Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (18 page)

“But I had no reason to kill her,” he cried.

“You've admitted you had an intimate relationship with the deceased.”

“For God's sake, what's that got to do with it? I've already told you. It was temporary and it was an arrangement that suited us both.”

“But we only have your word for that, sir. For all we know, Edith Durant or Alice Robinson, as you knew her, may have wanted far more from you than just a ‘temporary' romance.” Witherspoon was no expert on the motives of the fair sex, but his relationship with Ruth had helped him understand women a bit better. She had very recently hinted that she hoped their association was going to be both long lasting and exclusive. “Perhaps you wished to end the relationship and she refused,” he continued. “Edith Durant was no shy young maiden. Had she wanted to, there are any number of ways she could have embarrassed you and caused you difficulties. Now, sir, I promise you we'll be discreet, but I must know which customer you were with at nine o'clock on the day of the murder.”

*   *   *

“Are you sure they'll serve us?” The thin, pale young woman with bright red hair and deep-set blue eyes glanced nervously at the freshly painted exterior of the Highgate Hill Tea Shop and then back at her companion.

“Of course they will.” Phyllis lifted her chin, smiled confidently, and led the two of them inside. It was past the hour for morning tea and not close enough to lunch for the place to be busy, so only two of the tables had customers. A black-jacketed waiter hurried across the polished wood floor in their direction.

“A table for two, please. We'd like tea.” She kept a pleasant smile on her face as she spoke, but despite her earlier bravado, she'd admit to being just a bit apprehensive. This was the first time in her life she'd entered a posh establishment as a customer and not a servant carrying packages for a mistress. But she refused to give in to her insecurities. At the morning meeting, Mrs. Jeffries had made it clear that she valued and respected Phyllis' abilities when they were on the hunt. She'd apologized for giving Phyllis the difficult task of tracking down gossip about a woman who had very few connections in her own neighborhood. Phyllis had left Upper Edmonton Gardens full of confidence and determined not to let the housekeeper down.

“Will the table by the window do for you, miss?” the waiter asked.

“That will be fine.”

As soon as they were settled and she'd ordered, she smiled at the young woman sitting across from her.

Annie Linden, former housemaid to Edith Durant, was gazing at her surroundings with her mouth slightly open. When she caught Phyllis' eye, she smiled self-consciously. “Sorry, I didn't mean to be gawking. But I'm not used to places like this.”

“I wasn't, either, until very recently,” Phyllis admitted. “But people like us have as much right to enjoy the finer things in life as anyone else. Just because we weren't born rich and we've got to work to earn our living, doesn't mean we aren't as deserving as anyone else.”

“Still, this is awfully nice of you,” Annie said. “Tea will cost a lot more here than it would at the road stand. It's only sixpence there.”

“Don't worry about how much it costs. I'm grateful you're going to help me out.” Phyllis couldn't believe how lucky she'd gotten. In the first shop she had gone into this morning, the one where the clerk yesterday wouldn't say a ruddy word, fortune had smiled on her and a talkative young miss was behind the counter. When she'd mentioned the murder and the lodging house, the girl had shrugged, said she didn't know anything about Alice Robinson, and then pointed at a young woman trudging past the window. “But she'll be able to help you. If your paper wants the goods on Alice Robinson, you'd best speak to that one. She worked for the woman until recently and now she's doing agency work until she finds something permanent. She's been all over the neighborhood looking for a position.”

Phyllis hadn't wasted any time; she'd raced across the road and accosted Annie Linden, boldly declaring she worked for a newspaper and would pay her for her time and information. If the girl was doing temporary work, she must be desperate for money. Phyllis had done it herself before she got the job at Upper Edmonton Gardens and she knew how awful it was.

“Here you are, miss.” The waiter put down the tea things as well as a plate with four small, delicate frosted cakes. She waited till the waiter had gone before she poured. “Help yourself to a cake,” she offered as she handed Annie a cup of tea.

“Ta.” Annie smiled broadly, picked up one of the pastries, and took a bite. “Hmm . . . this is good.”

“I'm glad you're enjoying it.” Phyllis gave her a few minutes to eat before she started asking questions. “I understand you used to work for Alice Robinson?”

Annie nodded and licked a speck of white frosting off her finger. “I did, but she give me the sack and it weren't my fault. But she was so angry, she wouldn't listen to me.”

“What do you mean?” Phyllis took a sip of her tea. “What happened?”

“I didn't hear the bell ringing—that's what.” She frowned heavily. “The first time it happened was with Mr. Redley. He came home late and claims he rung the bell for five minutes but I never heard a thing.”

“I don't understand. You were the one who let the gentlemen in at night?” Phyllis already knew this, as Mrs. Jeffries had passed along all the details about the household that she'd gotten out of both the inspector and Constable Barnes. But experience had taught her that acting as if you didn't know anything often got you quite a bit more.

Annie picked up the second cake, took a bite, and swallowed. “I was. It was part of my duties. Mrs. Robinson's tenants were business gentlemen and sometimes they had to be out late. She didn't like getting up in the night, so I had the room downstairs and I was to let them in so she'd not be disturbed. I didn't mind. I got my own room and I'd never had that before. But like I was saying, that first time it happened I must have slept like the dead, so Mr. Redley went to the front and got Mrs. Robinson up. She wasn't happy about it, but she didn't sack me then.”

“When did she sack you?”

“The next night. I slept hard then, too, and Mr. Morecomb ended up waking her out of her sleep. The next morning, she told me to pack my things and get out.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And it weren't fair. I worked hard there and did more than my fair share.”

Phyllis knew exactly how the girl must have felt; she knew what it was like to be tossed into the street through no real fault of your own. Suddenly, she wasn't as concerned about the case as she was about Annie. “That's so unfair. Maybe you were taking ill. Maybe that's why you slept so heavily.”

“But I wasn't. There weren't nothing wrong the next morning but a bad headache.”

“But anyone can have a bad night.” Phyllis smiled sympathetically.

“I'm a light sleeper,” she insisted. “And it hadn't ever happened before.”

Phyllis thought of something else Mrs. Jeffries had shared with them at their morning meeting. “Had you been out that night? Gone to the pub or something like that?”

Annie bit her lip and looked away. “So what if I was? I wasn't drunk. Besides, we was allowed out once supper was over and the washing up done. The tenants didn't need us and Mrs. Robinson either went out somewhere or went up to her quarters. It wasn't like we wasn't doin' our work, so sometimes Mrs. Fremont and I would nip out to the pub for a drink, and as long as we were back by nine, when the doors was locked, then Mrs. Robinson didn't mind.”

Phyllis nodded as though this was the most ordinary situation in the world, but in truth, there were very few households that allowed their female servants out at night. That frequently didn't stop a lot of them from going out, but usually it was done without the master's or mistress's knowledge. “Had you and Mrs. Fremont been to the pub the night you slept so soundly?”

“Just me.” She shoved the last of the cake in her mouth. “Mrs. Fremont's knees were acting up so she stayed home. But I didn't have much to drink. The pub was real crowded that night and the woman standing next to me jostled my elbow and my second drink went all over my skirt and it was my best one, too. Mind you, though, she was decent about it. She give me a bottle she'd bought for herself to make up for it.”

“She gave you a whole bottle because she'd spilled one drink?” Phyllis wasn't that familiar with the cost of alcohol, but even with her limited knowledge, that didn't sound right.

Annie shook her head. “She was makin' up for ruining my skirt, not spilling my drink. Besides, she was the sort of woman who could afford to be a bit generous. She was dressed fancy and acted like the ruddy Queen.”

*   *   *

With the ledger and the other reports from Y Division tucked under his arm, Barnes climbed the front stairs of the lodging house. He knocked lightly on the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

The inspector was coming down the stairs, Carrie Durridge trailing behind him. “I'm only asking because Etta and Mrs. Fremont are in a state,” she said. “They're concerned with what's going to happen.”

“I understand that, Miss Durridge,” he said as they reached the foyer. He nodded to the constable.

“So what should I do, sir?” Carrie tugged at the inspector's sleeve to get his attention.

“For the time being, stay here and continue working. We'll be seeing Mrs. Robinson's solicitor this afternoon.”

“But will we be paid, sir? That's what we want to know. The quarter is over at the end of the month and we want to make sure we get our wages,” she persisted.

Witherspoon had no idea about the legality of the situation, but he didn't want the tenants or the servants scattering to the four winds just yet.

“There's money for the quarterly wages.” Barnes waved one of the reports he'd carried in under his arm. “Mrs. Robinson had an account for the household expenses at the London and County Bank in Islington.”

Carrie heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I'll go tell the others.”

As soon as she disappeared, Witherspoon turned to the constable with a grateful smile. “Thank goodness you came when you did. The maid's been dogging my footsteps since I got here. Of course, I don't blame the poor woman. I'm sure all of them are concerned about their future. But how did you find out about the bank account?”

“Inspector Rogers had some of his men check the local banks when he got wind of the fact that we didn't find any of Edith Durant's papers here. His men did a good job in that respect. They also got witness statements from the locals near the cemetery entrance, and his lads have found a tinker who saw two men and a woman going into the cemetery before Durant was killed.”

“Together?”

Barnes shook his head. “No, all three were separate.”

“Can the tinker identify either of them?” Witherspoon asked hopefully.

“The woman wore a cloak over her head but he might be able to identify one of the men. He's a local person, so he'd be available if we need him. Trouble is, just because he only saw three people doesn't mean they were the only ones that went inside. There might have been others goin' in and out.”

“What about the man Mrs. Rivers saw coming out of the cemetery when she was going in, the one carrying the bouquet?”

Barnes grinned. “He's not a killer, Inspector, he's a flower thief. The lads at Y Division know all about him. Apparently, the groundsmen and the gardeners at Highgate have complained about him for months. Two or three times a week he steals a freshly laid bouquet off one of the graves and makes off with it. They've caught him a couple of times and he's been fined, but he always goes back and does it again.”

“He steals flowers off a grave?” the inspector muttered, his expression incredulous. “Good gracious, is nothing sacred?”

“Not to some people, sir.” He handed over the reports and the ledger. “Inspector Rogers passed the ledger around to his best and brightest, sir, but none of them can make heads nor tails of it.”

“That's not surprising,” Witherspoon murmured. “Let's hold on to it for a day or two, Constable. Perhaps after we speak to the Durant solicitor, he'll have some idea that would be helpful. Failing that, we'll see if any of our lads at the Ladbroke Road Station can decipher what it might mean.”

There was a knock at the front door just as Carrie reappeared from the kitchen. “Cook and Etta are very relieved, sir.” She flashed him a quick smile as she hurried toward the front door and yanked it open. “It's another policeman, sir,” she called as Constable Jones stepped into the foyer.

He was breathing hard and his face was flushed as if he'd been running. “Inspector Rogers sent me, sir,” he said to Witherspoon. “We received a message right after the constable left. I was trying to catch up with him and that's why I'm out of breath.” He handed the inspector a folded piece of paper. “This is for you, sir.”

Witherspoon opened it, and as his eyes flicked across the page, his expression became increasingly morose.

“That doesn't seem like good news, sir,” Barnes murmured.

He handed the paper to Barnes. “It isn't. Chief Superintendent Barrows wants us to come to the Yard right away.”

Smythe lengthened his stride as Erskine disappeared around the corner. He didn't know where his quarry was going but he wasn't going to lose him now. When Erskine came out of the lodging house dressed in his tidy business suit this morning, Smythe had been sure he'd make for his office in High Holborn, but instead, he'd gone to one of the oldest sections of the East End, Whitechapel. It was a maze of narrow cobblestone streets enclosed by brick buildings caked with dirt and grime and shops selling second- and thirdhand goods. Ragged children peered out the dirty windows of overcrowded flats and worn-out women trudged from one food stall to another looking for something they could afford for their families. Lean and hungry-looking men stood around on the streets hoping for a bit of work as day laborers. The air smelled of rot and vinegar with an occasional whiff of cabbage tossed in for good measure. It was a miserable place and Smythe had once known it well.

Ahead of him, Erskine cut into a passageway and Smythe hurried to keep up with him. Blast a Spaniard, the fellow was supposed to be a businessman, so what was he doing in this part of London? There weren't many around this neighborhood looking to buy Canadian furs for their missus.

Erskine reached the end of the passageway and turned to his right. Smythe slowed his steps, waiting a few seconds before moving ahead. He came out on a narrow road enclosed on the far side by the back end of a derelict warehouse and on this side, there was a paved courtyard leading to a pub called the Hanged Man. Erskine was just disappearing through the front door.

Smythe hesitated for a brief moment. He'd heard of this place and what he'd heard hadn't been good. Even the local constables, a tough lot from the Leman Street Station, avoided the place unless they had no other choice, and he'd heard gossip that there'd been gang leaders that had gone inside and never been seen again. Still, common sense told him that people liked to tell tales and most of the talk about the Hanged Man was probably exaggerated.

He shrugged, crossed the courtyard, and went inside. The lighting was so dim he stood by the entrance, waiting for his eyes to adjust. When he could see properly, he saw it was just a pub. Shelves filled with bottles, barrels, and jugs stood behind the bar; long, shallow benches were along the walls; and there were half a dozen tables, all but one of which was occupied. Rough-looking men drinking pints crowded the bar and several women dressed in tatty-looking finery that showed off their bosoms sat on the benches and at some of the tables drinking gin.

He spotted Erskine at the table near the edge of the counter. He was in earnest conversation with two men. Smythe strode to the bar and wedged himself into a spot at the end. He nodded apologetically as he jostled his neighbor's arm, a cockles and eel vendor, judging by the smell of him. The man shot him a dirty look but Smythe didn't care, he was as close to Erskine as possible.

The barman, a balding fellow with a handlebar mustache, eyed him suspiciously. “I've never seen you in here before.”

“Never been 'ere before.” Smythe met his gaze and held it. He heard the shuffle of feet and the scraping of stools as the others at the bar moved away from him. Showing any weakness or fear would be deadly, so Smythe straightened up to his full height and held his ground.

“You from around here?” Baldy swiped at the counter with a dirty, greasy rag as he spoke.

“I'm from lots of places and this is the first time I've 'ad to answer a bunch of bleedin' questions to get a pint. Is this a pub or not?” he demanded.

By this time, everyone in the pub was listening to their exchange.

“This is my pub”—the publican glared at him—“and I serve who I want.”

“Are you sayin' you'll not serve me a drink?” Smythe hardened his voice and threw back his shoulders in an attempt to look mean. From his left, he heard the stools at Erskine's table scraping against the wood floor and knew that lot had gotten to their feet.

He glanced at the entrance to make sure the coast was clear in case he had to make a run for it but now two huge bruisers were flanking the doorway. The room had gone quiet and he could feel everyone's eyes on him. He turned and saw Erskine pointing at him. Blast a Spaniard, this was quickly going to hell in a handbasket.

Instead of answering, Baldy reached under the bar and pulled out a ruddy huge club. Two of the men from Erskine's table started toward him, and it was then that Smythe shoved his hand in his trouser pocket and found what he hoped would get him out of the pub in one piece. He pushed away from the bar, swerved to his left, and raced to the center of the room. He moved so fast no one had time to react, and that was what he counted on. Yanking his hand out of his pocket, he raised his arm and opened his fingers. Sixpences, shillings, florins, and even some half crowns cascaded to the floor.

For a split second, no one moved, then almost as one, they rushed toward the money. “Good God, look, it's a half crown,” one of the women shouted as she shoved her companion out of the way and dived for the coin. Within seconds the room was in bedlam as they pushed and shoved one another out of the way to get to the money. The two thugs by the door leapt in as well giving Smythe a chance to skirt the edge of the crowd and break for the door. He headed for the crowded streets of the Commercial Road. He didn't look behind him, but he knew someone was after him because he could hear them pounding against the pavement. He raced around the corner and skidded to a halt, turning to face his pursuer. It was one of the brutes that'd been guarding the door. He was big, ugly, stupid-looking, and charging toward him like a mad bull. As he estimated the man's speed, Smythe balled his hands into fists before swiveling to his side and sticking his foot out just in time to send the brute crashing to his knees.

“Oyyy,” the man screamed in a surprisingly high-pitched, girlish voice as he tumbled forward. Smythe leapt onto his back, pushing him to the ground and planting his knee in the fellow's spine. “Why were you followin' me?” he demanded. “All I wanted was a ruddy drink.”

“I'm just doin' what I was told.” His assailant gasped out the words. “They told me to mess you about a bit. I wasn't really goin' to 'urt ya.” He bucked hard, trying to dislodge Smythe.

Smythe flattened his arm across the back of the man's neck and pressed. He'd picked up this move from an opal miner in the outback of Australia; it was vicious enough to stop an attacker without actually hurting him too badly. “Who sent you after me?”

“Who do ya bleedin' well think? It was the bloke you was followin'. He offered me two quid to do it.” His voice was raspy, his breathing harsh. “Come on, leave off, you've got me down. Bloody 'ell, I shoulda told Erskine to do it 'imself.”

Smythe knew he didn't have a lot of time to ask questions. By now, the money he'd tossed to the floor would be scooped up and the other brute would probably come looking for his mate. He pulled his arm off the ruffian's neck. “Why did Erksine want me messed up?”

“'Ow the bleedin' 'ell should I know? We didn't chat about it when he offered me the lolly. All I 'eard was that he spotted you followin' 'im and didn't like it.”

He heard footsteps coming. Time to go. “Tell Erskine 'e made a mistake.” Smythe leapt up. “I was just thirsty.”

“Yeah, and I'm the Queen's ruddy cousin,” the man answered, sneering as he struggled onto his knees.

But the sarcasm was lost as Smythe was already gone.

*   *   *

“Should I wait out here, sir?” Barnes sucked in a lungful of air as he and Witherspoon stopped outside the office of Chief Superintendent Barrows. They'd taken a hansom to the modern redbrick building that was known as New Scotland Yard and raced up the three flights of stairs.

Witherspoon was well aware of the hierarchy that governed the Metropolitan Police Department, and by rights, he should merely nod assent and then go see Barrows alone. But that didn't seem fair to him, since he didn't consider the constable to be a subordinate but a full partner. “No, I should like you to come in, Constable. Chief Superintendent Barrows may have information for us about this matter, and if that is the case, you might have questions or other insights about this crime that will be very useful.” He turned and rapped sharply on the door.

Barnes was inordinately pleased, but kept a somber, no-nonsense expression on his face as he followed his inspector. Chief Superintendent Barrows, recently promoted and moved to one of the “turret” offices with a nice view of the Thames, looked up from the open file on his desk. His horn-rimmed spectacles slipped down his long nose and his mouth flattened in disapproval as his gaze flicked from Witherspoon to Barnes and back.

“I insisted Constable Barnes come in with me,” Witherspoon said quickly. “I wanted him to hear firsthand any new information the Yard might have obtained about this case.” The inspector wanted to make it clear that Barnes was innocent of violating the unwritten protocols governing the police.

“I didn't ask you here because we've any new information,” Barrows snapped. “I was hoping you would have some for me.” He poked his finger on the open file. “All I've had so far is the first report. She was murdered two days ago, Inspector, and I've had one report.”

“We've been very busy, sir,” Witherspoon protested. “And we have learned a bit more since that first report.”

“Have you learned the identity of the killer?”

“No, sir, not as yet, but we're moving forward on the case.”

Barrows sighed, took his glasses off, dropped them next to the file, and stood up. He walked to the window and gazed out at the traffic on the Thames. “Look, Witherspoon, I know you have your methods, and in the past, they've worked well. But we do have procedures that are equally useful.”

“I follow all established procedures, sir. I wasn't aware that I'd done anything wrong on this case,” the inspector said.

“It's not a matter of doing anything wrong.” Barrows swung back to them. “It's more that you don't seem to understand the damage that's been done to the force because of this case.”

Barnes knew what was coming next. Disgusted, he looked down at the floor because he didn't want the inspector to see the look of contempt he was afraid he couldn't hide. Barrows had always been a copper first and a bureaucrat second, but this latest promotion seemed to have changed him. He'd heard rumors that the chief was now more interested in showing off the view from his office and getting good press cuttings than he was in pursuing justice. Barnes hadn't believed it, but he did now. He'd seen the articles in both the
Times
and the other dailies and they'd not been kind to the police. Most of the newspapers had started out writing about the Durant murder and then gone on to the other scandals and mishaps that had dogged the force for the past few years.

“I'm sorry we didn't catch Edith Durant years ago,” Witherspoon said. “But she most certainly wasn't the first criminal to get away from the Metropolitan Police Force. With all due respect, sir, there have been a number of miscreants who escaped us and were never brought to justice.”

Barnes' chin jerked sharply as he looked up. Witherspoon stared calmly at Barrows. The constable hadn't expected this; he'd thought the inspector would quietly apologize and try to smooth Barrows' ruffled feathers. The chief obviously hadn't expected it, either, because he was gaping at the inspector in openmouthed surprise.

“I'm not being insubordinate, sir,” Witherspoon continued. “I'm merely stating facts.”

Barrows finally got himself under control. “And the fact is that the department is being smeared in the press just when we've begun to regain the confidence of the public.” He tried for a conciliatory smile. “I'm not being critical of your methods, Inspector. Believe me, no one is more aware of your service record than I am. You've caught more murderers than anyone in the history of the department and that is part of the problem.”

Barnes couldn't stay silent. “How can that be a problem, sir? Aren't we supposed to catch killers?”

Barrows came back to his chair, flopped down, and motioned for them to take the two straight-backed chairs in front of his desk. “Of course we are and I fully expect you'll find the culprit in this crime.” He looked at Witherspoon. “But every time you're on a case, the press expects a miracle, and frankly, since there has been such negative press the past few years, your successes have helped us to regain the confidence of the public and we'd like to keep it that way.”

The inspector unbuttoned his overcoat as he sat down. “I'm not sure I understand, sir.”

“Between the Trafalgar Square riots, the Whitechapel murders, and the Cleveland Street scandal, the department has had to overcome the public perception that we're either incompetent or corrupt.”