“Come in and take a seat.” Boney, a tall, gaunt man with coarse white hair and vivid, deep-set blue eyes, gestured at a chair placed in front of the desk.
“Good morning, sir. I do apologize for being late, but I stopped to break up a ruckus between a cockle seller and a customer on my way here.” Nivens was lying, but he was certain they couldn’t prove it one way or the other. He smiled slightly as he sat down and unbuttoned his overcoat. He put his bowler on his lap.
“I’m not concerned with your tardiness,” Boney said coldly.
Nivens began to realize something was very wrong and that perhaps the chief inspector wasn’t here to announce he’d been promoted or transferred. What’s more, Havers was staring at him with the same expression he reserved for criminals. “Nonetheless, I do apologize.”
Boney said nothing for several moments. Finally, when the silence was almost too much for Nivens to stand, Boney said, “Recently, you arrested the O’Dwyer brothers for housebreaking. Is that correct?”
“That’s right, sir. We’ve already gone to trial, and all three of the O’Dwyers were found guilty. They’re now at Pentonville.”
“I’m well aware of that, Inspector,” Boney snapped. “However, I do want you to confirm several things about the trial.”
“Of course, sir.”
“The main witness linking the O’Dwyers to the burglaries was a man named Humberto Santorini. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir.” Nivens could feel sweat breaking out along his hairline, and his heart began to thump so loudly he was sure the other two men could hear it.
“Santorini was an iceman with his own cart and pony. Is that correct?”
Nivens nodded.
“In your opinion, is it fair to say that without Santorini’s testimony, the O’Dwyers wouldn’t have been found guilty?” Boney asked.
“I’m not sure that’s true, sir,” Nivens said quickly. “It wasn’t just Santorini’s testimony that condemned the brothers. There were several witnesses from the neighborhood that testified the O’Dwyers were thieves.”
“Yes, but they were on trial for the specific burglary of Sir Jonathan Freemantle’s Mayfair house, and one of the charges against the brothers was that there was grievous bodily harm done to the butler. The poor man was knocked unconscious. Correct?”
“That’s true, sir, but it wasn’t just witness testimony. There was other evidence against them. Stolen items were found in their home, including a silver cup identified as being part of a set from the Freemantle home.”
“But none of those items was from the recent burglaries done in the West End, and the only item you found from the Freemantle break-in was the silver cup,” Havers said. “When you and the constables searched the O’Dwyer home, the only objects taken into evidence were a few pieces from a badly damaged silver tea service and two sets of brass andirons, all of which Mrs. O’Dwyer claimed belonged to her family. Additionally, Mrs. O’Dwyer claimed the silver cup had been planted in the house by the police.”
“That’s absurd, sir. You know as well as I do that the people around here are always claiming the police have planted evidence. Mrs. O’Dwyer couldn’t prove the items were hers. The O’Dwyers had a very sophisticated system of fencing the goods they stole. They didn’t keep anything more than a few hours.”
“That’s what Santorini testified to during the trial. As a matter of fact, he was the only witness to make that specific assertion,” Boney said softly. “But he never explained how he, a simple ice- man, knew this alleged fact.”
“But it was precisely because he was an iceman that he knew these things, sir,” Nivens insisted. “He serviced a number of pubs in the East End, sir.”
“I thought most of his business was in the West End,” Havers interrupted.
“He had clients here as well,” Nivens argued. “And during the course of his work, he got to know a number of . . . shall we say, less than honest members of the public. He heard things, and not wanting to risk life and limb, kept most of what he heard to himself. But recently, he’s had a change of heart about his life and is determined to do the right thing. Which he did when he testified against the O’Dwyers. What is this about, sir? I think I have a right to know.”
Boney stared at him stonily.
“Where were you last night?” Havers asked.
“Where was I? Why on earth are you asking me such a question?” Nivens protested. He sat up straighter in the chair and took a deep breath. He’d had enough of being treated like a newly sworn- in constable who didn’t know what was what. He might have mucked up his last case, that dreadful one that landed him in this horrid district, but he wasn’t without power and, by all that was holy, he’d use it again if he had to. “What is this about? I demand to know.”
“Answer the question,” Boney snapped.
Nivens gaped at him in surprise. “After my shift ended, I went to Baxter’s Restaurant for dinner, then I went to my mother’s home and spent the night.”
“Why didn’t you stay at your own home?” Havers asked.
“Because my mother’s out of town and her butler, who was supposed to stay at her residence, was called away as his brother is ill. Lady Merton—that’s my mother—didn’t want the house empty, so she asked me to stay there until Lord Merton’s valet arrives from the Merton country estate.”
“How long have you been there?” Havers asked.
“Since Sunday night. The valet is arriving today, so I’m going back to my own home. Look, what’s this all about? Why are you asking all these questions?”
Boney suddenly opened the top drawer, drew out a pistol, and laid it on the desk. “Do you recognize this?”
Nivens’ eyes widened in shock. “My God, where did you get that?”
“Is it yours?”
“It certainly looks like mine.” He shook his head in disbelief. “But mine should be at home in my study. It’s a dueling pistol that was part of a set left to me when my grandfather died. It’s been in my family for generations. What’s it doing here?”
“When was the last time you saw it?” Havers asked.
“When I picked it up from the gunsmiths, Settler and Sons, and took it home. That was last Thursday. Good Lord, what’s this about? Why have you got my gun?”
“What was wrong with the gun?” Boney asked.
“The spur below the finger guard was broken.”
“So even with a broken piece to it, the weapon was still in working order?” Havers asked.
“Yes, yes, of course, it worked perfectly. Nonetheless, the set is so valuable, I had the spur repaired. The set may be old, but the original workmanship was of the highest quality.”
“That’s very interesting, Inspector Nivens.”
“What is?” Nivens was now so confused he wanted to scream, but he wisely kept himself in check.
“The fact that you’ve admitted it worked perfectly.” Havers smiled. “You see, this gun, a weapon you freely admit was in your possession, was used to murder Bert Santorini last night.”
* * *
* * *
Inspector Gerald Witherspoon closed the open file box on the duty inspector’s desk and put it to one side. He was a middle-aged man of medium height with thinning dark hair, spectacles on his deep-set hazel eyes, and a slight thickening around the waist of his slender frame. He glanced at the clock on the top of the wooden file cabinet and noted that Constable Barnes was late. That was highly unusual, as the constable was one of those people who hated tardiness in others and held himself to even higher standards.
Witherspoon looked toward the open office door as he heard footsteps in the hall. He spotted Constable Griffiths going past. “Have you any idea where Constable Barnes has got to? He was supposed to go over the witness statements in the Joffrey case with me.”
Griffiths, a tall, lanky man with red hair and a very pale complexion,
stopped in the doorway. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm. “He’s in the lockup, sir. One-legged Billy insisted he needed to see him and discuss something. Shall I get him for you, sir?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “No, the witness statements can wait. If Billy Gaspain wants to speak to the constable, I’m sure he’s something important to tell him.” The inspector thought it rather mean to refer to someone’s physical disfigurement instead of their proper name, but he’d not chastise Constable Griffiths. Most constables tended to use the street names of prisoners and informants.
“Gaspain’s not one for makin’ up tales, sir,” Griffiths agreed. He pulled the newspaper out, unrolled it, and held it up. “Have you seen this, sir? It’s a wonder they managed to get it in the morning paper. But luckily, it’s only in the Sentinel and not the decent newspapers.”
“No, what is it?” Witherspoon squinted as the constable came toward him. Then his eyes widened when he read the headline on the lead article: Policeman’s Gun Used for Murder in Whitechapel.
“Good gracious!” Witherspoon exclaimed.
“You’ll never guess whose gun it was, either.” Griffiths paused for a moment. “Inspector Nigel Nivens’, sir. It was one of his family’s dueling pistols that was used.”
“Who was murdered?”
“One of Nivens’ informants, the one that testified for him in the O’Dwyer trial. Fellow named Bert Santorini.”
“He was killed last night?”
“Early in the evening, just after dark. That’s the only way the paper was able to get the story in time to print it. But it’s odd that none of the other newspapers have it. The article didn’t come right out and say it, but the paper is hinting that the police are tryin’ to cover everything up to protect one of their own just because the gun belonged to Inspector Nivens.” He snorted. “Mind you, they wouldn’t be thinkin’ like that if they knew how much most of us dislike Inspector Nivens. Still, it doesn’t make us look very good, does it.” He handed the paper to Witherspoon, who was so surprised by the information he didn’t admonish the young constable for making truthful but rather insubordinate remarks about one of his superiors.
The article was short, so Witherspoon read it twice and then frowned as he put the newspaper down on the edge of the desk. “I’m surprised they named Inspector Nivens as the owner of the weapon. How on earth did they get that information?”
“I don’t know, sir, but they weren’t shy about bandyin’ Inspector Nivens’ name about.”
“This most definitely paints the force in a very bad light. Why does the gutter press always assume every police officer will lie to protect another police officer? It simply isn’t true.”
Griffiths said nothing. The truth was, there were lots of times when coppers lied to protect one another—he’d done it himself a time or two to shield a fellow officer who’d done nothing really wrong.
“Of course it isn’t true, sir.” Constable Barnes stepped into the office. “But some people think that it is, and articles like that one”—he pointed at the paper—“don’t help us much.” Barnes was an older officer with wavy iron-gray hair, a slightly ruddy complexion, and a ramrod straight spine.
“I’ll be off, then.” Griffiths picked up his newspaper, nodded respectfully, and left.
“I’m sorry to be late, sir, but One-legged Billy wanted to have a word with me before he went in front of the magistrate this morning.” Barnes sat down in the chair across from Witherspoon. “And what he told me wasn’t good news.”
“What do you mean?”
“That article you and Griffiths were talking about—there might be something to what it said. Billy said there’s lots of talk goin’ around that Santorini had something he was holding over Inspector Nigel Nivens. Mind you, he wasn’t specific, just said there was talk and that Santorini had been flashin’ a bit of money about these days. Unfortunately, he didn’t say enough for us to take it to Chief Superintendent Barrows.”
“Perhaps that’s just as well,” Witherspoon replied. “I’ve a feeling this Santorini murder might get very nasty. Thank goodness it happened in Whitechapel. It’s the Leman Street Station’s problem, not ours.”
* * *
* * *
At Scotland Yard, Chief Superintendent Barrows was having a very bad morning. His tortoiseshell spectacles had slipped down his nose, and his normally pale face was flushed with anger.
He slammed his fist against the newspaper on his desk. “I don’t understand how this could have happened? How on earth did the Sentinel get this story so quickly? According to the morning report, Santorini was only killed last night.”
Harry Wadsworth, the white-haired, clean-shaven head of the Criminal Investigation Division, said, “It was apparently early enough in the evening to get a reporter to the scene to start asking questions. Their offices are in Fleet Street, and the only way that could have happened is if someone tipped them off.”
“We can only hope the decent papers don’t pick up the story,” Sergeant Pickering, the third man in the office, added. “If it’s only the gutter press that runs articles like that one”—he nodded at the paper—“it should be fine, and the Santorini murder can be investigated just like any other.”
“Don’t count on it.” Wadsworth snorted. “Even the so-called decent papers aren’t above reminding the public that Jack the Ripper was never caught and that we’ve had a scandal or two in the last few years.”
“We’ve weathered bad press before,” Pickering protested. “We can do it again. Tomorrow this will be old news. We’ve done nothing to protect Inspector Nivens. Good God, the murder only happened last night. There hasn’t been time for a cover-up even if we’d wanted to do such a thing.”
“Is there any credence to the story?” Barrows drummed his fingers on the desk. “That’s the important question. They didn’t come right out and say it in the article, but they certainly hinted that there was a relationship between the victim and Inspector Nivens. They spent two paragraphs on the O’Dwyer trial and how it was Santorini’s testimony that convicted the three brothers.”
“We’ll not know why or who killed Santorini until Inspector Havers begins a proper investigation,” Pickering pointed out. “Until then, let’s just tell any reporters that show up we’re treating this like any other homicide investigation.”
There was a knock on the door, and a second later, a young constable stuck his head inside. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we’ve just had a letter delivered by messenger from the Home Office.”
Pickering, who was closest to the door, took the envelope. The constable retreated, closing the door softly as the sergeant handed it across the desk to Barrows. “It’s addressed to you, sir.”
“Oh, blast.” Barrows stared at the elegant script on the front of the cream-colored envelope. “It’s the Home Secretary’s handwriting. This isn’t going to be good news.” He plucked a brass letter opener from his top drawer and slit the top of the envelope. He read the contents and then sighed. “It’s what I expected. The Home Secretary claims he doesn’t wish to interfere, but he strongly suggests that we mustn’t allow Inspector Havers or anyone else from the Leman Street Station to head the investigation.”
“But why, sir? There’s no love lost between Havers and Nivens. He’ll do a proper investigation. It’s only one article in the gutter press,” Pickering pointed out.
“And by tomorrow there will be half a dozen more,” Wadsworth argued. “There are political implications if this isn’t done properly, and having anyone from Leman Street head up the investigation could end in disaster for the force. We need someone from the outside, someone who is known to have the highest level of integrity.”
“It’d be good if they were known to loathe Nigel Nivens as well,” Pickering muttered.
Barrows’ mouth was set in a grim line. “I knew I should have sacked Nivens when I had the chance
. But instead I let his family’s influence pressure me into keeping him on the force.”
“Sacking him wouldn’t have been easy.” Wadsworth shrugged. “We all know he withheld evidence in the Starling case, but in any formal hearing Nivens would claim he was pursuing a different line of inquiry that entailed holding on to the evidence until the proper moment.”
“Different line of inquiry my foot.” Barrows snorted. “What you really mean is the evidence statements of a number of police constables and even a formal complaint from one of our best officers might not have been enough to get him off the force. Not with his family’s power.”
Neither of the other two men contradicted him. Barrows stared off into space with a bemused expression on his face. Finally, he smiled. “Pickering, can you step out into the hall and call a constable for me? I want to send two important telegrams.”
* * *
* * *
Nivens was so stunned, he was momentarily speechless. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Not to him. When he finally found his voice, he forced his gaze away from the dueling pistol and looked at the two men on the other side of the desk. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with Santorini’s murder?”
Havers said nothing; he merely stared at Nivens. It was Chief Inspector Boney who broke the silence. “We’ve made no assumptions as yet, but it was your weapon that was used to kill him. It’s well-known amongst the criminal classes that Bert Santorini was one of your informants.”
“All detectives use people as sources for information. I’m no different from any other inspector,” Nivens protested.
“True, but that’s not a fact the general public understands,” Boney explained. “Now, let’s start at the beginning. You say the last time you saw the gun was when you brought it home from being repaired. Where in your house do you keep it?”
“On a bookshelf in my study.”
“You don’t have it under lock and key?” Havers exclaimed.
“Why would I?” Nivens retorted. “My house is securely locked, and I trust the people I invite to social occasions.”
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 4
