Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (20 page)

“Everyone in Ronald Dearman’s circle of family, friends, and work colleagues must be considered a possible suspect in his murder.”

“But Antonia and Ronald had very little to do with one another. He considered her a fool, and she wasn’t shy about telling people she thought him a brute.”

“They may have not had much to do with one another, but apparently, there was no love lost between them,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Do you know why they came to London?”

“I can’t say for certain, and Lucretia would die before she’d ever confide in me, but the gossip I heard is that Thaddeus Meadows inherited a house and a small yearly income from his godfather. He wasn’t doing well in York;
apparently, the family fortunes had turned sour, so he sold off their home there and moved to London. Antonia was happy with the change. She hated being separated from Lucretia. Those two are closer than most sisters, which is perhaps one of the reasons Ronald disliked her so much.”

“So their coming here had nothing to do with Sutcliffe Manufacturing?”

“Not at all. Thaddeus was a small shareholder in the company, but he had no more than hundreds of other shareholders. He had nothing to do with the management or the running of the firm.”

“What happened to those shares when he died?”

“I’ve not heard that he had any other heirs, so I imagine they went to Antonia. As far as I know, she inherited everything. The shares are worth a great deal more than they were when he first acquired them.”

“They had no children?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.

A shadow flitted across Fiona’s face for a brief moment. “No, there were rumors that Antonia lost a baby early in her marriage, but again, I’ve no idea if it’s true.”

“I’ve heard that Ronald Dearman was a snoop,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Is it true?”

“Absolutely.” Fiona looked disgusted. “When they came to dine, I hid all our correspondence. You know what I mean, invitations and calling cards, that sort of thing one leaves on the mantelpiece as a reminder of a social obligation. Ronald had no compunction whatsoever about reading them. He wasn’t even embarrassed when he was caught. He’d just make up a lie that the paper fell and he’d picked it up and was putting it back. One time John caught him in the study, going through
his desk drawers. He claimed he was looking for a piece of notepaper, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Did John?”

“He pretended he did.” She shrugged. “But I think he had his doubts. I know that after that incident, he took to locking the desk.”

Mrs. Jeffries regarded her steadily. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? It is rather pertinent information.”

Fiona raised her eyebrows. “It never occurred to me to mention it. The man had a substantial number of character flaws. I saw no reason to single that one out for special attention.”

“Didn’t you?” She smiled. She knew Fiona was lying, that she’d deliberately kept this information secret. But why? “Come now, Fiona, you’re a smart woman. Surely you must have realized that people who nose about in other people’s business with the kind of single-minded fervor that Dearman possessed must have a reason for doing so.”

“He just liked knowing things about people, that’s all,” she insisted.

Mrs. Jeffries was losing patience. “That’s absurd. No one in his class risks becoming a social pariah just because they like ‘knowing things.’ We found out about his little habit of snooping in drawers and peeking in windows in just a few days. How long do you think it’s going to be before the police know what he was up to?”

“I don’t know what kind of gossip you’ve heard, but he was just a common garden variety snoop—”

Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “He was a blackmailer. He discovered people’s secrets and blackmailed them.” She was shooting in the dark here, the very thing she’d
warned the others about just this morning, but she needed to shake Fiona enough to get the truth out of the woman.

“How do you know that?” Fiona cried. Conversation at the nearest tables stopped as well-dressed matrons turned to stare at them with expressions of disapproval. She smiled apologetically and lowered her voice. “Do you have evidence that he was blackmailing anyone? Do you know that for a fact, or are you just guessing?”

And with that, Mrs. Jeffries knew her suspicions had been confirmed. Dearman had threatened to blackmail Fiona; she could see it in the sudden fear that flashed across Fiona’s face and in the way her hands clenched into fists. Mrs. Jeffries leaned forward and looked her straight in the eye. “I do know it for a fact. He tried to blackmail you. What’s more, if I can find out so easily, so can the police, and they won’t be nearly as tolerant of your privacy as I was.”

Fiona’s face drained of color. “Alright, he was trying to blackmail me, but I didn’t kill him.”

“What did he have on you?” Mrs. Jeffries asked bluntly.

“Oh dear God, don’t ask me that, I can’t tell you, I simply can’t. It doesn’t just involve me. It’s not my secret to tell.”

“Then whose is it? Fiona, you don’t seem to understand—”

“But I do,” she interrupted. “I know what I’m doing. Even though I didn’t kill him, I know that I’m a suspect and there’s a chance I’ll face the hangman. But that’s a risk I’ll have to take.”

Mrs. Jeffries said nothing. She had her answer now; there was only one person that Fiona would sacrifice herself for, her husband. “Does John own a gun?”

Fiona drew back. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the police are going to ask, and I suggest you don’t lie to them. They’ll have asked your servants as well.”

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she looked down at her hands. She took a long, ragged breath and lifted her chin. “He owns a gun. He keeps it in the drawer in his sitting room.”

The room went silent as the two policemen stepped into the outer office of Sutcliffe Manufacturing. Two rows of clerks paused over their ledgers, and the typewriter girl, alone in a spot by the window, stopped her work and stared at them with open curiosity. The chief clerk, an older man with a prominent overbite, scurried out from behind his high desk in the corner of the room. He didn’t look pleased to see them. “Back again, are you? How many more times are you going to disrupt our office? We’re already behind in our accounts.”

“As many times as it takes to find Mr. Dearman’s murderer,” Barnes said softly. “We’d like to have a word with Mr. Anson. Please tell him we’re here.”

“Wait here, and I’ll see if he is available.” The clerk gave them one last disapproving frown and hurried down the hallway.

Witherspoon pointed to a closed door on the far side of the room. “I wonder if that is the victim’s office.”

“Indeed it is, sir,” the clerk closest to them said. “I’m Daniel Jones. That’s where he was murdered.”

“The other private offices are down that hall?” Witherspoon pointed in the opposite direction. “Is that correct?”

Jones nodded. “Yes, Mr. Dearman’s office is separated from the others. You can see all of us from his room, and he liked that. He was in charge of us, sir.”

“Who is in charge now?” Barnes asked.

Just then, they heard the voices, then footsteps, and a tall man wearing a dark blue suit emerged. He was followed by the clerk.

“Mr. Anson?” Witherspoon asked.

“I’m Anson.” His face creased in a puzzled frown as he came toward the two policemen. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. I thought you’d already taken statements and questioned the staff. Do you need to speak to us again?”

Witherspoon smiled apologetically and extended his hand. “We haven’t met, sir. I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes.” Anson took the proffered hand. “I know it’s confusing,” he continued, “but Inspector Nivens met with an accident and I’m taking over. I know it’s inconvenient, but we will need to look at Mr. Dearman’s office and speak to your staff again.”

“I’ve already told them these disruptions have put us very behind in our accounts,” the clerk said quickly.

“I’m sure you have, Mr. Dennis. Go on with your duties. I’ll take care of this matter.” He waved the clerk back to his corner and turned to Witherspoon. “We’ll cooperate in any way we can. But as Mr. Dennis has just said, we’d like to get back to doing business. We’re falling behind in our accounts department.”

“Thank you, we appreciate your position. We’ll do our best to get this over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. But I must remind you that this is a murder investigation and it’s essential we interview everyone.”

“But you’ve already done that,” Anson protested. “The
police were here for two days taking statements from the staff. You’re not starting over, are you? Surely the original reports are available to you.”

“They are, sir,” Barnes said. “But we’d prefer to conduct our own interviews. It won’t take long.”

“I suppose I’ve no choice in the matter. Who would you like to speak with first?”

Barnes said, “If it’s all the same to you, sir, we’d like to have a word with you.”

“I’ve already given a very lengthy statement. I spoke to a Constable Morehead, and I know he took note of everything I said, but if you think this is really necessary, then let’s go into my office.”

He motioned for them to follow. Once inside, he pointed to two straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. “Please sit down,” he said, taking this seat.

The two policemen sat, and Barnes whipped out his little brown notebook. “Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm Mr. Dearman?” he asked.

Anson’s eyebrows rose. “As I told the other constable, Dearman wasn’t a nice person. Everyone here either disliked him or feared him. But if you’re asking if I know of anyone who hated him enough to kill him, then I’m afraid the answer is no.”

“How about you, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “You told Constable Morehead that the two of you didn’t get along.” This was a guess on his part; he’d not read any of the statements yet.

“We didn’t get along at all. Dearman resented my presence here and tried his best to get Mr. Sutcliffe to either move my office to the Battersea plant or terminate me completely.”

“Why did he resent you?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

“He thought I was trying to take his place.” Anson leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “I run the day-to-day operations of both our manufacturing plants. One is in York and the smaller one is here in London, so I’m gone much of the time. Ronald Dearman used to have my position, but when I came on board this past September, he was put solely in charge of the office management. He’s resented me ever since. But the truth of the matter is I was hired because he simply wasn’t up to the task. As a matter of fact, when Mr. Sutcliffe recruited me, I got the distinct impression he was going to sack Dearman outright.”

“What time did you leave the office on the day of the murder?” Witherspoon unbuttoned his coat. It was very warm in the room.

Anson sighed. “If you’ve read my statement, you’ll know I left at five.”

“Did you go straight home from here?”

“No, I went to the post office, and then I went to my lodgings to rest before going to my fiancée’s home. We had a dinner engagement.”

“What is the lady’s name, and where does she live?”

“I don’t want anyone bothering her with something this distasteful,” he retorted.

“Sorry, sir, but we must insist,” Witherspoon said. “We’ll be as discreet as possible, I assure you.”

Anson looked doubtful. “Her name is Miss Amy Throckmorton. Her family lives near Hyde Park, number four, Haddington Place.”

“What time did you arrive at the Throckmorton home?” the constable asked.

“I didn’t note the time, but I wasn’t late, which was amazing as the traffic that evening was dreadful. So I must have arrived close to seven o’clock.”

“How did you get there?” Witherspoon asked.

“I took a hansom cab,” Anson replied.

“Where did the hansom pick you up? Was it at a stand or in the street?” Barnes asked.

“It was out on the road near my lodging house.” He looked confused. “But why do you need to know that?”

“Because we’ll need to check with the driver and have him verify your account,” the inspector explained politely.

Wiggins grinned to himself as he saw the housemaid stop in front of the pub. She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, opened the door, and stepped inside. He was after her like a shot. He hoped his luck was changing; he’d spent the day hanging about one place after another and hadn’t found anyone willing to give him the time of day.

He went in and stood just inside the door, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dim light. It was a good working-class pub: nothing fancy, sawdust on the floors, wooden benches along the walls, and three small wooden tables. He spotted his quarry standing at the bar. The barman was pouring her drink, and the fellow next to her was chatting with her as if they were old friends. Cor blimey, he thought, looks like she’s a regular. He frowned; he’d hoped to catch her on her own. But he moved to the bar and eased into the spot next to her.

“What’ll you ’ave, mate?” the barman asked.

“A pint of bitter, please,” he replied. He glanced at her and gave her a friendly smile. But she was knocking back her glass and didn’t notice him. She wore a shabby gray jacket over a maid’s lavender broadcloth skirt, and now that he was close to her, he could see she was older than he’d first thought. There were streaks of gray in her brown hair and lines etched around her eyes and mouth.

She put the glass down and turned her head, catching him watching her. “What are you starin’ at?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry, miss.” He gave her another smile. “I meant no disrespect. I was lookin’ at you because I thought you were someone else. You look enough like my cousin to be her twin, and as she works round these parts, I thought you was her.”

“Oh, that’s alright, then,” she muttered.

The man standing next to her, a burly fellow with a red complexion and stringy gray hair, poked her in the ribs. “Did you ask her?”

“I tried, but yesterday she was shut up with that friend of hers, and then the vicar and the undertaker come round, and this mornin’ she up and disappeared. The housekeeper said she was goin’ out to Mr. Dearman’s old cottage in Essex and wouldn’t be back until late. Tomorrow’s the funeral, and I don’t feel right sayin’ anythin’ on the day she’s buryin’ her husband. Sorry, Sam, I know how badly you need work. I’ll try to have a word with her next week. But I do know that she’s not hired anyone else for the job.”