Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

“That’s not true. I told him we were nothing more than servants in Inspector Witherspoon’s household, which is absolutely correct. What I didn’t admit to was that we helped our inspector with his cases and, I assure you, I have a very good reason for that.”

  Phyllis uncrossed her arms. “So we are going to keep helping him?”

  “We’re going to continue working on this case. But I don’t consider that helping Nigel Nivens. I consider it serving justice. I’m admitting nothing to Nivens.”

  “But he almost ’ad tears in his eyes—he was beggin’ us,” Phyllis pointed out. “Mrs. Jeffries, he was pitiful, absolutely pitiful. He needed to know he had someone to help him.”

  “Would it have been so difficult to let him know he wasn’t alone?” Ruth asked. “I agree with Phyllis—the poor man looked terrified.”

  Mrs. Jeffries shook her head and then looked first at Phyllis and then Ruth. “I don’t think the two of you understand exactly who we’re dealing with. Nigel Nivens isn’t to be trusted. If he’s innocent, which I suspect he is, the moment Inspector Witherspoon arrests the real killer, the first thing Nivens will do is go running to Chief Superintendent Barrows. He’d use our compassion for his circumstances and our confession that Inspector Witherspoon had assistance on his cases against our inspector.”

  “Surely not,” Ruth protested. “He must have some vestige of honor? Doing such a despicable act after we’d helped him would be a dreadful stain upon his character.”

  Luty snorted. “Nivens wouldn’t care as long as he got what he wanted. He’s only out for himself and doesn’t give a pig’s ear about justice or honor or repaying a helping hand. Nells bells, the varmint’s betrayed our inspector before and not just once,” she reminded them. “Twice by my reckoning.”

  “I don’t understand.” Phyllis looked confused. “What are you all talking about? What’s he done before?”

  “That’s right—he did do it twice,” the cook muttered. “The first incident was so long ago, I’d forgotten it.”

  “What did he do before?” Phyllis asked irritably.

  “He’s been an ingrate,” Hatchet replied. “A dreadful, despicable ingrate.”

  “What incident?” Phyllis asked. “What are you talking about?”

  Hatchet smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Miss Phyllis. You weren’t here then, but some years ago, in one of our earlier cases, Nivens withheld evidence that was important. To his credit, he did finally hand the evidence—I believe they were letters—to Inspector Witherspoon.”

  “If he handed over the evidence, why are you all still so sure he’d go running to Chief Superintendent Barrows?” Ruth asked.

  “Because it weren’t long after that investigation before Nivens was at it again,” Wiggins told her. “He was stickin’ ’is nose in our inspector’s cases and tellin’ tales about our inspector to the chief superintendent. What’s more, he did it again in our last case. He ’ung on to evidence that our inspector needed, remember? That’s why he ended up at Leman Street. A leopard can’t change its spots. Mrs. Jeffries is right. He’s not to be trusted.”

  “Are you certain of that?” Ruth said softly. She searched the faces around the table. “Yes, I’ll admit that in the past, Inspector Nivens has behaved abominably. But this is different. This time, he’s facing the hangman’s noose and that alone should be enough to ensure that he behaves decently.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But in any case, it won’t matter. We’re not stopping our investigation just because none of us trusts him. Justice demands that we do everything in our power to make sure that we do all we can to see that Santorini’s killer is caught.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was almost a quarter past three before Alberta Miller had everyone gone and the front door of the pub locked. Witherspoon and Barnes sat down at one of the tables while they waited.

  “Right, then. Go ahead and ask your questions.” She took a seat opposite Witherspoon and stared at him belligerently.

  “Miss Miller,” Witherspoon began.

  “It’s Mrs. Miller,” she corrected quickly. “I’m a widow.”

  The inspector smiled apologetically. “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Miller. I assume you’re aware that Bert Santorini was murdered two nights ago.”

  “I know he’s been killed. Everyone ’round here knows he was shot. You think that just because it happened here in the East End, we’ve got so many killings that we can’t keep ’em sorted out?”

  “I wasn’t implying anything of the sort,” Witherspoon replied. “I was simply trying to find out if you knew why we’d come to speak with you. We hope you can help us. We’ve been told that you and Mr. Santorini were quite close.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by ‘close.’ We were good friends, and I want you to catch his killer.” Some of the antagonism faded as her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away.

  “That’s what we intend to do, Mrs. Miller,” Witherspoon said gently. “Can you tell me if Mr. Santorini ever confided in you that he was frightened of someone, or that anyone had threatened him?”

  “Bert wasn’t scared of anyone.” She swiped at her cheeks. “Maybe that’s why he’s dead. He trusted too many people and didn’t know how to watch out for himself, even when he knew there was them that were out to get him.”

  “Who wished to harm him?” Barnes glanced at the inspector and could tell that Witherspoon was thinking the same thing; Santorini was neither trusting nor naive. Either this woman didn’t know him very well, or she was in love with him.

  “Fiona O’Dwyer, for one,” she declared. “After Bert testified against her sons she told everyone that Bert lied. That he’d been paid by that fancy detective to get on the stand and lie. But he didn’t lie; Bert told the truth.”

  “Santorini told you this?” the constable pressed. “He told you he’d not lied in court?”

  “Not in so many words. But he wasn’t a liar. Bert had his faults, but he wouldn’t lie in court. He’d not send three innocent men to prison.”

  Barnes kept up the pressure. “Are you certain of that, Mrs. Miller?”

  “Course I’m sure,” she snapped. But she quickly looked down at the floor, and when she lifted her chin, she looked at Witherspoon, not the constable. “I said, we were friends, and I know what kind of person he was.”

  “Where were you on Monday evening between half five and six o’clock?” Barnes watched her carefully as he spoke.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Where was I? You’re askin’ me something like that?”

  “We’re asking everyone who was close to Mr. Santorini.”

  “Where do you think I was? I was on my way here.” She waved her arm around. “I don’t start until half six on Mondays. The other barman and I take it in turns. That way, whoever has the late start can stay a bit later to clean up. Seems to me your lot would like to find a reason not to do your job, not to do what’s right for him.”

  “That is not true,” Witherspoon objected. “Regardless of what Mr. Santorini might or might not have done, he didn’t deserve to be murdered. We will do everything we can to make certain his killer faces justice.”

  She smiled cynically. “You’re just sayin’ that ’cause the newspapers wrote that one of your people might be the person who pulled the trigger. It was that police inspector’s gun, the man that Fiona O’Dwyer claimed paid Bert to lie in court, that killed him. Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

  “No one will be arrested until we’ve finished our investigation,” Witherspoon replied.

  “What’s there to investigate? It’s obvious who killed him.”

  “Just because Inspector Nivens’ gun was used to commit the murder doesn’t mean he had anything to do with it.” The inspector felt duty bound to defend a fellow officer, even one that he didn’t like.

  “I wasn’t t
alkin’ about him.” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed and her face flushed. “But there was someone else with even more reason. Someone who couldn’t get it into her fat, thick head that Bert was just being kind.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” Witherspoon admitted. “Who exactly do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about that landlady of his. She was always throwin’ herself at him and tryin’ to pretend they was together. But they weren’t. The only reason he put up with ’er silliness was because he didn’t want to lose his room and he was a gentleman.”

  Barnes’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “His landlady? You mean Frida Sorensen?”

  “That’s the only landlady he had. But she fancied she was more to him than just a landlady,” she retorted, but the effect was lost as her eyes filled with tears. “If you two were any good at what you do, you’d know that, and she’d be under arrest. Everyone here heard her threaten him.”

  Both policemen stared at her for a moment. Finally, Witherspoon said, “Would you mind explaining that remark? Why should we have arrested Frida Sorensen?”

  “Because she killed him.” She swiped at her cheek as a tear escaped. “She thought he was in love with her when all he’d ever done was be nice to her. You shoulda seen her the night before he was killed—she come here rantin’ and ravin’, acting like some silly cow in a West End play. She threw a drink on him and told him she’d not be played about, that he’d made promises to her and if he didn’t keep them, she’d make him sorry.”

  “This happened here? You actually saw it?” The constable wanted to be certain that she’d witnessed the event and not just heard the resulting gossip.

  “Just before closin’ on Sunday night.” She took a long, deep breath and brought herself under control. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Jim. He was workin’ that night, too, and told her to get out if she couldn’t keep a civil tongue in her head. But she wouldn’t leave, so Bert took her outside to try to calm her down, but it didn’t do any good. She was screamin’ at him loud enough to wake the dead.”

  “Is Jim here now?” Barnes rose to his feet.

  She pointed to a door on the far side of the bar. “He’s in the storeroom. You go ask him—he’ll tell you.” She turned her attention back to Witherspoon. “I know everyone thinks one of the O’Dwyers’ friends done it, but it was Frida. You go and ask her where she was when he was killed—just ask her, make her prove she didn’t do it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It had started to sprinkle when the inspector and Barnes came out of the Thistle and Thorn. “Jim Reynolds confirmed what Mrs. Miller told us,” Barnes said. “Apparently, Frida Sorensen did threaten Santorini, and even from outside the pub, everyone could hear her.”

  “At least we know she was telling the truth,” Witherspoon murmured.

  “Where to now, sir?” Barnes glanced up at the sky and frowned. “Those clouds are black as a widow’s veil—looks like a storm is coming.”

  “And neither of us has an umbrella.” The inspector turned up the collar of his overcoat and then pointed toward the busy corner. “There’s a fixed-point constable. Let’s ask him where Tilson’s might be. We need to have a word with Philip Graves.”

  The fixed-point constable knew exactly where the hostel was located and even flagged down a hansom for them. Stepping inside, Witherspoon took his seat while Barnes gave the driver the address. By time the constable joined him, the rain was beating hard against the roof of the cab.

  “What did you think of Alberta Miller?” Witherspoon asked. Despite his lovely relationship with his dear Ruth, the truth was, his general knowledge of women was somewhat limited, and he genuinely wanted to know what the constable thought.

  “Mrs. Miller and Santorini weren’t friends, Inspector.” Barnes braced himself as the cab swung around the corner. “She was in love with him, and I’d bet my next week’s pay that she hated Frida Sorensen.”

  “That was my impression as well,” Witherspoon said. “But if Alberta Miller loved Santorini, why would she have killed him?”

  “Jealousy.” He shrugged. “That’s been a motive for many a murder, sir. She might have feared that Santorini was going to throw her over and marry Frida. After all, Alberta Miller is a barmaid while Frida Sorensen owns a lodging house, and it sounds as if Santorini was the sort of person who looked out for himself first and foremost. But I think the most important thing we ought to find out is why Mrs. Sorensen acted like Santorini was just one of her lodgers.”

  “Indeed, that’s precisely how she behaved. I wonder why. Both she and Santorini were adults and both of them legally unattached to anyone else.” Witherspoon pursed his lips. “If we’ve enough time after we speak to Philip Graves, let’s drop by the lodging house again. We’ll have another word with Frida Sorensen. Don’t you think this case is odd, Constable?”

  “In what way, sir?”

  “For once, we’ve a number of suspects. Yet I find it difficult to see how any of them could have got Inspector Nivens’ gun.”

  “His house was empty, according to Nivens. Someone must have broken in and stolen it.”

  “But how would the killer have known the gun was there in his study?” Witherspoon pointed out. “And how would any of them have known where Inspector Nivens lives?”

  Barnes thought about it for a moment. “He had the gun case in the Crying Crows Pub and from what we’ve heard, he wasn’t shy about bragging about the weapons. He also had them at the station and policemen are just like anyone else—they talk to their families and friends. Someone might have mentioned it in passing; perhaps even the gunsmith talked about them. There’s any number of ways the killer could have found out about the gun.”

  “That’s true, but how would the killer have known where Inspector Nivens lives? And that his house was going to be empty?”

  “Perhaps he or she followed Nivens. It wouldn’t be hard, sir, not if someone was deliberately trying to make it appear that Nivens was the killer.”

  “You think that’s possible?” Witherspoon looked doubtful. “Why go to all that trouble?”

  “Simple, sir. If the killer points the finger at someone else, no one will look at him or her,” Barnes replied. “Nivens had a weapon that was seen by a number of people—that fact in and of itself could be the reason he ended up our main suspect. If he’s innocent, it could well be that he was simply the easiest person to frame for the murder. What’s more, even in this part of London, guns aren’t common, and if you can get your hands on one, it’s very expensive.”

  The cab slowed and pulled to a stop. Barnes got out first, held the door open for Witherspoon, and then paid the driver. When he rejoined the inspector, he said, “Mind you, sir, there could be another reason that Nivens’ gun was used. It could be that someone around here has a reason for wanting Inspector Nivens out of the way. He has the sort of character that makes enemies. Maybe the killer saw this as a way of getting rid of two problems at one time.”

  “That’s an interesting idea, Constable.” Witherspoon sighed wearily. “But we’d have the very devil of a time proving it. Is this the men’s hostel?”

  They stood in front of a narrow, four-story building so covered in soot it was impossible to determine what color the bricks had originally been. The sign over the front door read, tilson’s hotel for workingmen.

  They climbed the three wide stairs to the front door. Barnes used his fist to bang on the wood. He waited a few moments, and when no one answered, he banged again.

  “Just walk in.” A bearded man with longish, stringy hair and dressed in an oversized brown duster stepped between them, turned the knob, and walked inside. They followed him and found themselves in a dimly lighted foyer that smelled of carbolic soap. There was a sign on the wall that read no swearing, no smoking, no fighting, and bed rent must be paid every Friday by six p.m. for weekly and five p.m. for d
aily tenants. Below that was another sign that read beds 6p per night. lights go out at 10 p.m. sharp. no exceptions. Opposite the wall, an old man wearing a once-white shirt beneath a thin black overcoat stood behind a counter. “Can I ’elp ya? I’m the evening superintendent. You two from the council?”

  “No, we’re the police,” Barnes explained. “Do you have a tenant here named Philip Graves?”

  “Oh, yeah. Graves ’as just come in. He’s downstairs in the kitchen, fixin’ his supper.” The old man pointed to his left. “The stairs are just there.”

  The kitchen was a far cry from anything found in a home. The wooden floor was scratched and dented but clean. The smell of cabbage, meat pies, fish, and old sweat filled the air. Two cookers and a fireplace stood at one end of the room, and on the opposite side were two large double sinks. In between there were four rows of long tables and benches. Men milled about, some of them sitting at the tables and eating, and others either at the cookers or sitting at the closest table and waiting their turn.

  Barnes stepped over to a young man eating a plate of fried bread. “Can you point out Philip Graves?”

  “That’s him there.” He pointed to a dark-haired man sitting by himself at a table nearest the sinks.

  “Thank you,” Barnes murmured as he and Witherspoon moved across the large room. Graves looked up as they approached. In front of him was a mug of tea and a plate with a half-eaten cold meat pie and a hunk of cheese.

  “Philip Graves?” Barnes asked.

  “That’s me.” He had a pockmarked face and an expression hardened by three years in Pentonville. His face was long and narrow, with thin lips topped by a mustache and blue eyes that studied the two policemen warily. “What do ya want?”

  “What do you think?” Barnes sat down across from him and Witherspoon quickly did the same. “Come on, now, let’s not play games. You know why we’re here.”

  Graves pushed his plate to one side. “I’ve lost me appetite. But then again, coppers will do that to a fellow.”