Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (23 page)

“I was with a woman, Inspector, a married woman.”

“I take it your relationship with this person is, uh . . . intimate?” Witherspoon knew he was blushing.

“If it was innocent, I wouldn't have found it necessary to try and hide it.” Redley sighed. “I didn't want to cause her any difficulties. Her husband has a terrible temper, and if he found out about us, he'd . . . he'd . . . oh dear God, I don't even like to think what he'd do.”

“We'll be as discreet as possible, Mr. Redley, but I must have her name and address.”

“Can you go there in the afternoon? He's gone then,” Redley pleaded. “Please, it could be a matter of life or death.”

“I've a very reliable constable I can send.”

“A constable,” he cried.

Witherspoon held up his hand. “Don't worry, Mr. Redley, Constable Griffiths will be extremely tactful.”

He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Her name is Samantha Kemp and she'll be at the Plough Inn. It's just off the high street where the road curves round to Clapham Common.”

“Constable Griffiths will instruct the lady that if anyone asks what he was doing in her pub, she can say that he was looking for a missing person, an elderly senile man. Will that do?” Witherspoon asked.

“Yes, Inspector, but please, make your constable promise that if he sees a burly, black-haired brute behind the bar, he's not to ask for Sammi. I'll not put her in danger.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this before, Mr. Redley?” Witherspoon honestly didn't understand why people found it necessary to lie to the police.

“Why do you think, Inspector? I love Samantha and I didn't want either her reputation ruined or her life threatened by that monster she married.” Redley shrugged. “Secondly, I didn't like my landlady nor did I think much of her character, but she was dead and I didn't wish to speak ill of her.”

Downstairs, Constable Barnes frowned at Etta Morgan and Mrs. Fremont. “Why didn't either of you mention that in the month prior to the murder things had been stolen from the house?”

Etta licked her lips and cast a quick, worried glance at the cook. “I wasn't sure I ought to,” she muttered. “I mean, you asked us if anything unusual had happened about the time of the murder, and we'd not heard the mistress shouting about tricks bein' played for a couple of weeks. I didn't think of it.”

“Neither did I.” Mrs. Fremont crossed her arms over her chest. “And what's more, none of us below stairs here was all that certain the mistress wasn't makin' the whole thing up.”

“You think she might have stolen an umbrella and a watch from her tenants?” Barnes looked doubtful. “Really?”

Mrs. Fremont unfolded her arms and leaned across the table toward him. “We didn't say anything about it because we were scared.”

“Scared? Of what?”

“Of the tenants,” Etta exclaimed. “They're a right odd lot, and if one of them was stealin' and killin', we didn't want to be next. Mrs. Robinson was already dead, and if they got wind that we'd told the police anything untoward, we might be next.”

“Stealing and killing?” Barnes stared at them in disbelief. “But we're the police. We stop that sort of thing from happening.”

“You're going to station a constable here in my kitchen? Or maybe on the landings?” Mrs. Fremont laughed softly. “We know who you are, Constable, and you look like a decent sort, and you and that inspector would be right upset if one of us was found with our throat slit, but we'd still be dead, wouldn't we.”

“If you'd told us everything from the beginning, we might have found Mrs. Robinson's killer,” he protested.

“But what if you didn't?” she demanded. “What if he's still here and just waitin' for you lot to clear off before he heads for the hills? None of us has anyplace to go so we're stuck here with them. You should have heard the screamin' and shoutin' and the threats when her nibs accused them of not payin' their rents. They went mad.”

“And when Mr. Erskine's watch went missing, he called her a terrible name and threw the umbrella stand at her,” Etta said. “That's why it's so battered in places.”

“And the next night, his umbrella was taken,” Mrs. Fremont added. “He was so furious he stormed out and slammed the front door so hard it almost broke the window in the drawing room. So you tell me, Constable, if you was trapped in a house with people like that, wouldn't you be careful about what you said?”

“Tell me about the time that all the rent envelopes went missing,” the constable said.

“It was in February.” Mrs. Fremont picked up her teacup and took a quick sip. “Her nibs had been gone the night before.”

“Where had she been?” Barnes picked up his pencil and flipped to the next page in his notebook.

Mrs. Fremont gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “She wasn't one to explain herself to us, Constable. The only reason we knew about her monthly trip to Scotland was so Carrie or Etta would be sure to have her shoes shined. But sometimes, she went off alone and all she ever said was that she'd be back the next day.”

“Go on, what happened when she came home that morning?”

“She dropped her suitcase in the foyer and stuck her head in the dining room to tell Carrie to bring her a pot of tea and then she went upstairs. Etta was down here helpin' me and Carrie was servin' breakfast,” Mrs. Fremont continued. “I set about making the tea but then Mrs. Robinson came back downstairs and charged into the dining room. She demanded to know why there weren't any envelopes in her room, why they hadn't paid their rent.”

“Carrie said she looked like a madwoman,” Etta put in. “Poor Carrie was so frightened she dropped the toast rack.”

“The tenants weren't scared,” Mrs. Fremont said. “They all claimed they'd slipped the envelopes under the door, just like they did every Friday evening. By this time she was shoutin' loud enough to wake the dead. She said she wasn't goin' to stand for it and for them to pay up. Mr. Erskine told her he wasn't falling for her tricks, that he'd paid his rent, and that he had a witness who'd seen him shove the envelope under the door.”

“He pointed at Carrie,” Etta said, “and that's when she dropped the toast rack. She was scared, but she told the truth. She had seen Mr. Erskine push it under.”

“What happened then?”

“Mrs. Robinson went real quiet for a minute, then she stomped into the foyer, grabbed her coat, and stalked out of the house.”

Barnes had one more thing he needed to know. “Mrs. Fremont, Etta, did either of you hear Mrs. Robinson arguing with someone in her room the night before she was killed?”

*   *   *

“They 'urt like the very devil,” Blimpey Groggins complained. “But you and your lot did me a good turn once, so shingles or not, I wanted to pass along a bit of information.”

They were out on the street and heading toward Upper Edmonton Gardens. Smythe glanced at his companion as they rounded the corner. “That's right good of ya, but are you sure you don't want to go back to the flat so ya can sit in comfort? Ya don't look well. You're pale as a sheet and shingles shouldn't cause that.”

Blimpey waved his hand impatiently. “I'm fine. There's a reason I look like death warmed over but I'll get to that after I tell ya what I know. Don't worry, I'll only charge ya my usual rate even if I was the one that come to you.”

Smythe snorted. “I went to you first.”

He noticed that despite Blimpey's slow gait and pallor, he was dressed a bit nattier than usual. His shirt, usually the color of dirty water, was now a pristine white, his dark blue jacket and matching suit trousers appeared to be brand-new, and he wasn't wearing his old red scarf, but a perfectly clean maroon one was wound around his throat.

“True, true, but let's not haggle over trifles.” Blimpey stopped as they reached the busy Holland Road. They waited for a break in the traffic and then started across. “I wanted to pass along some rumors that might have a bearin' on your inspector's latest case.”

“What kind of rumors?” Smythe pulled his coat tighter as a blast of wind ripped into them. Beside him, he heard Blimpey gasp. “You alright?”

Blimpey grimaced. “These ruddy shingles are so sore that even a puff of blooming wind hurts. Anyway, what I've 'eard is that there's a new criminal enterprise 'ere in town.”

“What kind?”

“That's the 'ard part. I'm not sure there's a name for what they're doin'. Mind you, there should be. I guess you could say that crime 'as caught up with the modern world we live in.”

Smythe came to a complete stop and stared at Blimpey, who'd also halted. They were in front of an estate agent's shop. “What on earth are you on about?”

“There's a criminal gang operatin' 'ere. They've been workin' London for the last two years or eighteen months—my source wasn't sure of how long exactly they'd been here.”

“And you're just now findin' out about it?” Smythe found that hard to believe. “Come on, Blimpey, pull the other one. Your business is knowin' what's goin' on.”

“Alright, alright, don't get all het up. I'll admit, I've heard rumors about it. But it's only been recently that I could find out anything solid.” He had the good grace to look embarrassed. “But in my defense, there's a reason I don't know as much as I should. They've done a good job of keepin' the local bad lads from finding out about their operation.”

“And why would that be?”

“Competition, Smythe. Criminal enterprises are just like any other business and this lot has come up with a good method for moving goods that reduces the risk of them bein' nicked. To be fair, it's a pretty smart method.”

“What kind of method?”

“From what I 'ear, an experienced burglar comes to London, picks his territory, and then helps himself to the goodies. Now you've got to understand, Smythe, the police never catch burglars in the act. They get 'em through informants or by leanin' hard on the local fences. You know what a fence is . . .”

“I do,” Smythe interrupted. “'E's the one that buys the stolen goods. Go on, we're almost there. Tell me the rest.”

“So the burglar's got his goods, but instead of fencing them through one of the local channels, there's supposedly a person who takes the stuff out of England and fences it there.”

“What good would that do? The police could still track it. They've got telegrams and even them new instruments, telephones.” Smythe kept up on all the new inventions that were available. The telephone looked like it might be a useful one to have as well.

“You're not understandin' how it works, Smythe.” Blimpey sighed theatrically. “The police don't go lookin' that far afield for stolen goods. Like I said, they make arrests by leaning hard on fences or their informants. If none of the locals know anything, then they can't tell the police, so a clever sort of burglar, someone who was good at his job, could come into a neighborhood, lift a few pretty bits and pieces from an empty house, and take his share of the lolly when it was fenced somewhere far away.”

“Do ya 'ave any idea who this person is, the one who takes it out of the country?”

Blimpey grinned broadly. “That's the interestin' bit, Smythe. My lads tell me the rumors are that this ring is run by a woman.”

“A woman,” Smythe repeated. “Blast a Spaniard, are you sure? Tell me you're sure, Blimpey. It could be bloomin' important.”

“You mean if that woman was Edith Durant?” He shrugged. “I've got some people workin' on it, Smythe, but I can't tell you she was the one for sure.”

By this time, they'd reached the back gate to the communal gardens. “Thanks, Blimpey, this helps a lot. I appreciate you comin' to see me.”

“I'd like to say this was the only reason I got off my sick bed.” A red flush climbed up Blimpey's chubby cheeks. “But there's something else I wanted to ask ya.”

“Go ahead.” Smythe stared at him curiously; it took a lot to make someone like Blimpey blush.

He cleared his throat. “We both married younger women, Smythe. Your Betsy is a good twenty years . . .”

“Seventeen,” he interrupted. “She's seventeen years younger. Don't make me older than I am.”

“Right, well, that's as may be, but my Nell is fifteen years younger than me.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I don't quite know how to say this. I never thought it would happen to me, to us.”

“What's 'appened?” Smythe's heart sank. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.

“Ya hear about it happening to others, but never to yourself, if you know what I mean.” Shaking his head, he looked off into the distance.

“But I don't know what ya mean,” Smythe objected. “You've not told me.”

“I'm not sure 'ow to put it in words.”

“Are ya sick, Blimpey? Are ya dying? If you need someone ya trust to keep an eye on your Nell, Betsy and I can do it for ya. You've only to ask. You can tell me. You're a good friend, and if somethin' is troublin' you, I want to 'elp.”

He turned back to Smythe and the faraway expression in his eyes sharpened. He broke into a wide grin. “I'm not dyin' but I might need your Betsy to have a word with my Nell.”

Smythe was confused. “Then what's this all about?”

“I'm goin' to be a father, Smythe, and I'm more scared than I've ever been in my entire life. My Nell and I are goin' to have us a baby.”

*   *   *

Constable Griffiths yanked open the front door and turned to look at Witherspoon. “I'll stop back here with a full report and I promise, sir, I'll be very discreet.”

“I know you will, Constable, that's why I'm sending you and not one of the local lads,” he replied. “Regardless of what one may think about a liaison between a married woman and a man that isn't her husband, we don't want to do anything to put her directly in harm's way.”