Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (20 page)

“Ta, Smythe, you’re a gentleman.” Blimpey grinned and pocketed the cash. “Must say I was kinda surprised gettin’ that message from you today. Didn’t think you’d want to keep doin’ business with me after the other day. Sorry about that, but like I said, I’ve got me reputation to think about.”

Smythe shrugged. In truth, he’d been right narked at Blimpey, but seein’ as the man could find things out
quicker than a bank manager could grab your money, he hadn’t had much choice. “You’re sure you’ve got yer facts right about Michael Taggert?”

“’Corse I’m sure.” Blimpey laughed, but as he was taking a drink at the time, it came out as a wet snort through his nose. Smythe ducked to avoid being sprayed by the worst-tastin’ beer in all of London.

“Sorry,” Blimpey apologized, and wiped the spray off the tabletop with his shirtsleeve. “Michael Taggert hated Dapeers’s guts, and he didn’t take that job with Dapeers ’cause he needed the lolly. Taggert come into an inheritance two months ago. He’s got more money than you or I, mate, and that’s the truth of it.”

“Then why work for a man you ’ated?” he mused. Yet he thought he knew the answer to that question already. Especially if Taggert were really in love with Sarah Hewett. Smythe too had more money than he’d ever spend, and he continued to work for the inspector. But he didn’t have any choice. If he said anything, if the others at Upper Edmonton Gardens knew about it, tilings would change. They’d be different; he’d have to leave and that would be more than he could bear. Leaving would mean he wouldn’t be out and about solvin’ murders, there’d be no more familylike evenins’ with the others, and most of all, he wouldn’t be able to see Betsy every day. After hearing what Mrs. Jeffries had told them yesterday, he thought he understood why Taggert took the job at the Gilded Lily. It kept him connected to Sarah.

“Don’t know, mate,” Blimpey replied airily. “If I ’ad Taggert’s fortune, I wouldn’t be ’angin’ about bein’ a slave for someone like Dapeers. I’d be livin’ it up in fine hotels and drinkin’ French wine—”

“From the way you’re downin’ this swill,” Smythe interrupted, nodding at the tankard of beer in front of Blimpey,
“you wouldn’t know French wine if it come up and bit you on the arse.”

Blimpey laughed. “You got me there, mate, but it’s the thought that counts. If I had plenty of lolly, I’d call no man master. Seems to me this Taggert’s off his ’ead, but what can you expect, ’e’s an artist. They’re an odd lot. Even stranger, Taggert’s kept real quiet about inheriting his money. It took me a good bit of snoopin’ about to find it out.”

Smythe wondered if Sarah Hewett knew. He had a feeling she didn’t. She was in love with Taggert and at the same time she wanted to protect her child from scandal. Seemed to Smythe the best way to do it would have been to marry the child’s father. But she hadn’t. Why? The more he heard, the more convinced he was that the only one of the two lovers who had a real motive to kill Haydon Dapeers was Sarah, not Michael Taggert. Unless’n Taggert was so enraged by the victim’s attempts to seduce his woman that he killed Dapeers in a fit of anger. But the killing hadn’t been done in a fit of rage—it was too neat and tidy for that. “I wonder if Sarah Hewett ever come down to the Gilded Lily while it was bein’ fitted out?” he murmured. If he was right in his thinkin’, then Taggert taking the job with Dapeers would make sense.

“Is she Dapeers’s sister-in-law?”

“Yeah, ’ow did you know?”

Blimpey shrugged. “I pick up lots of things, you know that.” He took another swig of ale and belched softly. “I don’t usually give out for free,” he said slowly. “But bein’ as yer such a reliable customer, I’ll toss you this one on the ’ouse. I already know the answer to that question. Sarah Hewett was at the Gilded Lily a lot when it was bein’ kitted out. She come with Moira Dapeers. Seems Haydon insisted the ladies come round every day or so and have tea with
him in the afternoon. Used to drive the workmen barmy. And the ladies didn’t like it either. The Hewett woman was always complainin’ about ’aving to leave her brat with the maid and Mrs. Dapeers was on about ’ow comin’ to the bloomin’ pub interrupted her afternoon.”

Smythe nodded, satisfied that he had his answer. Rich or not, Michael Taggert had worked for Dapeers because it was the only way he could see Sarah Hewett. It made perfect sense to him. If the only way Smythe could see Betsy every day was to hang about workin’ for someone, he’d do it. “Why did Dapeers want them there, do ya think?”

Blimpey, who was quite an astute judge of human nature, shrugged. “To torment ’em, probably. Me sources tell me that Taggert were crazy about Sarah Hewett, made sure he was at the pub workin’ every afternoon when she come round. Dapeers acted like a right old bastard every chance he got, yellin’ at Taggert, tellin’ ’im this was wrong an’ that needed to be fixed. Sounds to me like Dapeers made the women come in just so’s ’e’d ’ave a chance to act like God Almighty and belittle the lot of ’em. And me sources said it was obvious there was no love lost between Dapeers and his wife either. Molly said the woman barely spoke to her ’usband.”

“So they all ’ated ’im.”

“And any of ’em coulda killed ’im,” Blimpey agreed. “But I’d put my money on one of the women. Taggert’s rich enough now that if ’e wanted to murder Dapeers, ’e could hire it done.”

“James McNally had a motive too,” Smythe argued. Maybe he was gettin’ sentimental, but he didn’t like to think of Michael Taggert as a murderer. Or Sarah either.

“True.” Blimpey drained his tankard. “But ’e’s not got the guts. McNally just about pissed ’imself when I told ’im Dapeers wanted his lolly. Can’t see a man like that ’avin’
the nerve to sneak up on a bloke and stick a knife in ’is back.”

James McNally was a nervous, rabbity-looking fellow with a long, bony face, pale skin and a growing bald spot on the back of his head. Betsy stared at the bald spot as she followed him down Meeker Street. She had no idea why she was following McNally, except that she couldn’t think of anything else to do and she, like the others in the household, felt she had to do something. The inspector might be getting ready to ruin all their lives.

Betsy couldn’t stand the thought that her dear inspector might find himself back in the records room and, even worse, that she and the household wouldn’t have any more murders to solve.

McNally turned a corner and disappeared down a passageway between two brick buildings. Betsy hesitated at the entrance. She’d been following him for what seemed hours, and without her even realizing it, she was now on the ruddy docks. What was a respected solicitor doing down here? Betsy had to know. She was sure he was up to no good. But this area of London wasn’t very safe. Once she was off the street, she might be fair game for any ruffian that happened to be hanging about.

She narrowed her eyes as she saw McNally was almost through the passage. Blast a Spaniard, she thought, I’ve got to do something. But the footpath between the buildings was dark and smelled awful. To be honest, she was a bit scared. Then she thought of never working on a case again, of spending the rest of her life changing linens and dusting furniture. Betsy bolted down the passageway.

Despite the summer heat, it was cool inside. She hurried, trying hard to walk softly as she saw her prey turn a corner and disappear from her sight. Betsy picked up her skirts
and began to run. She couldn’t lose him now, not when things were starting to get interesting. She flew out the end and onto an empty wharf overlooking the river. Suddenly she was grabbed around the waist and whirled around. Betsy tried to scream just as James McNally’s hand covered her mouth.

“The victim’s name is Ellen Hoxton,” the uniformed constable said to Witherspoon. “Been in the water a few days; you can tell by the bloat. Lucky for us, her skirt caught on that piling; otherwise she’d have been carried off by the current.”

Witherspoon hated looking at bodies. Thank goodness he’d eaten a light breakfast this morning. He didn’t quite trust his stomach. He’d seen victims who’d been in the water before, and they weren’t a very pretty sight. But duty was duty. He knelt by the body and steeled himself to look at the dead woman. Her skin was blue-tinged and the fish had been at her. Witherspoon swallowed convulsively and glanced around the deserted dock. There was a heap of rubbish on the far side, some of the pilings were rotting, and several of the planks were missing from the deck. The place looked deserted. “Who found her?”

“I did,” the constable replied. “I was chasin’ a pickpocket out here and spotted her hair floating out from beneath the wharf. Of course the pickpocket got away when I stopped to investigate. When I fished her out, I knew it was murder. You can see she was stabbed right through the back.”

Witherspoon took a deep breath and gently turned the body. He grimaced as he saw the wound in her back.

“It took me a few minutes to pull her free of the piling,” the constable continued. “That’s how come her skirt’s torn
so badly. When I saw she’d been knifed, I knew it was murder.”

“Indeed it is, Constable,” Witherspoon murmured. He shook his head sadly, appalled that this poor woman’s life had been so cruelly taken from her. “Has the Yard been notified?”

“Yes, sir, they should be here any moment. I expect they’ll bring a police surgeon with them.”

Witherspoon nodded. “How did you know the victim’s name?”

The constable, a gray-haired grizzly veteran of well past fifty, grinned. “Oh, I’ve known Ellen Hoxton for years. I’ve arrested her more times than I can count. She’s a prostitute when she can’t get work as a barmaid.”

“I see.”

“And I know she got sacked from the Black Horse, because one of her friends was lookin’ for her and asked me if I’d seen her in the past couple of days or so,” the constable continued. “Thought it odd that I hadn’t, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because this is Ellen’s part of London, sir. No matter how often she gets sacked, she won’t leave the area. Considerin’ that she were employed at the Black Horse, and bein’ as I knew that was connected with that stabbin’ at the Gilded Lily, I sent Constable Griffith to find you as soon as I realized she’d been stabbed. I expect that’s what killed her, sir. The stabbin’, not the water.”

“Ah, I see.” Witherspoon couldn’t bear to look at the poor soul another minute; he certainly couldn’t tell by looking at her exactly what had caused her death. He’d leave that to the police surgeon. Not that it really mattered. Drowned or stabbed, someone had murdered her. She hadn’t poked a knife in her back and jumped in the Thames
on her own. He eased himself away from the dead woman and rose to his feet.

“Do you think this killin’ is connected to Haydon Dapeers’s murder?” Barnes asked softly. He knelt by the body, turned her over and stared at the spot on her back where the knife had gone in.

Witherspoon averted his eyes. He couldn’t think why his constable wanted to examine the corpse, but he had far too much respect for Barnes to try to stop him. “I really don’t like to make assumptions,” he began slowly.

“But she’s been stabbed in the same spot that Dapeers was,” Barnes persisted. He jabbed his finger at the blackened round slash. “I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Witherspoon forced himself to take a quick look and then fastened his eyes on a boat going up the river. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence, either,” he agreed. An idea began to form in his mind. A simple yet bold idea that might bring this case to a conclusion far faster than he’d imagined.

“Constable,” he said to the other policeman, “who else knows you’ve found this body?”

The gray-haired policeman looked surprised by the question. “Well, Constable Griffith and the Yard, of course. And the police surgeon’s been notified and is on his way too. Otherwise I’ve told no one.”

Witherspoon nodded. “Good.” This poor woman had had her life taken. It filled him with sadness and despair. But if he was right, if he was really the policeman everyone seemed to think he was, he’d have her killer behind bars very soon. Very soon, indeed. “Have any of the locals been back here to see what’s going on?”

“No, this whole end of the docks is deserted,” the constable replied. “These buildings and the wharves are scheduled to be torn down next month and rebuilt. The East India Company just bought it.”