearman feel about losing a good part of his responsibilities?”

Sutcliffe sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, he wasn’t happy about it. I suppose it’s best that you hear it from me rather than from someone else, but Ronald and Henry didn’t get along all that well.”

“Ronald accused Henry Anson of stealing his job,” Fiona Sutcliffe explained. “He was furious when his duties were curtailed. I suspect he’s done his very best to undermine Mr. Anson’s efforts.”

“Now, now, dear.” Sutcliffe patted his wife’s hand. “You don’t know that for a fact.”

“I most certainly do,” she said. “Lucretia went on and on about how furious Ronald was over the matter.”

Sutcliffe pulled his hand away and frowned at his wife. “You never said anything to me.”

“Of course not,” she replied. “It’s not for me to interfere in your business decisions.”

“Mrs. Sutcliffe, did you host a dinner party here Saturday evening?” Nivens asked.

She regarded him warily. “Yes.”

“Who were the guests on that occasion?”

“What’s that got to do with Ronald’s murder?” Sutcliffe looked from his wife to the inspector. “Why are you asking about a dinner party? We have them all the time.”

Nivens gave him a brief, mirthless smile. “I’m sure you do, sir, but as it happens, something happened on that particular occasion that may have a direct bearing on Ronald Dearman’s murder.”

“We had a number of guests to dinner that evening,” she said briskly. “Mr. and Mrs. Dearman, Henry Anson and his fiancée, Miss Throckmorton, and Mrs. Meadows.”

“Who is Mrs. Meadows?” Nivens asked.

“She’s a family friend,” John Sutcliffe replied.

“Can you please supply me with Mrs. Meadows’ address?” he asked Fiona. She nodded and he pounced. “Did you threaten to murder Mr. Dearman that night?”

“What on earth are you talking about!” Sutcliffe cried. “How dare you ask such a ridiculous quest—”

“Yes, I did threaten him,” Fiona interrupted. She looked at her husband. “I’m sorry, John, but this was bound to come out. It was when you took everyone upstairs to look at your new map. Ronald said he wanted to speak with me, so we went into the study. He made some awful remarks. I lost my temper and lost control of my tongue.”

Sutcliffe was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. “But you never lose your temper.”

“But of course I do,” she explained gently. “I simply don’t do it in front of you. It’s actually been quite a strain all these years.”

“What was the argument about?” Nivens asked eagerly.

Fiona Sutcliffe stared at him coldly. “That’s none of your business, Inspector. But I can assure you it was a personal matter and that I had nothing to do with his murder.”

“Where were you at six o’clock Monday evening?”

“You mean where was I when Dearman was murdered?” she replied.

“Now see here, Inspector,” Sutcliffe blustered. “I’ll
not have my wife spoken to as if she’s a common criminal.”

“It’s alright, John,” she said quickly. “I’ll answer the inspector. I’m sure he already knows I wasn’t home.”

He did—that had been one of the few coherent bits of information he’d managed to get out of the housemaid. “That’s correct, your maid stated that you left the house at five o’clock that afternoon. Where did you go?”

“I went for a walk.”

“How long were you gone?” He already had the answer to that question, but he wanted to see if she was going to lie about it. He’d not liked her refusal to comment on her argument with Dearman.

She smiled skeptically. “It was past seven o’clock when I arrived home, but I’m sure you know that already.”

Constable Barnes felt a twinge of guilt as he put the pint of beer down in front of his old friend Eddie Harwood. They’d started out on the force together, but their professional lives had taken very different paths. Harwood’s career was ending behind the front counter in the lobby at Scotland Yard.

“How have you been, Eddie?” He slid onto a stool. They were in the White Hart Pub, and the constable had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise. It was a policeman’s pub: close enough to Scotland Yard to have plenty of business but far enough away so that the men could relax over a pint or a whiskey. Constables, detectives, and office workers crowded shoulder to shoulder along the bar. All the benches along the wall were full, and there wasn’t an empty stool at the any of the tables.

Harwood shrugged. He was the same age as Barnes, but his shoulders were stooped and his thinning hair had more gray than brown. “I’m just waiting to retire. It’ll be another two years and then they’ll make me spend my days at home. I suppose I can always work in my garden. How about you, looking forward to giving it all up?”

Barnes shook his head. With the passage of the Police Pensions Act of 1890, he, like everyone else who served honorably on the force, was eligible for a lifetime pension. Prior to this act, the assigning of pensions to individual policemen had been discretionary and to Barnes’ way of thinking, arbitrary. “Not really. I got lucky. I work closely with Inspector Witherspoon. It keeps it interesting. It’s a nice spot to end up.”

Eddie grinned broadly. “Thanks to you, I guess you could say I got a nice spot as well.”

Barnes shrugged modestly. He was genuinely embarrassed because he was going to ask Eddie for a favor, but he didn’t want his old mate thinking he’d helped him get his current assignment for any reason other than friendship. “All I did was mention to Inspector Witherspoon that you should be considered for transfer to the Yard. You served your time on the streets, and you kept getting those ruddy chest colds from being outside.”

“You did more than that.” Harwood’s smile disappeared and his expression sobered. “Your inspector spoke up for me. He had lots of influence because he’d just cracked three tough cases in a row. My sources told me that Witherspoon respects your judgment. If you’d not recommended me to him and he hadn’t put in a good word for me, they’d have let me go for medical reasons
and I might not have got any pension. You know what the old days were like—if the higher-ups didn’t like you, they wouldn’t lift a finger to see that you got something for all your years of service.”

“Thank goodness it’s changed for the better,” Barnes said quickly.

“Our generation didn’t get much in the way of promotions, did we?” Harwood continued as if Barnes hadn’t spoken. “But that’s the way of life, isn’t it. There’s been a lot of progress in the past ten years, so the lads coming in now will have a better crack at moving up in the organization than we did. Oh well, all in all, it isn’t a bad way to make a living.”

“And we do some good in the world,” Barnes pointed out. “That’s better than working a line in a factory or digging coal out of the earth.”

“True,” he agreed. “I like to think I’ve put some nasty ones behind bars where they belonged and made a bit of difference in this old world. I’m glad you stopped by tonight. It’s lonely going home on my own. You knew that Lucy passed away last year.”

“I was at her funeral,” Barnes reminded him. “And I was real sorry to hear about her passing. Now, I’ve got—”

“Not as sorry as I was,” Harwood interrupted. “She was a good wife and mother. Of course the children are all grown up and out of the house now, I don’t see them much, and so I rattle around all on my own. I know my neighbors, of course, but they’ve got lives of their own, and my brother lives close by, but he’s a younger one and works for the Great Eastern—”

“Eddie, I need a favor,” Barnes blurted. He cringed
inwardly. He’d not meant to be so blunt, but the fellow wasn’t letting him get a word in edgewise.

Eddie drew back slightly as if he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or not.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Barnes said quickly. “But I need you to do something for me.”

Eddie waved off his apology. “What do you need? If I can help, I will—you know that.”

“You know that Inspector Nivens is in charge of the Dearman murder.”

He chuckled. “We’re takin’ odds on how badly he mucks it up. Everyone was surprised that Inspector Witherspoon didn’t get it, but the murder was in Nivens’ district and he’s been agitating for one for donkey’s years. Why? Did your guv want it?”

Barnes gave a negative shake of his head. “I’ve got another interest in the case. A good friend of mine is worried about it and for good reason. There’s some innocent people who might be hurt if Nivens messes it up. Which brings me to my favor: Nivens is likely to be sending in a report every day whether he’s made any progress or not.”

“We’ve already had two of ’em,” Eddie said. “And the poor blighter was only murdered on Monday evening. So what are you wantin’ me to do, hold ’em back a bit so you can have a peek before they go upstairs?”

Barnes grinned. “You always were a sharp one. Can you do it without any risk to yourself? I’ll not have you doing anything that might lose you your pension.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” He raised his glass and took a quick sip. “I’ve been around a long time and I can
take care of myself. I owe you, Barnes, so you just stop by every day at the end of your shift and you can take a look at those reports.”

The inspector was in a cheerful mood when he came home that evening. “The fraud case is quite fascinating.” He handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler.

“Careful, sir, if you become as adept at fraud as you are at murder, you’ll never have a moment’s peace.” She hung up the hat. She knew that Witherspoon was far more comfortable with numbers than with chasing killers.

He laughed, slipped off his coat, and hung it on the peg. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that. This one is a fairly straightforward case, but the evidence must be properly understood. Shall we have a glass of sherry?” He headed down the hall.

“That would be nice, sir.” She trailed after him and they went into the study. She went to the cabinet, pulled out a bottle of Harvey’s, and poured them each a glass. She handed him his and took her seat opposite him. She wasn’t particularly interested in the fraud case, but they’d established this pattern years earlier and she wasn’t going to change it now. When Witherspoon did have a murder, it was this evening ritual that made her privy to every little detail of the case. “How much longer do you think you’ll be tied up going through ledgers, sir?”