Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (5 page)

“So where do we start?” Wiggins asked excitedly.

“I think you should get over to the area and start talking to the street boys and costermongers,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “See what you can find out about the victim.”

“Do you want me to have a go at the shopkeepers in the area?” Betsy asked.

Mrs. Jeffries regarded her thoughtfully. “No, I want you to find out where Haydon lived and then nip round to his home and see if you can make contact with someone from his household. See what you can find out.”

“But he was murdered at the pub,” Betsy protested.

“Yes, but Dapeers was at a celebration with his friends and relations,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “So we must find out as much as we can about everyone present and see if
any of his relatives or acquaintances had a reason to murder him. The best way to do that is to learn what we can about him and his household. As we all know, it’s usually those nearest and dearest to us that are the most dangerous.”

“What about me?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I’ve only got one name to go on, and Dapeers was only a publican. I don’t think my sources are goin’ to know much about the man.”

Mrs. Jeffries understood the cook’s dilemma. Mrs. Goodge had a veritable army of tradespeople who trooped through her kitchen. Costermongers, delivery boys, rag-and-bones men. She also had a wide network of friends from her many years of cooking for the cream of London society. But unfortunately, in this case, Mrs. Goodge was right. It was highly unlikely that any of her sources would know much about a common pub owner. Or would they? “I’m not so sure about that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Perhaps you will find out something. You must try.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Jeffries,” Mrs. Goodge said sadly. “He’s only a pub owner. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s not like he had half of London snooping about and watching him when he was alive. Probably no one gave a toss about his coming and goings. It’s not like he’s anybody important now, is it?”

“Would you like to go out and ask a few questions, then?” the housekeeper said.

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Goodge retorted, shocked at the very notion of leaving her kitchen. “I’m staying right here. You just be sure that this lot”—she swept her arm around the table—“gets me some names. My sources may not know anything today about that murder, but they’re all just as nosy as we are. A few well-chosen words and I’ll have ’em out on the streets learning all sorts of interesting bits and pieces.”

“That’s the spirit, Mrs. Goodge.” Smythe reached for his tea. “Luty and Hatchet’ll both be right narked. You know how Luty ’ates to miss a murder.”

“What about Hatchet?” Betsy added. “He’s just as bad.”

“I wonder if we shouldn’t send them a telegram,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “We could use their help.”

“Of course we must send a telegram,” Mrs. Goodge agreed. “If Luty misses another murder, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

The Dapeers house was much grander than Witherspoon expected. The tall, redbrick structure was located on Percy Street, off the Tottenham Court Road. “I must say, he lives in rather a large house for a publican,” Witherspoon muttered. He glanced around the elegant drawing room, his gaze noting the pale rose wallpaper, the heavy green velvet curtains at the windows, the intricate wood carving on the top of the mantelpiece and the opulent furnishings. The green-and-rose-striped settee and the contrasting balloon-backed chairs would be worth more than six months of his salary.

“Well,” Barnes said softly, “he does own three pubs. But even so, this is a right posh place.”

“I think we’re in the wrong business,” Witherspoon joked.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Moira Dapeers said as she swept into the room. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down, gentlemen.” She motioned them toward the settee. “That’ll be all, Perkins,” she said, dismissing the servant.

Witherspoon and Barnes both sat down. Moira Dapeers, wearing a stiff, black bombazine dress, sank down in a chair opposite them. “The household is in a bit of a state
this morning,” she said, smiling apologetically. “It’s not my habit to keep people waiting. Haydon couldn’t stand to be kept waiting.”

“We’re sorry to intrude upon your grief, madam,” Witherspoon said formally, “but we’ve no choice in the matter. We really must ask you a few questions.”

She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, that’s all right. Now that I’ve gotten over the shock of Haydon’s death, I’m quite able to talk about it.”

The inspector studied her thoughtfully. She did, indeed, appear to have recovered from the shock. Her gaze was honest and direct, her color excellent, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing just the smallest amount of lip rouge. “Could you please tell us everything that happened last night?”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” she said brightly. “As you know, we had the opening of the Gilded Lily scheduled to coincide with Haydon’s birthday. That was his idea, naturally. Personally, I thought it a bit common. Rather like asking everyone you know to drop in to wish you many happy returns and then forcing them to hang about and buy their own drinks.”

“Was the Gilded Lily your husband’s only business?” Constable Barnes asked.

Witherspoon gave him a sharp look, wondering why he asked a question they already knew the answer to.

“Oh no.” She laughed. “We own two other pubs. They’re doing quite well too. Mind you, neither of them is near as fancy as the Gilded Lily, but they’re decent places and they do us well enough. But Haydon wanted to make the new pub absolutely spectacular. He poured ever so much money into it. Brass fittings, velvet benches, etched windows. Oh my, yes, he was determined to make it a showplace.”

“Mrs. Dapeers,” the inspector said. “About last evening?”

“Oh yes, well, as I was saying, the pub was scheduled to open on Haydon’s birthday. He claimed he wanted to make a celebration of it, you see. So he invited some friends and acquaintances to come round. He said he was going to make a bit of a party of the whole thing. But I noticed he didn’t give them free beer. Everyone was paying for what they drank.”

Witherspoon tried to be patient. He didn’t want to have to interrupt a lady, but goodness, how long was she going to harp on her late husband’s boorish behavior?

“My sister-in-law and I arrived a little after five o’clock,” she continued. “No, that’s wrong. We didn’t get there until twenty past; it took some time before we were able to get a hansom.”

“And who else was there when you arrived?” Witherspoon asked. He’d no idea what he was trying to find out, but he decided to plunge right on in anyway. After all, Mrs. Jeffries was always telling him to trust his “inner voice.” Right now that voice was telling him to learn as much as he could and sort it out later. Perhaps he’d oughtn’t to be so impatient with the lady. Perhaps if he allowed her to ramble on, she might tell him more than she intended.

“Let me see.…” She paused again, her forehead wrinkling in concentration. “There was Molly and Mick, of course. They’re our employees. There were one or two other staff members too. Haydon insisted we have a full staff. And I believe he was going to hire another barmaid; I know he was planning on interviewing another one yesterday morning. He was that sure the place would be a success right from opening night and he wanted to make sure we had enough help to take care of our customers.”

“Yes, yes,” Witherspoon encouraged. “But back to my
question.” He already had a complete list of who was present when the murder occurred and he wasn’t sure why he needed to know who was there before the killing. But something deep inside was telling him it was important information.

Moira cocked her head and stroked her chin as she tried to remember. “The men from Bestal’s were there. And Michael Taggert—no,” she corrected. “I tell a lie; Michael didn’t come in until after we’d been there a few minutes. I remember distinctly watching him come through the front door. I was thinking there’d be a ruckus, you see. Haydon was being very mean about Mr. Taggert. He kept finding excuses not to pay the poor boy. I think he was really just being nasty, though.”

“Mr. Taggert and Mr. Dapeers were enemies?” Witherspoon asked eagerly. He couldn’t believe it; Mrs. Jeffries was right. His inner voice was working properly.

“Oh no.” Moira laughed gaily. “They weren’t precisely enemies. But Haydon had hired Mr. Taggert to do the etching on the windows and some intricate wood carving on the back bar. He kept putting off paying him for the work. Mr. Taggert was getting rather insistent, I’m afraid.”

“Was there some kind of altercation between Mr. Taggert and your husband last night?” Witherspoon began.

“Oh goodness, yes,” Moira replied cheerfully. “I was rather hoping that Mr. Taggert would take a poke at Haydon. I must say, Haydon would have deserved it. But I think Sarah’s presence restrained the young man somewhat. That’s Sarah Hewett I’m talking about; she’s my sister-in-law. She lives here. We took her and her daughter in after my brother died.”

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes to see if he was taking notes. The constable was scribbling furiously in his little brown book. Satisfied that Barnes would remind him to
question Sarah Hewett, he turned and gave Mrs. Dapeers an encouraging smile. “Do go on, madam.”

“Let’s see; aside from the gentlemen from the brewery, Tom and Joanne were there when I came in.” She frowned. “No, I tell another lie. They came in right after I did; I remember noticing Joanne’s dress as she came into the pub. Though, again, I’ve no idea why Haydon invited them, he didn’t much care for either Tom or his wife.”

“But isn’t Mr. Tom Dapeers your late husband’s brother?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, but they didn’t much like one another. They haven’t been close for years.” She smiled brightly. “In addition, they’re rival pub owners. Like us, they own several pubs. I expect Haydon only invited them because he wanted to rub their noses in it a bit.”

Perplexed, Witherspoon stared at her. “Rub their noses in it?” he repeated.

“In the fact that he was opening a pub less than a hundred yards away from one of their pubs,” she clarified. “Haydon was like that, you see, never content just to do something, he always wanted to outdo his competition. Especially when the competition was his own brother.”

“Anyone else, madam?” he asked, shocked to his very core. He wasn’t so much surprised at the late Haydon Dapeers’s rather dismal character. Witherspoon had observed that people who got themselves murdered frequently had rather awful character flaws. But he was stunned at the widow’s casual cheerfulness in recounting her husband’s pettiness. Moira Dapeers wasn’t just being honest with them, she was positively enjoying herself.

“Well, all the local merchants and shopkeepers were there,” she continued. “And the architect who redesigned the inside of the pub. But he didn’t stay long. He had no reason to, Haydon had already paid him. I think that’s about
it—no, wait, I’m forgetting that awful little man at the bar.” She pursed her lips in disgust. “There was the most disreputable-looking fellow there when we arrived. Quite dirty, actually. He and Haydon were talking. It surprised me, really. I was sure Haydon was going to toss him out, but he didn’t.”

“Do you know this man’s name?” Witherspoon asked hopefully. None of the statements he’d looked at this morning at the Yard had mentioned a “dirty person.”

“I’ve no idea who he was. But he was gone before Haydon was killed, I know that. I saw him leave. Rather portly little man, he had red hair and was wearing the filthiest porkpie hat I’ve ever seen.”

“Would you recognize him again if you saw him?” Barnes asked. He glanced at the inspector.

“I expect so,” she replied eagerly. “I did get rather a good look at him.”

Constable Barnes cleared his throat. “Mrs. Dapeers, you said your husband owned three pubs. Was Mr. Dapeers well liked by his employees?”

“Goodness no.” She giggled coquettishly and batted her eyelashes at the astounded-looking constable. “He was an impossible man. Look at the way he treated poor Mr. Taggert! Got the fellow to spend hours on those windows and then wouldn’t pay him.”

“He refused to pay wages?” Barnes queried.

“He paid eventually,” Mrs. Dapeers said. “But never a minute before he had to and he was a real Tartar to work for. Haydon sacked people all the time.”

Witherspoon’s head was spinning. He’d never met a widow quite like Mrs. Dapeers. He wasn’t sure if he was up to any more questions right at the moment. “Mrs. Dapeers,” he said politely, “may we have a word with your sister-in-law?”