Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (24 page)

Griffiths nodded respectfully and closed the door. Witherspoon turned and almost knocked over Carrie Durridge. “Oh dear, I'm so sorry.”

“It was my fault, sir.” She smiled apologetically. “I was going to ask if you and the other constables want tea?”

“You needn't go to any trouble on our account.” Witherspoon moved past her toward the drawing room. John Erskine was waiting for him.

“It's no trouble, sir.” Carrie dogged his footsteps. “I've got to go downstairs anyway. Constable Barnes wants to ask me something.”

“In that case, I'd love a cup of tea.”

“I'll take one, too,” Erskine called through the open door.

Carrie frowned in his direction and then gave the inspector a quick smile as she hurried toward the back stairs. Witherspoon stepped through the oak double doors

“I understand you wish to speak to me.” Erskine was leaning against the unlighted fireplace. “Was there something in particular you wanted to ask?”

Witherspoon advanced into the room. “Mr. Erskine, in your original statement, you said that you overheard a rather heated argument between the victim and some unknown person.”

He pushed away from the fireplace and sat down on the settee. “That's correct. Why?”

“Would you care to amend that statement, sir?” Witherspoon asked politely. As soon as they arrived today, he and Barnes as well as Constable Griffiths had inquired if any other member of the household had heard the argument. None of them had.

Erskine drew back slightly, his face darkening. “Why should I? I've told the truth. The woman was having a bloody row with someone.”

“There were a number of other people here that night and none of them overheard this alleged quarrel.”

“Alleged,” he blustered. “There was nothing alleged about it. I know what I heard and she was shouting her head off.”

“Neither Mr. Redley nor Mr. Morecomb heard anything and they were both home.”

“Did they tell you that?” He sneered. “I shouldn't believe them if I were you. They've no great love for me and would like nothing more than to see me embarrassed.”

“That's hardly a reason for respectable businessmen to lie to the police,” Witherspoon continued. “The servants didn't hear anything, either. Why was that?”

“Of course they didn't. The cook was out at the pub, the scullery maid sleeps like the dead, and Durridge wasn't in her room when I popped in to ask her to find me a headache powder,” he protested. “Surely, Inspector, you've seen enough about this household to know that it's peculiar. Alice Robinson or Edith Durant, whatever the woman was calling herself, was incredibly cheap. What few servants she had were worked to death and the only way she could keep anyone here was to let them do as they pleased in the evenings. So it's no wonder that no one overhead the argument, but I know what I heard.”

Witherspoon changed tactics. “Where were you on the morning of the murder?”

Erskine's hands balled into fists. “I was with a customer. You know what I do, Inspector, and it'll ruin me financially if the people I depend on for my livelihood suspect for an instant that I can't be trusted.”

“You sell furs.” Witherspoon smiled slightly as he saw the door start to slide open. “You claim to have offices in High Holborn. Is that correct?”

“You know all this.” He got up and began to pace. “Can we move this along, please? I don't want to be late.”

“Perhaps you'd be so good as to explain, Mr. Erskine, how you can work for a company that went out of business four years ago,” Barnes asked as he stepped into the room.

Erskine stared at the constable, his expression stunned.

“Well, Mr. Erskine, can you explain this matter?” Witherspoon pressed.

“I must have made a mistake,” he muttered. “I gave you the wrong name.”

“You also gave us the wrong address for your business and the wrong name of the Canadian firm you claim you represent,” Barnes said. “Can you explain those mistakes as well?”

Even before Constable Barnes had found out about Smythe's and Wiggins' respective spots of trouble, he'd been suspicious about the tenants and had followed established procedure by sending off inquiries to confirm their statements. Inspector Rogers had sent a constable from Y Division over this morning with a telegram from the High Holborn division, and Barnes suspected that if Erskine was lying about his business, he was lying about the office address. If two of the other three tenants' occupations were bogus, there was a good chance that Erskine's was a sham as well.

“Alright, I lied about them. I'm actually unemployed, but I didn't want anyone to know that, because when a man is out of work, people tend to regard him as a failure,” he said defensively. “Besides, it's much easier to obtain employment if prospective clients think you're already successful.”

“Where were you at the time of the murder?” Witherspoon asked again. “Please don't waste our time, Mr. Erskine, we're going to verify your story immediately, and if you weren't where you claim to be, we're going to ask you to come to the station to help with our inquiries.”

*   *   *

The meeting was breaking up by the time Smythe arrived, but they'd quickly gone back to their seats when he told them who his source was and that he'd learned something important.

He told them about the baby first. “I wasn't sure whether to offer him condolences or congratulations.” He laughed. “But then I saw him grinnin' like a madman and that settled it for me. He's 'appier than a cat that's got the canary.”

“He's just nervous about becoming a father.” Betsy patted her husband's arm. “That's understandable. You were, too.”

“It was good of him to seek you out,” Hatchet said.

“Especially as he's still got shingles.” Luty winced. “My late husband had 'em twice and they like to have killed him.”

“This Mr. Blimpey Groggins person—he's a source?” Phyllis had been under the impression that the household didn't share the names of the people that they mined for information.

Smythe knew he was on delicate ground here. Everyone knew how Blimpey made his living. “'E's not really a source,” he explained slowly. “But I do use 'im occasionally to find out a few things. But that's not why 'e came to see me this mornin'.”

“I expect he came because he wished to do us a good turn,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected smoothly. She'd long suspected that Smythe frequently used Blimpey's rather expensive services, and she was most grateful he was willing to spend his own money to assist in their investigations. Helping the coachman out of an awkward explanation was the least she could do. She looked at Phyllis. “Before you came here, we once helped Blimpey with a problem, and he's always looked for a way to repay the favor.”

“What did he tell you?” Betsy asked. Like Mrs. Jeffries, she thought the less said about Blimpey being a source, the better.

“He 'ad some information about the burglaries in the neighborhood of the lodgin' house,” he began. He repeated what Blimpey had told him. “Mainly, the thieves are takin' small but expensive items like silver, jewelry, coin collections, even small pieces of art and ceramics.”

“But they're not being fenced here in London?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “That certainly fits.”

“He was sure that it was a woman who was the ringleader?” Ruth asked.

“She's the brains behind the operation.” Smythe took a quick swig of tea. “And what's more, the rumor is that she's been doin' it for eighteen months or more.”

“But most of the current tenants haven't been there for more than a few months,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “Norman Teasdale's been there the longest and that's just six months, and he's the only one who appears to be a legitimate businessman. So how could Edith Durant have been doing this for eighteen months?” The moment the words left her lips, Mrs. Jeffries knew the answer. “Oh gracious, they're not the first, are they?”

“No, there were others before this lot,” Smythe said. “Some were from the Continent and some from America.”

“Let me see if I understand what we're gettin' at here.” The cook looked from Smythe to Mrs. Jeffries. “Are you sayin' that Edith Durant was the ringleader of an international band of thieves?”

“I think she was more like an administrator than a ringleader,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “I'm not certain, but I think that when Edith Durant fled London when Christopher was arrested, she got in touch with her old contacts on the Continent.”

“And most of them was criminals,” Luty added.

“She also made contacts in North America,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. “I think she saw a need in the modern criminal world and realized she could make a substantial amount of money by providing a respectable haven for housebreakers and burglars as well as affording them a safer method of selling the goods they'd stolen.”

“So you're sayin' Durant used her old contacts to let other criminals know that they could safely hide out at her boardinghouse and that for a fee she'd sell the goods for them miles away from where the crime took place?” Mrs. Goodge wanted to make sure she understood.

“That's very clever,” Betsy murmured. “If she resold the goods that had been stolen in London to a fence in Scotland, the chances of her being arrested were small.”

“But why would the thieves and burglars go along with it?” Phyllis asked. “They've taken all the risks by committing the crime so why would they pay to stay in her lodging house and a fee on top of that?”

“They'd do it to avoid getting caught and going to prison.” Hatchet smiled at Phyllis. “Most burglars and thieves aren't caught in the act, they're arrested because the police put pressure on the locals who receive the stolen goods and sell them on.”

“Either that, or they get caught because of informants,” Smythe added. “So if you've nicked a diamond necklace in Paris, it'll be the French police that's huntin' you, not the English.”

Something poked at the back of Mrs. Jeffries' mind, but it was such a soft nudge that it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“So having someone here to move the goods would increase your chances of not getting caught.” Phyllis nodded eagerly. “That makes sense. So Morecomb, Redley, and Erskine are thieves, and that's why they've been at the lodging house.”

“That seems to make sense,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “But which one of them would have a motive to murder her? That's the question.”

“I still think Norman Teasdale might be in the mix,” Luty declared. “He seems like a respectable feller, but he was the only one that was intimately connected with the victim.”

“What should we be doing today?” Phyllis asked.

Mrs. Jeffries wasn't sure. “We've already nudged the inspector into taking another look at the tenants, and Constable Barnes was going to relay the information we've learned to both our inspector and Inspector Rogers. Rogers is the one investigating the local burglaries.”

“What about the Black Swan and the Hanged Man?” Smythe inquired. “Someone needs to send some lads there to shake up the locals.”

“Yes, but that's far too dangerous for any of us,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “We'll have to leave that to the police. Once Constable Barnes lets Rogers know what we've learned, he'll probably send some of his tougher young men over to have a word with the publicans.” She looked at Phyllis. “See if you can make contact with Annie Linden and find out any details she might know about the Scotland trips.” Then she turned to Wiggins. “Can you keep an eye on the lodging house today? If the inspector starts applying a bit of pressure to the tenants, one or more of them might attempt to leave.”

“'Course I can, but what should I do if I see someone runnin' for it?”

“Don't chase after them,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “You stay well away from that lot. They're criminals and, like rats, we don't know what they'll do if they're cornered.”

“Do you believe him, sir?” Barnes asked the inspector as soon as Erskine was out of earshot.

“It's something we can easily check, so I don't know why he'd lie about it. He'd had to have registered and there would be plenty of attendants about the place. It wasn't that long ago, so if he was actually there, someone will remember him. But the more important question is why didn't he tell us the truth from the start?”

“There's nothing wrong with them, sir, but some men don't like admitting they use Turkish baths,” Barnes replied.

“But the Jermyn Street Baths are perfectly respectable.” Witherspoon didn't understand it. Life would be so much easier if people would only stop telling lies to the police. “Send Constable Shearing to the baths to verify Erskine's statement. He ought to have time to get there and back before we're finished here.”

“Once Constables Griffiths and Shearing get back, we'll have confirmation of all three alibis,” Barnes said thoughtfully.

“Yes, I suppose we will. We've already verified that Norman Teasdale was telling us the truth when he said he was at the Armitage Hotel”—Witherspoon held up his hand and ticked off his fingers as he spoke—“Erskine would have been at the Jermyn Street Baths, and Redley at the Plough Inn. The only one left, then, is Andrew Morecomb.”

The door wedged open just enough to reveal Carrie shoving at it with her shoulder. She carried a tea tray holding two steaming mugs. Witherspoon dashed over and pushed the double doors apart.

“Thank you, sir.” She smiled gratefully and put the tray on the table. “But where's Mr. Erskine? He said he wanted tea.”

“He went up to his room,” Witherspoon said. “But as you've very kindly brought up two mugs, Constable Barnes will have his.”

“Very good, sir.” She served Witherspoon first and then handed the other mug to Barnes.

“Now that you're here, Miss Durridge,” he said as he took his mug, “can you answer a question for me?”

“Certainly, sir, what is it?”

“On the night before Mrs. Robinson was murdered, Mr. Erskine claimed he overheard her and some other person having a row in her quarters.”

“That's what the constable asked me, sir, and like I told him, I don't remember hearing anything like that.”

“Yes, I understand that. But Mr. Erskine now claims that when he heard this row, he went to the kitchen for a drink of water and that he then went to your room to ask for a headache powder but you weren't there.”

She cocked her head to one side, her expression confused. “But I was there, sir. I'm always there in the evenings. I like to read. The only time I left my room was when I went upstairs to the box room to fetch another blouse out of my trunk.”

“What time did you go upstairs?” Witherspoon recalled that someone, he couldn't remember who, had stated they'd heard someone in the box room that night. No doubt it was Carrie.

“I don't know, sir. I wasn't watching the clock, but it was before nine, I know that much.” She pointed toward the hall. “The front door gets locked at nine sharp every night, so I've got to be in my room just after that time in case one of the gentlemen wants to be let in.”

“Was it always Mrs. Robinson who locked the front door?” Barnes asked. “We've been told she was often out in the evenings.”

“She was, sir.” Carrie nodded vigorously. “But the door was still locked up good and tight. If she was out for the evening, either Etta or I locked up.”

“Where was the key kept?” Witherspoon suddenly remembered they'd never found the key to either Durant's quarters or the passkey to the tenants' rooms.

“If she was going out, she put the key under the ivy plant in the foyer.”

“And you let her in when she came home?” he clarified.

“No, sir, she let herself in. She had her own key, and when she was out, we didn't throw the top bolt—it was left unlocked.”

“You've no idea where she kept her keys?” he pressed. “We've still not found either her passkeys or the keys to her quarters.”

Carrie shook her head. “No, sir, I don't. I've kept my eyes open for them ever since you asked the first time, but I've not seen them. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Do you know where Mr. Morecomb went today?” Barnes asked. “Or what time he'll return?”

“I've no idea when he'll be back, but he's gone to the train station, sir. He left before breakfast this morning.” She picked up the empty tray and started for the door.

Witherspoon frowned in annoyance. “The train station. Did he mention where he was traveling?”

“No, sir, he didn't, but then again, he'd not say anything to me or the other servants. But he had his suitcase with him, if that's any help to you, sir. Oh, but he dropped his handkerchief as he was leaving and I took it out to him just as he was getting into a hansom cab. I overheard him tell the hansom driver to take him to Victoria Station.”

“Do you think he's run, sir?” Barnes muttered as soon as Carrie was out of earshot.

“I don't want to believe it.” Witherspoon closed his eyes as other, more painful memories almost overwhelmed him. He put his mug down on the table. “Surely I've not been foolish enough or incompetent enough to let another suspect slip through my fingers. Yee gods, that's exactly what I did the last time.”

For a moment, Barnes thought he was hearing things. It wasn't like the inspector to turn maudlin this early in the day. His miserable moods usually hit him in the evenings when he was tired as a pup. “That's not what happened, sir. If you'll recall, we were getting ready to arrest her when she went on the run. What's more, we'd no idea that the tenants here weren't exactly the respectable businessmen they appeared to be until you had the notion to take a closer look at them and at that ledger.”

Witherspoon gave himself a small shake. “Yes, of course, you're right. I'm being absurd.”

Relieved, Barnes let out the breath he'd been holding. “Not to be rude, sir, but you are.” He took a huge gulp of tea. “You've too many irons in the fire now to worry about Andrew Morecomb. If he left from Victoria Station, we'll find him eventually.”

“Of course we will,” Witherspoon said. “Unlike Edith Durant, he has no idea we know what he's been up to.”

“Do you want me to ask if Inspector Rogers can spare us a constable or two to search the back garden? He owes us, sir. We've passed along our suspicions that the tenants could well be involved in those burglaries he's under pressure to solve.”

Witherspoon's face clouded. “Back garden?”

“As you said earlier, sir, there had to be a reason Durant was so upset at the thought of her neighbor spying on her while she was outside that she threatened to murder her.”

“Yes, yes, indeed. Thank you, Constable, for reminding me, and we could certainly use all the help we can get. But there's no need to add to Inspector Rogers' burden. He needs his men. The garden isn't large—we can have a hunt ourselves, and if we find we need assistance, Constables Griffiths and Shearing can lend us a hand when they return.” He went toward the hall. “The most likely reason was that she had something hidden out there.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries pulled the inspector's bedcovers to the foot of the bed and straightened the sheets. Cleaning his quarters was Phyllis' job, but when they were “on the hunt,” she took over as many of the maid's chores as possible.

Mrs. Jeffries stopped and thought about this morning's meeting. Once they heard what Smythe had discovered, everything fell neatly into place. Everyone, save herself and the cook, was now out and about, looking for evidence that would point to which of Durant's tenants had murdered her.

Why, then, was she so uneasy? Don't be ridiculous, she told herself as she went to the foot of the bed and grabbed the top sheet, all the evidence points to one of the tenants. Thieves fell out with one another all the time and someone obviously had taken serious issue with Edith Durant's overwhelming greed.

She made the bed, yanking the sheets and covers into place with such force that her arms hurt. Then she grabbed the dust cloth and the furniture polish from the workbox she'd brought up from the old butler's pantry and attacked the chest of drawers.

She let her mind go blank as she dusted and polished the elegant mahogany furniture. By the time she reached the wardrobe doors, the monotonous repetitive motions had done their magic and her mind had focused on what was troubling her.

Highgate Cemetery, that was the key to this murder but she couldn't for the life of her understand why. People were murdered in all sorts of odd places. But if a tenant was guilty, they had to lure her there, and what would be the point of doing that? The lodging house itself would have made a much more sensible place to kill the woman. If their recent assumptions were correct, the murderer should be a pragmatic thief willing to give up a good percentage of his ill-gotten gains for practical reasons such as avoiding prison.

She opened the right-side door and ran her cloth over the inside, taking care not to let the dust brush against the inspector's neatly starched white shirts. The most practical place to have murdered Durant was in the privacy of her bedroom or the lodging house attic. Strangling someone in a public place carried enormous risks. That's what she couldn't understand. She closed the right side and started on the left half of the door.

Because the killer wanted to make a statement, she thought. She went still as she realized what had just popped into her head. But she knew she was right. The place where Edith Durant had been murdered was significant. But significant how?

They knew that the dead woman hadn't any family buried there so how could it have any meaning for her whatsoever? Mrs. Jeffries continued cleaning and had the room done by the time she'd decided there was only one way to find out.

She tucked the cleaning supplies in the workbox, picked it up, and rushed downstairs. Mrs. Goodge was still deep in conversation with one of her old colleagues, so she slipped quietly into the tiny butler's pantry next to the cook's quarters, put the box away, and took off her apron. She dashed through the kitchen, grabbed her cloak off the coat tree, and smiled apologetically at the cook. “I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I'm going out for a while. I'll be back by four o'clock.”

*   *   *

The back garden was divided from the Travers home by a tall wooden fence fronted by a thick barrier of overgrown ivy. A terrace led off the back door to a scruffy lawn and was connected to the side walkway by a crumbling concrete path. A rusted metal washbasin and broken washboard were propped against the back wall of the house along with two broken lanterns and a stack of broken crockery. Halfway down the lawn was a tall line of bamboo that cut the garden neatly in half. A ramshackle gray structure that had once been a folly stood behind the bamboo.

“Do you think
that
was what Durant was referring to when she called this place her sanctuary?” Barnes pointed at the tiny, decrepit building.

“I think it must be.” Witherspoon's lip curled as he surveyed the dilapidated area. “Gracious, when Constable Griffiths searched out here and said it was a bit of a mess, he wasn't joking.”

“He's not given to exaggeration,” Barnes muttered. “This is the most unwelcoming garden I've ever seen. There's not so much as a stool or a wooden bench, let alone a flower or shade tree. She must have done that deliberately, sir.” He went toward the hedge. “It would be one way of making sure that neither her tenants nor her servants wanted to hang about here. Shall I start in the, uh, folly?”

“Mind you, be careful, Constable, the thing looks like it could collapse any moment. I'll start around the side of the house at the walkway and we'll meet near the bamboo.”

They worked diligently for the next two hours; Barnes wasn't sure what they were looking for, but he suspected he'd know when and if he found it . . . and then he did.

“Here, sir.” He waved at Witherspoon, who, having worked his way down the side of the house, was now at the far end of the ivy bed. “I've found something.”

Witherspoon groaned as he straightened up. He moved as fast as his aching back and legs would let him, grimacing in pain as he reached the spot where the constable knelt. He hoped he could see whatever it was without having to get on his knees or bend over too far. “What is it, Constable? What have you found?”

“The reason Edith Durant threatened her neighbor.” Barnes pushed a huge clump of ivy to one side, revealing a large hole. A dark green oilcloth was crumpled on one side next to an open wooden box. “I think this was where she hid her treasure.”

“She had something buried here.” Witherspoon clenched his teeth and knelt down to have a closer look. He pulled out the oilcloth first. “She used this to keep the box from rotting.” He put it to one side and picked up the box. It was made of a dark wood with brass hinges on the back and a broken brass lock on the front. “It's about twelve inches long and eight inches wide,” he estimated. “But it's a good seven inches deep. Big enough to hold a substantial sum of money in either notes or coins.”