“I don’t understand why on earth Nivens joined the force.” Barnes shook his head. “Look at this place. He’s obviously from money; he doesn’t need the pay. Why take a decent job away from someone who really needs it?”
“Perhaps he wanted to give his life a purpose.” Witherspoon shrugged. “Or perhaps he isn’t as wealthy as he appears. I’m fairly sure I once heard him mention that he inherited this home from his father. It’s getting late, Constable, so let’s get this over with.” Witherspoon started up the flagstone walkway to the front door.
“My money says he’s not here,” Barnes groused. “He knows good and well that we’d need to take his statement.”
But for once the constable was wrong, and Inspector Nigel Nivens was home and waiting for them.
Barnes knocked, and a moment later, the door opened to reveal a tall, thin woman with gray hair parted in the middle and worn in a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She stared at them with a disapproving frown. “Inspector Nivens is expecting you.” She stood back and ushered them inside. “Please follow me. The inspector is in his study.”
She led them out of the spacious foyer, past a carpeted staircase, and through a set of double doors. “The police are here, sir.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Vickers.” Nivens stood up from behind his desk. “That’ll be all for now.”
“Yes, sir.” She left, closing the door quietly behind her.
“Well, it didn’t take you long to get here.” Nivens sat down. “I’m assuming you’re here to take my statement.”
Witherspoon stared at him. “That’s correct. May we sit down, please?” He surveyed the room and realized the constable was right. This place reeked of wealth. Heavy damask drapes the color of burgundy wine framed the two windows, the walls were painted in a deep forest green, and the floor was covered with an elaborately patterned oriental rug in brilliant blues, greens, and reds. A brown leather settee with a gold and red paisley pillow in each corner faced Nivens’ huge, mahogany desk. Elaborate silver candlesticks stood at each end of the mantel over a green-tiled fireplace, above which was a portrait of an unsmiling man wearing a ruffled collar of the seventeenth century.
Nivens pointed to the settee. “Sit. I won’t offer you tea—this shouldn’t take long at all. I’ve already made a statement to Chief Inspector Boney and Inspector Havers.”
“But they’re not in charge of the case, are they?” Barnes pulled out his notebook as he sat down on one end of the settee.
Nivens ignored him. “What is it you want to know?” He directed his question to Witherspoon.
“We understand you knew the deceased, Humberto Santorini.”
“I did.”
“In what capacity were you acquainted with him?” Witherspoon sat down at the other end of the settee. He decided to keep this interview as formal as possible. There were many among both the leadership of Scotland Yard as well as the rank-and-file constables who knew he had little liking or respect for Inspector Nivens. By adhering to established police procedures, Witherspoon couldn’t later be accused of deliberately conducting a shoddy investigation because of his personal feelings.
“He was one of my informants,” Nivens replied. “But I’m sure you already know that.”
“Of course we do,” Witherspoon replied. “But we need verification from you. How long had he been working for you?”
“Six months. I first heard of him and that he might be able to supply me with information last September.”
“But you were still at the Upper Richmond Road Station then?” Barnes pointed out. “So how did you come to know Santorini?”
Nivens leaned back in his chair and looked at Barnes. “Really, Constable, you’re asking me that? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m rather well-known for solving burglaries, and the reason I’m so competent is because I’ve always got my ear to the ground when it comes to discovering who might have information about fencing stolen goods. Santorini’s name was given to me when I was investigating that series of housebreakings along the river in Putney. I made it a point to track him down. I wanted to see if he could be of assistance to us.”
“Was he?” Barnes looked down at his notebook.
“Eventually. It took a month or so before he gave me anything useful.”
“There’s something I’m not quite clear on,” Witherspoon said. “Informants generally talk to us because they’re criminals themselves and need help when they go in front of the judge, or they’re paid informants. Which was Santorini?”
“I paid him,” Nivens admitted. “Santorini wasn’t a criminal, but because of his work, the places he frequented, and the people he knew, he occasionally stumbled across information that was valuable to us.”
“But we’ve heard that Santorini himself might have been involved in fencing stolen items,” Witherspoon said.
“That was gossip. Santorini was never arrested nor was any evidence ever presented against him.”
Witherspoon nodded; that’s what they’d been told by Inspector Havers as well.
Barnes looked up again. “But if he wasn’t involved in fencing or burglaries himself, how did he know anything? Santorini delivered ice and flowers to West End restaurants and hotels. Not the sort of establishments that your average East End burglar or fence frequents, so how would he have found out anything useful to pass along to you?”
“He didn’t just deliver to the West End; he had customers in Bethnal Green and Whitechapel as well. He’s lived in that neighborhood for years, and he also spent most of his evenings in the local pubs. At one time, his favorite was the Crying Crows. As a matter of fact, I believe he once had a room there. But he’s not been there for some time now. It’s a decent sort of place. Actually, most of the lads from Leman Street Station tend to go there when they’re off duty. But Santorini also patronized the Thistle and Thorn, and that place is well-known as a meeting place for fences. Santorini was a bit of a ladies’ man, and one of my other informants reported he was sweet on the barmaid there.”
Barnes fixed him with a skeptical stare. “Are you implying the barmaid kept him apprised of what the local fences were up to?”
Nivens shrugged. “I don’t know that for a fact, but I will say that a clever barmaid can learn a great deal if she keeps her ears open. All I know is that the information that Santorini supplied me was always useful and helped me close a number of open cases.”
Witherspoon interjected. “What’s the barmaid’s name?”
“Alberta Miller. She’s a widow.”
“Thank you. Inspector Nivens, you’ve stated you paid Santorini for the information he passed along to you. How much would you say you’ve given him?” Witherspoon wanted to find out if some or even all of the money they’d found in the victim’s room might have come from Nivens.
“It wasn’t much. I’d give him a pound or two if he told me something that seemed pertinent.”
“How much did you pay him for the information about the O’Dwyers?”
“Five quid.” Nivens smiled cynically. “By that time, Santorini had realized that some bits of information were worth more than others.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that the police were under a good deal of pressure to solve that break-in—the butler in the house had been knocked unconscious. When Santorini approached me, he demanded five pounds before he’d tell me anything.”
“That’s a lot of money.” The constable continued writing in his notebook.
“I know, but I thought it well worth it. Those brothers almost killed that poor man.”
Barnes put his pencil down and looked at Nivens. “Did he ask for more money when he testified in court?”
“No, and if he had, I’d have refused to give it to him. I don’t pay for testimony, just information.”
“Where were you last night?” Witherspoon asked, hoping the change of subj
ect might move the interview along. It was getting late, and, truth be told, it had been a long, tiring day.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Witherspoon. I’ve already told Chief Inspector Boney and Inspector Havers what I did last night. It’s in my statement. Surely you’ve read it?”
“We have, but we’d like to hear it directly from you.” Witherspoon allowed himself a small smile. “It’s one of my methods, you see. I’ve often found that asking the same question a number of times often results in finding out a few more pertinent details.”
“Alright, I’ll go over it again, but I doubt you’ll learn anything more,” Nivens snapped. “After my shift ended, I went to Baxter’s for dinner and then, as I told Inspector Havers and the chief inspector, I was at my mother’s home. She wanted me to stay there as her butler, who she normally leaves in charge when she travels, had to take time off because of a family illness.”
“Where does your mother live?” Barnes looked at Nivens directly, silently daring him to ignore the question.
“Number eleven Alton Place, Mayfair. I was there alone.”
“So no one can confirm your whereabouts at the time of the murder?” Barnes said.
“That’s correct.”
“What time did you arrive at your mother’s house?” Witherspoon shifted into a more comfortable position and then caught a whiff of a harsh, metallic odor. The scent was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place what it might be.
“I left the station at half past four yesterday, as I’d come in very early to go over my notes for an upcoming trial at the Bailey. I went for an early dinner. As I’ve said, I went to Baxter’s—that’s on Oxford Street—and I made the mistake of taking a hansom cab instead of a train to my mother’s house, so it took forty-five minutes or so to get there.”
“I know where Baxter’s is located.” Witherspoon tried not to get annoyed, but Nivens’ attitude was making it difficult.
“Every policeman in London knows where it is,” Barnes muttered.
“What time did you leave the restaurant?” the inspector asked.
Nivens thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. I didn’t look at my watch, but it was relatively early.”
“Inspector Nivens, when it comes to solving crimes, I’ve a great deal of faith in time lines. If we’re going to prove that one of our own had nothing to do with this murder, perhaps you might try a bit harder to recall the timing of your movements last night.”
“At a guess, I’d say it was six o’clock or thereabouts when I left. Normally, I don’t dine that early but, as I’d been too busy to eat lunch, I was hungry. After my meal, I took a hansom cab to Mayfair. My estimate is that I arrived at my mother’s home at half six or so.”
“When you got out of the cab, did you happen to see anyone? Any neighbors or local people?” Witherspoon asked.
Nivens gave a negative shake of his head. “No. I saw no one and, by the same token, no one would have seen me unless they were watching from their windows. But that’s very doubtful—peeking out the front curtains isn’t generally done by the sort of people who live in Mayfair.”
“Where did you catch the hansom?” Barnes asked.
“Just outside the restaurant.”
“Then we should be able to confirm your account of your whereabouts by finding the hansom driver.”
“Hardly, Constable. It was a cold, busy night, and the streets were filled with people wanting hansoms. The only thing that driver cared about was getting me to my destination as quickly as he could and then getting back to Oxford Street to pick up another fare,” Nivens retorted.
“He may not have looked at your face, Inspector Nivens, but he’ll remember where he took you,” Barnes replied. “It only happened last night.”
“Possibly, but you’ll have a devil of a time finding the driver. As I said, it was a cold night in the busiest part of the city, and there were dozens of cabs vying for fares.”
“Did you stay in all evening?”
“Yes, I read the newspaper . . .” His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes. “Oh drat, I stopped at the newsagents next to Baxter’s and bought the evening paper. I forgot to mention that.”
“Ah, so you see, Inspector Nivens, asking you the same question you’d previously answered did result in additional details,” Witherspoon exclaimed. “Your stop at the newsagents wasn’t in your written statement.”
“I realize that. It was a simple mistake. It’s hardly surprising as I’m not in the habit of having to explain my whereabouts or my comings and goings to anyone else, least of all my colleagues or superiors in the Metropolitan Police Force.”
“But this is a murder investigation now, Inspector,” Witherspoon reminded him, “and every detail is important.”
“You don’t need to remind me of that.” Nivens face flushed in anger. “I am still a police officer. I know the importance of details. Now, to get back to your question, I read the evening newspaper—it was the Evening Gazette in case you’re interested—then I went to bed.”
“You were at your mother’s home in Mayfair from half past six o’clock until you went into the station this morning?” Witherspoon inhaled softly as another whiff of that strange smell assaulted his nostrils. “Is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“If you were on your own at your mother’s home, where did you eat breakfast?” Barnes asked.
“At a café near the Leman Street Station.” He shrugged. “I can’t recall the name of the place, but the food was dreadful.”
Witherspoon suddenly realized exactly what the scent was. He scooted forward and looked over his shoulder at the pillow nestled behind his back. A second later, he swung his legs to one side, turned, ducked his head to the fabric, and inhaled deeply.
“Witherspoon, just what are you doing?” Nivens asked irritably.
But the inspector ignored him. Instead, he straightened, picked up the pillow, and examined it closely.
“I asked you what you’re doing?” Nivens shouted.
“Is there some reason this pillow smells like gunpowder?”
Nivens’ eyes widened in surprise. “Don’t be absurd—why would my pillow smell like . . .” His voice trailed off as Witherspoon held the pillow out, and there, clearly visible on the corner was a hole ringed in burned fabric.
“This looks like a bullet hole, Inspector,” Witherspoon said softly. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. “And it smells like one as well.”
CHAPTER 4
Nivens jumped up from his desk and rushed to the settee. He stared at the bullet hole with a disbelieving, stunned expression. “I’ve no idea how that got there. Let me speak to my housekeeper.”
He moved quickly, opening the door and sticking his head into the corridor. “Mrs. Vickers, come here please,” he shouted before turning and staring at the inspector. “There must be a reasonable explanation for this and I’m going to find out what it is.” He nodded at the pillow. “That shouldn’t be here. I tell you, it shouldn’t be here.”
Mrs. Vickers hurried into the room. “Is something wrong, sir?”
“What is that doing here?” Nivens demanded, pointing his finger at the inspector, who held up the pillow.
The housekeeper looked confused. “What do you mean, sir? That pillow belongs on the settee.”
“I know it belongs on the settee.” Nivens charged across the room, snatched the pillow out of Witherspoon’s hand, and raced back. “But it’s got this ruddy great hole in the corner.”
“It didn’t have a hole in it last Friday, sir.” Mrs. Vickers still looked befuddled. “I cleaned in here and there wasn’t anything wrong then. I don’t know why it should have a hole in it now.” Her voice trembled. “Perhaps a moth got into the room.”
“There aren’t any moths at this time of the year,” Nivens cried. “It’s wintertime.”
Nivens spun around on his heel, his eyes narrowed and his face red. He opened his mouth, then abruptly clamped his lips shut and sucked in a huge, long breath through his nose. “Of course, Inspector, you’re right.” Turning back to his housekeeper, who had now taken several steps back from him, he said, “I apologize, Mrs. Vickers. But it’s very important I find out how this pillow came to be in this state.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You went to see your sister in Leicester while I was at my mother’s, so the house was empty, right?”
“Yes. I arrived back on the early train this morning,” she replied. “But the house was locked up good and tight.”
Nivens nodded. “I’m sure it was, but nonetheless, the house has been empty since Sunday.”
“Did you check for signs of forced entry?” Barnes directed his question to Nivens.
“Of course not. Why would I? I’d no idea that ruddy pillow was here.” He looked at Mrs. Vickers again. “Have you had any visitors today?”
“None, sir.”
“How about tradespeople?”
“Mr. Cullen’s grocery boy came with a delivery, sir, but he never left the kitchen.”
“Are you sure of that?” Nivens pressed.
“I go through the order, sir. I don’t let the lad leave until I’ve checked that they delivered everything we ordered.”
“Were all your windows closed?” Barnes asked.
Mrs. Vickers glanced at the constable. “In this weather, of course.”
“Are you certain? Sometimes, even in the dead of winter, my wife will open a window to air out a room.”
“This room didn’t need to be aired out and, if it had, I’d have done it while I was in here doing the cleaning on Friday,” she retorted. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory, and every window in the house was closed and locked yesterday, as were the doors.”
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 8
