Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (20 page)

“Is she in her cups often?”

Minnie smiled slyly. “Often enough. What's it worth to you?”

Betsy knew this was the tricky part of her pretense. If she named a figure that was too high, Minnie might get suspicious about her, but if she aimed too low, the woman might decide it wasn't worth the risk. The barmaid was already uneasy about her guv finding her talking about the customers. “What do you think it's worth?”

Minnie's eyebrows shot up and then she grinned. “Half a crown.”

Betsy pretended to think about it. “Alright, but what you've got to say had better be worth it.”

“It will be.” She stuck her hand out. “But I want it now.” Again, she glanced in the direction of the public bar. “He'll have my guts for garters if he catches me.”

Pretending reluctance, Betsy opened her small purse and drew out a coin. “Right, then, tell me what you know.” She held out the half crown and Minnie grabbed it.

“I know that Mrs. Fremont and the other housemaid both thought there was something odd about the tenants in the lodging house.” She tucked the money in her apron pocket. “Mrs. Fremont said sometimes when the tenants came in late at night, they weren't dressed in their fancy business suits but in dark clothes. She said it was strange because the reason that Annie and now that other maid had to sleep downstairs was to let them in when they came back from taking out their customers and clients.” She leaned close to Betsy. “Now I ask you, who changes out of a proper business suit into black coats and trousers to take a customer out on the town? No one does.”

The questions popped into Betsy's head so fast she wasn't sure what to ask next. “How often did this happen?”

“According to Annie—she's the girl who had the job before the one that's got it now—it was most of the time.”

“Did all of the tenants change their clothes?”

Minnie shook her head. “Only three of them. There was one that never come in late but I don't remember his name. But Annie thought it was right strange and I do, too.”

“Did she ever ask Mrs. Robinson about it?”

“'Course not.” Minnie drained her glass and put it down on the counter. “Mrs. Fremont and Annie were both scared of their mistress. They'd not have risked asking any questions of her.”

“But Mrs. Robinson let them come here in the evenings.”

Minnie looked pointedly at her empty glass and then at Betsy, who nodded quickly. The barmaid reached under the bar, grabbed a bottle, and gave herself a refill. “That was another thing that was strange. Most times servant women have to sneak in here and pray to God that no one from their households gets wind of it. But not those two. As long as they did what Mrs. Robinson told them and got back by nine when the front door was locked, they could come as often as they liked.”

“Mrs. Fremont and Annie didn't have any duties in the evening?” Betsy found that hard to believe. There was always something that needed doing in a big house.

“Not that they ever said.” She took a long drink and sighed happily.

“What about now? Is it just Mrs. Fremont who comes here? What about the other servants?”

“There's just the two housemaids and neither of them drinks. But Mrs. Fremont isn't alone. Mrs. Riddle comes in sometimes and the two of them have a right old natter.”

“Who's Mrs. Riddle?” Betsy asked, though the name sounded very familiar.

“She's the cook in one of the neighboring houses.” Minnie chuckled. “She comes in sometimes, too.”

“So there's another household that lets their female servants out at night.” Betsy picked up her gin and took the smallest sip possible.

“Whether they're allowed out at night or not makes no difference.” Minnie swept her arm in an arc around the room. “If it did, this part of the pub wouldn't be here. Who do you think we cater to? It's not the gentry or the gents, that's for certain. It's shopgirls, Remington ladies, hotel maids, and lots of house servants. People find a way to get out and enjoy themselves some. As for Mrs. Riddle, her mistress is a skinflint and the only way she keeps a cook of Mrs. Riddle's ilk is to let her do what she pleases.”

“Seems to be a lot of that in this neighborhood,” Betsy muttered. “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“Let me think a minute.” She turned as the door opened and two bread sellers carrying empty baskets stepped inside. “Do you want your usual?” she yelled as the two women headed for a table. One of them nodded and Minnie grabbed the gin bottle out from under the counter, twirled around, and got two glasses and a wooden tray off the shelf behind her. She poured their drinks.

Betsy had a feeling she'd gotten all she was going to get out of the woman. She got up from her barstool. “Thanks for your time, Minnie. I'll be off, then.”

She shrugged and put the two gins on the tray. “That's really all I've got for you,” she admitted with a grin. “And you've been real decent about it—you've paid me a fair bit and bought me two drinks.” She picked up the tray and lifted the hinged counter bar. “Not like some that come around asking questions about Alice Robinson. That silly cow wouldn't even buy me a drink.”

*   *   *

Wiggins barreled through the back door, out of breath because he'd gone to great lengths to make sure the toughs hadn't followed him. He'd even changed trains twice to make certain they weren't on his trail. He wasn't having the likes of those thugs near the people he cared about, and if that made him a bit late for the afternoon meeting, so be it. But he needn't have worried; he was actually the first one back.

Fred met him as he came into the kitchen. “Hey, old boy, you'll have to wait till after the meeting for your walkies.” He reached down and petted the dog's fur.

“What's wrong?” The cook put the teapot on the table and studied him. “You've been running. Why? You're not late.”

He gave the dog a final scratch behind his ears. “I thought I was,” he lied. He didn't want them to know the whole truth about today. It would only worry the women and he had a feeling that Smythe might not take too kindly to it, either. In truth, he was grateful to be home. He'd tell them some of what happened but not all of it. Fred butted his head against Wiggins' knees and then trotted off to his warm spot by the cooker.

Wiggins went to the table and took his usual seat. “I hope I don't 'ave to wait long for my tea. I'm thirsty.”

“Go ahead and pour yourself a cup.” The cook put a seedcake and a plate of scones next to the teapot.

“I do believe some of them are coming now,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she slipped into her chair at the head of the table just as the back door opened. Within minutes, the others arrived and they tucked into their tea.

“Who would like to go first?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“I'll have a go,” Wiggins volunteered, and when no one objected, he plunged ahead. He told them about his trip to the Black Swan. “But when I started askin' questions, the barman got right nasty. He told me to get out and mind my own business, that they didn't like nobs comin' round and stickin' their noses into that which didn't concern them.”

“I hope you left at that point.” Mrs. Goodge shoved the plate of scones toward him. “Doing our duty for justice is right and proper, but you were on your own over there and it's not in the best part of the city, is it.”

“Uh, I did,” Wiggins muttered. “I left.”

“Did you go to find out about Gordon Redley, then?” Smythe asked. He knew the footman was telling only part of the tale. He'd seen Wiggins coming out of the Shepherd's Bush Station and followed him, hoping they could come back here together. But within a few seconds it was obvious something was wrong. The lad couldn't go ten steps without stopping and looking over his shoulder. The only reason he'd not seen Smythe was because he'd ducked behind a mover's cart. After that, Smythe had deliberately tried to stay out of Wiggins' line of sight. He'd seen the lad scurrying across the roads and dodging in and out of traffic as if he were being chased by the devil himself. Something or someone had scared the young man.

After his own experience today, Smythe could come to only one conclusion. This case was getting dangerous. He glanced at his wife, who was sitting serenely next to him and drinking her tea. Thank goodness her assignment had been safe. All she'd been asked to do was to find out a bit more about the woman Durant had threatened. Amanda was at home with their neighbor so he had no worries about his little one. Mrs. Cullins knew better than to let anyone into the house.

“Yeah, I did, but it was odd because . . .”

“Tell us what really happened,” Smythe interrupted impatiently. “I know something did, Wiggins, because I followed you from the train station and you were actin' as skittish as a tomcat in a roomful of howling bulldogs”

Wiggins could tell by the determined expression on the coachman's face that he'd keep at it till he found out the truth. Maybe that was best. “I wanted to make sure I wasn't bein' followed,” he blurted. “I didn't want them comin' 'ere and seein' where my people live. They're a bad lot at the Black Swan and I don't want them near any of you.”

“Oh dear Lord.” Mrs. Goodge's hand flew to her mouth. “Are you alright?

“I'm fine.” He smiled at the elderly cook. They'd become close over the years and he didn't want her upset for no reason. But the best way to keep her safe, to keep them all safe, was to tell the truth. He understood that now. He needed for them to be on their guard. “I got away from 'em.”

“What happened, Wiggins?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

For a brief moment, Wiggins wasn't sure how to start, so he took a quick sip of tea. “Like I said, I went to the Black Swan and I got there right after it opened. I looked about a bit and kept my ears open, hopin' that someone would mention this Mr. McConnell by name or something like that. But no one did and that's when I made my first mistake. I asked the barmaid if he was about the place.” He smiled briefly. “I thought I was bein' clever, you know, pretendin' I knew 'im, but I wasn't sure if it was him because I'd not seen him for years. That sort of thing. But it didn't work. The girl just give me a funny smile and then sort of sauntered away. She didn't even ask me if I wanted a drink.”

“What happened then?” Ruth prodded.

“You know 'ow you get a funny feelin' when something isn't right? I saw the girl go up to the barman and point at me. He said something to the men at the bar. I knew I 'ad to get out of there. So I left. I nipped out the back door of the saloon bar and thought I'd take a shortcut to the station through the mews behind the pub, but when I got back there, I saw a gang of toughs comin' at me. So I made a run for it and got away.”

Everyone, save Mrs. Jeffries, started talking at once.

“Oh, Wiggins, how awful,” Phyllis cried.

“I'll have their guts for garters,” the cook yelled.

“Thank goodness you're a fast runner.” Betsy blinked hard to hold back her tears.

“Clever of you to know when to make your move,” Hatchet said.

“Nell's bells, maybe I oughta give you my peacemaker,” Luty offered.

“I'm fine.” Wiggins smiled self-consciously. “But I don't mind admittin' I was scared. There was four of them and only one of me.”

“What time did this happen?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Midmornin', right after the pubs opened,” Wiggins said. “I've spent the rest of the day makin' sure that no one followed me back 'ere. I don't want any of them thugs knowin' where we live.”

“We can take care of finding out about Gordon Redley some other time.” Mrs. Jeffries spoke calmly but her heart was thumping so loudly she was surprised no one else could hear it. Wiggins could have been badly hurt or worse. Oh dear God, what had she done? She never meant for any of them to be at risk.

“But I did find out about 'im,” Wiggins insisted. He grinned proudly. “Mind you, I kept lookin' over my shoulder, but even with doin' that, it didn't slow me down much. I went to that address on Pelham Road, and it's a proper office building. But you'll never guess what I found out.”

“They'd never heard of him,” Hatchet said softly. “The address was a fake.”

“'Ow'd you know that?” Wiggins exclaimed.

“Because no one at the building where Andrew Morecomb supposedly works has ever heard of him, either.”

Edith Durant's solicitor had offices on the second floor of a commercial building in Islington. “Let's hope Mr. Neville can give us a few facts that might prove helpful,” Witherspoon murmured to the constable as they followed Franklin Neville's clerk into his office.

“The police, sir,” the clerk announced.

Franklin Neville came out from behind his desk with his hand outstretched. He was of medium height with thinning brown hair sprinkled with gray, hazel eyes, and a long, rather sharp nose. “Inspector Witherspoon, I presume,” he said as they shook hands.

“I am, sir, and I take it you are Franklin Neville, the late Alice Robinson's solicitor.”

He nodded. “I've been expecting you, sir. Had you not come today, I was going to go to seek you out.”

“This is Constable Barnes,” Witherspoon said.

Neville shook his hand as well and then motioned to the chairs in front of his desk. “Please sit down, gentlemen,” he invited before taking his own seat. “I'm sure you've a number of questions for me.”

Barnes laid the file box containing the ledger and the most recent witness statements onto the corner of the desk, sat down, and took out his notebook.

“Mr. Neville, you appear to know why we're here today, so I'll get right to my questions,” Witherspoon began. “As you may know, Alice Robinson was actually a woman named Edith Durant.”

“I only knew her as Alice Robinson,” he replied. “I learned of her true identity when I read about her murder in the newspaper, and I must say, I was very surprised.”

“What kind of legal work did you do for her?” Barnes asked.

“I handled the purchase of her property on Magdala Lane. It was a very straightforward transaction.” He leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together. “Actually, I only met her a few times so there's really not much I can tell you about her.”

“How did you come to represent her?” Witherspoon asked. “Had you been recommended by someone she knew?”

“Not that I'm aware of, Inspector. She never said why she wanted me to represent her, she simply walked into the front office one day and asked my clerk for an appointment. As I said, the property purchase wasn't complicated so my contact with her was somewhat limited.”

“Did you do any other legal work for her?” Witherspoon asked.

“No, I'm afraid not.”

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “She didn't have a will?”

“I can't say for certain, Constable. All I can tell you is she never asked me to do one for her.” He leaned back in his chair. “But that isn't to say she doesn't have one. She may have had another solicitor. Perhaps I shouldn't say this, because I didn't know her well at all, but in the few times we did meet, she struck me as a woman who was very self-reliant and somewhat protective of her privacy.”

“How so?” Witherspoon asked.

“She didn't like to answer questions,” he replied bluntly. “When she first approached me, she refused to give me her address. She only relented when I insisted. I must say, Inspector, I found her odd, to say the least. When she actually paid for the property, she walked in here with a suitcase full of money.”

“You didn't find that suspicious?” Barnes asked incredulously. “Most people use a building society.”

“That's true, but she wasn't the first of my clients to buy a property with cash,” he admitted, “and as I said, she'd already made it clear she was in charge and that I was merely the hired help.”

Witherspoon didn't know what to make of this. “You said, sir, that if we'd not come to see you, you were going to contact us. Did you have a specific reason?”

Neville frowned and glanced at the shelves of file boxes and law books on the wall by the door. “I'm not sure I ought to even mention this. It's probably nothing but it's bothered me ever since I read about her murder.”

“What has, sir?” the inspector pressed.

“It wasn't really a legal matter, but she did come to see me once after the property matter was over and done with. It was sometime in February, probably close to the twentieth.”

“Of this year?” Barnes asked quickly.

“Yes, she arrived without an appointment and demanded to see me. My clerk won't have her name in the book so I can't give you the exact day she was here. I had a few moments so I agreed to see her. She came into my office and it was obvious she was very upset. You must understand, the other times I'd seen her she was always very poised and self-confident, very much in control of her emotions.”

“I take it that wasn't the situation this time,” the inspector said.

“No, to put it bluntly, she was in a state. When I asked her what was wrong, why she'd come to see me, she began . . . well”—he shrugged—“there's no nice way to put it. She began babbling that someone in her house was trying to ruin her.”

“Ruin her?” Barnes repeated. “How?”

“She claimed someone was playing malicious tricks on her. She was so upset that it took almost fifteen minutes to get her to calm down enough to explain what she meant.”

“Had something specific happened that day?” Witherspoon guessed. “Was that why she was distraught?”

“Oh yes, Inspector, I'll get to that. This will make much more sense if I start from the beginning.” He paused, and at Witherspoon's nod of assent, he continued speaking. “I first offered her a cup of tea—that generally helps people bring their emotions under control; it's difficult to be hysterical when you're sipping a nice cup of Assam—but she asked if I had any whiskey.” He smiled, somewhat sheepishly. “I do. I keep a bottle in my desk for the occasional celebration with a grateful client, but you're not interested in my business practices. I poured her a whiskey and she tossed it back like a sailor, but it did the trick. She said the first time it happened, it never occurred to her that it wasn't some sort of mistake.”

Barnes interrupted. “The first time what happened?”

“One of the tricks. The first time it was a theft at the house. Right after Christmas one of the tenants claimed his brand-new umbrella had been stolen, a few days later, another tenant claimed his watch was missing, and then Mrs. Robinson began receiving letters from the gasworks and the bank that she was past due on her monthly accounts yet she was certain she'd sent off letters with the payments. Then one of the tenants didn't pay his weekly rent, and when she confronted him about it, he claimed he had paid. Now let me explain, Mrs. Robinson had a very specific method for receiving her rent. She kept a stack of envelopes on the table in the foyer, and every week, the tenants were instructed to pay their rent in cash, put it in the envelope, and slip it under the door to her private quarters. The tenant claimed he'd done just that but she insisted she never got it. This was in the middle of January. Three weeks later, it happened again, and again the tenant swore he'd put the money under her door. The day she came to see me it had happened yet again only this time, all of the rents were gone yet every tenant claimed they'd paid. What's more, one of the tenants had a witness that he slipped the envelope under the door.”

“Who was the witness?” Witherspoon asked.

“One of the maids. She verified the tenant's account of the matter and I suspect that's when Mrs. Robinson realized she was the victim of deliberate malicious mischief.”

“Did she have any idea who might be responsible?” The inspector thought this case couldn't get any more difficult, but he'd been wrong.

“She didn't name names but she did tell me that she was certain it was either her neighbor or one of her tenants. Odd. When you think about it, most people always try to blame the servants when things go missing in a household.”

*   *   *

“So now we know that at least two of the lodging house tenants weren't what they claimed to be,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

“Three,” Smythe said. “John Erskine is no more a respectable businessman than I'm the king of Siam.”

“Cor blimey, what's goin' on 'ere?” Wiggins exclaimed. “None of 'em is what 'e's supposed to be.”

“That's not quite true,” Hatchet said. “Norman Teasdale is exactly what he appears to be. I spoke to the porter at his office building.”

“That don't mean he ain't as crooked as the rest of them,” Luty declared. “That's what we're all thinkin', isn't it. They're a bunch of criminals and Edith Durant was chargin' them an arm and leg to hide out at her lodgin' house.”

“That would explain why they were willing to pay more than double the going rate for the accommodations,” Ruth murmured. “And why there were so few servants there.”

“Teasdale is exactly what he claims to be. I didn't just take the porter's word, I spoke to the lad that takes his daily order to the telegraph office, and I also had a quick word with one of the clerks at the customs house.” Hatchet shot Luty a triumphant grin. “So even if Durant's other tenants are part of some sort of criminal gang, and I'm not sure I agree with your assessment of that matter, I very much doubt that Teasdale is part of it. From what I learned today, he simply wouldn't have time—he works too hard.”

Luty's eyes narrowed. “There ain't nuthin' wrong with my
assessment of that matter
, there's only one reason people ain't who they're supposed to be: They've got somethin' to hide.”

“They're crooks, that's for sure,” Smythe interjected. “Wiggins isn't the only one who 'ad a spot of trouble today.”

“Oh God, are you alright?” Betsy swiveled in her seat and began to run her hands up and down her husband's arms. “Were you hurt?”

“I'm fine, sweetheart.” He grabbed one of her hands and gave it a squeeze. “Stop your frettin' now. I'm right as rain.”

Betsy took a deep breath and sat back. But when he went to pull away, she clasped his fingers and held them tightly.

“Are you certain you're alright?” Mrs. Jeffries sucked in a lungful of air as her stomach contracted in fear. Dear God, first Wiggins and now Smythe. She'd never forgive herself if any of them were hurt because she sent them out on the hunt.

He gave her a cheeky grin. “'Course I am. I wasn't ever in any real danger,” he lied. He told them about following Erskine and being surprised when he wound up in Whitechapel. When he got to the part about the pub, he skipped 90 percent of the specifics and merely said he'd needed to get out of there fast and that he'd been followed.

Mrs. Goodge frowned in confusion. “Who followed you? Erskine?”

Smythe shook his head. “No, it was a thug he'd paid.”

“So both of us 'ad to make a run for it today.” Wiggins seemed quite cheered by the news.

“You could say that.” Smythe laughed.

Mrs. Jeffries knew he'd left out a number of pertinent details and she'd most certainly tax him about them later. “So now we know that at least three of Durant's four lodgers aren't respectable businessmen.”

“Clever of you to have us take a closer look at them,” Luty declared.

“How did your day go, madam?” Hatchet inquired. “Find out anything useful about the neighbor?”

“Not yet, but I'm hopin' tomorrow will be a better day.” She turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “I didn't have any luck findin' out about that Mrs. Travers.”

“Neither did I,” Ruth added.

“I'd like to believe that she isn't important,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But she might be. Even with all we've discovered about the lodging house tenants, Mrs. Travers is the only person who we know had a direct confrontation with the victim. Edith Durant threatened to kill her, and we don't know that Mrs. Travers didn't take her seriously and decide to strike the first blow. I don't think it's likely, but it is a possibility, and right now, we've got to investigate every aspect of this case.”

“I'll keep at it,” Luty promised.

“As will I.” Ruth glanced at the clock on the pine sideboard. The Reverend Pontefract was coming to dinner tonight and she wanted to get home soon. She had some very specific instructions she wanted to give her butler.

“My bit's not near as excitin' as Smythe and Wiggins.” Mrs. Goodge gave the footman a good frown. The lad should know to be more careful. If one of those ruffians had hurt him, it would have broken her heart. Smythe caused her a bit less worry. He was a strong man and could hold his own in a bout of fisticuffs, but he needed to take care as well. As soon as she could get either of them alone, she'd give them both a piece of her mind. “I had a chat with one of my old colleagues, Letty Sommerville. She was the one that used to have tea with Mrs. Nimitz, the Christopher housekeeper. Now I know that those original murders were solved, but I thought that maybe Letty would remember something useful about Edith Durant, you know, something that might help us figure out what she's been up to all these years.”