Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (18 page)

“But that’s my case,” Nivens protested as he sank back down.”You can’t take it away. I can still work it, I can still do it. I can get one of those wheeled chairs.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Barrows gave him an irritable glance. “You can’t investigate a murder in one of those contraptions, and we can’t wait weeks and weeks to catch a killer. Sorry, Nivens, but this one is going to Witherspoon.”

“Weeks and weeks? This isn’t fair, it’s not fair at all,” Nivens complained. He glared first at Morehead. “This is your fault.” And then at Barnes. “And yours. You’ve both caused me to lose my case. I won’t forget this, indeed I won’t.”

“Oh for God’s sake, man,” Barrows interrupted impatiently. “You had an accident and that’s that. Now, I’ll hear no more about it.” He turned his attention to the knot of constables that had gathered at the top of the staircase. “Bring a stretcher and take the inspector to hospital.”

But despite Barrows’ warning, Nivens was still complaining about the unfairness of it as he was carted off to the infirmary.

“The evidence speaks for itself,” Witherspoon said as he settled back in his chair. “The shareholders were most definitely defrauded by the company management.”

“So the case is concluded?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Does that mean you’ll be through with it?”

“Oh no, we’ve uncovered the evidence, but now I’ve got to ensure that we can prove it was the—” He broke
off as they heard knocking on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries started to get up but sank back down as footsteps pounded in the hallway. “Are we expecting anyone?” Witherspoon asked.

“No,” she replied. A moment later, Phyllis stuck her head into the room. “Constable Barnes is here to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?”

“Of course.” Witherspoon put his drink on the side table as Barnes stepped into the drawing room. “Gracious, Constable, what on earth are you doing here? Is there a problem? I thought you were going straight home from the Yard.”

“I was, sir, but something’s happened.” Barnes nodded politely to Mrs. Jeffries. “While I was there, Inspector Nivens tripped and broke his ankle.”

“Broke his ankle.” Witherspoon clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Oh my goodness, that must have hurt dreadfully.”

“Chief Inspector Barrows happened to be coming down the stairs when it happened, sir, and well, the situation is he wants you to report to his office tomorrow morning. You’re going to be getting the Dearman case.”

Witherspoon sighed heavily. “Oh dear, I imagine the inspector wasn’t happy about that.”

“He was somewhat upset, and the chief inspector said they’re getting pressure from the Home Office to get it solved, so there’s nary he can do about it. Besides, he’ll not be able to walk for a number of weeks.”

“And you’re sure his ankle was actually broken, not just sprained?” Witherspoon queried.

“Yes, sir, Dr. Bosworth happened to be there as well, he had a look at it and he was certain.”

“Would you care for a sherry, Constable?” Mrs. Jeffries offered.

“Thank you, but no, I’ve got to get home. My wife is waiting supper on me. I just came by to give the inspector the message.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “It was good of you to stop in. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll walk you to the door, Constable.” Mrs. Jeffries put her sherry down and got up. As soon as they were out of the drawing room and out of earshot, she looked at Barnes. “This is an unexpected turn of events.”

“It is, indeed.” Barnes chuckled. “I ought to feel guilty, but I don’t.” They’d reached the front door.

“Why should you feel guilty? You didn’t push him down the stairs, did you?”

He laughed outright. “No, but in all honestly, there’s been a time or two in my dealings with the man when I was sorely tempted to give him a hardy shove. But it was still due to me that he fell. I was at the Yard, and I happened to be standing at the front counter in the foyer when Nivens came in. I’d managed to turn my back so he wouldn’t see me, but just as he was halfway up the stairs, an old friend of mine came in and greeted me by name. Nivens whirled around, lost his footing, and fell. Mind you, it’ll probably work out for the best. Solving this one without our inspector wasn’t going to be easy. Are you going to tell him that one of the suspects is your sister-in-law?”

“I suppose I’ll have to,” she murmured. “If he finds out and I haven’t told him, he might be upset. On the other hand, there’s a good chance he might not find out we’re related. I’ve had nothing to do with Fiona for years.”

“True.” Barnes reached for the handle and turned the doorknob. “But her full name is listed in the reports. If he spots ‘Jeffries’ and realizes she’s from Yorkshire as well, he’ll ask.”

“I know,” she replied.

Barnes pulled the door open. “You don’t have to tell him she came to you for help. You can just say she’s your sister-in-law and that when you heard about the murder, you went to see her for moral support. Think about it.”

Mrs. Jeffries tossed and turned most of the night but by the morning, she had made up her mind. “Sir, there’s something about this case you ought to know,” she said as she put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

Witherspoon, who’d just reached for his serviette, dropped it onto his lap. “Something I ought to know?” he repeated. “That sounds ominous. What is it?”

“Well, sir, one of the suspects in the Dearman case is a relative,” she explained. “Mrs. Sutcliffe is my late husband’s sister.”

He stared at her with an expression of disbelief on his face. “I didn’t know you had any family here in London.”

“I don’t really consider her family,” she replied. “Once she was married, she wanted very little to do with David and me. When David died and I came to London, I practically forgot about her.”

“You didn’t know she was here?”

“I’d heard they moved the company to London, and I did go to Christmas tea there a time or two, but we had nothing in common, so I stopped attending. When I read about the murder, I went to see her, you know, to offer
moral support. She’s very frightened, and she was my husband’s sister.”

“And she’s a suspect?” he pressed.

“I’m afraid so.” She knew she had to tread carefully here. She didn’t want to lie, but it would be best if she was vague about the real circumstances of how she acquired her knowledge about the case. “I saw the company name in the newspaper account of the murder. So I went to see her. She mentioned that she’d had an argument with the deceased several days before he was killed and she knew that once the police found out, it would look very bad for her. I tried to reassure her, sir, and frankly, I was alarmed when I realized that Inspector Nivens was in charge. He’s not experienced in murder investigations. To tell the truth, I’m rather relieved that you’ve got the case now. You’ll find the true culprit.”

“I’m gratified and humbled by your faith in my abilities.” He smiled uncertainly. “But I’ll have to mention your connection to the chief inspector.”

“Of course you will, sir.” She poured his tea.

“But as she isn’t a blood relative and you haven’t seen her in years, I don’t expect it’ll make any difference to our investigation.” He spread the serviette over his lap and picked up his fork. “But I appreciate your telling me about this. Are you going to go to her house again?”

“Not if you’d prefer I didn’t, sir,” she said. She was planning on seeing her today if possible. She had a number of things she needed to ask her.

“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.” He scooped a forkful of egg into his mouth.

“Then I won’t go, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She’d
send Phyllis with a note, and Fiona could meet her at the Lyons tea shop in Oxford Street. “I don’t want to do anything that might disturb or impede your investigation, especially as you’ll be getting a bit of a late start on the case.”

Phyllis got off the omnibus at the Kensington High Street. Holding her bonnet ribbons tight against the wind, she stepped onto the pavement and surveyed the row of shops lining this side of the busy thoroughfare. She was in front of a fishmonger’s, but the small shop was already filled with customers, so she knew they wouldn’t be in a chatting mood. She walked on, coming abreast of a baker’s where she stopped and peered through the window. “Blast,” she muttered, “they’re full, too.” Well, of course they are, she thought. It’s ten o’clock in the morning and every household in Kensington is doing their shopping. “Excuse me.” A dark-haired young woman smiled apologetically as she pushed past her and into the shop.

“Sorry,” Phyllis murmured as she hastily stepped back. Hanging about here was pointless, but she’d come to this neighborhood because both the Dearman household and Antonia Meadows lived nearby and she’d hoped to pick up something from the clerks and shopkeepers. Clearly, that wasn’t going to work this morning. But Phyllis was determined to learn something. She’d do what Wiggins did; she’d go right to their houses and hope she could find someone who was in the mood for a chat.

But an hour later, she was chilled to the bone and her feet hurt. She’d found the Dearman house first, but just as she’d arrived, Inspector Witherspoon and Constable
Barnes had stepped out of a hansom cab. She’d made a run for it, keeping her head down and praying that her employer wouldn’t look in her direction. She’d gone a good half a mile before she’d felt safe, and then found that she’d gotten so twisted and turned around that she was lost. It took another half hour for her to find her way to Church Street, a place she recognized. From there it was only a short walk to the high street and the police station, where she wisely went in and asked for directions.

“Let’s hope I have better luck here,” she muttered as she rounded the corner onto Garrick Road. Antonia Meadows lived at number 14. She slowed her pace as she came abreast of the three-story brown brick detached house set back from the street behind a black wrought iron fence. She saw that though the gate was closed, the latch was held by a piece of wire, and there were chunks missing from the concrete walkway. The stone on the stairs was crumbling, and the white window frames were badly in need of paint. She increased her pace, intending to go to the corner, turn around, and come back, but she’d not taken more than a few steps before she heard a door slam shut. Stopping, she saw a young girl carrying a shopping basket come up the muddy pathway on the side of the house.

Phyllis dashed across the street and ducked behind a tree. She watched the girl come out, turn left, and walk toward Notting Hill Gate. Phyllis let her get a bit farther away before she moved from the safety of her hiding place and followed her. But the girl walked so slowly that she had a tough time hanging back far enough not to get noticed. Finally, the lass turned onto the busy high street.

But again, the girl dawdled, stopping to look in windows, gawking at the traffic on the street, and staring at the well-dressed women going in and out of the shops. Phyllis couldn’t stand it anymore; she sidled up to the girl as she stood in front of a confectioner’s, her gaze fixed on a plate of cream buns.

“Those look lovely, don’t they?” Phyllis murmured.

The girl turned and stared at her. She had dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and a narrow face with thin lips. “Good enough to eat,” she finally replied. She cocked her head to one side and eyed her suspiciously. “I’ve never seen you before. Do you live round here?”

Phyllis hesitated for a brief moment. She had the strangest feeling that being honest would work with this one. She had no idea why she was so certain, but she was, and Betsy had told her to trust her instincts. But what if she was wrong? What if the girl balked at being questioned and told Inspector Witherspoon about being accosted in the street by someone digging for information. “No, I was following you hoping you’d speak to me.”

“Why should I want to talk to you? I don’t know you from Adam.” The girl turned her attention back to the window.

“Of course you don’t,” Phyllis tried again. “But I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me. My name is Mollie Brent, and my master works for a newspaper.” Even though she thought being honest with the girl might be best, she wouldn’t risk using her real name.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I saw you come out of the Meadows’ house, right, and Mrs. Meadows is good friends with Ronald Dearman’s widow.” She was making it up as she went along.
“And my master will pay me for any information I can give him about the murder case.”

The girl dragged her gaze away from the display of treats and looked Phyllis directly in the eye. “What’ll you pay me?” she asked bluntly.

“I’ll buy us a couple of those buns, and I’ll give you a tanner.”

“A tanner, that’s just a sixpence!” She laughed. “That’s not very much.” Her eyes narrowed. “Make it a shilling and I’ll do it.”

“I can’t do that. All I’m going to get is a shilling, and that’s only if I give him something useful he can put in his newspaper,” Phyllis retorted. She was beginning to enjoy herself. “And maybe this Mrs. Meadows doesn’t know anything.…” She gave a shrug and started to walk away.

“Wait. Alright, then.” The girl grabbed her arm. “I’ll do it. But you’ve got to buy me two of them buns. There’s a church just around the corner.” She pointed down the street. “St. George’s, there’s a bench outside the gate. I’ll wait for you there.”

Five minutes later, Phyllis settled down next to her informant. “What’s your name, then?”

“Blanche Keating.” The girl took a bite out of the bun and then hastily licked her lips to capture the escaping cream. “Mmm … this is so good.”

“Don’t you get enough food where you work?” Phyllis took her bun out of her shopping basket.

“We do now,” Blanche replied. “Mr. Meadows died six months ago, and he was a right cheap old bastard. There was never enough to eat. He was always yellin’ at the mistress about how much it cost to keep us. But he’s
gone now, and Mrs. Meadows isn’t near as mean with food. Mind you, we don’t get food like this, but we do get enough to eat now.”

“How many are you?” Phyllis took a bite.

“Just me and the cook.” Blanche grinned. “There’s another girl that comes in twice a week to help with the heavy cleanin’.”