Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (13 page)

“Mr. Edison didn't discuss his business with you?” Barnes pressed.

“Oh, but he did. I just don't recall any one person who considered him a genuine enemy.”

The constable wasn't going to give up so easily. “What about his testifying in the Granger bankruptcy matter? Surely some of those investors were angry.”

“Naturally, Constable, but hundreds of people have lost money in the Transvaal. This is only one of many mines that didn't have any gold in it and it certainly isn't the first one to go bankrupt.”

Barnes nodded. “Did you invest in the Granger Mine?”

“No.”

“Why not? You said Mr. Edison was your financial adviser.”

“He was and that's exactly why I didn't.” She smiled coldly. “He advised me not to.”

* * *

“That one walks about with her nose up so high it's a wonder she don't trip.” Enid Carter pointed to the woman walking out the front door of number 8 Hanover Villas. “No matter how expensive them clothes are, it don't hide the fact that she's fat as a pig and looks like one to boot!”

Phyllis swallowed uneasily and hoped they were far enough away that the lady in question wouldn't hear or, for that matter, even see them.

“Stop lookin' so worried, the likes of her won't take any notice of the likes of us—it'd be beneath her to even look this way. What's more, she's half-deaf.” Enid grabbed Phyllis' elbow. “Now come on, you promised to buy me a drink at the Blackbird Pub on the Uxbridge Road.”

“Who is she?” Phyllis had the presence of mind to ask as she was tugged toward the busy street in the distance.

“That's Miss Waterson, Mr. Ralston's fiancée, and she's as mean as they come. Her father's Sir Thomas Waterson. Come on, hurry up, I've got to get back in time to scrub the vegetables for supper.”

Phyllis kept her gaze fixed on the woman, who was now stepping into a brougham carriage. Enid was right; she wasn't very pretty. Miss Waterson had a face as round as a china plate and a short stubby nose that turned straight up. Her lips were thin and her complexion blotchy. Her mousy brown hair was tucked up beneath an expensive sable hat that matched the fur muff she carried, and her navy blue cloak came all the way to the ground.

“Come on, with Laura gone I can't stay out too long.” Enid gave her hand a good yank.

“Yes, alright, I'm coming.” She took one last look at the tall, elegant white-fronted house that belonged to Paul Ralston. Determined to make up for her negligence of the previous day, she'd come to Notting Hill after the morning meeting. She'd spent the first part of the day on the high street, chatting up shopkeepers, and to her delight she'd learned a snippet or two about Paul Ralston. But she'd really hit pay dirt at the fishmonger's when she'd brought up Ralston's name.

“That's who I work for,” a voice exclaimed.

Startled, because Phyllis had thought she was alone with the clerk, she looked over her shoulder. A thin, thirtyish woman stood there staring at her. “Why are you asking about Mr. Ralston? Who are you?”

Flustered, Phyllis had stammered the first thing that came to her mind. “I heard there was work there.”

“How'd you hear that? Laura only left yesterday and I know his nibs hasn't advertised the position yet.” Enid had eyed her suspiciously and turned to the clerk. “A pound of haddock, please.”

Embarrassed, but sure that she could learn something, Phyllis had bobbed her head politely at the lad and hurried outside. But she didn't go far. She turned left and went a half dozen yards down the pavement until she found a recessed opening between two shops. She wedged herself in the space and waited. When Enid emerged, she gave her a head start and then hurried to catch up. “Please wait, I really do need a job. A friend of a friend told me that Miss Laura had quit . . .”

Enid stopped and turned to her. The two women were of the same height, but Enid's threadbare green and gray plaid coat hugged a body so thin as to be almost skinny. Beneath her white maid's cap, her hair was brown and her face, though still young, was already lined with worry brackets on each side of her lips. “Then your friend got it wrong because she didn't quit, Ralston sacked her when she tried to give notice, and if I'm late getting back with this fish, I'll get the sack as well.” She whirled on her heel and continued down the street.

Phyllis took a deep breath and then raced after her. “Wait, wait. I need to talk to you.”

“What for?” Enid continued walking. “I've told you, I can't be late getting this fish back. Cook will have my guts for garters. She's already in a nasty state because there's so much work and Laura's gone.”

“I have to find out about Paul Ralston.”

Again, Enid stopped. “Why do you want to know anything about him?”

She was ready for that one. “I work for a private inquiry agency and his name has come up in the course of an investigation we're conducting.” She'd used this ruse on previous occasions and, to her surprise, found that it worked.

“Are you claimin' you're one of them detectives?”

“I'm merely saying I work for a private inquiry agency, and I know you're in a hurry, but if you can slip out later and spare me a few moments, I'd be pleased to buy you a cup of tea,” she replied. Her heart was beating a mile a minute. This was such an outrageous lie she was sure that she'd been caught out, but she felt she had to play it to the end. The worst that could happen was that she'd have to turn and make a dash for it.

“I can slip out,” Enid said thoughtfully. “But it won't be later, it'll be now, and it won't be for a cup of tea, it'll be for a drink. Cook might bark a bit, but she's not stupid. I'll take her the fish and then tell her I'm meeting a friend who's going to recommend me for a housekeeper's position. That'll put the fear of God in the old cow; she'll not want to be left alone to do all the work so she'll not go tattling to Mr. Ralston. If you've a bit of coin, we'll go to the Blackbird Pub. It's decent enough for the two of us.”

“A pub?” Phyllis had done this before, but walking into a drinking establishment still took every ounce of courage she possessed.

Enid nodded and grabbed her arm. “That's right, but we've got to go by the house first so I can get rid of this fish.”

They'd hurried toward Hanover Villas and Phyllis had waited while Enid slipped inside and then returned. As they were leaving, the front door had opened and that was when they'd seen Miss Waterson.

On the walk to the pub, Enid had complained mightily about Anne Waterson. She was still carping about the woman as the barman slid their drinks in front of them.

“Ta.” Enid picked up her gin and knocked it back.

The pub wasn't crowded and Phyllis hadn't wanted anyone she might know to spot her. She'd made sure they were close to the shadows at the far end of the bar. She tapped the side of her own glass. She wasn't much of a drinker, but she had the feeling that the best way to keep Enid chatting was to play along with her. “If this Miss Waterson is so objectionable, why does your master want to marry her?”

“Why do men usually want to marry someone like her?”

“Money?”

“That'd be one reason.” Enid drained her glass and set it on the polished bar.

“But I've seen his house, it's beautiful, so it doesn't look like he's hurting for money.”

“No one ever has enough of that.” Enid looked pointedly at her empty glass and Phyllis waved at the barman. She handed over her coins and waited silently while he poured.

Enid took a sip. “Ah, that's good. Cook claims he's not just marrying for money, he wants a leg up on the social ladder, if you know what I mean.”

Phyllis did, but she wanted to make sure she understood exactly. “He wants to be in the upper class? But isn't he already one of them?”

“Not likely.” She laughed. “His father was an accounts clerk at Deptford and his mother once took in laundry for the neighbors. He made his money in the City and, from what Miss Carlisle across the road says, a generation back he'd not even have gotten his foot in that door. No, his nibs wants to do it the easy way. He wants to marry up, as my old gran used to say. He's not just after money, he's wantin' a ruddy title, and taking Sir Thomas Waterson's homely, ill-tempered daughter as his wife is his first step.” She took another drink. “Mind you, he's in for a big surprise if he thinks he can have her and keep a bit of fluff on the side.”

“Fluff on the side?” Phyllis was fairly sure she knew what that meant as well. “You mean a mistress or a paramour. Well, lots of rich men do that.”

“Lots? You mean most of 'em.” Enid cackled. “But the Watersons are different. Sir Thomas would walk barefoot over hot coals before he ever broke his marriage vows and I expect that once his nibs married into that bunch, he'd better watch his step. Miss Carlisle from across the road told me that Sir Thomas disowned his older daughter.”

“Disowned? Why?”

Enid shrugged. “All Miss Carlisle says is that it was because her husband had done something wrong, something dishonorable, and the old man wouldn't have it that the woman insisted on staying with her husband.”

“She must have been deeply in love with her husband,” Phyllis murmured. “By the way, who is Miss Carlisle?”

“She's the housekeeper at number eleven.” Enid burped softly. “You can't let her catch you when you're in a hurry because the woman can talk the paint off a fence. But she knows what's what, I'll give her that. I swear she has the sight. She was standing outside waiting when Laura left yesterday morning. I don't know how she knew the girl had gotten the sack, but she did.”

“Does she have someplace to go?” Phyllis asked. She knew she should keep asking about Ralston, but she had to know the girl wasn't on the streets.

“You mean Laura? Oh, she'll be alright. She's gone to her family in Clapton. She's getting married next month.” Enid laughed. “That's why she lost her job. Mr. Ralston got so angry that she was only giving two weeks' notice that he sacked her on the spot.”

“And this was yesterday.”

“Nah, it was the day before. Mr. Ralston was in a foul mood that afternoon. He's never very nice, but he was really miserable that day when he come home and it only got worse when Miss Waterson come by and nagged him into tryin' on his new overcoat. She likes to take over, she does, and right now, she's the one with the upper hand, if you know what I mean.”

Phyllis wasn't sure she did, but she nodded in agreement.

“Truth is, he doesn't much like the woman.” Enid snickered. “But that don't stop his kind from marryin', does it.”

CHAPTER 6

“Now, I ain't askin' you to spill any secrets,” Luty said earnestly. “But surely, considerin' your position, you've heard gossip about one of this bunch.”

“I know a number of things about all of the gentlemen.” John Widdowes grinned broadly, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I'm not sure I ought to repeat them; they're not the sort of things for a delicate lady's ears.”

Luty put her hands on her hips. “Oh, come on, John, how much scandal can there be about four stockbrokers?”

She'd come to the offices of Widdowes and Walthrop, Merchant Bankers, because John Widdowes, one of the two founding partners, was both a good friend and one of the smartest men she'd ever met. With a full head of dark honey-colored hair only starting to gray at the temples and a burly physique that was muscle rather than fat, he was a man in the prime of life. He knew the London financial community like the back of his hand but getting information out of him wasn't easy, as he had an annoying tendency to be discreet. He was also someone she admired a great deal, though she'd die before she'd ever let him know that.

“Five, if you include Ezra Amberly.”

“I thought he was real sick.”

“Not just sick, but at death's very door.” John shrugged. “But he's been meeting the Grim Reaper every winter for the last ten years, so no one is readying themselves to attend his funeral just yet. As for the others, the only one of the lot that I cared anything about was Orlando Edison. He was a decent man, for a stock promoter.”

“Are you sayin' the others ain't?”

“That depends on one's point of view,” he replied. “My assessment of a man's character is often at odds with the way the rest of the world might regard him.”

“I'll take your opinion over anyone else's.” She knew he'd been raised in poverty and had worked hard to get where he was today. He judged others on character, not wealth, social position, or title, and he certainly didn't suffer fools gladly. “Come on, tell me what you think.”

His grin broadened. “Surely you're not asking me to spread gossip.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John, a grown man like you toyin' with a poor old lady like me. You're enjoyin' this too much.”

“I always enjoy your visits, Luty. I just wish you'd occasionally drop by when you're not snooping for information about some killer or other. It hurts my feelings and makes me feel used.”

Outraged, she gasped. “That's not fair. I've invited you to dinner three times and you've not come even once, so don't you go actin' like I only want to see you when I'm on the hunt.”

He burst out laughing. “You're so easy to rile and it's so entertaining. I've already sent for tea so sit down and let's have a nice long chat.”

She tried to glare at him, but she couldn't help it, she laughed as well. “I'm glad I'm a source of amusement for you.” She flopped down in the padded straight-backed chair in front of his desk.

“For goodness' sake, woman, this is a bank. Getting someone to crack a smile around here takes an act of Parliament. So when you show up, I can't help myself—you're too much fun.” He looked up as the door opened and his secretary, a dark-haired lad, came into the room carrying a tray.

“Set it down on the desk, Jeremy. I'll pour for us.”

“Yes, sir.” He put the tray down, nodded respectfully, and disappeared.

As soon as they were alone, John got up and moved close enough to manage serving. He reached for a pair of dainty silver tongs and picked up a lump of sugar. “Do you still take one lump and a dash of cream?”

Luty was inordinately flattered. “You remembered that?”

“Naturally. You're one of my favorite people.” He put the sugar in the cup, added the cream, and then poured. “Before we get down to business, I want to assure you that the only reason I declined your dinner invitations was because I had no choice. The first two times you invited me I had to go out of town and the last time I had influenza.” He leaned in her direction and put the cup on the edge of the desk, close enough for her to reach it.

“Don't worry, I know you'd have come if you could.” She took a sip. “This is good. I was thirstier than I thought.”

“You promise you'll invite me again?” He picked up his tea and went back to his chair. “Because if you don't, I won't tell you one ruddy thing about Orlando Edison or the Merry Gentlemen.”

“'Course I'm goin' to invite you again.” She tried to look stern. “I didn't come here today just to pester you for gossip about murder victims and suspects. If you don't have other plans, I'd like you to come to dinner on New Year's Eve. It'll just be a small group of people, but they're all nice and I think you'd have a good time.”

“I don't have plans and I would be delighted.”

“Good. Now that we've settled that, what do you know about Edison? Did he have a lot of enemies?”

“No, for someone in his line of work, he was remarkably well regarded.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“You must understand, he was a stock promoter,” John said. “They're considered somewhat less respectable, I guess one could say, than a stockbroker or a financier.”

“But I thought he was a broker.”

John shook his head. “No, I don't think so. From what I understand, he was hired by other people to raise money to buy into their concerns. Take the Granger Mine, for instance—three years ago the original claim was sold to a consortium of investors, but in order to work the mine, they had to raise a lot of capital. That was Edison's specialty. He was very good at getting others to part with their money. The first thing he always did was to ensure he had an impressive board of directors.”

“You mean the Merry Gentlemen.” Luty was a good businesswoman and considered herself quite knowledgeable about the financial world but she wasn't sure she understood this completely. “So he didn't actually buy or sell shares.”

“No, once he had the board of directors he wanted, in this particular case, the Merry Gentlemen, other investors begged to buy the stock.”

“But surely even with the Merry Gentlemen on the board, smart investors would want to see a surveyor's report before they parted with their hard-earned cash. I know I wouldn't buy anything unless I did. Mining is tricky. I know—my late husband and I mined for silver in Colorado.”

He smiled wanly. “You give people too much credit, Luty. Put an aristocrat and a couple of supposed financial geniuses on the board and they'll stand in line to buy the stock without even reading the prospectus carefully.” He took a sip of tea. “But, personally, I liked Orlando Edison and I don't think he had any idea that the Granger didn't have gold in it. His other ventures had certainly been successful and many in London had made a great deal of money because of him.”

“Sounds like you genuinely liked him.”

“I did. He was affable, good-natured, and could actually talk about something other than finances. Most importantly, he treated everyone he met with dignity and respect. That's something I notice.”

“What do you mean?”

John looked past her with a faraway expression his face for a long moment before he continued. “Did you know I was born at the Limehouse?”

“The workhouse in the East End?”

He nodded. “My mother died giving birth to me. My father had been killed working on the railways before I was born. It was a miserable place, but I was one of the lucky ones. I was intelligent and came to the attention of one of the board of governors, who saw to it I was educated properly. But I've never forgotten how we were treated, how people look down on those who serve them and assume they're less than human.” He suddenly shook himself. “But that's a tale for another day. The reason I brought this up is because I want to do anything I can to help catch whoever murdered Edison. Last summer, I saw him step between an enraged man and the poor bootblack who'd just gotten polish on the fellow's trousers. Orlando didn't hesitate; he grabbed the man's arm and kept him from thrashing the lad. As I once was in the same position as the bootblack, my admiration for Edison went up a thousandfold. But you're not interested in why I want to help, you want to know if I've anything useful to tell you.” He smiled smugly. “And I do.”

* * *

“You're not interested in me, you're trying to find out about Mr. Kimball,” Penelope Freeman, chambermaid at the Larchmont Hotel, poked Wiggins on the arm as she spoke, then turned on her heel and stalked off.

“That's not true.” He hurried to catch up with her. “I was just curious because my guv mentioned his name.”

“I don't talk about our guests,” she snapped as she turned out of the tiny mews onto Stanley Street. “And I don't for a minute believe you work for a newspaper. If I see you sniffing around here again, I'll sic the manager on you.”

Wiggins gave up as she disappeared into the crowd heading toward Paddington Station. He slumped against the side of the redbrick hotel and felt like kicking himself. He'd handled this badly; he should have realized that, despite his best efforts, she hadn't believed a word of his story. But usually pretending to be a reporter worked, and it was just his ruddy luck to find the one person who saw right through it. He pulled his coat tighter as a blast of cold wind slammed into him. What was he going to do now? He didn't want to risk going back into the hotel and trying with someone else—he couldn't be sure that Penelope hadn't pointed him out to the manager when she went to fetch her hat and coat. But, if he didn't find someone else willing to talk, he'd have to go back to their afternoon meeting with nothing. So far, the only thing he'd discovered about Yancy Kimball was what the fellow looked like!

Discouraged, he trudged down the street without having come to any conclusion about what to do next. Out of habit, he watched the front of the hotel as he walked. The establishment was a small place catering to passengers going to and from Paddington Station who couldn't or wouldn't pay the exorbitant rates at the opulent Great Western Hotel around the corner. The pavement in the front was crowded with people—men in business suits and bowlers, two women trying unsuccessfully to stop a group of street lads from carrying their cases, and an elderly porter that was helping a frail old woman out of a hansom.

Just as Wiggins came abreast of the front door, it opened and his quarry stepped out. Kimball dodged around the two women and then stopped on the bottom step. Wiggins kept on moving. When he was far enough away to deem it safe to look back, he turned and saw Kimball heading in his direction. He stopped, bent down, and pretended to tie his shoelace.

Kimball went past and Wiggins waited a few moments before he followed. He was sure the man was going to Paddington, so he stuck his hand into his pocket and made certain he had plenty of money in case he had to buy a train ticket. But he was wrong. When Kimball got to the corner, instead of turning toward the station, he turned the other way and went toward Praed Street. Wiggins went after him. There were so many pedestrians crowding the pavement, he didn't bother to stay back, but he did slow his steps when Kimball reached the corner, stopped, and turned. Wiggins didn't break his stride, but kept on going as Kimball's gaze swept the faces of those on the streets. He'd almost reached him when Kimball suddenly whirled on his heel and started down Cambridge Place.

Wiggins didn't have to dawdle in order to stay behind the fellow; he was moving so fast he was almost running. Kimball was now a good twenty yards ahead of him when he turned and disappeared. Again, Wiggins continued walking. He saw that Kimball had gone through a dilapidated wooden lych-gate into a churchyard and was now standing with his back to the road. He'd didn't think Kimball had spotted him, but he couldn't be sure. He went to the corner and then turned in to a mews, praying that it circled back to the rear of the church building. It didn't, so he retraced his steps.

When he reached the lych-gate, he craned his neck around the structure but couldn't see Kimball anywhere. Blast a Spaniard, he thought, maybe he's gone into the church. He opened the gate and stepped through, wincing as the rusty hinges creaked.

The church proper was directly ahead of him at the end of an old paved walkway. He moved cautiously over the broken bricks, taking care where he stepped so he wouldn't trip on the chunks of crumbling mortar.

There was a narrow yard that went from the front to the right side of the building. It was choked with weeds and filled with ancient tombstones covered with moss and leaning haphazardly in all directions. Dead leaves lay in windswept mounds against the weathered stone of the building and, overhead, the weak winter sun went behind a bank of clouds, dimming the already gloomy day even further.

He was almost at the stairs leading to the entrance when he saw the chain and lock on the handles and realized the church was shut. Kimball obviously wasn't inside, so where had he gone?