Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (13 page)

“That’s ever so nice of you.” She batted her eyelashes shamelessly and grinned. “The coffeehouse is just around
here.” Linking her arm in his, she hurried them both toward the corner.

As she hustled him into the coffeehouse and over to a table, Wiggins had a sneaking suspicion a free meal might have been her aim all along. He was wearing a brand-new white shirt and a new pair of shoes. He probably looked like an easy mark; his new clothes alone set him a cut above most of the working people round here. But as he had nothing better to do and he’d never been in a coffeehouse before, he didn’t much mind.

“Will a ploughman’s do you?” she asked. He nodded. “Two ploughman’s over here and a glass of ale,” she called to the waiter. “Do you want one?”

As the very thought of beer made his stomach curdle, he shook his head. “No thanks.”

“My name’s Bronwen Jones,” she said chattily, plopping her elbows on the table and grinning at him. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Wiggins.”

“Wiggins what?” she asked. “Ta,” she said to the waiter as he put two plates of bread, pickled onions and cheese on the table in front of them.

Wiggins would die before he told anyone his first name. “Just Wiggins.”

“You work round these parts?” Bronwen asked. She stuffed a huge bite of bread in her mouth.

Wiggins hesitated. He could hardly tell her the truth, that he was over here snooping about finding clues to a murder. He decided to do the next best thing. She might be a local, she might know something. “Not really.” He gave her another sheepish grin. “I guess you could say I just come over to these parts ’cause I ’eard about that murder. Curious, that’s all. Thought I’d ’ave a gander at the pub.”

“You mean that publican that got himself stabbed.” She snatched up the cheese.

“Right. Fellow named Haydon Dapeers.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I know the bastard’s name. And if someone shoved a knife in his back, good for them, I say.”

Wiggins couldn’t believe his luck. “You knew the man?”

“Everyone round ’ere knows ’im,” she snorted. “And most don’t like him much. Real pig, he is. Tryin’ to run his own brother out of business. Not that Tom’s all that much better than Haydon, but at least Tom and Joanne mind their own business and don’t go callin’ the law on us just for ’angin’ about outside the pub to pick up a bit of trade.”

“What do you mean,” Wiggins asked, “about his brother-in-law?”

She swallowed her cheese. “Just what I said. Tom and Joanne ’ave worked right ’ard to make their pub a success. Not too many pubs on this street, that’s why they come ’ere. And what does that bastard do, he opens one up just a few yards up the road from theirs. Done it deliberately, accordin’ to my friend Ellen, and she ought to know: she used to work for Tom and Joanne.”

“Who’s Ellen?” Wiggins was getting confused and he knew he shouldn’t because tonight when he met with the others after dinner, he’d have to give them all the facts.

“Ellen Hoxton. She’s a friend of mine. Mind you, she doesn’t work at the Black Horse anymore. She got sacked for sassin’ Joanne. ’Ard one is Joanne. Real ’ard.”

“And this Ellen claims that Dapeers deliberately opened his pub to drive his own brother out of business?” Wiggins hoped he sounded like just a nosey parker and not someone who was really trying to pick up information.

“That’s what Ellen said. She said she overheard them havin’ a right old row about it. Joanne and Tom was both furious.” She broke off and nodded at Wiggins’s plate. “You goin’ to eat that cheese?”

He pushed his plate toward her. She needed this food a lot more than he did. “My stomach’s still not right. You have it.”

“Ta,” she replied, pushing her empty plate to one side and yanking his over to take its place. “Anyways, like I was saying: Ellen overheard this terrible row. Tom and Haydon was goin’ at each other like cats and dogs.”

“Where could I find this Ellen?”

Bronwen stopped eating and gave him a long, speculative stare. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

He wondered if he’d overplayed his hand. “Guess I am, at that. Mind you, you’re bein’ awful polite about it. Most people just tell me I’m nosy as sin.”

She laughed. “No harm in that. Especially when it’s something as juicy as murder.”

“So where’s this Ellen at?” he persisted. Bronwen had tucked back into the food with such relish he hoped she hadn’t forgotten his question.

“Don’t know.” She shrugged. “Ain’t seen Ellen since she got tossed out of the Black Horse.”

“And when was that?”

“A day or two before Haydon got himself stabbed.” She frowned slightly. “No, I tell a lie. I did see Ellen after that.”

“Where?”

She grew thoughtful and put the last bite of cheese back down on her plate. “That’s the funny part,” she murmured. “Mind you, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Considerin’ that Ellen didn’t much like Haydon Dapeers and all.”

“Yeah,” Wiggins encouraged.

“The last time I saw Ellen, she was in the Gilded Lily Pub and she and Haydon were chattin’ like they was old friends.”

Mrs. Jeffries carefully looked up and down the street as she crossed the road to the Gilded Lily Pub. Even with her ability to talk her way out of awkward situations, considering the inspector’s present state of mind, she didn’t want to run into him just now.

She saw no one she recognized, only a police constable keeping watch on the corner. Smiling serenely and keeping her shopping basket tucked over her arm, she sauntered toward her goal. The Gilded Lily was closed, of course. But she slowed her pace and managed to get a good look in the window. Yet there wasn’t much to see; the interior was too dark. Continuing on, she came to Bonham Road, turned the corner and tried looking in the window of the saloon bar. Same problem. Not near enough light to make anything out.

A few yards up the road, she spotted the entrance to the mews. Mrs. Jeffries cast a quick glance over her shoulder and headed that way. Within seconds she was standing outside the back door of the pub. Realizing it was probably foolish, she lifted her hand, grasped the knob and turned. To her amazement, the door swung open.

She hesitated, glanced to her left and right to make sure she wouldn’t be seen and then slipped inside. Stepping softly, she made her way down the darkened hall. At the first door, she stopped, tried the handle and sighed in disappointment when it wouldn’t budge.

But then she heard voices.

They were low-pitched and quiet, barely above a whisper. Mrs. Jeffries tiptoed quietly down the hall, stopping
short of the opening that led to the saloon bar. The voices were louder now, but not clear enough for her to hear properly. She dropped to her knees, tucked her shopping basket out of the way, lifted her skirts and crawled closer to the opening leading to the public bar.

“I think we ought to leave London. I’d like to pack up and go and never come back.” It was a woman’s voice. Mrs. Jeffries desperately wanted to see who was speaking, but she didn’t dare raise her head.

“But we haven’t done anything,” a man replied. “And I’ll not have your name tainted with a murder charge. Not after all that you’ve endured in that house.”

“The police were round. They asked me a lot of questions,” she said.

“The police are questioning everyone,” he said softly.

“But I hated Haydon,” she cried. “And I was stupid enough to let that inspector know it.”

“Everyone hated Haydon,” he exclaimed. “You had nothing to do with his murder, though. So you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“I’ve everything to worry about,” she insisted, her voice catching. “I came back inside the pub that night. I was here when he was being killed. Someone probably saw me. I was standing right at the bar. Someone will remember, someone will tell the police they saw me go back inside before that stupid fight finished out on the street. They’ll blame Haydon’s murder on me.”

“That’s not going to happen,” the man said. “I won’t let it.”

Mrs. Jeffries had to see who was speaking. She risked peeking around the door. In a dark corner of the bar, she could make out the two figures. Even in the dim light, she could see that the woman was young, blond and pretty. The
man was dressed in a white shirt and dark trousers, his face half in shadow.

“But you won’t be able to do anything about it,” the woman said passionately.

“I’ve got money now,” he replied, grasping her by the shoulders. “And if I have to, I’ll spend every penny of it to protect you and the child.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s knees began to tingle. She wasn’t as young as she used to be; she eased back, trying to get more comfortable while still keeping her vantage point. Unfortunately, as she moved, her foot connected with her shopping basket. A loud scratching noise cut through the quiet room as the wicker basket skittered backward. Mrs. Jeffries quickly ducked back behind the door. She glanced down the long hallway, wondering if she could make it to the door before she was discovered.

“What’s that?” the woman asked.

The man let go of her and leapt to his feet. “Stay here,” he ordered. “It may be the police.”

Mrs. Jeffries debated about whether to try to make a dash for it. But she hesitated a moment too long.

The man’s face appeared from around the doorway. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded.

“What time is Mrs. Jeffries expected back?” Betsy asked excitedly as she hurried into the kitchen. “I’ve got ever so much to tell everyone.”

“She should have been back half an hour ago,” Mrs. Goodge replied. She continued to lay out the tea things. “I expect she got held up and will be in at any moment.”

“What about Wiggins and Smythe?” Betsy snatched up her apron from the back of the chair, tied it around her waist and picked up the tea tray Mrs. Goodge had sitting on the sideboard.

“They should be back soon too.” The cook slapped a plate of buns on the table. “They know we’re having a meeting this afternoon.”

By the time the two women had finished setting the table, Wiggins and Smythe had both arrived home. But Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t.

“How much longer do you think we ought to wait for her?” Betsy asked worriedly as she glanced at the kitchen clock. It wasn’t like the housekeeper to be late. Especially for one of their meetings.

“I’m sure she’ll be along any minute,” Mrs. Goodge said, but she too looked concerned.

“Maybe we should start without ’er,” Wiggins ventured. “I’d like to get back out and do a bit more snoopin’.”

“We can’t start without her,” Betsy snapped. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Well, I don’t think she’d mind all that much,” the footman said defensively. “We can always catch her up this evenin’ after supper.”

Betsy frowned. “I still don’t think it’s right—”

“I do,” Smythe cut in quickly. “Mrs. Jeffries would be the first to tell us to carry on. Just because she’s late is no reason for us to mope around ’ere twiddlin’ our thumbs, not when we’ve a killer to catch.”

“You’re absolutely right, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said. They all turned and saw the housekeeper, out of breath and her tidy bonnet askew, rushing toward the table. “I’m so dreadfully sorry to be late, but I’m afraid it was unavoidable.”

“What ’appened?” Smythe asked. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She pulled out her chair at the head of the table and plopped down. “But a cup of tea would do nicely right now. I’m afraid I got caught snooping.”

“Got caught,” Wiggins cried. “By who? The inspector? Constable Barnes?”

“No, no, it wasn’t as bad as all that.” She waved her hand in the air. “But it wasn’t the most pleasant experience I’ve ever had either.”

“What ’appened?” Smythe asked.

Mrs. Jeffries took the cup of tea that Mrs. Goodge handed to her. “Well, I decided to have a look at the scene of the crime, so to speak—”

“You went round to the Gilded Lily?” Wiggins cried. “But that’s daft—”

“Stop interruptin’,” Betsy interrupted the footman, “and let Mrs. Jeffries finish.”

“Thank you, Betsy.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled at the maid. “And while I was there I discovered the back door was unlocked.”

Smythe shook his head in disgust. “Ya didn’t go in, did ya? Bloomin’ Ada, Mrs. J, that
was
a daft thing to do.”