Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (15 page)

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Mrs. Goodge said cheerfully. “But I’m old and I was lucky to find the position. Not many people want to hire someone my age, and frankly, if I’d not found the inspector, I don’t know what I’d have done.”

Irma blinked in surprise and then her plain face split in a wide grin. “I expect you’d have done all right. Just the smell of those buns is making my mouth water. I’ll warrant you can still hold your own when it comes to cookin’ and bakin’.”

Mrs. Goodge laughed. It was amazing how a bit of honesty could clear the air. “Then sit yourself down and let’s have us a nice old natter. How’s your husband?”

“He’s even older and crankier than I am.” She laughed. “But we’re both in good health so we’ve no reason to complain. Sorry I was a bit stroppy when I first come in, but the truth is, I was ever so surprised to get your note yesterday. Well, I wasn’t sure why you wanted me to come by.”

Mrs. Goodge used her serving fork to put two buns on Irma’s plate. “I imagine you were surprised. I wanted to see you. It’s nice to chat with someone from the old days. So many of the ones we knew are gone now.”

“I know just what you mean. Did you hear that Lizzie Drucker died this past winter? She was younger than both of us.” Irma picked up a bun and took a bite.

“Oh no.” Mrs. Goodge was genuinely distressed. “Lizzie was ever such a nice person.”

“It was pneumonia that took her.” Irma swallowed her food and reached for her tea. “She’d gone to live with her daughter in Bournemouth, poor thing.”

They chatted about old friends and old times, which was precisely the way Mrs. Goodge had planned the conversation. “I understand that Minnie Pratt went to work for some banker. Now what was the name?” The cook trailed off and pretended to concentrate. “Oh, yes, now I remember, a man named Lawrence Boyd. That’s right, the man that was just murdered. That’s what made me think of her. I do hope Minnie is all right. You remember what a timid little thing she was.”

“That can’t be right.” Irma shook her head. “Minnie left service and went to Birmingham. She got a position as a matron at a girl’s school. Which is odd, when you think of it—she could barely read or write. But I do know who you’re talking about. That banker lived just around the corner from our restaurant. It’s quite a posh area, if I do say so myself.”

“My gracious, really? Did he ever eat at your restaurant?” This was going even better than she’d hoped.

“Only once that I know about. He came in with that awful Mr. Gibbons and they had a meal together.”

“You knew him by sight?” Mrs. Goodge thought that a bit strange.

“Oh, no, Mr. Gibbons kept mentioning his name. This was only two weeks ago, so I quite recall the incident. They came in and had a meal together, but that awful Mr. Gibbons didn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all.”

“What’s so awful about Mr. Gibbons?”

Irma snorted derisively. “He’s one of our regulars, and as such, he thinks he can walk all over people. Honestly, I wish he’d take his business elsewhere. He’s just one of those people that have been soured on life, if you know what I mean.”

“Maybe something happened to him when he was much younger,” Mrs. Goodge suggested.

“Nonsense. He’s not the first person to have had a fiancée go off and marry someone else,” Irma said briskly. “That’s supposedly why he’s such a miserable old grouch. At least that’s what Adelaide—she helps us do the washing up every night—says about him. Her aunt’s been his housekeeper for years, so I expect Adelaide knows a bit about the man. But it seems to me that’s just an excuse; some people simply enjoy being disagreeable. By the way, did you know that Harriet Day married a merchant sailor and went to live in one of them heathen countries in the Far East?”

“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Mrs. Goodge replied. Drat, she’d forgotten what a chatterbox Irma could be.

“Strange that I thought of her, isn’t it?” Irma took a quick sip of tea. “But of course I would. We were talking about that cranky Mr. Gibbons, and Harriet was the maid to his fiancée. Now what was her name? Oh, yes, now I remember. She was Marianna Reese. Oh, my gracious, that’s right! She married Lawrence Boyd.” Irma’s jaw dropped as she realized the connections. “Gracious, no wonder Gibbons looked like thunder that night. He was having dinner with the very man who’d stolen his fiancée.”

“The Lawrence Boyd who was just murdered?” Mrs. Goodge asked softly. She reached for the teapot. “Do have some more tea.”

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” Irma replied. “But honestly, it’s lovely to see you and be able to talk about anything I like. When I’m at the restaurant, we’ve got to be so careful all the time. It does get so wearing, and John does tell me I do go on a bit.”

“You don’t go on at all.” Mrs. Goodge refilled her cup. “It’s wonderful to be able to chat with an old friend. Now, tell me more about your Mr. Gibbons and his dinner with Lawrence Boyd.”

 

Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes stepped into the office of Reese and Cutlip, Merchant Bankers. The clerks, all busily working at their desks, looked up one by one. Apparently, the sight of a uniformed policeman in their midst was a bit of a surprise for they all gaped at the two officers. The inspector stepped forward just as a door on the far side of the room opened and an older man appeared. “May I help you,” the man asked as he came toward them.

“We would like to see Mr. Sapington,” Witherspoon replied. They had been going to see Boyd’s solicitor this morning, but as he’d been unexpectedly called out of town, Witherspoon had decided to speak to Boyd’s luncheon guests again.

“Is Mr. Sapington expecting you?” The man regarded them over the top of his spectacles. “I’m Mr. Bateman, Mr. Sapington’s chief clerk.”

“Mr. Bateman, please ask Mr. Sapington if he can spare us a few moments,” Barnes said.

“I can spare you as many moments as you need.” Arnold Sapington stood in the open doorway just behind the elderly clerk. He stared at them. “Come in, please.”

Witherspoon and Barnes followed him inside. Sapington went back to his desk and sat down. He regarded the policemen steadily. “Why are you here?”

“We’d like to ask you a few more questions,” Witherspoon said. He noticed there were two empty chairs right in front of the man’s desk.

“I don’t see how I can help you.” Sapington shrugged. “By the time my wife and I arrived for luncheon, Lawrence, Mr. Boyd, was already dead.”

“That’s true, sir.” Witherspoon tried to think of why he wanted to speak to this person again, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite remember.

“Did you come to your office that day, sir?” Barnes asked. His knees were hurting him something fierce and he hated being kept standing like this.

Sapington’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I was here for a little while. Why? Am I considered a suspect?” He seemed amused by the prospect.

“We’re only trying to establish the facts, sir,” Barnes replied.

“What time did you leave for your luncheon?” Witherspoon asked. He too didn’t like being kept standing. He was certain that Sapington was doing it deliberately.

Sapington thought for a moment. “It was probably eleven o’clock or thereabouts. No, no, wait, I left a bit earlier than that because I had to go to my tailor on Bond Street, then I went home and collected my wife. You know what women are like; it took ages before she was ready, so it must have been half past twelve before we left our house.”

“Let me make sure I understand this, sir.” Barnes hadn’t bothered to take out his notebook; writing while standing up was simply too difficult. He’d just make sure he remembered all the details of Sapington’s statement. “You left here a few minutes before eleven, went to your tailors on Bond Street, then went home to collect your wife. By half past twelve you were on your way to Mr. Boyd’s. Is that the correct sequence of events?”

Again, Sapington thought for a moment. “It was probably closer to half past ten or ten fifteen when I left here. Frankly, Constable, I wasn’t really watching the time.” He shrugged. “I had no reason to keep my eye on the clock, so I did what I came in to do and then went about my business.”

“Perhaps one of your staff will recall exactly when you left?” Witherspoon suggested.

Sapington laughed. “I imagine they will, Inspector. I’m the boss, so I expect my comings and goings are of some importance to them. When the cats away, the mouse will play. By all means, go ahead and speak to the staff.”

Witherspoon smiled faintly. “Thank you, sir. That’s very cooperative of you.”

“I have nothing to hide,” he replied.

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind giving us the name of your tailor,” Barnes added.

 

“’E didn’t give a toss about his bank,” Jeremiah Fitch declared. “All he wanted to do was get ’is name in the papers and paint ’is ruddy pictures. It’s a wonder they didn’t toss ’im out on ’is ear.”

Smythe had spoken to half a dozen people this morning, and this was the first time he’d found anyone who knew anything about the victim or any of their list of suspects. He measured his words carefully. Jeremiah Fitch was half drunk but not so far gone as to be useless. But if he had another pint of the fine ale here in the Gray Goose Pub, it might be a different story altogether. “You ought to know. You worked for Boyd long enough.”

“Worked for ’im for ten years, I did.” Fitch rubbed his nose. He was a balding man of late middle age with weatherworn skin, blue eyes, and a weak chin. He wore a gray coat two sizes too large for his skinny frame, a dirty gray shirt with a frayed collar, and black trousers held up with an old leather belt. “I used to watch him go into that buildin’ ’e called a studio and do ’is paintin’. I’m the one that tore the original windows out and put them big ones in for ’im.”

“Why’d you stop workin’ for ’im?” Smythe asked.

“I didn’t.” Fitch shrugged and took another quick sip. “’E just stopped ’avin’ work for me. I weren’t a proper groundsman or gardner, you see, more like a jack of all trades. I’d do fer ’im whenever ’e needed a bit o’ carpentry or somethin’ like that done. I used to work in the buildin’ trade, I did. Mr. Boyd would ’ave me in whenver ’e needed a stair replaced or windows done or a door to be hung. But the past year, ’e’s not done much but paint in that ruddy studio. I don’t see how ’e could stand all them hours out there. Cold as a whore’s heart in the winter and stifling hot in the summer. It couldn’a been comfortable for him.”

“Why not?”

“It were only half finished at best. The last job I did for him was them windows, and I was goin’ to do the ceilin’ next. But ’e told me not to bother. He said he liked it that way.”

“’E sounds a strange bird.” Smythe took a quick sip of his beer. “The sort of fellow that had a lot of enemies.”

Fitch laughed softly. “That’s true. ’E weren’t well liked. Odd though, he were right sociable. Always off to charity dos and vying to be the honorary chairman of this and that.”

“Snob was he?” Smythe muttered. He really wasn’t making any progress at all. This might be interesting general information, but it wasn’t going to help them find the killer.

Fitch shook his head. “He were a toff, that’s for sure. But it was more like he wanted people to take notice of ’im.”

“When was the last time you saw ’im?”

“A day or so before the murder,” Fitch replied. “I stopped in to see if he’d changed him mind about pullin’ that old ceiling down, but he told me to quit worryin’ about it, that it was fine the way it was. Boyd usually didn’t talk much to me, but that day he was excited and I was the only one there, so he started chattin’ with me like we was old mates. Told me he was goin’ to get it this year, that they couldn’t give it to someone else and that ’e’d be the one making the speech on the big night.”

“What was he on about?”

Fitch’s weather-beaten face creased in a frown as he tried to remember more details. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know that ’e ever said the name of the charity. But he was excited to be beatin’ the others out.”

“Beating the others out?” Smythe repeated. “What does that mean?”

Fitch grinned broadly. “There was another bunch of bankers up for it as well, and what was really makin’ him happy was that he was beatin’ them out for the top spot. He didn’t give a toss about the benevolent society. He was just happy the other blokes were losin’.”

“Benevolent society? Is that the name of the charity?” Smythe asked.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Fitch replied. He looked down at his now empty pint. “I don’t suppose you’d stand me another, would ya?”

Smythe was fairly sure he’d gotten as much information as he was going to get out the fellow, so it didn’t matter how drunk he got now. “Sure, you’ve been right good company.” He nodded to the barman. “Another pint for me friend ’ere, please.”

 

Wiggins stopped and stared in the shop window. But instead of actually looking at the beautiful bicycle displayed behind the glass, his eyes darted to the left and the right, trying to see if he really was being followed or if it was all in his mind. He saw nothing on either side except the rush of people going about their business on the busy High Street. Wiggins whirled around and spotted his prey disappearing into a doorway directly across the road from where he stood.

The man was quick but not fast enough, and Wiggins got a good look at him before he dived through the door of the chemist’s shop. It was the same man who’d followed him the day before.

Wiggins had to warn the others, had to tell them to be careful. He turned and started back the way he’d just come, but he hadn’t taken more than a few steps before he stopped. It was no use going back there now; the others would all be out. Besides, he had a much better idea. He looked over his shoulder. Sure enough, the man had just stepped out of the chemist’s shop.

Wiggins made sure the man had spotted him, then he sprinted across the busy road, dodging between a hansom and a water cart. “Watch where you’re goin’, you silly git,” the cart driver yelled as he pulled his horse up, but Wiggins ran on. He looked behind him and saw the fellow charging after him. He tore around the corner and then ducked into a small side street leading to a mews. Oh, yes, this was going to be lots of fun.