“Mr. Graves, we’re here about the murder of Humberto Santorini,” Witherspoon began.
“What’s that got to do with me? I didn’t kill the bastard.” He picked up his mug and took a sip.
“We know that you hated Santorini and that you were looking for him a few days before he was killed,” Barnes said. “You were turfed out of the Crying Crows after harassing the barman for information about Santorini.”
“Yeah.” Graves grinned and put down his tea. “I was. So what? I might ’ave hated him, but I didn’t kill him. From what I hear, one of you lot did that.”
“Where were you on Monday evening between half past five and a quarter to six?” Barnes persisted.
“Walkin’ here.”
“From where?” Witherspoon asked.
“From the Commercial Road. I do deliveries for Royston’s.”
“The metalworks?” The constable took out his notebook and pencil.
“That’s right, and on Monday evening, I finished my last run just after half past four—it was a load of screws to a factory over by Liverpool Street Station—and then I took the rig back to the stable. If you don’t believe me, you can check with Royston’s. They’ll show you my time sheet and they’ll have a copy of the delivery receipt.”
“You went back to Royston’s after turning the rig in?” Barnes stopped writing and looked at him.
“I had to give them the delivery chit, didn’t I? Otherwise they’d not pay what they owed me. By the time I got it turned in, it was past five, so I stopped at Kerrigan’s to buy a pastie for my dinner and came on here.” He glanced around the room, his expression glum. “It’s not much, but right now, it’s home. Anything else?”
“Mr. Graves, we understand that you blamed Santorini for your, er, incarceration,” Witherspoon said.
“I did. He set me up so he could get me horse and cart. He told that stupid cow that owns the Crying Crows that I ’elped myself to her cash drawer and stole ten quid. I never touched that cash. He took it. But she set the law on me, and I got three years in that hellhole of a prison and he got my business.”
Barnes eyed him speculatively. “That’s a very long sentence for a rather small theft.”
Graves flushed. “It weren’t my first time. I’d been sent up once before.”
“You’d been imprisoned previously?” Witherspoon asked. “For what?”
“I was accused of stealin’ a toff’s purse,” he admitted. “Picking his pocket, so to speak.”
“Were you sent to Pentonville?”
He shook his head. “No, the Scrubs.”
“How long were you at Wormwood Scrubs?” Witherspoon asked.
“A year. At the time I thought it was the longest year of my life, so when I got out, I vowed I’d never go into a place like that again. But thanks to Santorini, I ended up somewhere even worse.”
“How did you come to get the ice cart and the pony?” Barnes asked.
“From my uncle. He owned them, and he left ’em to me when he passed away,” Graves explained. “I was makin’ a good living, too, saving a bit of cash and thinkin’ about emigrating to Australia or Canada. But then Santorini told his lies and I ended up in Pentonville.”
“You must have hated him,” Witherspoon said softly.
“I did, and I was happy when I heard he’d been shot. But I didn’t kill him. If I’d done it, I wouldn’t have used some fancy gun, I’d have used my bare hands.”
* * *
* * *
By the time Inspector Witherspoon arrived home that evening, Mrs. Jeffries had spent several hours thinking about Bert Santorini’s murder. But despite her best efforts, despite her analyzing what little information they had from every possible angle, she simply couldn’t make heads or tails of it. The one conclusion she had reached was that she was sure Nigel Nivens was innocent.
She’d arrived at this deduction for one very simple reason: Nivens wouldn’t have shown up at their back door unless he was desperate for help in proving his innocence. She agreed with everything Nivens had told them; mainly, that he was so loathed by practically everyone in the Metropolitan Police that they wouldn’t work overly hard to prove his innocence. She disagreed with him about one very important point: Gerald Witherspoon wasn’t like anyone else, and he would do everything in his power to catch the real killer.
She reached for the inspector’s overcoat and hung it below his bowler. “I’m glad you’re not too late tonight, sir. Mrs. Goodge has done a lovely Lancashire hot pot for your supper and an apple crumble for pudding.”
“That sounds delightful. Do we have time for a sherry?” He started down the hallway.
“Of course, sir.” She followed the inspector into his study, went to the liquor cabinet, and poured them both a drink.
“Here’s your sherry, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries handed Witherspoon his glass, took her own, and sat down.
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. I don’t mind admitting that I’ve looked forward to this all the way home.” He took a sip. “The traffic was dreadful and it took ages to get across town.”
“Did you come home by train?”
“We took a hansom cab,” he replied. “We had a very busy day, and after we’d finished our last interview, we stopped back at Leman Street. By the time we finished up there, we’d missed the express train, and Constable Barnes wanted to pop into Ladbroke Road. But I’ll tell you about that later.”
“It sounds as if you’re making progress on this case.” She took a sip from her own glass.
He frowned thoughtfully. “I’d like to think we are, but frankly I’m not sure. We took statements from a number of people today, but I’m not certain that anything we heard will help us find Santorini’s killer.”
“Now, sir, you always feel that way at this point in a case and yet, you always solve it. Remember what I told you, sir. Your ‘inner voice’ is listening to every statement, assessing your suspects, and making certain you come up with the right answer.” She could see he needed a boost to his self-confidence. Though he’d solved one homicide after another, he still had moments of terrible self-doubt.
He smiled gratefully. “You always say the right thing, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s just that this is such an odd case that I am fearful that whoever killed Bert Santorini will get away with the crime.”
“You don’t think Inspector Nivens might have done it?”
“I don’t.” He sighed. “Yet I’ve no real reason for why I think he’s innocent. He’s someone who will bend the rules when it suits his purpose, but I don’t think he’s a murderer. Besides, there seems to be a number of people who had reason to hate the victim. To begin with, Susan Callahan, the owner of the Crying Crows Pub, disliked him intensely.” He repeated everything Mrs. Callahan had told them about her association with Santorini.
“So this Mrs. Callahan had asked Santorini to leave because she caught him watering her liquor stock,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured, “and she was afraid the brewery would catch wind of it and call in her loan?”
“That’s right. She considered herself lucky that it was a customer and not a representative of the brewery who realized the liquor was being compromised. But the strangest thing that happened while we were there was someone heaved a huge stone at the pub door. It was quite disconcerting—” He broke off with a frown. “Oh dear, I’ve just remembered that it happened right when we asked Mrs. Callahan where she was at the time of the murder.”
“I take it she didn’t answer that question.”
“Indeed, but we can easily rectify that mistake.” He shrugged. “I suppose a huge stone hitting the door was a bit of a distraction. But as it wasn’t the first time her pub was the target of vandals, we don’t think it had anything to do with Santorini’s murder.” He continued with his narrative. When he’d finished, he took another sip and Mrs. Jeffries quickly asked a question.
&nbs
p; “This man that she caught stealing from her, Philip Graves, he got three years in Pentonville for stealing ten pounds. That seems a very long sentence.”
“There’s a reason for that, and I’ll get to that when I tell you about our meeting with Graves, but before we interviewed him, we went to the Thistle and Thorn.” He described the interview with Alberta Miller. “She seemed quite put out that we asked where she was at the time of the murder. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, it’s a standard question, yet people always seem to be so offended.”
“At least you should be able to determine if she’s telling the truth or not,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “If she was walking to work that day, surely someone will have seen her. Was anyone at the pub able to verify what time she arrived?”
“Constable Barnes asked the other staff member, and he said she arrived a few minutes before half six.”
“How old is Alberta Miller?”
Witherspoon tapped his finger against his chin. “I’m not very good with estimating someone’s age, but I’d say she was in her early thirties.”
“Was she attractive?”
Again, he thought before he answered. “Indeed, I’d say she was. She wasn’t the sort of beauty that would stop people in the street, but she was quite pretty.” He blushed slightly. “Of course, I’d never say such a thing in front of my dear Ruth. I’d not want her getting the wrong impression.”
“No, of course you wouldn’t, sir.”
He looked at her curiously. “Why are you asking about her appearance?”
“Because, sir, from what you’ve told me, it sounds as if Mrs. Miller and the victim were far more than friends.”
“That’s what Constable Barnes said. He thinks she was in love with Santorini.”
“And did he also think that jealousy could be the motive for Santorini’s murder?”
“He did, but I don’t see how Alberta Miller could have got her fingers on Inspector Nivens’ weapon. How would she even have known it existed? Nivens didn’t patronize the Thistle and Thorn.”
“Perhaps she found out some other way, sir? People talk in pubs—perhaps she overheard a conversation. I’m not saying she did such a thing; I’m only saying it’s possible.”
She had no idea if Alberta Miller had overheard anyone talking about anything; she only wished to get the inspector thinking along some different lines of inquiry.
“Yes, that’s what Constable Barnes says. I suppose anything’s possible. Once we finished at the Thistle and Thorn, we interviewed Philip Graves.” Witherspoon took another sip. “Graves wasn’t very cooperative at first, and that men’s hostel where he lives is positively dreadful, but nonetheless, it’s a roof over one’s head.” He told her the particulars of the interview, ending with Graves’ assertion that if he’d murdered Santorini, he’d have done it with his bare hands.
“Gracious, sir. It appears as if half the East End had a reason to want Bert Santorini dead.”
“It does seem that way.” He drained his glass. “Do we have time for another one?”
She took his glass and rose to her feet. Her mind worked furiously as she crossed the study, refilled his drink, and topped off her own glass. Susan Callahan’s description of her relationship with the victim didn’t ring true. She thought it far more likely that the woman let him stay because the two of them were romantically involved. Tomorrow, she’d have a word with Constable Barnes and get his opinion.
“Do you believe Philip Graves?” she asked as she handed the inspector his sherry. She’d no idea why that had popped into her mind, but nonetheless, she’d learned to trust her own “inner voice.”
Witherspoon cocked his head to one side. “Actually, I do. There was something about him that made me think he was being truthful.”
“And he did have a point about the access to Inspector Nivens’ dueling pistol.” She sat down again. “But, again, like Alberta Miller or even Frida Sorensen, he could easily have found out that information.”
“And Nivens’ house was empty the night before and the night of the murder. Graves was an admitted pickpocket, so it’s quite possible that he also knew how to pick locks. I do believe both activities require one to be good with one’s fingers.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “When do you think you’ll be able to speak to Mrs. O’Dwyer?”
“Tomorrow. We simply didn’t have time today. I know everyone thinks she has the most motive for wanting Santorini dead, but I’m not so certain about that.” He gulped the rest of his sherry and stood up. “I’m starving. I’m so glad Mrs. Goodge cooked Lancashire hot pot. That’s one of my favorites.”
Mrs. Jeffries got up as well. She started to ask why Constable Barnes wanted to stop at Ladbroke Road and then decided she’d ask him herself tomorrow morning.
* * *
* * *
Betsy closed Amanda’s bedroom door and went into the parlor. She stood in the open doorway and gazed at her home. The floor was covered with an oriental carpet in red, blue, and gold; the walls painted a pale blue; and the overstuffed sofa and chairs covered in a vibrant blue cotton. Blue and white striped curtains draped the windows; there was a hexagonal table with three matching chairs with embroidered, padded royal blue seats; and on the mantel over the white stone fireplace there were half a dozen photographs of her family in silver frames. She and Smythe could have afforded a much grander home, but compared to where she’d come from, this was the lap of luxury, and she was very, very content.
Smythe was in his overstuffed chair reading the newspaper. She moved into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. He put the paper down on the side table and smiled at his wife. “Do you want to tell me about what ’appened today? You were upset when you got to Upper Edmonton Gardens.”
“I was.” She crossed the room and sat down on the end of the sofa. “You were right: I should never have gone back to the East End. It brought back too many awful memories.” She told him about her confrontation with Mattie and how she’d stormed out before learning everything she could and then walked for what seemed miles, forcing herself to visit every place that had been part of her life then. When she’d run out of words, she took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I’m not going back there. Not for this case, not for any case. It’s too hard.”
“I know, love, I know.” He reached across and patted her arm.
Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled the last place she’d gone. “I went to the cemetery, the one where my mum was buried. Dear Lord, Smythe, she was put in a pauper’s grave. There’s not even a rock or stone to mark where she was laid to rest, and when I’d got there, I’d no idea where she was. I couldn’t find her. I couldn’t remember the spot where they buried her. It looks so different now.” She started crying in earnest, shoving her hand over her mouth to keep her sobs from waking up Amanda.
Smythe moved out of his chair and onto the sofa. He pulled her into his arms and held her, letting her cry it out. Finally, when the tears had stopped, she drew back, pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, and blew her nose. “I’m not sure what I’ll tell the others, but I’ll come up with something.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Sweetheart, you should have told me that your mum’s not having a proper grave was so upsettin’ for you.”
“I didn’t know it was until today.” She smiled awkwardly. “I had no idea that I’d react the way I did when I went back there. Once I got away from the East End, I suppose I pushed it out of my mind. But it all came back today. I remember never having enough to eat and in the winter we were always cold. That’s what killed my baby sister—the cold getting into her lungs, drowning her so she couldn’t breathe.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That was horrible—it was all horrible—and the final horror was watching my mother waste away with that awful sickness.”
“Don’t think about it anymore, my love. Don’t think about it. You’re h
ere now and I’m going to make sure you never go hungry or have to face anything like that again.” He lifted her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’m glad you’re not goin’ back there again. It’s too hard on you and it worries me ’alf sick.”
“I’m sorry, my darling. I didn’t do it to worry you—I just wanted to help. But there’s plenty I can do without going back to Whitechapel.”
“Good. I’m glad you told me about your mum and her grave. We’ll have her grave found and make sure she’s properly buried.”
“Smythe, that’ll cost the earth.”
“Don’t be daft. You know good and well we can afford it. I came back from Australia a rich man and that was over ten years ago. We’ve made wise investments, and we’ve plenty of money. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know your mum, and I’m sorry you didn’t get to know mine. We didn’t ask to be born poor—that’s just the way it was. But we’ve enough now to buy ourselves comfort for our bodies and for our feelings. We’ll get your mum a proper coffin, grave, and headstone.”
“I don’t even know where they put her,” Betsy protested. “Like I said, it all looks different now.”
“You let me worry about that,” he promised. “I’ll find her, and I’ll handle everything.”
* * *
* * *
Constable Barnes was a tad earlier than usual the next morning, but both Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge were up and had the tea ready. They spent a good fifteen minutes discussing what the inspector and the constable had learned thus far.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at Barnes. “What did you really think of Susan Callahan’s assertion that she only invited Santorini into the back room of her pub because she wanted protection?”
“I didn’t believe it for a moment, but I didn’t want to say anything to the inspector.” Barnes grinned. “He’s a bit naive when it comes to relationships between males and females. Mind you, I’m not just saying that Mrs. Callahan wasn’t telling the truth. I had a quick word with one of the constables in Leman Street when the inspector and I stopped in to see if the postmortem report was ready. He said there hadn’t been a series of break-ins in that part of Whitechapel at the time she invited Santorini into her back room. I think she was just a lonely widow.”
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 15
