Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (28 page)

Barrows gaped at him for a moment and then sighed heavily. “If it were anyone but you, Witherspoon, I’d pull them off the case. The Metropolitan Police Force doesn’t operate on ‘feelings’ but on facts.”

Barnes knew that wasn’t true either. The coppers he knew always operated on their instincts.

“But the fact of the matter is—” Barrows stared hard at the inspector—“your feelings often lead to the truth.”

Barnes let out a silent sigh of relief.

“How much longer do you think you’ll need?” Barrows continued. “We are under some pressure here. We don’t want the newspapers going on one of those “incompetent police” crusades again. We’ve only just begun to restore public confidence and we don’t want to lose it.”

Barnes held his breath, praying the inspector would answer correctly.

“I’m not certain, sir,” Witherspoon replied. “It’s a bit of a muddle.”

Barnes winced. Did the man never learn?

“Well you’d better get it unmuddled, Witherspoon,” Barrows snapped. “We need an arrest and we need it quickly. Furthermore, I’m a bit annoyed that you went around behind my back to the Home Office. I’ve always treated you decently. There was no reason you couldn’t have come directly to me with your concerns about Inspector Nivens.”

Barnes drew back in surprise.

Witherspoon’s jaw dropped. “I’ve no idea what you mean, sir,” he said when he’d recovered enough to speak. “But I never complained to anyone about Inspector Nivens, and I certainly didn’t go to the Home Office.”

Barrows eyed him speculatively. “Someone did. I got very specific orders to reprimand Inspector Nivens for interfering in your investigation.”

“I don’t know what this is about.” Witherspoon leaned forward in his chair. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Nivens since this case began. I know we’ve a bit of an awkward history between us, but if I were going to complain about him, I would come to you. But I didn’t because he hasn’t interfered at all.”

Barnes was fairly sure he knew who’d complained, and he suspected he knew why. Good for them. Maybe a good slap on the wrist would keep Nivens out of their business at least temporarily. But it also brought a whole host of other problems that Witherspoon wouldn’t even acknowledge.

Barrows waved his hand dismissively. “Alright, then, you didn’t complain. But do get on with solving this case.”

It was clear their meeting was over. Witherspoon and Barnes both stood up.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” the inspector replied.

“Take another look at Glover.” Barrows closed the file. “A criminal is a criminal, and Glover’s already admitted to embezzlement. It’s not that far a step to murder for a weak man like him.”

“Yes, sir.” Witherspoon backed toward the door. “I’d planned on interviewing him again this afternoon.”

Barnes grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and edged out into the hall.

“And stay away from Nivens,” Barrows called. “You’re not the only one with friends in high places.”

Neither of them spoke as they trudged back down the stairs and crossed the foyer.

“That wasn’t very pleasant,” Witherspoon said as they stepped outside.

“And what’s coming this way isn’t very pleasant either,” Barnes said.

Witherspoon spun around just as Nigel Nivens, a scowl on his face, charged across the pavement toward them. Barnes shoved himself in front of Witherspoon and rolled his hands into fists. He might be older, but he’d spent twenty-five years patrolling some of the meanest streets in London.

Two constables who’d been about to enter the building stopped and stared, their gazes fixed on Barnes.

Nivens skidded to a halt and glared at the constable. “Out of my way,” he ordered.

“Don’t start anything, sir,” Barnes said softly. “You’ll only end up damaging yourself.” His gaze cut to the two policemen on the steps and then back to Nivens. If fisticuffs began, the constables would come running. Barnes knew that as Nivens was loathed by the rank and file while Witherspoon was greatly admired, Nivens would end up with the most bruises. The report about the incident wouldn’t do his career aspirations any good, either.

Alarmed, Witherspoon tried to shove past Barnes. “Constable, really, let’s be sensible about this. I’m sure Inspector Nivens merely wants to speak to me.”

Barnes held his ground.

But Nivens was beyond listening to reason. “Get out of my way, Barnes, or I’ll have you tossed off the force for threatening a superior officer. You’ll not see a farthing of a pension if you’re dismissed for that.”

Witherspoon dodged around the constable and came almost nose to nose with Nivens. “If you try that, Inspector, I’ll use every resource at my disposal to stop you,” he warned. “Constable Barnes is a good and honorable officer, and I won’t allow you to try and ruin him. Do you understand?”

“I understand you’re both going to be sorry.” Nivens began to back away.

Witherspoon stepped closer to him. “Hear me well, Inspector. I think I know why you’re upset, and perhaps I’d be upset as well if the situation were reversed. But neither I nor the constable had anything to do with you being reprimanded.”

“Then who did?” Niven yelled.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” the inspector continued calmly. “But if you try to harm either of us, I’ll use my considerable resources to establish our rights and probably bankrupt you. You may not know this, but I have a great deal of money, and if need be, I’ll spend every penny of it suing you.”

Niven’s mouth worked but no sound came out. His face was crimson and his eyes bulged. Finally, after sputtering for a few seconds, he turned on his heel and stalked off.

The two constables by the door relaxed their stance and went on inside. Barnes turned to the inspector. “I don’t know what to say, sir. It was good of you to defend me like that.” His feelings were a bit jumbled. He was the one who usually looked out for the inspector.

Witherspoon waved impatiently. “Don’t mention it, Constable. I’m sick to death of Nivens’s behavior. I’m tired of the man threatening me and running to the chief with one silly tale after another. Come along. We’ve much to do today.” He started up the road.

“But thank you, sir.” Barnes fell into step next to him. “Are we going to interview Gibbons now?”

“Yes, there’s a cabstand by the bridge.”

Barnes knew they’d better get the case solved quickly. Witherspoon had money, and right now, he had influence. He’d solved over twenty homicides and was the most famous detective on the force, but a failed case could cause him great harm. Nigel Nivens was a dangerous opponent, and he really did have friends in high places. Witherspoon’s friends would disappear in the blink of an eye if he stopped solving murders.

“I heard some gossip that Gibbons was seen close to the Boyd residence just about the time of the murder,” Witherspoon continued.

“It’ll be interesting to find out what he was doing there.”

Barnes waved at a hansom pulling away from the cabstand by the bridge.

“Otherwise, I’m afraid I might be forced to take another look at Glover.” Witherspoon stepped into the cab and slid to the far side.

Barnes gave the driver the address and climbed in next to Witherspoon. He grabbed the handhold as the cab pulled out into traffic.

 

Walter Gibbons lived in a three-story townhouse in Belgravia. Witherspoon and Barnes were shown into the drawing room to wait while the butler went to see if Mr. Gibbons “was receiving.”

“At least he’s got some comfortable looking places for a body to sit,” Barnes murmured as he surveyed the drawing room.

Witherspoon followed the constable’s gaze, and a faint smile creased his lips. The room looked very much like every other upper-class drawing room he’d seen. The top half of the walls were painted pale gold and the bottom paneled in a dark-stained wood. A green velvet sofa with a tufted back and two matching parlor chairs stood in front of the fireplace, and a series of colorful woven carpets of different sizes covered the floors. “Considering Mr. Gibbons demeanor the last time we spoke with him, I don’t think we’ll be invited to sit down.”

“That is correct, Inspector.” Walter Gibbons strode into the room. “I hardly consider this a social call. What do you want?” He’d not bothered to put on either his coat or a cravat. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat as was the bottom button on his maroon waistcoat.

“We want to ask you some questions, Mr. Gibbons,” Barnes replied sharply. “As you so aptly put it, this isn’t a social call.”

Witherspoon smiled faintly. “Mr. Gibbons, where were you around eleven o’clock on the day Mr. Boyd was murdered?”

Gibbons looked surprised by the question. “I’ve already made a statement concerning my whereabouts that day,” he blustered. He jerked his head toward Barnes. “The constable interviewed me rather extensively.”

“But I didn’t ask that question,” Barnes replied. He could tell that Gibbons was avoiding an answer so he could give himself a moment to think.

“But I’m sure you did.” Gibbons walked over to the fireplace and propped his elbow on the mantle. “However, if you want me to repeat myself, I was right here.”

“No, you weren’t,” the inspector said softly. “You were walking on the Queens Road, and that’s right behind Mr. Boyd’s house. We have witnesses, Mr. Gibbons, so I suggest you tell us the truth.” He was bluffing, of course. They’d no witnesses at all, only a bit of unverified gossip his coachman had heard from someone at a pub!

Gibbons straightened up and tugged at his waistcoat. “What of it? It’s a free country. I’m not obliged to account for my whereabouts to you.”

“That is true,” the inspector replied. “You do have rights. Were you once engaged to Marianna Reese?”

Gibbons gaped at him. The color drained out of his face, leaving it virtually as white as his hair. “How dare you. How dare you ask such a personal question! I don’t have to answer that.”

“We can always ask Mrs. Sapington,” Witherspoon said softly. “She was Marianna Reese’s sister.”

“This topic is none of your business,” Gibbons yelled. The color had come back into his flesh and his cheeks were now bright pink.

“I’m afraid it is.” Barnes wasn’t sure what the inspector was about, but he’d do his part to keep the pressure on Gibbons. Witherspoon had mumbled something about gossip when they were in the hansom, but the street traffic had been so noisy he’d missed part of it. “You can either answer our questions sir, or we can ask your friends and associates.”

“Marianna Reese married Lawrence Boyd,” Witherspoon continued. He knew this was probably a painful memory and it wasn’t in his nature to pry about such an intimate matter, but this was a murder investigation. “She publicly humiliated you by running off with the man who painted her portrait. That is a motive for murder, sir.”

“For God’s sake, man, why would I wait twenty years to kill the bastard?” Gibbons cried.

“Because you knew that the trustees were going to give Boyd the honorary chairmanship of the Bankers Benevolent Society,” Witherpsoon replied. “I believe you’re one of the trustees. Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes.” Gibbons shoulders sagged as some of the bluster went out of him. “I’m on a number of boards, Inspector. What of it?”

“The other trustees overruled your objections about Mr. Boyd, didn’t they?”

“Most of them knew what he’d done to me,” Gibbons said dully. “But they didn’t care. All they were interested in was what he was going to give them.”

“You resigned over the matter.” Witherspoon was relieved. All of this information had come to him as gossip, but he’d discovered that quite often, the gossipmongers had their facts right. “I imagine that made you very angry.”

“Don’t be a fool, Inspector.” Gibbons trudged to the sofa and flopped down. “I was furious. Absolutely furious. I hated Lawrence Boyd, and my colleagues on the board knew that. I made no secret of my feelings toward the man, but as I’ve just told you, they didn’t care.”

“Why did you agree to go to the luncheon if you’d already resigned?” Barnes asked.

“I do my duty, Constable.”

Witherspoon suddenly recalled another tidbit he’d heard. “If you loathed Boyd so much, why did you have dinner with him a few weeks ago?”

Gibbons stared at him speculatively. “You’re very well informed, Inspector. I think I shall need to reevaluate my opinion of the police.”

“Just answer the question, sir,” Barnes pressed. His knee was starting to throb again.

“I had dinner with him because he had something I wanted.” Gibbons shrugged. “I didn’t want to invite him to my home, so I asked him to meet me at a nearby restaurant.” He laughed harshly. “He only agreed to meet me because he wanted the chairmanship so badly and he knew I was on the board. Otherwise, he’d not have given me the time of day. He was like that, you know. He was a perfectly odious excuse for a man. He didn’t see people as human beings. He only saw them as instruments of his own vanity. I can’t imagine what Marianna possibly saw in him.”

“You met at the restaurant,” the inspector pressed.

“I asked him if I could buy the portrait he’d done of Marianna.” Gibbons voice had dropped so low both policemen had to strain forward to hear. “I offered him a great deal of money for it, even though I knew he was rich. Of course, he refused, but I was counting on him doing that. Then I offered him the honorary chairmanship.”

“What was Boyd’s reaction?” the inspector asked.

“He laughed at me.” Gibbons looked down at the floor for a brief moment and then back up at them. “He laughed at me and told me he already had it. At first I didn’t believe him, but then I realized he was telling the truth. It was quite shocking, Inspector. I knew the board was leaning toward giving it to Sapington. He’s a social-climbing martinet of a fellow, but he’d worked hard for the society over the years and had built up a lot of good will. He lobbied furiously for the position, and I was sure he had it. He was certain as well. You should have seen his face when I told him it was going to Boyd.”