Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “How many doors are there?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Two,” Nivens replied quickly. “Front and back.”

  “Do you keep the household doors locked at all times?” The inspector directed his question to the housekeeper.

  She nodded. “We do, sir. This is a very good neighborhood, but these days, one can’t be too careful.” She looked at Nivens. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you.” He waited until she’d closed the door before turning his attention back to Witherspoon and Barnes. “I know what you’re thinking, Inspector, but I assure you, I had nothing to do with Santorini’s murder.”

  “We’re not accusing you, Inspector Nivens, but nonetheless, we’ll have to take this pillow into evidence.”

  “I’m aware of that,” he muttered.

  “The murder weapon was left at the scene,” Barnes said. “It is supposedly part of a set of dueling pistols, a set you identified as belonging to you.”

  “I’m aware of that as well,” Nivens replied.

  “May we see the box where it was kept?”

  Nivens went to the bookcase and pulled down a flat box. He came back to the settee, put it on the cushion next to Witherspoon, and lifted the lid.

  “You don’t keep it locked?”

  “The key has been lost for years. It never occurred to me that anyone would steal one of the pistols and use the ruddy thing to commit murder.”

  Witherspoon looked inside, noting that the gun was identical to the one they’d seen at the Leman Street Station. “But you knew both the weapons were still functional?”

  “Naturally.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “Did Santorini tell you how he found out the O’Dwyer brothers were fencing the goods from the West End house burglaries?”

  “That was the first question I asked him,” Nivens said. “He told me he’d seen them moving some items from a cart and into the back door of a house on Sidney Street, a house owned by a known fence. Everything was in burlap bags, but Seamus O’Dwyer dropped one of them, and a silver teapot rolled out onto the ground.”

  “But the goods weren’t there when you actually raided that house,” Barnes pointed out. “Yet the O’Dwyers were found guilty, mainly based on Bert Santorini’s testimony.”

  “Which is why you should be investigating them and that mother of theirs instead of wasting valuable time here with me. I had nothing to do with Santorini’s murder. I’ve no idea why my pistol was used to kill him, nor do I know how the murderer obtained the weapon.”

  “Inspector Nivens, we’ve only just started this investigation. We’ll be looking at everyone who might have a motive for the murder,” Witherspoon said.

  “But I didn’t do it,” Nivens protested. “Good Lord, man, do you think if I committed murder I’d use my own gun and leave it lying by Santorini’s body? A weapon that half a dozen constables at the Leman Street Police Station saw and could identify as belonging to me. I certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a pillow that was obviously used to silence the weapon in my own house. This is a nightmare, but there’s one thing I do know. I’m innocent.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Jeffries stared at the faces around the table and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was now half past four, and everyone was present for their afternoon meeting. None of the ones who had rushed to the East End to begin the hunt had had any luck whatsoever.

  Phyllis put the teapot on the table next to the plate of brown bread and took her own seat. “In all fairness, Mrs. Jeffries, the neighborhood wasn’t as rough as I thought it might be, and it wasn’t that the shopkeepers didn’t want to talk to me,” she explained. “It was more that none of them knew anything. But I only had time to go into three shops. I’m going back tomorrow to try my luck.”

  She didn’t mention that she’d actually gone into five establishments, but at both the greengrocer’s and the butcher’s the women working the counters had been so rude that Phyllis had fled rather than try to wheedle any information out of them. She felt a right coward, so much so that she’d vowed to go back and try again.

  “Don’t fret, Phyllis.” Smythe smiled ruefully. “No one at the pub I tried knew anything, either. Maybe by tomorrow we’ll ’ave a few more bits and pieces from the inspector, and that’ll give us some idea where to start.” He looked at the housekeeper. “Let’s hope the inspector ’as found somethin’ useful today.”

  “Davey Marsh was here quite early today, so the inspector must have had time to get to the East End and start asking a few questions,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “And we’ll also have Constable Barnes tomorrow morning. Surely between the two of them there will be something useful.”

  “I was real disappointed that Brockton wasn’t home,” Luty admitted. “But his neighbor said he’d be back tomorrow, so we’ll have another go at him.”

  “He was probably out flimflamming some poor soul out of their life savings,” Hatchet muttered.

  Luty glared at him. “Now you’re just bein’ mean. Brockton was seein’ the dentist and is probably gettin’ his tooth yanked out.”

  “So no one found out anything?” Mrs. Jeffries reached for the teapot and began to pour.

  “I’d not say that, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins put in. “I told ya what I ’eard at the Crying Crows. Now, it weren’t much, but it might end up being useful.” He’d repeated the conversation he’d heard between the barman and the barmaid.

  “Don’t be daft. What you overheard was two people complaining about their guv,” Smythe interrupted. “That doesn’t count. Let’s face it: we went off half-cocked and wasted our time.”

  “You mustn’t be so hard on yourselves,” Ruth, Lady Cannonberry, a slender, middle-aged woman with dark blonde hair and blue eyes, commented. “You went there because you thought you might find something to help Inspector Witherspoon solve this case.”

  Ruth was the inspector’s “special friend” and, like the others, devoted to justice. The widow of a peer of the realm and the daughter of a country vicar, she took Christ’s admonition to love thy neighbor as thyself very seriously. She fed the hungry, visited the sick, clothed the naked, and gave comfort to the prisoner. She also worked tirelessly for women’s suffrage, equality for all, and most important, justice. When she was with the Witherspoon household, she insisted they call her Ruth.

  “Ruth’s right.” Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late. Now, I propose that we have our usual morning meeting tomorrow, and Mrs. Goodge and I will share what we’ve found out from Constable Barnes and our inspector.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What do you think, sir?” Barnes tucked the pillow under his arm as they reached the pavement. It was almost full dark by now, cold and drizzling. “This isn’t looking good for Inspector Nivens.” He surveyed the street, hoping to see a hansom. But the only thing he saw was a uniformed telegram boy coming toward them. The lad nodded respectfully as he stepped past and went up the walkway to Nivens’ front door.

  “I know. Nonetheless, despite the evidence, Inspector Nivens made a good point. He’s no fool, and if he’d killed Santorini, he’d not have left evidence lying around like that”—he pointed to the pillow—“nor would he have been foolish enough to leave a weapon that was clearly identified as belonging to him lying by the dead man’s body.”

  Barnes turned and glanced at the front of the house as Mrs. Vickers opened the door and took the telegram from the lad. Just then, a hansom turned the corner and pulled up to the curb. “There’s a hansom, sir. It’s dropping a fare.”

  They reached the cab before he drove off. Witherspoon took the pillow and stepped inside while Barnes directed the driver to take them to the Ladbroke Road Station so the pillow could be put into the evidence cupboard. They would pick it up in the morning
and take it to the Leman Street Station.

  The constable climbed in as the rig pulled away. He grabbed the curved, leather handhold above the window. “You know, sir, it’s always possible that Nivens is playing a game.”

  “What do you mean?” The inspector dug his feet into the floor to steady himself as they swung around the corner.

  “We had a case some time ago, sir, the Tarrant murder, where the main suspect, Thomas Witton, planted so much evidence against himself that we were sure he was innocent. Remember, sir?”

  Witherspoon tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Now that you mention it, I do remember. It was the first case we had together, right?”

  “It was, sir. It was just after those horrible Kensington High Street murders,” he replied. It was also the only case the household hadn’t helped with—mainly because it was over and done with before any of them realized there was a case. “By the time we realized Witton was guilty and could prove it, he’d done a bunk and boarded a ship for South America. Unfortunately for Witton, the ship sank less than a day after it left Liverpool. I always felt sorry for the other poor souls on that ship. None of them had committed murder.”

  “And you think that Nivens might be doing the same thing—letting evidence that proves him guilty be found by us in the hopes we’ll think he’s innocent?” The inspector’s brows drew together in thought. “But one doesn’t like to think of a fellow officer doing such a dastardly deed. On the other hand, we are talking about Nivens. The reason he’s stuck at the Leman Street Station instead of the Upper Richmond Road is because he deliberately withheld evidence in the Starling case.”

  “Precisely, sir.” Barnes sagged in relief. He’d made his point. To his mind, Nigel Nivens should have been drummed out of the force years ago.

  * * *

  * * *

  Witherspoon was exhausted by the time he arrived home. He handed his bowler to Mrs. Jeffries. “It’s been a long and very tiring day, Mrs. Jeffries. I do hope that Mrs. Goodge can hold dinner. Tonight, I’m going to need two glasses of sherry.”

  “She’s made a nice beef stew, sir, and she’s already put it in the warming oven.” Mrs. Jeffries hung the bowler on the coat tree. “Davey Marsh stopped in this morning and told us you were going to be home late, sir. Did something happen?” She knew exactly what had happened, but for the sake of keeping their investigations secret, she had to pretend ignorance. She took his overcoat as he slipped it off his shoulders and hung it on the peg below his hat.

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to ruin one of Mrs. Goodge’s delightful suppers,” he said as he hurried down the short corridor to his study.

  Following him inside, Mrs. Jeffries crossed the room and went to get the sherry while he settled himself in his overstuffed chair. Opening the cabinet, she pulled out the amber-colored bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream, yanked out the cork, and poured some into two small, elegant sherry glasses. She had no doubt whatsoever that she was welcome to drink with her employer; they’d established that custom years ago when she’d first come to work for him. She crossed the room, handed him his drink, and took her own spot on the settee. “Do tell me about your day, sir. You look positively worn out.”

  “To be truthful, I am. Constable Barnes and I were summoned to the East End today, the Leman Street Police Station to be precise. Apparently, Inspector Nigel Nivens is a suspect in a murder.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “But that’s not exactly where the whole matter began.”

  “Inspector Nivens, sir? A suspect? Gracious, is it because of that article in the Sentinel?”

  Witherspoon’s eyebrows rose. “You saw it? But we don’t take that paper.”

  “Wiggins bought a copy on his way back from the chemist’s. The newsagents are right next door. He saw the headline and because it concerned the police, he picked one up. I must say, it was quite shocking.”

  “Indeed, it was. The article didn’t come right out and accuse Nivens of the murder, nor did it actually say the Metropolitan Police would cover up a crime by one of its own, but the implication for both was apparent.”

  “You read it as well?”

  “Constable Griffiths showed me a copy and, oddly enough, at the same time I was reading the article, one of the prisoners at Ladbroke Road was talking with Constable Barnes about this very case.” He told her about the tidbit One-legged Billy had shared with the constable. “Right after that, we got the summons to Leman Street Station.” He continued his narrative, occasionally sipping his sherry as he told her every detail of his day.

  Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, refilling both their glasses and asking a question when he paused to take a drink. But for the most part, she simply tried to absorb what he told her. She promised herself she’d write everything down when she went upstairs to bed. But he spoke at length, and she realized that despite her best efforts, she was afraid she’d miss a pertinent point or two. At the very least, she’d make a note of all the names of both people and places that were part of his narrative.

  “So that’s where we left the matter.” Witherspoon put his glass down on the side table and got to his feet. “Inspector Nivens was quite upset by the time we finished taking his statement, and I, for one, am tempted to believe he had nothing to do with Santorini’s murder—but nonetheless, there is a mountain of evidence against him.”

  “It certainly appears that way.” She got up as well. “On the other hand, appearances can be deceptive. Which, I believe, is the real reason you were given the case. The Home Secretary wants to be certain the case is investigated thoroughly and that Humberto Santorini’s killer is brought to justice, no matter who it may be.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Vickers moved quietly to the study door, knocked softly, and waited for him to tell her to enter. But there was no reply. She knocked again, this time just a bit louder. Again, no response. Annoyed and more than a little concerned, she opened the study door and stuck her head inside.

  Nivens was sitting on the settee, staring into space.

  “Hummph.” She cleared her throat and he started slightly. “Excuse me, sir. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes of course it is,” he snapped. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “No reason, sir, it’s just that I knocked, and you didn’t answer. Dinner will be served at the usual time, and a telegram has come for you.” Mrs. Vickers stared at him for a long moment and then asked, “Shall I bring it in?”

  “Take it to the drawing room. I’ll read it there.”

  “Very good, sir.” She withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.

  He waited a moment before going to the door and pressing his ear against the wood. He listened for a few seconds and when he was sure that Mrs. Vickers had gone down to the kitchen, he stepped into the hall. He didn’t want anyone, least of all his housekeeper, seeing that he was rattled by this wretched business.

  Going into the drawing room, his spirits lifted as he spotted the buff-colored telegram on the silver tray. “It’s about time,” he muttered. He ripped it open, yanked out the message, and read it. Then he read it again and then again before dropping it onto the floor.

  Stunned, he moved into the center of the room, his gaze fixed on the marble fireplace. He stood there for what could have been seconds but felt like eternity as he tried to absorb the shock of what he’d just read.

  One short telegram shifted his entire world.

  He didn’t believe it, but it was right there, in black and white. It had to be a mistake. She couldn’t possibly mean what she’d written. Shaking his head in disbelief, he walked across the carpet to the marble-topped liquor cabinet, lifted the crystal top off the whisky decanter, grabbed one of the hand-blown glasses, and poured the liquor three-quarters of the way to the top. Taking a huge gulp, he sputtered as the brew hit the back of his throat. He forced himself to swallow and then took another, even bigger
drink.

  “She couldn’t mean it,” he told himself. “I’ll send another message. Make her understand that I need her help now more than ever.” He drained his glass, put it down, and started toward the door, intending to call Mrs. Vickers and send her off with a telegram. But his steps faltered as he reached the spot where he’d dropped his mother’s missive. He snatched it up and read it again.

  Nigel, this may sound harsh, but you must deal with this on your own. I’ve rescued you far too often, and it’s time you learned to clean up your own messes. Teddy and I are going on a tour of Italy so please, don’t pester me with your problems.

  Mother

  What on earth was he to do now?

  He knew she was serious; she wasn’t one to make idle statements, and, without her help, he was utterly doomed. The day he’d dreaded had finally arrived. There was no going back now; he’d have to fend for himself on this one. He started back to the liquor cabinet and then caught himself. No, he didn’t need whisky, he needed to think.

  He sucked in a deep breath and thought back to the beginning of this nightmare. He concentrated, trying to recall the exact words Chief Inspector Boney had used in this morning’s interview. More important, he forced himself to recall Boney’s attitude toward him. The man hadn’t bothered to hide his dislike of him nor had he given him any reason to think he was going to protect him just because they were both police officers. The same could be said of Chief Superintendent Barrows; there would be no help from that quarter, either. Barrows had been giddy with delight when he’d sent him to the Leman Street Station because of that trifling evidence matter in the Starling case. He’d love to see Nivens permanently out of the Metropolitan Police.

  Nivens began to pace, walking back and forth in front of the fireplace as he tried to think of a way out of this mess. Someone had framed him; someone wanted to make sure he met the hangman’s noose. If he didn’t take matters into his own hands, whoever had done it would get their wish. Nivens refused to let that happen.