Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “It sounds like you’ve had a right awful day as well.” Wiggins grinned. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdroppin’, but I couldn’t ’elp overhearin’. Losin’ a day’s pay is ’ard.”

  “Tell me about it.” Harvey shook his head. “Seems like nothin’ is going right for me these days.”

  “I know that feelin’.” Wiggins hoped the misery-loves-company ploy would keep the man talking or, even better, get the fellow drinking more. The more beer that went down a throat, the looser the tongue. “I was supposed to do another run out to the docks, but when I got to the warehouse, the bloomin’ goods had already been moved. I’m out of half a load and it’s too late to pick up another one.” He was making it up as he went along and hoping he sounded believable.

  Harvey nodded in a gesture of understanding. “Life’s hard, in’ it. Mind you, mine’s been a bloody mess for months now, and before you know it, the police’ll be ’round pesterin’ me with stupid questions.”

  “The police?” Wiggins stared at Harvey with an expression of what he hoped was surprise. “Why’ll they be questioning you?”

  “Because of Bert Santorini.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t you read the papers? He’s the bloke that was murdered just down the road from here.” Harvey took another gulp. “And he lived at my lodgin’ house. They’ve already been there talkin’ to Frida—she’s the owner—and I know she told ’em there was bad blood between me and him.”

  “Cor blimey—you and the dead feller didn’t get along?”

  “We hated each other.” He snorted. “Santorini got tossed out of the Crying Crows when the woman who owns it found out he was playin’ about with one of the barmaids from the Thistle and Thorn, so what does the blighter do? He moves into Frida’s and starts workin’ on her.”

  “Workin’ on ’er?” Wiggins repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “You know—sweet-talkin’ her and complimentin’ her cookin’ and tellin’ her how pretty she looks.” He lifted his glass and took a gulp of his beer.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Everything’s wrong with it,” he exclaimed. “You don’t do that to another fellow, and I made it real clear when he first started flirtin’ with her that Frida and I had an understandin’. We was together. But Santorini was a smooth-talkin’ bastard, and he had the sort of looks that women likes—leastways, Frida liked them well enough. Before I knew it, I was out in the cold, and he had the best room in the house.” He took another swig of beer, put his glass down, and closed his eyes. “And despite what one of the newspapers said about the gun that killed Santorini belongin’ to a copper, that’ll not do me any good. The police stick together, and they’ll have me in their sights quick enough.”

  “But just because you didn’t like the man doesn’t mean they’ll think you killed him. I mean, why would they?” Wiggins picked up his beer and took a sip.

  “Because a few nights before Santorini was killed, I had a right old shoutin’ match with him. We was at the Thistle and Thorn, and I’d had too much to drink. I don’t usually drink there—I generally go to the Crying Crows—but part of me was just itchin’ for a set-to with Santorini. I’d ’eard gossip that he was playin’ about with the barmaid there. Sure enough, the bastard swaggered in and started chattin’ her up like she was the ruddy Queen. But then he saw me, and he knew why I’d come—he knew I was goin’ to go back to Frida’s and tell her what I’d seen. He started in on me, tellin’ me to mind my mouth and keep my nose out of his business. But this time I didn’t back down; this time, I was ready for ’im. I let my temper loose and told ’im that I was goin’ to tell Frida everything and that I’d get her to believe me.” He closed his mouth and looked away.

  But Wiggins wasn’t going to let him stop there. “What happened then?”

  “He started laughing. He said she’d never believe me.” Harvey smirked. “Odd thing was, she believed me right off when I told her. She wasn’t surprised, so I think she’d already suspected he was playing her for a fool. Still, that’s small comfort. I’m in a world of trouble; I know the coppers will think I did it.”

  “You didn’t come to blows, and you’d ’ad one too many; that ’appens all the time. The police know that,” Wiggins commented.

  “But that’s not all I said. I threatened him, ya see. In front of a dozen witnesses, I told him I’d kill him.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You had Philip Graves arrested?” Witherspoon hoped he understood her correctly.

  “He took ten pounds out of my cash drawer, so I set the law on him. There’s nothing wrong with that. I won’t let anyone steal from me,” Susan replied. “Life’s tough enough without one of your suppliers turning on you to line his own pockets.”

  “What were the circumstances of this theft?” Barnes asked.

  The inspector noticed the constable was staring at her intensely.

  “As I told you earlier, I didn’t often need ice, but it was a hot day and I’d asked Graves for a bushel of ice. Some Russians had started coming in, and they’d complained that the vodka was too warm. It was hard to keep it cold, given the heat we’d had, so Graves got me the ice. I paid him and asked him to carry it into the back room for me. Then he came back out front here. Now, I’d gone with him so that I could get the bottles into the ice, and when I came out here, Graves was gone. A few minutes later, I opened the cash drawer and saw that I was short ten quid.”

  “You counted out your drawer right then?”

  “Yes, we were getting ready to close for the afternoon. I always took the cash to the bank before we open for the evening licensing hours.”

  “Was the pub empty when Graves was out here alone?” Witherspoon asked.

  “No, Bert Santorini was here. He’s the one who saw Graves taking the money out of the till.”

  Barnes raised an eyebrow and glanced at the inspector. He could see that Witherspoon was also surprised. “Was Santorini the only one who witnessed the theft?” he asked.

  “The room was empty—that’s why Graves felt like he could help himself,” she explained. “Bert walked in just as he was slamming the drawer shut and shoving the money in his coat pocket. What’s more, Graves ran out of here like the devil himself was after him.”

  “I see,” Witherspoon murmured. “Can you think of anyone else, other than Philip Graves, who might have wanted Mr. Santorini dead?”

  She shrugged. “He wasn’t a popular man, Inspector. He considered himself quite charming, but he had a knack for making enemies.”

  “Can you give us the names of these enemies?” Barnes cocked his head and studied her.

  She laughed. “Well, me for one, but I certainly didn’t kill him.” She paused, her expression puzzled as she looked at the constable. “Is there something on my nose, Constable? You’re staring at me in a very rude manner.”

  “My apologies, Mrs. Callahan.” He smiled ruefully. “I didn’t intend offense, but you look familiar to me. I worked around these parts years ago—it was my first assignment as a constable. I’m wondering if we have met before?”

  “I doubt it,” she replied. “I’ve only been in the area for six years. Before that, I lived in Leeds.”

  “Back to Mr. Santorini,” Witherspoon said quickly. “Why did you dislike him?”

  She gave Barnes one more glance before turning her attention to the inspector. “As I said before, Santorini could be very charming. I was so grateful to him for catching Graves when he tried to steal from me that we became friendly. Santorini started coming in regularly, and sometimes he’d even bring a bouquet for the bar. Occasionally, one of the hotel dining rooms he supplied with ice and flowers wouldn’t need everything he’d put on the cart. He’d bring the extra flowers here.”

  “For your bar?” Barnes clarified.

  She shrugged. “Or me—as I said, we were fri
endly at that time, and I thought he was just being nice. I’ve prided myself on making my customers, even the local police lads, feel welcome here, and he was no exception. But I realized he wasn’t to be trusted when I let him stay in a room at the back.”

  “You gave him free lodging?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Don’t be daft,” she retorted. “I made him work for his keep.” She raised her arm and gestured at the surroundings. “I’ve spent a fortune on this place, fixing it up right and proper, and I was worried about someone breaking in. At that time, several businesses in the neighborhood had been broken into at night and burgled. I was a widow and alone. I live upstairs. I wanted to make sure that I was safe and that my premises were watched properly. Bert Santorini offered to stay here at night to keep an eye on out.”

  “How long did he stay?” Witherspoon asked.

  “More than a year.” She smiled wryly. “He was a bit of a sweet talker, was our Bert, and for a long time, I didn’t keep a close watch on him. But then one of my customers complained about the beer.”

  “Complained in what way?” Witherspoon asked.

  “That the beer didn’t taste right. That it tasted watered. So I started watching him and realized he was drinking my stock.” She jabbed a finger toward the bar. “Helping himself to my beer and whisky. I wouldn’t have minded him taking a nip every now and again, but he did something far worse. The bastard was drinking so much of my stock that he was adding water to both the beer and the whisky to keep me from knowing how much of it was going down his throat. Do you know what would happen to me if the brewery caught wind of that? They don’t take kindly to their alcohol being watered down. It could have cost me everything. They hold the loan on this place. I told Santorini he had to go. He wasn’t happy about it, and we had a terrible argument.”

  “Is that when he moved into Frida Sorensen’s lodging house?” Barnes looked at her.

  “That’s what I heard.” She shrugged. “And as far as I was concerned, good riddance.”

  Witherspoon realized time was getting on, and they needed to move along. “Who else disliked Santorini?”

  “Fiona O’Dwyer—she’s the mother of the lads Santorini testified against—but, then again, she would hate him, wouldn’t she?” Behind her spectacles, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And I’ve heard that one of the other tenants at Frida’s place had words with him a few nights before he was killed.”

  “Do you know his name?” Barnes pressed.

  “No, but if you stop by the Thistle and Thorn, someone there ought to know who he is. Supposedly the two of them got into a shouting match a night or so before Bert was murdered.”

  “What time do you open for the evening?” The constable looked up from his notebook.

  “Half six, that’s what my license allows.”

  Barnes nodded. All the pubs in the area were licensed for evening opening at that time. “Were you here all afternoon on the day Santorini was killed?”

  She opened her mouth to speak just as a loud crash banged against the building. Startled, she jerked, as did the two policemen. Barnes and Witherspoon both scrambled out of the snug and raced to the front of the pub. Susan Callahan was right behind them.

  The three of them reached the front just as Alex pulled the door open and charged outside. He reappeared a moment later, holding a stone the size of a bulldog’s head. “At least this time they didn’t break the windows.” He held the door open. “But it looks like it made a right nasty dent in the wood.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Susan demanded.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Callahan, but they’d scarpered by the time I got around the bar and opened the door.”

  “Bloody hooligans.” Susan Callahan grabbed the stone out of Alex’s hand and glared at it. “I’ll have their guts for garters when I get my hands on whoever did this.” She pointed to her damaged door. “This is the second time in six months the blighters have done this.”

  “This has happened before?” Barnes examined the wound in the wood.

  “Once before, only then it was the window.”

  Barnes leaned closer to the door and studied the gash in the wood. “This is a bad one. It’s going to take more than a bit of sanding down to fix it properly.”

  “Did you report the previous incident to the police?” Witherspoon asked her.

  “There was no need to. There was half a dozen of your lot in here when it happened, and even then, the bastard who did it was able to get clean away.”

  “When was that?” Barnes stood up straight.

  “Three, four months ago.” Susan shrugged. “I don’t recall the exact date.”

  “It was in the middle of December.” Alex went back behind the bar. “The same day that the fellow from the brewery come by to see you.”

  “That’s right. Mr. Morland was here the same day it happened. Luckily, he’d gone before the stone come flying in.”

  “Do you know why you’re being harassed in this manner?” Witherspoon was a tad embarrassed that a roomful of policemen hadn’t been able to apprehend one stone thrower.

  “Isn’t it blooming obvious?” She waved her arm in a circle. “I’ve made this pub into a showplace, something to be proud of and not just a gin hole for the local scum that used to drink here when my husband owned the place. But when he died and it became mine, I wanted it to be bigger and better than any pub in Whitechapel. Despite having to take a loan from the brewery, I’ve succeeded. But there’s some ’round here that resent anyone who wants to make themselves or the neighborhood better.”

  “Have you had to raise your prices?” Barnes asked.

  “Of course.” She snorted faintly. “But I’ve attracted a much better class of clientele. Not everyone around here is a pauper. There’s plenty of businessmen from the tea trade and shipping companies as well as the local police that want to drink in a clean, decent pub, and that’s what I’ve given them.”

  “And it appears it’s causing you a bit of worry,” the constable remarked. “Well, as Santorini was still alive when the first incident happened, today’s incident doesn’t appear to have anything to do with his murder.”

  “Let’s hope so, Constable,” Witherspoon agreed. He turned to Susan Callahan. “I’m sorry for your door getting hit, Mrs. Callahan, and very glad that no one was harmed. That’s quite a large stone. If you’d like, we can report this incident when we get back to Leman Street.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t bother. Whoever did it is long gone, and the street ruffians ’round here won’t turn in one of their own.”

  Witherspoon nodded in understanding.

  “I’ll just nip back and get my notebook and pencil.” Barnes hurried back toward the snug.

  As soon as he returned, Witherspoon turned to the publican and said, “We’ll be back if we have any other questions.”

  They said nothing until they were outside the pub with the door closed. “What do you think, sir?”

  “I think the attacks on the place are exactly what Mrs. Callahan said: locals who resent what she’s done to the pub.”

  “That’s probably right,” Barnes said. “And it seems as if her relationship with Santorini ended six months ago. Where to now, sir?”

  “Let’s go to the Thistle and Thorn. I’d like to find out more about the confrontation that occurred there the night before the victim was killed.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Betsy had calmed down by the time she walked into the kitchen for their afternoon meeting. Everyone, save for Ruth Cannonberry, was already there. Mrs. Goodge was putting a plate of scones on the table, Phyllis was pouring boiling water into the teapot, Mrs. Jeffries was putting the butter and jam next to the scones, and Hatchet was pulling out Luty’s chair.

  Betsy gave her husband a tremulous smile as she took her seat next to him.

  Under the tab
le, Smythe grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. Leaning close, he whispered, “I’m sorry, love.”

  “Me, too. I know you were only trying to protect me, and I should have listened to you.” She kept her voice low, hoping there was enough background noise to mask her words.

  He gave her a sharp look. “Did something ’appen?”

  “Nothing bad. I’ll tell you when we get home,” she said. But she wasn’t sure she would tell him the whole of it. After she’d stomped out of Mattie’s miserable shop, she’d given up on finding out anything more about the case. Instead, she’d walked the streets of Whitechapel, going past the ugly tenement where she and her family had lived before death and indifference had split them apart; past the now-closed church where she’d once been part of a stone throwing mob that broke the windows of that particularly heartless institution; past the boarded-up house where a local pimp had tried to force her into the game and she’d barely escaped with her life and her virtue. She walked until she was finally so exhausted, she waved down a hansom cab and headed here, to the West End, to her home.

  Mrs. Jeffries took her seat. “Are we ready to start?”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Ruth?” Wiggins asked.

  “She sent Everton over with a message,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “She told us to go ahead and get started. Apparently, she’s on the hunt, so to speak, and she’ll get here when she can.” She paused a second and when no one objected, continued speaking. “Now, who would like to go first?”

  “Let me. Mine won’t take more than two seconds,” Luty said. “Accordin’ to Brockton Bellingham, Bert Santorini had a bit of money and lots of enemies.”

  Hatchet snorted. “Fingers crossed the man was telling the truth.”

  “He wouldn’t lie to me,” Luty retorted.

  “He’d lie to the Almighty himself if he thought it would give him an advantage,” Hatchet replied. “He’s a confidence man, and I, for one, do not believe he’s reformed. He’s simply old and a bit more tired now. But you mark my words, he’s still in the game.”