Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (16 page)

Wiggins scratched his chin. “You mean this bloke just slapped a bunch of gold bars or nuggets down onto the counter to buy ‘is shares?”

“Just about,” Smythe replied. “Supposedly, he did ‘is dealin’ first, decidin’ what ‘e wanted to buy and such, then ‘e walked over to the bank and exchanged his nuggets for cash. That set a few tongues waggin’, I can tell ya.”

“Where did he get the gold?” Betsy asked.

“My source wasn’t rightly sure.”

“Maybe ‘e stole it?” Wiggins suggested eagerly.

“Not likely.” Smythe shook his head. “My source would ‘ave known if there’d been a theft of that much gold in the past twenty years. We’re not talkin’ about a few nuggets ‘ere.”

“Nye probably didn’t get it in England,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. “It’s hardly a common medium of exchange. So that means Nye probably procured the nuggets somewhere overseas.”

“That’s what my source thought,” Smythe agreed. “I’m goin’ to be seein’ ‘im again tomorrow, ‘e ought to know more by then. ‘E’s workin’ on it.” He clamped his mouth shut as he realized what he’d just revealed. Blast a Spaniard, no one was supposed to know that his “sources” were anything but ordinary people who just happened to have information about the victim. He glanced quickly around the table and to his amazement, realized that none of them appeared to understand the implied logic behind his statement. Then again, it was late and they were tired. Tomorrow was another day, though, and they all had good memories. “Uh, ‘e’s right curious about Nye ‘imself,” he sputtered quickly, “and when I started askin’ questions, he said he knew someone who might know where Nye got the gold. I thought I’d drop around and see if ‘e found anything useful out, but then again, I might not.”

“I think you ought to find out as much as you can about the gold,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Old sins cast long shadows.”

“What’s that got to do with anythin’?” Wiggins asked.

“Nothing, probably.” She shrugged. “But it popped into my head as Smythe was speaking and I’ve learned that sometimes it pays to take heed of what comes out of your mouth.”

And sometimes it pays to keep your mouth shut, Smythe thought. He hoped the others believed his lame excuse about his source being “curious.” It would be right embarrassin’ to ever ‘ave to admit that his source was a professional and that Smythe had been buying information about their cases for years.

Mrs. Jeffries was waiting in the dining room when the inspector came down for his breakfast. She was determined to find out everything he’d learned the day before, and she was also determined to pass what they’d found out to him. They really must get cracking on this case; otherwise, someone was going to get away with murder.

“Good morning, sir,” she said cheerfully as Wither-spoon came into the room. “I do hope you slept well. You looked dreadfully tired last night.”

“I slept very well, thank you.” He pulled out his chair, sat down and gazed happily at the food on the table. “This smells wonderful. I warn you, Mrs. Jeffries, you might have to dash down to the kitchen for seconds. I’m very hungry this morning.”

“Eat hardy, sir. I expect you need to keep your strength up, what with this dreadful case.” Mrs. Jeffries placed a cup of hot tea she’d just poured by his plate. “I honestly don’t see how you do it.”

He took a piece of toast from the rack. “Oh, it’s not that difficult. Mind you, yesterday did seem a bit long, but then again, we were rather busy.” He told her about his visit to Mrs. Nye. She listened carefully, taking in all the details and storing them carefully in her mind. She had dozens of questions she wanted to ask, but she had the feeling this wasn’t the time.

“And then I had the most extraordinary interview with Oscar Daggett’s physician.” He took a quick sip from his cup and a bite of toast.

“His physician?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted. Sometimes the inspector could get a tad distracted by food. “I take it you learned something important.”

Witherspoon scooped a forkful of scrambled egg off his plate. “I think so. But I’m not quite sure what to make of it.” He popped the food into his mouth and chewed, his expression thoughtful.

Mrs. Jeffries hid her impatience behind a smile. “Really, sir?”

“Oh yes, it’s all quite strange.” He told her everything he’d learned from Dr. Wiltshire. “So you see, I don’t really know if Daggett’s thinking he was going to die had anything to do with his visit to Nye or not. It’s a bit of a puzzle, but I do tend to think there must be a connection of some sort or another.”

“Yes, sir, I think I understand what you mean.” She sat down in her usual place. “After all, Dagget had been in his bed, ill and waiting to die until just after the doctor told him there was nothing wrong with him. Then he leaps up and tears out into the night. If the doctor’s recollection of the timing of these events is correct, that’s the only place Daggett could have gone …” She hoped he was getting the drift of her thinking.

“I most certainly do,” he interrupted. “After all, Nelda Smith was sent out to post a letter.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him. She didn’t quite see what he was getting at, but she’d learned in the past that it was always important to listen. The inspector could make connections that she sometimes missed. “I don’t quite see how …”

“I’m not sure myself,” he agreed, “but it seems to me that perhaps there was some connection between that letter and the visit to Harrison Nye.”

Betsy stuck her head in the dining room. “Excuse me, sir, but Constable Barnes is coming up the front stairs. Should I bring him in?”

“Of course,” Witherspoon replied. “Mrs. Jeffries, do bring another cup. I’m sure the constable will want sonic tea.”

A moment later, they heard the front door open and Betsy ushered Constable Barnes into the dining room.

“Good morning, sir, Mrs. Jeffries.” Barnes smiled with genuine pleasure at the housekeeper. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, sir, but I’ve had some news, and I thought you’d like it as soon as possible.”

“That’s quite all right, Constable, do sit down and have a cup of tea.” He gestured toward an empty chair. “Then you can give me a full report.”

“Would you care for some breakfast, Constable?” Mrs. Jeffries asked as she poured another cup pf Darjeeling.

“I’ve had breakfast, thank you.” He nodded his thanks as he took the cup. “We’ve heard back from the Lancashire Constabulary, and I thought you’d want to know right away.”

Now that the constable was here, Mrs. Jeffries could hardly continue questioning the inspector. Reluctantly, she got to her feet and busied herself brushing at the nonexistent crumbs on the tablecloth. She was hoping the constable would get on with it so she could hear what he had to say before good manners actually forced her from the room. Of course, she would nip back and eavesdrop, but it was so easy to miss something that way.

“Do sit down, Mrs. Jeffries,” Witherspoon said absently. “You haven’t finished your tea.”

“Why thank you, sir, if you’re sure I’m not interrupting.” But she quickly took her seat. “I am so very curious about your cases.”

Barnes smiled at her over the rim of his cup. His eyes were twinkling, and she had the distinct impression he knew precisely what she was up to. But she put that thought aside; if he did, he would keep it to himself. She hoped.

“All right, Constable, what have we heard from Lancashire?” The inspector took a bite of bacon.

“The news isn’t good, Inspector. Nelda Smith didn’t run off home. Her family hasn’t heard a word from her.”
 

“I thought you’d gone for good,” the boy said cheerfully. “When I turned around and saw you standin’ on the corner, I was so surprised you coulda knocked me flat with mam’s duster.”

Smythe shifted his weight uneasily against the hard surface of the cafe chair. He felt guilty. He’d told this lad he’d buy him a bun and a cuppa, but that had been three days ago. Mind you, Harold was a nice lad, he hadn’t held a grudge when Smythe had “accidently” run into him again this morning. “I didn’t mean to disappear. But somethin’ important come up.”

“Somethin’ with the murder?” Harold asked eagerly.

Smythe winced inwardly, but managed to keep his expression straight. “Yeah. Like I told ya before, I work for a detective.”

“I remember.” Harold stuffed another bite of bun in his mouth.

“And I’d like to ask a question or two if you don’t mind,” Smythe finished.

“Go ahead,” Harold replied, “Mam says we ought to keep ourselves to ourselves. But I think we ought to tell what we know.”

“That’s right good of you, lad.” Smythe tried to think of what to say. All the questions he would have asked on the day of the murder had already been answered. “Uh, do you ‘appen to remember if you saw anyone near Miss Geddy’s house on the night of the murder?”

Harold looked down at the table. “Well, Mam says I should keep quiet about it, because it don’t mean nuthin’ and if I said anything, the police might think I ‘ad something to do with the killin’. She’s scared of the police, she is. But I don’t think that’s likely.”

“Why would you ‘ave ‘ad a reason to murder anyone?” Smythe asked casually. He knew the next few seconds would determine whether or not he got anything out of the boy. Harold was a cheerful, eager lad, but Smythe knew he was more interested in the tea and the bun than in answering questions for a stranger. Working people were deeply mistrustful of the police, often for good reason. There were a lot of coppers about that wouldn’t look farther than the tip of their noses when a crime was committed, and it was usually those at the bottom of the heap that was looked at first.

“That’s what I told Mam,” Harold said, “but she said that since the coppers never caught that Ripper feller, they’d grab anyone they could when there was a killin’. But I don’t believe that. Besides, that man were murdered hours after I was asleep.”

“So you’ll tell me what ya saw?”

Harold grinned. “Course I will, not that I think it’s got anything to do with the killin’, I don’t. It were a girl, you see. When I tried to tell Mam, she said it were probably some friend of Miss Geddy’s, and I was to think no more about it, but Miss Geddy didn’t have friends …”

“Slow down, lad.” Smythe held up his hand. “You’re goin’ too fast for me to take it all in. What girl are you talkin’ about?”

Harold took a deep breath. “The girl I saw on the night that bloke was killed. I saw her comin’ down the street and then she turned into Miss Geddy’s place and walked up the front door as big as you please.”

“What did she do when she got to the door?”

“She pushed a letter through the mailbox on the front door, then she left. I saw her clear as day, you see. I almost spoke to her, but she seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.”

“How could you tell that?” Smythe asked.

“The way she was walkin’,” Harold said. “She were movin’ really fast, you could tell by the way she watched all the house numbers as she walked past ‘em. But that didn’t seem to slow her down; once she spotted the one she wanted, she practicalfy ran toward it.”

Smythe wasn’t sure what to make of this. “Did anyone else ‘appen to see the woman?”

Harold’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Don’t ya believe me?”

“Course I do, boy, but it’s awful easy to mistake one night for another. Are you sure it was the night of the murder that you saw this girl? You sure it wasn’t the night before?”

“I’m sure,” Harold said. “I know because it was that night that Mam sent me down to pub for a dram of whiskey for Da’s cold. I was on my way back when I saw her. You can ask ‘em down at pub, they’ll tell ya I was in that night.”

Smythe raised his hand. “I believe you, it’s just I’ve got to make sure there wasn’t a mix-up. What did this girl look like?”

“Well”—Harold hesitated a moment—“she was wearin’ a hat and a dark coat. But she had dark hair. I could see that, she had it tucked up under a hat.”

“How old do you think she might be?” Smythe was fairly sure the lad wouldn’t have a clue about a woman’s age, but he had to ask.

“She looked to be about sixteen or seventeen.” Harold said firmly. “About the same age as my cousin Agnes. She didn’t have any wrinkles or spots, and I noticed something else, too. She had on a maid’s dress. Her coat came open when she started running up the street to her fellow.”

“Fellow?” Smythe leaned forward, trying to curb his excitement. “Someone was waitin’ for her? Are you sure about that?”

“Sure as I’m sittin’ here talkin’ to you.” Harold gave him a cocky grin. “He was standing on the corner. They went off together. He took her arm and everythin’.” He popped the last bite of food into his mouth. “Do you think I ought to tell the police?”

Smythe wasn’t sure how to answer that question. It was probably information the police ought to know, but he had to be careful. If he sent Harold along to have a chat with the police, the lad might accidentally mention that someone named Smythe had been along asking questions about the murder. “I’m not sure. That letter or whatever the girl shoved in Miss Geddy’s letterbox might be important. It might ‘ave somethin’ to do with the murder. But then again, it might not.”

Harold shrugged. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, then. If it’s got something to do with the murder, Miss Geddy can take it along to the police herself. She’s comin’ back in a few days.”

Inspector Witherspoon stepped down from the hansom and onto the cobblestone road. The neighborhood where the Windemere brothers now lived was grim. On one side of the street was a factory belching soot into the sky, giving the air a faintly copper smell. In the courtyard of the factory, workers loaded barrels onto a rickety-looking wagon.

“Not the nicest area, is it, sir?” Constable Barnes said. He was staring at the row of tiny houses opposite the factory. They were all a dull, uniform gray, had no front gardens and were in various stages of disrepair. The men they wanted to interview lived in one of them. “But then people can’t help being poor, can they?”

“No, it’s sad that anyone has to live in such places,” Witherspoon replied. He sighed inwardly. He’d grown up in a neighborhood not much better than this one, but his home had been well tended and clean. There hadn’t been trash in the streets, gutters stuffed with leaves and a noisy factory fouling the air with grime. He reminded himself to count his blessings. He’d also inherited a fortune. Most people weren’t so lucky. “But then again, who are we to judge? Home is home.” He started off down the street. “Let’s hope we can learn something from these gentlemen. I don’t mind admitting it, Constable, this case isn’t going very well.”