Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (5 page)

“Murder is never pretty,” Witherspoon said slowly. He closed his eyes as memories flooded into his mind. Images of a beautiful red-haired woman with ivory skin and sapphire blue eyes flashed through his consciousness. But her hair was now a dark brown under the sensible straw hat that was smashed askew on the ground beneath her head. Her cheekbones seemed rounded and less defined but it was most definitely she. The eyes were still the same color of sapphire blue.

“One of your constables identified her?” Barnes fixed Rogers with a stony stare. A day that had started out bad had just gotten worse.

“That's right.” Rogers straightened as he realized something was very wrong. “She's Mrs. Robinson, Alice Robinson. I've told you already. She's a respectable widow who owns a lodging house near here. Constable Pierpoint was certain it's her.”

“But it isn't her,” Witherspoon said as he got to his feet and looked down at the woman. “It's someone else entirely.”

“What are you talking about?” Rogers rose as well. “My constables don't make identification mistakes. This is Alice Robinson.”

“That may be what she's been calling herself,” Barnes said. “But this woman isn't Alice Robinson. Her name is Edith Durant. We've been looking for her for years.”

“Looking for her?” Rogers seemed confused. “Why would you be searching for her? What's she done?”

“She's a murderess,” Witherspoon said softly. “The only one who ever got away from us.”

“'Ow come them gates is shut?” Wiggins pointed to the entrance of Highgate Cemetery. “And what's a constable doin' inside there? Are they plantin' someone important?” Upon arriving, he'd studied the crowd and picked his spot carefully. On one side of the entry there were well-dressed men and women with bouquets of flowers or bundles of greenery. Most of them were peering anxiously toward the gates and checking their watches. So he'd crossed to the other side toward the locals, the sort of folks who'd not mind answering a few questions, especially if the person doing the asking was a bit of a rough lad and a know-it-all. He stopped in the middle of a collection of housemaids, street urchins, matrons with shopping baskets, and a couple of sullen-looking workmen who Wiggins guessed were either gravediggers or groundskeepers. “I 'eard they're buryin' a cousin of the Queen,” he continued. “That must be why they've got it all locked up.”

“Don't be daft,” a dark-haired housemaid said to him. “They're not burying any royals today. There's been a murder and the police have got it locked so they can catch the killer.”

A red-haired street boy snorted derisively. “You're the one who's daft. The killer is long gone and the gate's only locked to keep the likes of us out.”

“Murder,” Wiggins cried. “Cor blimey, who was killed?”

The boy shrugged and the maid turned her attention back to the constable pacing behind the wrought iron fence.

“Mrs. Robinson was murdered,” a timid voice said from behind him. He whirled around and came face-to-face with a short, slender, brown-haired girl wearing spectacles. She was dressed in a faded maroon and gold jacket.

Wiggins glanced at her skirt and saw that it was a deep forest green instead of the pale lavender or gray of a housemaid. He gave her his friendliest smile. “You're a clever one, aren't ya?”

The girl blushed. “Not really. I just happened to know that it was Mrs. Robinson who they found.”

The red-haired lad spun around on his heel. “How did you find out?” he challenged. “They ain't let anyone in since this morning and no matter how much we ask 'em”—he jabbed a finger at the constable behind the gate—“them coppers won't say a word.”

“I know it was her because Mrs. Rivers is the one that found her body, and she overheard one of the constables that come to investigate telling the other policeman that the dead lady was Mrs. Robinson. Mrs. Rivers was so upset over what she'd seen and heard that she sent her maid to the chemist's shop where I work for a sleeping powder, and the maid told us what had happened.”

“Wonder why anyone would want to kill 'er,” Wiggins interjected quickly. The girl seemed to know a bit and he wanted to keep her talking.

“It was probably that ripper feller,” the boy answered.

Wiggins ignored him and kept his attention on the young woman. “Was this Mrs. Robinson the sort to 'ave a lot of enemies?”

“I wouldn't know about that.” She smiled shyly. “But I do know she owns the lodging house just over on Magdala Lane.”

“Do you think she was killed by a robber?” he asked excitedly.

Before she could reply, the housemaid, who'd now lost interest in staring at the constable guarding the gate, turned to them and said, “I'll bet that's what happened. There have been a lot of robberies round this neighborhood lately. The house next door to us got robbed last week, and the thief took every bit of silver that was on the mantelpiece. Dear Lord, can you credit it, getting robbed and killed in broad daylight?” She crossed her arms over her chest and hugged herself defensively.

“You don't know she was robbed,” the boy taunted her. “It could just as easy be old Jack. My mam says they never caught him and I'll bet he's back at it. He always left 'em bloody.” He looked at the young woman standing next to Wiggins. “Was Mrs. Robinson all cut up?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. The maid just said that Mrs. Rivers had almost tripped over the dead woman and started screaming.”

“I think she must've been all bloodied up and that's why the coppers shut the cemetery,” another woman—a bread seller by the look of her half-empty baskets—said, joining the conversation.

“Can you show me where Mrs. Robinson's lodging house is?” Wiggins asked the girl wearing spectacles. He kept his voice low so the others wouldn't interrupt.

“Why?” She cocked her head to one side and studied him. Her expression was openly wary, as though she'd just realized he wasn't asking questions out of sheer curiosity. “She'll not be takin' in any new lodgers now, and what's more, even if she weren't dead, you'd not be able to afford her rates. Even Mr. Bristow, the assistant chemist, couldn't pay what she was charging.”

“And how do you know that, miss?”

“Because he tried to get lodging there himself. When she first opened up, he went to inquire, and when he come back, he said her rates were almost double what others in the neighborhood were charging.” Behind her spectacles, her gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And what happened to that heavy accent you had just a minute ago?”

“Nothing 'appened to it.” He was a bit offended. His accent was real, though in truth, his speech had improved from being around the others at Upper Edmonton Gardens. “But I can talk proper-like if there's a lovely girl I'm hoping to impress a bit.” This wasn't altogether a fib, though he was quite capable of lying his head off while on the hunt, and to be perfectly honest, she wasn't conventionally pretty, but there was something about her, something attractive in the intelligence in her eyes and the shape of her face.

“You're having me on,” she said as a blush crept up her cheeks. “No one thinks a girl in spectacles is attractive.”

“Now you're bein' silly. They make you look intelligent.” He decided to be honest. “And you've got good bones.”

She stared at him doubtfully for a moment and then she smiled. “Thank you, that's nice of you to say. If you'd like, I'll show you her lodging house. I've got to get home and it's on my way.”

*   *   *

“If you're sure of her real identity then, I'll send a message to the chief superintendent. That'll put the cat amongst the pigeons.” Rogers smirked at Barnes. “It'll be hard to say what he'll dislike most.” He turned his attention to Witherspoon. “The fact that we've finally got our hands on the one your lot let get away or the fact that because he's already brought you into the case, you'll be the one investigating her murder.”

Witherspoon simply stared at him. But Barnes wasn't going to let him have the last word. “Chief Superintendent Barrows can always take him off the case,” he said softly.

Rogers laughed and started up the path. “Oh, I doubt he'll do that. Especially once the newspapers get hold of this tidbit”—he glanced back over his shoulder—“and you can be sure they will.”

“That mean-spirited jackanapes.” Barnes clenched his fist and started after him. “He's going to leak it himself just to embarrass you.”

“Come back, Constable,” Witherspoon ordered softly. “You're too close to retirement to risk your pension on an altercation with Inspector Rogers.”

One of the constables guarding the body spoke up. “Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but I doubt he'll tell the papers,” he said. Like the other two constables hovering nearby, he'd witnessed the whole incident. “His bark is worse than his bite. He's a good and decent man, sir. His pride was just stung when they took this one away from him.”

“What's your name?” Witherspoon asked.

“Constable Jones, sir. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to speak out of turn.”

“No apology is needed,” the inspector replied. “It speaks well of your superior that his men are willing to defend his actions.”

“We are, sir,” Constable Jones added eagerly. “By the time Inspector Rogers gets back to the station, he'll be right ashamed of himself, sir. He'll not do anything to bring shame on the force, sir, and he holds you in the highest regard.”

Barnes was skeptical but held his tongue. Even the most decent of men were capable of behaving badly when their pride had been hurt, but he agreed with Witherspoon that it was a mark in Rogers' favor that his lads spoke up for him.

“How much longer?” Abbot shouted from his post by the crypt wall.

The police surgeon cleared his throat and looked pointedly at the corpse. Witherspoon nodded and said in a voice loud enough for the cemetery director to hear, “We're almost finished, Dr. Procash. We just need to have a quick search of her pockets and then she's all yours.”

Barnes knelt down again and opened her cloak. “Once Rogers found the clipping I expect he left her alone.” He ran his hand along the inside of the garment, found nothing, and then flipped the material back over the body and checked the outside pockets. “Nothing, sir.”

“Check to see if she's a skirt pocket,” Witherspoon said.

Taking care to handle the lady respectfully, Barnes braced himself so he wouldn't lose his balance and slipped his hands back inside the cloak. He ran his fingers along both sides of her frame. His eyes suddenly widened as his fingertips brushed against the outline of a familiar object. He looked at Witherspoon and then slowly, slowly worked his right hand into the pocket, grabbed what he hoped was the handle and not the barrel, and then pulled out a gun. “She obviously came here expecting trouble, sir.” He held it up to Witherspoon. “She came armed with a derringer.”

*   *   *

“Betsy and Smythe said they'll be here tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she settled into her spot at the kitchen table. “And I was able to catch Ruth. She'll be here as well.”

“Good.” Mrs. Goodge put a bag of flour on her worktable and untied the top. “Let's just hope that Wiggins has a bit of luck with Luty and Hatchet. You never know when those two will take it into their heads to go out of town, and it makes it so much easier when all of us start out together.”

“I wish Wiggins would hurry and get back,” Phyllis said as she came down the back stairs. She dumped the bundle of dirty linens she carried into the open wicker laundry basket by the newel post. “I'm ever so excited to hear what he's found out.” The maid was a young woman with dark blonde hair she pulled back in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a rather round-shaped face, and a porcelain complexion.

“We don't know that he'll have found out anything,” the cook warned.

“He will.” Phyllis closed the lid of the basket and latched it. “He's ever so clever—people tell him everything. I don't know how he does it but I'm determined to learn how to do it myself. The upstairs is done.” She looked at the table and then at Mrs. Jeffries. “Is there anything else you want done for tea?”

“It's all ready, but we'll wait a bit. It's only just gone half past four. Wiggins might be back soon.”

“Then I'll just nip in and give the floor of the wet larder a quick wash. I want to be at the ready tomorrow morning.” Before the housekeeper could reply, she'd hurried off down the hall.

“I remember when she didn't want to have anything to do with our investigatin',” Mrs. Goodge said softly.

“She was so happy to finally be in a household where she was treated decently that she was scared that if the inspector found out what we were up to, she'd be tossed out into the street,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Considering how difficult her life has been, it's taken a lot of courage for her to decide to help us.”

“Life might have beaten her down at one point, but she's learned to fight back,” the cook said, chuckling. “You can even tell it by the way she looks. When she first came here, it was like she didn't want the world to notice her, like she was hidin' what a pretty girl she was behind baby fat and clothes fit for an old lady.”

“She has lost some weight,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “And she is taking more care with her appearance and wardrobe. She's grown in confidence.”

“Last week she told me that she's saving all her salary and that one day she's going to open her own detective agency.”

“Gracious, good for her.” Mrs. Jeffries broke off as they heard the back door open and the sound of footsteps pounding up the corridor.

Wiggins yanked his cap off as he burst into the kitchen. “We've 'ad a bit of luck. I found out the victim's name and best of all, I saw where she lives.” Fred, the household's mongrel dog, got up from his warm spot near the cooker.

Phyllis came right behind him, drying her wet hands on her apron as she hurried to the table. “I knew you'd find something,” she said as he went to the coat rack.

“Take a moment to catch your breath,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “I'll pour you a cup of tea.”

Fred butted his head against Wiggins' leg in a bid for more attention. The footman reached down and stroked his fur. “Come on, then, old fellow, let's move to the table so I can have me tea. Cor blimey, that looks good.”