Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “Bloody right I did,” she yelled. “He lied about my boys. I’m not saying they was driven snow, but they didn’t rob that house and cosh that butler on the head. They’d never, ever do anything like that.”

  “According to Bert Santorini’s testimony, he saw your son Seamus shifting several large pieces of silver service, the kind that had been stolen from the house in Mayfair, out of the back of a cart and bringing them into a house on Sidney Street, the home of a known fence,” Witherspoon pointed out.

  “He was lying, and when the coppers searched that house, they didn’t find anything. What’s more, when that stupid inspector searched here, the only thing he found was two sets of andirons that belong to my family and a piece of silverware that the police planted themselves.” She snorted. “But the truth didn’t make any difference, did it? That copper decided my boys was guilty, and when he couldn’t prove it properly, he paid Santorini to lie about it.”

  “You threatened to kill Santorini,” Witherspoon commented. “As the constable explained, you said it in front of witnesses.”

  “That’s a bloody lie.” Her eyes flashed with temper.

  “Are you saying you didn’t threaten him?” Barnes shot back.

  “I threatened him alright, but not with murder. Did those same witnesses tell you that he threatened me?” She smiled when she saw the look the two policemen exchanged. “No one mentioned that, did they? But Santorini wasn’t one to hold his temper or his tongue. He said if I kept telling everyone that he’d lied under oath because he’d been paid by the police, he’d make sure I lost my Molly. He knew where she worked and that she was only sixteen. He threatened me daughter.”

  “That sounds to me like all the more reason to want him dead,” Barnes pointed out.

  “It was,” she agreed. “But wanting him dead and killing him is two different things, and I’d not have that kind of sin on my conscience. When I had words with him, I told him I’d prove he lied on the witness stand if it was the last thing I did. I didn’t say I’d kill him.”

  “Is there anyone who can verify that you were here on Monday evening?” Witherspoon asked. “A neighbor, perhaps?”

  “I didn’t speak to any of my neighbors that night. I was cookin’ potatoes and cabbage along with a bit of pork belly for our supper,” she said.

  “Felix Mews is less than half a mile away. You could easily have gone to the mews, shot him, and then got home before your daughter,” Barnes said.

  “I could have, but I didn’t.” She stared at him. “And you’re forgetting one important thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How would I have got my hands on that copper’s fancy dueling pistol?” She smiled as she spoke, delighted to be pointing out something they ought to have thought of themselves. “That’s what killed him, wasn’t it? At least that’s what all the newspapers are saying.”

  “Inspector Nivens’ house was empty on the nights before the murder,” Barnes answered calmly. “Both he and his housekeeper were away.”

  “So?” She crossed her arms again. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Someone could have easily broken into his home and stolen the gun,” he explained.

  “How the devil would someone like me know where Nivens lived? I was here on Sunday night, not out breaking into houses.”

  “Will your daughter verify that you were here all evening?” Witherspoon asked quickly.

  “She would if she were here, but when Santorini threatened her, I made her quit her job and sent her to Dublin to stay with my brother. I put her on the first train to Liverpool on Tuesday mornin’ and from there she caught the ferry to Ireland. I wasn’t having the likes of that lecherous blackguard get his hands on her. I wouldn’t have bothered sending her off if I’d known someone had killed him Monday night, but I didn’t, did I? But now that he’s dead, she’s coming home. But she can’t tell you anything. She was at work until six Monday night.”

  “Do you know a man named Jonny Breams?” The constable watched her face as he spoke. But her expression remained calm.

  “Everyone ’round these parts knows Jonny.”

  “So you’ve met him?” Barnes pressed.

  “My boys know him, and he’s been here at the house.”

  “Then you know he’s been in prison for housebreaking,” Barnes continued. “As a matter of fact, he’s supposed to be able to pick any lock, no matter how difficult.”

  “Have you gone daft?” She snorted. “Jonny’s not aged well. He’s only in his forties, but his hands are so crippled with the arthritis that he can barely lift a pint, much less pick a decent lock.”

  “True. But from what I’ve heard, Jonny’s passed along his skills to his cousin Wally. I’ve also heard that Wally Breams and your lads were close friends. He’s also sweet on your Molly, isn’t he?” Barnes was suddenly very grateful for the gossip that he’d heard from Rhodes.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Eh, where’d you hear something like that? She’s only sixteen, for God’s sake. My Molly’s a good girl—she keeps herself right and proper.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Witherspoon interjected smoothly. “When is Miss Molly coming back from Ireland?”

  “Next week.” She gave the constable a good glare and then turned her attention to the inspector. “She’ll be home on Tuesday. You can talk to her if you like, but, as I said, she’ll not know anything about this. But go ahead, waste your time—that’s the only thing the police are good for.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Phyllis tried to make herself invisible as she stood at the end of the bar. Compared to most of the pubs in the East End, the Crying Crows was quite grand, but she felt very much out of place. When she’d first arrived, the place had been crowded with lunchtime business: shipping clerks, bank tellers, a few rough sorts that looked like they’d come from the docks, and a number of decently dressed women that Phyllis assumed were local typists or shopgirls. It had been so busy that it had taken a good fifteen minutes for the barmaid to take her order. But try as she might, she’d not been able to engage anyone in conversation. Phyllis looked around, annoyed with herself for missing her chance. The lunch hour was over, and the place had emptied rapidly. Soon, it would be closing for the afternoon.

  The men left standing at the bar or sitting at the tables looked rough and were giving her the kind of perusal that was just short of insulting. Not that she was the only woman in the place, but the other two, both of whom were sitting at one of the tables, had the easy air of locals.

  She picked up her whisky and took a sip, forcing herself not to wince as the harsh liquid hit the back of her throat. She’d tried to order a gin—she could at least choke that down—but the barmaid had said they were out of that particular brew. She’d been in the ruddy place for what seemed hours now and hadn’t learned a single thing. But that was her own fault. She’d let some of Wiggins’ dire warnings bother her, and once she’d arrived here, she’d been too scared to do anything but make a few halfhearted attempts at conversation with the women standing on each side of her at the bar. That hadn’t gone well at all. Even when the barmaid had taken her order, she’d been abrupt and unsmiling. It was almost as if everyone knew she was an outsider.

  A red-haired, middle-aged woman wearing spectacles stepped out from a doorway behind the bar. She surveyed the room and then frowned at the barmaid. “For God’s sake, can’t you do anything right? If I’ve told you once, Janice, I’ve told you a hundred times to start doin’ the cash before you call last orders.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Callahan,” the girl said. She shoved a lock of brown hair that had slipped from her topknot out of her eyes. “But we got busy and Alex isn’t here and I’ve not had a chance—”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses, girl. Just get the ruddy money ready, clean up, and take yourself off. Thank God, Alex will be here thi
s evening.” She turned and stomped back the way she’d come.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Phyllis quickly looked away but not before she saw Janice’s eyes flood with tears. She knew exactly how the girl felt. She knew exactly what it was like to be publicly scolded and humiliated. It used to happen to her on a regular basis before she’d found the position at the Witherspoon house.

  She pushed her whisky to one side as the memories flooded back. Mrs. Bolton, her first mistress, had never had a kind word to say. The miserable woman did nothing but criticize and had delighted in pointing out Phyllis’ shortcomings in front of the other servants. Yes, she knew how Janice felt, alright. The poor girl had been run off her feet, pouring last orders and trying to clean up as she went, but instead of coming in and lending a hand, her mistress had humiliated and demeaned someone who was doing her best.

  “Come on, drink up, everyone,” Janice shouted.

  Phyllis picked up her glass and pretended to take another drink. This might be her chance. She glanced around the pub and noted that Janice had done a good job of tidying the tables and the bar. Yes, this might be the only way she’d find out anything in time for this afternoon’s meeting. She put the glass down and hurried outside. Crossing the road, she eased back into a doorway and waited. One by one, the other customers filed out, some of them weaving a bit but most of them going back to work.

  She’d almost given up when the door opened a last time, and Janice, wearing a jacket that had seen better days, stepped outside. Phyllis gave her a head start and then followed her. She caught up with her at the corner. “Excuse me, miss. May I speak with you?” Phyllis had decided the direct approach would be best.

  Janice stopped and turned to face her. The tears she’d barely held back now poured down her thin cheeks. She sniffed and swiped at her face. “What do you want? Wait—you were just in the pub, weren’t you?”

  “I was.” Phyllis hesitated, her sympathy for the young woman overcoming her need for answers. “And I heard the way that lady spoke to you. It was terrible. I saw how hard you were working, and she had no right to treat you that way. I just wanted to tell you that.”

  Janice stared at her for a long moment, then she shrugged and gave a tremulous smile. “Ta. That’s kind of you. Most people wouldn’t have bothered. I guess I should be used to it, but I’m not.”

  “I never got used to it, either,” Phyllis admitted. “May I buy you a cup of tea? I could use one.”

  “But you just bought a whisky, which you didn’t drink.” Janice looked at her curiously. “You made of money?”

  “No, but I would like a cup of tea to get the taste of the liquor out of my mouth.”

  Janice shrugged. “Alright. There’s a café up the road. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean.”

  A few minutes later, they were sitting at the window of a small establishment that had all of three tables and a long counter. The floor was scarred linoleum, the chairs rickety, and the customers workingmen and -women, many of them street vendors, who popped in to warm themselves against the damp.

  “My name is Isabella Morgan,” Phyllis said. The name was one she’d used before and she rather liked it. She’d given up on finding out anything useful about the case and had decided to take a few minutes to cheer up someone who hadn’t been lucky enough to find employment with decent people. Watching how Janice was treated had brought back painful memories of her own life, a life that could have easily seen her in even worse circumstances than this young woman’s. “You’re Janice, right?”

  “Janice Everly. So why were you in the pub? It certainly wasn’t to drink. You barely touched that whisky.”

  Phyllis had a fast, silent debate on how much to reveal and then realized that, as she’d used a false name, it wouldn’t hurt to tell a little of the truth. “I was there because I was looking for information. I’m what you could call a private inquiry agent.”

  “But you’re a woman,” Janice protested.

  “Which sometimes gives me an advantage.” Phyllis took a sip of tea and then put her cup down. “The world is changing, and these days, women can do more than just be a governess or a teacher. But let’s not talk about me—the case I’m working on is almost over, and I realized once I got inside the pub that there was naught to be found there.”

  “What kind of a case was it?” Janice stared at her, her expression a bit suspicious.

  “A missing person—well actually, a missing husband,” Phyllis lied. “I’m not really allowed to say too much.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “But just between you and me, I think the husband doesn’t want to be found, if you know what I mean.”

  Janice giggled. “Your job sounds more exciting than mine.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. But working at a pub must be interesting. I’ll bet you meet all sorts of people. Now tell me, how did you end up at the Crying Crows?”

  “There’s not much to tell, really. Alex Parker—he’s the barman—is my cousin, and he knew I needed work so he got me the position. It was good of him, but now I’m worried that if she keeps on at me and I end up getting the sack, she’ll toss him out as well.” She picked up her cup, cradling it in both her hands. “Though it won’t be so hard on him; he seems to have plenty of extra money these days. Still, he did get me the job and I’d not like to see him out of work.”

  “She’d sack you just because the pub got busy and you didn’t have time to do whatever it was she was shouting about?”

  Janice shook her head. “No, it’s not that. She screams all the time. Oh God, I don’t know what I’m goin’ to do. It’s a right mess, and it’s all my fault. I wish to God I’d never stuck my nose into that stupid storage room.”

  “What happened?” Phyllis asked gently.

  “I can’t tell ya, I can’t tell anyone—you’ll think me a thief and I’m not. I’m not.” Janice kept her voice low but didn’t look up.

  “I won’t think you’re a thief,” Phyllis said softly. “Because if you were, you’d not be in such a state now. You wouldn’t care. Come on, then, get it off your shoulders. You’ll never see me again, so whatever it was, your words will be safe with me.”

  “You promise?”

  “I do,” Phyllis agreed.

  Janice finally raised her head. “It was this past Sunday, just after morning closing, and I was taking the last of the cleaning rags out to the laundry basket by the back door. When I got to the hall, I saw that the door to the storage room, the small one that Mrs. Callahan uses, was ajar. I’ve always been curious. I mean, she’s so secretive that it’s only natural to wonder why she keeps everything under lock and key. So I had a peek inside. Everything was covered in dust. It looked like no one had been in there for years. I started to leave, then I saw an overcoat hanging on a peg. It was dusty as well, and I thought it had probably belonged to Mr. Callahan.”

  “Mr. Callahan?”

  “Mrs. Callahan’s late husband—he’s been dead for years.” She snorted slightly. “Probably died to get away from her. I don’t know what came over me; it’s just that we’ve so little money, and I knew that coat might fit my grandfather. His is so thin, he can’t even go out on some days when it’s too cold. So I went over to have a closer look at it. I was thinkin’ I might ask her if I could buy it off of her, you know, for a reasonable sum, something not too dear. Anyway, it was a right nice coat, still thick and wearable. I checked the pockets, and there was a really decent set of leather gloves. I pulled them out to have a closer look and then I heard the upstairs door open, the door to her flat, and I knew if she caught me, she’d sack me on the spot.”

  “Really? Just because you were in an old storage room?”

  “Her storage room and I’ve just told you, she’s very sensitive and particular about her privacy,” Janice said. “She doesn’t like answering questions, and no one that works for her has ever seen the inside of h
er flat. If you have to go up there, she’ll make you stand on the landing until she comes out to see what you want. I tell you, she’s a strange one. Look at how she treated Bert Santorini. They was right close, so close that everyone thought they were goin’ to tie the knot. But she caught him cadgin’ a bit of liquor and tossed him out on his ear. What’s more, I don’t think she really caught him doin’ that. I think she was angry about something else and lookin’ for an excuse to be shut of him.”

  “Why do you think that?” Phyllis asked, taking care to make the question as casual as possible. But this was the first mention of Santorini, and she wasn’t going to ignore her chance to find out something useful.

  “Because Bert liked wine, not whisky or beer. She kept a bottle of decent red wine behind the counter when he was livin’ in that lower room. If you ask me, I think she found out he was messin’ about with Alberta Miller, the widow that works at the Thistle and Thorn, or she had some other reason to want to be rid of him.” Janice sighed. “But as I was sayin’, there I was in the storage room, holdin’ them gloves, and the only thing I could think to do was make a run for it before she got downstairs.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Barely. I made it to the back door of the pub just as she come downstairs, and I stuffed the gloves in me pocket. Then I saw her yank the storage room door shut and lock it.”

  “So why are you frightened she’ll sack you?” Phyllis thought it a reasonable question.

  “Because of the gloves. I took ’em and now I can’t get in there to get them back in the pocket of that ruddy coat.” She closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “What am I goin’ to do? Once she finds them gloves gone, it’s over for me and Alex. She’s a hard one, is Mrs. Callahan.”