Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (12 page)

And the one above it was equally strange.

Bobby Shafto   Seascp 100   Feb 27, London   10

“It could be anything,” Witherspoon muttered. He flicked to the previous page and ran his finger down the first column. “Mutton Chops, Bobby Shafto. Oh, here's a new one: Jack Sprat.”

“‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat,'” Barnes muttered. “This must be a code, sir. It's the only explanation. Obviously Edith was more than just a landlady and she was using this ledger to keep track of something she was involved in.”

Witherspoon flicked back through the book. “The same names are repeated but there're also several other ones, equally nonsensical. The entries are much the same, too: initials or a word that doesn't make sense followed by a number, then a date and a city.”

“Perhaps they meant something to her, sir.” He spoke slowly as the idea took shape in his mind. “The names, I mean. Perhaps she used them as a way of identifying a person without using his or her real name.”

“That's possible, I suppose.” Witherspoon looked doubtful. “But if it was her ledger, why not just use real names?”

Barnes shrugged. “She was a strange woman, but I know one thing about her—she had a reason for everything she did. If you'll recall, sir, she was able to get away the last time not only because she was bold and daring, but because she'd planned ahead.”

“We don't know that for a fact. She might have just been lucky.”

“No one is that lucky, sir,” Barnes argued. “Once she got out of the Christopher house, she must have had cash stashed in secret places around the city. That's the only way she could have gotten away so fast and gone so far. We were watching all the ports and train stations, so she must have had money in order to buy her way out of the country.”

“So you're saying that this ledger is her thinking ahead again?”

“I am, sir,” Barnes said. “It'll take us a while to figure out what the entries mean, but when we do, we'll find that she kept this thing as some sort of protection.”

“In that case, it was woefully ineffective,” Witherspoon said. “She's dead, so it obviously didn't do her any good.”

“That's true, sir, but maybe her killer didn't realize she had it.”

“Or perhaps they didn't care.” The inspector closed the ledger. “I think we're going to find that no matter what name Edith Durant used, she was still the sort of person who made a lot of enemies and one of those enemies murdered her.”

“Agreed, sir. I just wish we knew what the entries meant.”

“We'll figure it out eventually, and once we do, I'm sure it'll show she was doing something criminal.”

“There might be a faster way, sir,” Barnes said. “If she was up to something illegal, someone in London will know about it. Why don't I send word to a few of my informants and see what we can find?”

*   *   *

Phyllis concentrated on doing precisely as Betsy had instructed when she opened the door and stepped inside. Her head was high, her shoulders back, and there was the tiniest sway to her hips as she walked. The clerk's mouth gaped open as he stared at her.

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed convulsively. “May I be of assistance, miss?” he asked in a high-pitched squeak.

Phyllis was stunned. No one, least of all a man, had ever reacted to her in such a manner. She'd always considered her features too plain and her figure too plump to ever catch a man's eye. But perhaps Betsy was right? Perhaps it was just a matter of confidence and carriage that caused the male of the species to take notice.

She didn't speak till she reached the counter, then she put her basket down and looked him directly in the eye. “I certainly hope so,” she murmured. She was making it up as she went along, her mind frantically going over all the advice Betsy had given her.
Don't be afraid to use honeyed words,
Betsy had said.
No matter how silly it might sound, flattery works wonders, especially with a man.

“What can I do for you?” he asked again.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to stare,” she apologized. “But it's not often that I find myself having to ask for help from such an attractive stranger. I'm in a bit of a desperate situation here and I was told that you were someone who might be able to help me. I was told you have a remarkable memory.”

She couldn't believe she'd actually said those words and she half expected him to laugh in her face, but he didn't. He simply gaped at her as a blush crept up his cheeks. “Oh dear, I've been too forward. Please forgive me.”

“No, no, there's nothing to forgive.” He straightened his shoulders. “I wouldn't say my memory was remarkable, miss”—he glanced at her ringless finger—“but I am known to be someone who can recollect even the smallest detail. Now, tell me, how I can help you?”

Unfortunately for Phyllis, her mind chose that very moment to go completely blank. For a few moments, there was nothing but an awkward silence.

“Miss,” he prompted. “You were asking for my help.”

“Oh yes.” She nodded as if it all flooded back to her. “My mistress sent me to this neighborhood to pick up a parcel for her. But I've lost the address. The only thing I can recall her saying is that it was just across the road from the lodging house owned by that lady who was murdered. The girl at the greengrocer's told me that the poor murdered lady used to shop here and that you were so clever, you would know where she lived.” She watched him carefully as she spoke but saw nothing in his expression that made her think he didn't believe her.

“You mean Mrs. Robinson?”

“Was that her name, then? The murdered lady. I couldn't remember.”

“That's her,” he said. “She was in here just last week. She lives on Magdala Lane. It's not far from here. She bought two yards of oilcloth. The heavy kind used to keep out the wet.”

*   *   *

Barnes went downstairs with the ledger while the inspector went up to the next landing to interview Gordon Redley. There were two sets of rooms here as well. He went to the door on his right and knocked softly.

It opened immediately, revealing a thin, balding man wearing a blue suit and a white shirt open at the collar. “I've been waiting for you.” He waved him inside. “I'm Gordon Redley. The maid said you'd be coming to speak to me this afternoon. I expected you earlier.”

“I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr. Redley,” Witherspoon apologized as he stepped over the threshold, “but it couldn't be helped. We had an urgent matter to deal with.”

The rooms were the same floor plan as Edith Durant's but that's where the similarity ended. Here the furniture consisted of a faded gray-green lumpy-looking couch and two overstuffed armchairs with misshapen antimacassars draped along the top. Two bookcases, a scratched secretary, and a side table made up the rest of the furnishings, and through the open door a bed with an iron bedstead was visible.

“I hardly think searching my landlady's rooms constitutes an urgent matter. But you're here now and I'd like to get this matter put to rest as quickly as possible.” Redley frowned at the rain splattering the window and then pointed to the sofa. “Please sit down. I'm in a bit of hurry. I've an appointment in the city, and now that it's wet outside, it's going to take even longer to get there.”

“I'm Inspector Gerald Witherspoon”—he introduced himself as he took his seat—“and I'll be as quick about this as possible. I take it you're aware that Mrs. Robinson was murdered yesterday.”

“Mrs. Robinson.” He smiled cynically as he eased into a chair. “Don't you mean Miss Durant, Miss Edith Durant? But yes, I'm aware that she was murdered. Everyone in the household knows she's dead. But I've no idea how I can be of any help to you. I know nothing about it.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“At breakfast yesterday,” he replied.

“And did you notice anything unusual about her manner?” Witherspoon knew he had to go through the same litany of questions he'd asked the others in the house. He was already fairly sure he knew the answers.

“The only thing that was odd was that she was serving breakfast herself rather than the maid,” Redley replied.

“She didn't normally serve the meal?”

“Not usually, no, but it wasn't the first time she'd done it.” He waved a hand around the room. “As you can see, Inspector, this is quite a large house but Mrs. Robinson didn't have a lot of staff. She was cheap that way and she often had the serving girl off doing something else. I heard someone thumping about in the box room only the night before, so she probably had the girl upstairs again doing heavy cleaning.”

Witherspoon nodded. “How long have you lived here, sir?”

Redley's hazel eyes narrowed in thought. “I think it's been three and a half months. Yes, yes, that's correct. I took up residence here at the end of November.”

“What do you do, sir?” Witherspoon realized that as the man's expression had changed, he suddenly looked familiar.

“I'm an acquisitions representative for the New World Art Company. They're based in New York. We buy the rights to reproduce and manufacture objects of art and ceramics and sculptures.”

“Have we met before, Mr. Redley?”

Redley drew back in surprise. “I don't know what you mean, Inspector. I've never seen you before in my life nor have I ever frequented the sort of places you'd have been likely to meet me.”

“I wasn't implying that I'd met you in my professional capacity as a policeman,” he said quickly. “Actually, now that I look a bit more closely, I think I must have been mistaken.”

“I should certainly hope so.” He sniffed in disapproval. “Can we get on with this? The traffic getting into the city is dreadful so I need to leave soon.”

“Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around the neighborhood?”

“No.”

“Do you know of anyone that had a reason to want to harm the victim?” He shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable. The sofa cushion was hard as a rock.

Redley stroked his chin. “Well, one doesn't like to speak out of turn, but Mrs. Robinson had a dispute quite recently. She's had some harsh words with a neighbor.”

“Which neighbor?”

“The lady next door, a Mrs. Travers.”

“What kind of problem was it?”

“I don't know the exact nature of the dispute,” Redley replied, “and Mrs. Robinson wasn't one to discuss her business with anyone.”

“Then how do you know she was having difficulties with anyone?” he pressed.

“Because I accidentally overheard a rather heated exchange between the two women.” He closed the top button on his shirt.

“When was this?”

“It was this past Sunday.” He stood up, crossed the room, and grabbed a blue tie that had been hanging on the bedroom side of the open door.

“What exactly did you overhear?”

He flipped up his collar, draped the tie around his neck, and tucked it inside. “I've already told you what I heard: They were arguing. There's a nice garden out the back and I'd gone out to get some air. That's when I heard them quarreling.”

“What were they arguing about?” Yee gods, he thought, getting information out of this fellow was as slow as pouring treacle in a cold kitchen.

“I didn't hear everything, I only heard Mrs. Travers yelling that if Mrs. Robinson didn't cease her accusations, she'd see her in court.”

“What did Mrs. Robinson say?”

He frowned. “I don't know. She moved close to Mrs. Travers and whispered something. Then she turned on her heel and stalked off.”

“You
heard
this from your spot in the garden?” Witherspoon knew that if he was telling the truth, he wasn't just listening to the quarrel, he must have been watching as well.

Redley glowered in annoyance. “Alright, I'll admit it. When I heard them going at it, I peeked through the slats in the fence. That's when I saw Mrs. Robinson walk to the woman and whisper in her ear. Then she stalked away. But that wasn't the end of it. As she was going down the path, Mrs. Travers suddenly shouted at her. She yelled that she could make it most uncomfortable if Mrs. Robinson didn't stay away from her, that Mrs. Robinson might not like being dragged through the London courts.”

*   *   *

“She didn't like her much.” Freddie Ricks bobbed his chin up and down for emphasis. “Mrs. Gray, she's the mistress, was always tellin' people that it wasn't right the way that woman come into the neighborhood and started renting out rooms. Said it made the area common.”

“Are you sayin' that Mrs. Gray didn't like Mrs. Robinson or that she didn't like the fact there were lodgers across the road from her?” Wiggins was beginning to suspect young Freddie had been hungry enough to gild the lily and had exaggerated about knowing “something.”

Freddie stared at him, his expression puzzled.

“I mean, had Mrs. Robinson said or done something rude or nasty to your mistress, or was she just annoyed that there was a lodging house on your street?”

“I guess ya could say it was somethin' rude, and Mrs. Gray thought it was mean, but the rest of us thought it was funny.” He giggled. “Even Mrs. Riddle, she's the cook, laughed when she heard about it.” He pointed to the last bun on the plate. “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather eat that now than take it back with me.”

“Go ahead and have it,” Wiggins said. “But before you do, tell me what you're on about. What did Mrs. Gray think was mean?”

“Mrs. Robinson wouldn't rent rooms to Mrs. Gray's cousin.” He reached for the bun.

Wiggins yanked the plate to his side of the table. “I need more details than that. Bein' refused a room shouldn't have made the ladies enemies. Maybe Mrs. Robinson was full up?”