“We do. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”
Caladini glanced at the dining room. The customers at both tables were openly staring at them with curious expressions on their collective faces, but the maître d’ didn’t seem to mind the attention. He simply broadened his smile and gestured to his left. “Please, let’s go into the waiting area. It’s far more comfortable than standing here.” He ushered them inside the dining room and toward a recessed alcove fitted with an L-shaped built-in couch and upholstered in a deep forest green velvet.
“Please sit down.” Caladini gestured to the longest section while he plopped down on the short side. “Would you care for some coffee or tea? Or perhaps an aperitif?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Caladini. We’re fine,” Witherspoon replied.
Caladini crossed his legs and clasped his hands in front of him. “Now, how can I help you?”
Barnes reached into his pocket and pulled out his pencil and notebook. “Do you know Inspector Nigel Nivens?”
“But of course, he’s one of our best customers,” Caladini exclaimed. “He dines here twice, sometimes three times a week.”
“So both you and your staff would recognize him on sight,” Witherspoon clarified. He was surprised that the maître d’ was so forthcoming and friendly. Generally, businesspeople hated the police showing up at their premises.
“Indeed we would.” Caladini nodded. “As I said, he’s a very good customer.”
“Was Inspector Nivens here this past Monday evening?”
“He was. I served him myself, as the waiters were running a bit late in setting up the dining room for dinner.”
Barnes stopped writing and looked at the maître d’. “You served him?”
“Yes. He arrived very early on Monday. Actually, we weren’t really open, but, as I said, he’s such a good customer, I hated to turn him away.” He gestured toward the dining room. “We open at five, and, as you can see, even though it’s rather early for dinner, we’ve guests. Most of them are from North America.” He leaned closer. “Actually, that’s the reason we open at such an early hour—we want to accommodate our overseas visitors. Our restaurant has been prominently mentioned in a Cook’s and a Baedeker’s. Those are travel guides that I was surprised to find out were available in North America. To be perfectly honest, our colonial friends provide us with a substantial amount of revenue at a time when we’re generally not busy at all. The Americans, in particular, do like to dine early, and it’s quite easy as most of them have very simple tastes. Now, of course, sometimes we have a bit of a misunderstanding, which is odd considering we speak the same language.” He paused to take a breath and the inspector started to ask a question, but he wasn’t fast enough.
“Why, just yesterday,” Caladini continued, “I tried to recommend the sole meunière to a very nice gentleman from a place called Arkansas, but he kept asking if we had something called fried catfish fritters. Finally, he seemed to understand that not only did we not have the catfish, but the chef had no idea how to turn them into fritters. But as I said, he was a nice gentleman, and eventually he ordered steak and duchesse potatoes, which he enjoyed very much.”
“What time was Inspector Nivens here on Monday?” Witherspoon asked quickly. He was happy that the maître d’ was being so cooperative, but honestly, the fellow did go on a bit.
Caladini drew back. “But I’ve already told you. He arrived before we were open, and we don’t open until five p.m.”
The inspector tried again. “How much before opening did he arrive?”
“What time was it when Inspector Nivens got here?” Barnes added as the maître d’ continued to look confused.
“Oh yes, yes.” Caladini bobbed his head eagerly. “How silly of me—now I understand. Inspector Nivens arrived at a half past four.”
Witherspoon and Barnes looked at each other. “You’re certain of the time?” the inspector said.
“But of course.” Caladini gestured toward the dining room with both hands. “He arrived just as the waiters were putting out the silverware and that always happens at half past four. Inspector Nivens banged on the front door just as Lloyd—he’s the headwaiter—began setting up. Lloyd went to the door and looked out. Inspector Nivens was there, so Lloyd let him into the foyer. I happened to be passing by, and the inspector asked if it was possible to get something to eat. He said he had a very important appointment later, hadn’t had any lunch, and could he get a quick meal? I told him I’d need to check with the chef, as I wasn’t sure what he had ready in the kitchen.” Caladini paused to take another breath.
Barnes rushed a quick question. “You’re certain that Inspector Nivens said he ‘had an important appointment’?”
“But of course, Constable. That’s the reason I was willing to ask Bernard—he’s our chef—if he could accommodate the inspector. He said he could offer him a steak or a chop with a salad. I went back to the inspector, and he said he’d have the steak and salad. He also asked for a glass of the house cabernet sauvignon. We do a very fine cabernet here.”
“Did he speak to anyone while he waited for his food?” Barnes asked.
Caladini shook his head. “He read his newspaper.”
“What time did he leave?” Witherspoon asked.
“Five o’clock. He was going out just as I unlocked the front door.”
Witherspoon looked at the constable, who gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, indicating he had no further questions. He got to his feet, as did Barnes.
“Is that all?” Caladini asked. “Don’t you have more questions for me? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in ages—it’s just like one of Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle’s wonderful stories. Though it is a pity that Mr. Sherlock Holmes does make poor Inspector Lestrade seem a bit of an idiot.”
“In real life we’re not quite that stupid,” Barnes murmured.
“But of course you’re not stupid,” Caladini exclaimed. “Are you sure you’ve no more questions?”
“I’m afraid not.” Witherspoon felt as if he should apologize. The poor man looked so very disappointed. “But you’ve been very helpful.”
The maître d’ sighed and rose to his feet. “Oh well, it’s back to work, I suppose. But if you think of anything else, I’m here all evening.”
* * *
* * *
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Witherspoon said as he handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler. “But we’ve had a very busy day.”
“You look very tired, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries hung up the hat and then reached for his overcoat as he slipped it off his shoulders. “Do you want to eat right away, or do you fancy a sherry? Mrs. Goodge has made a lovely roast chicken. She’s just put it in the warming oven so you’ve time for a drink without it being ruined.”
“A sherry would be wonderful.” He hurried toward his study.
Mrs. Jeffries followed him and poured both of them a drink. “Here you are, sir.” She handed him his glass and took her seat. “Now, do tell me about your day.”
He took a quick sip before he spoke. “As I said, it was very busy. To begin with, when we arrived at Leman Street, Constable Barnes had a quick word with his old colleague Constable Rhodes while I went over the witness statements taken by the local constables.”
He took his time relating the events of the day. Witherspoon had discovered going over each and every event helped him clarify and put the information into perspective. He took care to recall every little detail. “Constable Rhodes was most helpful in that we now know that Dickie Stiles goes to the same pub, the Pig and Ale, every day at twelve forty-five.”
“Did you have a chance to interview him?” She took a sip from her own glass.
“No, we didn’t have time, but he is on our list for tomorrow.” He continued by telling her about their interview with Fiona O’Dwyer. “She is adamant
that the police planted the evidence against her sons and that they’re innocent,” he concluded.
“What do you think, sir?”
“One hates to think of a fellow officer doing such a thing, but we know that Nivens is capable of bending the rules when it suits him. Nonetheless, I’m going to assume he’s innocent until there’s irrefutable proof he isn’t. After we interviewed Mrs. O’Dwyer, we tried to speak with Frida Sorensen again, but she either wasn’t home or was upstairs pretending not to be home.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean that I think Harvey Macklin is trying to get back into her good graces by pretending she wasn’t home. I noticed him watching us from the front window as we left, and I’m fairly certain it was so he could tell his ladylove the coast was clear.” Witherspoon chuckled. “We’ll have another chat with her tomorrow. But going to the lodging house did give us the opportunity to speak to Harvey. He and the victim hated each other, and what’s more, we caught the man in a lie.” He told her about the interview and about the fact that witnesses had seen Macklin in the crowd outside Felix Mews only moments after the murder.
“So he didn’t come home that evening along Lower Chapman Street as he claimed,” she murmured. “But nonetheless, sir, how would someone like Macklin even know that Nivens had those fancy dueling pistols, let alone figure out a way to get his hands on one of them?”
“Because Macklin was at the Crying Crows Pub on Thursday evening, the same evening Inspector Nivens was showing off his dueling pistols to everyone. Not only that, but there were a few moments when those very guns were unattended. Additionally, Macklin has worked at the locksmith’s shop, Stanton’s, for the past five years.” He frowned and tapped the edge of his glass with his finger. “But I must admit, Macklin didn’t strike me as the type of person to be very good at planning. If Inspector Nivens didn’t kill Santorini, then whoever did was either very lucky or planned every move down to the last detail.”
“That is a puzzle, sir, but I’m sure you’ll solve it,” she said. “What did you do then?”
“When I was going over the constable’s reports, I realized that no one had verified the exact time that Inspector Nivens had arrived at Baxter’s Restaurant, so on our way home, we stopped there and had a word with the maître d’ who was on duty Monday evening. It turns out that it was a good thing we pursued that line of inquiry. Inspector Nivens didn’t arrive at Baxter’s at five fifteen, as he implied in his statement; he was there at half past four.”
“He lied to you?”
“Well, he implied a timeline that was a good forty-five minutes later than what the maître d’ told us.”
“Could the maître d’ have been mistaken?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “No, he was absolutely sure because the restaurant wasn’t open when Nivens arrived there.” He repeated what Caladini had told them. “So you see, this is quite serious. Not only did Inspector Nivens deliberately obscure the time he arrived at the restaurant, he convinced them to fix him a quick meal because he claimed he had ‘an important appointment’ that evening.”
“You think that appointment might have been with Santorini?”
“I don’t know what to think, Mrs. Jeffries. But why else would Inspector Nivens have lied about it? Because that’s what he did. He lied about the time he arrived at the restaurant because he hoped it would give him an alibi for the time of the murder. But the truth is, he got there forty-five minutes earlier, giving him ample time to eat and get back to the East End to kill Santorini.”
* * *
* * *
The house was quiet as Mrs. Jeffries slipped down the back stairs to the kitchen. She put her old oil lamp on the table and sat down. It was almost eleven o’clock, and, though she’d tried, she couldn’t sleep.
She glanced at the cooker and debated about whether to make herself a cup of tea but then discarded that notion. The teakettle had developed a nasty rattling, and she didn’t want to wake up Mrs. Goodge. But she needed to think. Glancing at the pine sideboard, she got up and pulled open the bottom drawer. Reaching inside, she pulled out the bottle of whisky she kept on hand for medical or emotional emergencies. Grabbing a tumbler from the shelf, she went back to her seat and poured a half-inch shot into the glass.
This was most definitely an emergency.
She had no idea how this case was going to get solved.
She went back to her seat and took a tiny sip of whisky, wincing as it hit the back of her throat. It wasn’t her favorite beverage, but it would have to do, and if she was lucky, it might help her sleep. Her eyes unfocused as she stared across the room in a vain attempt to find the solution to this puzzle. But after a few moments, she realized she was being foolish, and it would be best to think logically about the matter. Now wasn’t the time to trust her intuition or her own “inner voice.” Now was the time to think.
There was no shortage of suspects; Santorini seemed to have thrived on making enemies. It wasn’t just the O’Dwyers and their friends who loathed the man. On a previous occasion, Santorini’s testimony had sent another person to prison. Philip Graves claimed that Santorini’s lies not only deprived him of his liberty but also forced him to sell his cart and pony, a good business for a workingman. But Graves was out of prison now, and it was possible that he wanted revenge against the man who he claimed set him up.
But there were a number of problems with Graves as the killer. As far as they knew, Graves wasn’t at the Crying Crows on the night Nivens was showing off the dueling pistols. So how would he have found out about them? In addition to that obstacle, there was no evidence that Graves had an opportunity to steal one of the weapons. If he wasn’t at the Crying Crows, he wouldn’t have heard Nivens complaining about having to stay at his mother’s house, thus realizing that Nivens’ own home would be empty. But the biggest problem with Graves as the killer was even simpler: Why would he go to the trouble of manipulating the evidence to suggest that Nigel Nivens had committed the crime? There was no evidence he and Inspector Nivens had ever had dealings with each other.
She caught herself as that thought took hold in her mind. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Graves did have a reason to hate Nivens.
She pulled out the sheet of stationery she’d brought down from her room, laid it on the table next to her glass, and then got up, yanked open the top drawer of the sideboard, and rummaged inside for a pencil. When she found one, she took her seat and made a note to ask Constable Barnes if Nivens had ever arrested Graves and if so, when.
She stared at the short sentence she’d just written and pursed her lips. It wasn’t that she was concerned she was going senile, but she had noticed that now her memory wasn’t as sharp as it once was. Well, that was something she’d just have to deal with. If she needed to write things down in order to recall them properly, so be it.
Susan Callahan had reason to hate Santorini, but, as far as they knew, had no reason to loathe Inspector Nivens. She obviously considered him a good customer and treated him decently or he wouldn’t have kept going to the Crying Crows. There was the matter of Nivens thinking she seemed familiar, but perhaps that was merely an occupational hazard from being a policeman for so many years.
Then there was Harvey Macklin. He certainly had a motive. Santorini had stolen the affections of the woman he’d been planning on marrying. But, like Susan Callahan and perhaps Philip Graves, there was no indication that Macklin had ever had any dealings with Inspector Nivens. So why would he have gone to such lengths to make it appear as if Nivens was the murderer? She took another sip of whisky. Additionally, just because Macklin worked at a locksmith’s shop didn’t mean he knew how to pick a lock.
Frida Sorensen was furious at Santorini as well. Enough so that she confronted him at the Thistle and Thorn, the very pub where he was supposedly sweet on the barmaid. Even after Santorini had pulled Frida outside, she was screaming so loudly that e
veryone in the pub heard her threaten to “make him sorry” if he didn’t keep his promises to her. Mrs. Jeffries was fairly sure one of those promises was to make her his wife. It was possible she decided to kill him when she realized he’d been lying to her.
Which brought up the barmaid. Perhaps that altercation between Santorini and Frida Sorensen had another unforeseen consequence. Maybe when Alberta overheard Frida’s claim that Santorini had made promises, she realized that her own position was vulnerable. Frida had far more to offer than the widow Miller. Frida owned a lodging house, and if she and Santorini married, it would become his as well.
And what about the money they’d found in Santorini’s room? Where had that come from? She picked up the pencil again and made another note, reminding herself to ask Constable Barnes if they’d made any headway in finding out why eighty-five pounds in cash and gold was in his locked box. Perhaps Mrs. O’Dwyer was right, and Nivens had bribed Santorini to lie in court. Mrs. Jeffries thought Nivens capable of bribery, but she wasn’t sure she thought him capable of murder. She made another note, this time to ask about the beer and whisky they found in Santorini’s box.
She put the pencil down and thought about everything the inspector had told her about the interview with Mrs. O’Dwyer and suddenly realized that she had the strongest reason to hate Bert Santorini, and she was also the only one of their suspects who had a reason for loathing Inspector Nivens as well.
Fiona O’Dwyer claimed that Nivens planted evidence in her home and that he’d paid Santorini to lie in court. But if she was going to kill Santorini herself and set the stage for Nivens to be arrested for the crime, why threaten the victim so publicly? Mrs. O’Dwyer tracked Santorini down at the Strand Hotel and, in front of witnesses, accused him of lying under oath, and then she went on to claim that she’d prove it. Why do that if you’ve already decided to commit murder?
Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 20
