Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  Mrs. Jeffries ran her finger along the rim of her glass as another idea blossomed. Perhaps it was Santorini’s threats that sealed his fate. Mrs. O’Dwyer had originally decided to prove Santorini lied in court, but when he threatened her daughter, she decided he had to die.

  But was she clever enough to come up with a way of not only ridding the world of Santorini but of discrediting the policeman she blamed for taking her other children away and locking them up? What’s more, even if she had come up with a plan for killing two birds with one stone, would she have had the resources to do it?

  Mentally, Mrs. Jeffries began ticking off the obstacles, one by one. First, Fiona O’Dwyer would have needed to know that Nivens had a set of dueling pistols. But from what Constable Donner said, Nivens showed them off to everyone at the Crying Crows Pub, and, considering that Mrs. O’Dwyer was a local in the area, there’s a good chance someone might have mentioned it. Second, she’d have needed to know that Nivens’ own home was going to be empty on the nights prior to the murder. Again, she might have had someone watching both Nivens and Santorini in the hopes of finding evidence they had conspired against her sons. That someone might have overheard Nivens complaining about having to do his mum a favor. Third, she’d have had to know where Nivens lived. But she could have followed him. Mrs. Jeffries thought about what Smythe had reported at their meeting—one of the hansom drivers had taken a woman from the Commercial Road to Belgravia, where Nivens lived, and then thought he had taken that very same woman back to the East End. That woman could have been Mrs. O’Dwyer. Finally, she’d have to know how to get in and out of the Nivens house without getting caught. Nivens would have noticed a typical housebreaking, yet he claimed there was no sign of forced entry. But considering how her sons made their living, it was quite possible they learned their trade from their mother.

  Perhaps Fiona O’Dwyer knew how to pick a lock.

  CHAPTER 9

  As soon as Constable Barnes finished adding additional details to Inspector Witherspoon’s account of the events of the previous day, he put his mug on the table and started to get up.

  “Just a moment, Constable.” Mrs. Jeffries fumbled in her apron pocket for the note she’d written herself. “I’ve a couple of questions. I thought of them last night and I was afraid I’d forget, so I wrote them down.” She flipped open the paper.

  “I write everything down as well,” Barnes replied. “In the long run, it saves a lot of grief, as everyone forgets things now and again.”

  “My memory isn’t what it once was,” she admitted. “To begin with, do you know if Philip Graves was ever arrested by Inspector Nivens?”

  Barnes thought for a moment and then shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard, but, then again, I didn’t think to ask. Why?”

  “Because it seems to me as if whoever murdered Santorini also must have had a reason for hating Inspector Nivens.”

  “You mean because they went to such trouble to make it appear as if Nivens is guilty?”

  “That’s right. The killer had to have known that Nivens owned a gun—in this case, the dueling pistols—and that Nivens wasn’t going to be home on the night prior to the murder.”

  “True, but as we’ve said before, Nivens bragged about them guns to anyone who stood still for ten seconds; he showed them off at the Leman Street Station and the Crying Crows Pub, so anyone in the East End could have found out about them. As to his not being home, on Saturday night when Nivens was at the Crying Crows, he complained to all and sundry about having to stay at his mother’s house starting on Sunday, and it wasn’t because he didn’t like her home; it was because there wasn’t any staff there. Which meant he’d have to take care of himself.”

  “That means anyone at the pub or anyone who talked to someone who’d been at the pub could have known about the guns and the empty house,” the cook mused.

  “But there’s one other thing you’re forgetting.” Barnes looked at the housekeeper. “You’re assuming that Nigel Nivens is innocent. Frankly, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m not so sure about that.”

  “I know, and my assumption isn’t built on the facts of the case,” she admitted. “For some reason, I just have a feeling that as despicable as he is, he isn’t a killer. But let’s put that aside for a moment. I’ve another question. Did you and the inspector learn more about the money and the alcohol you found in Santorini’s box?”

  “The alcohol was just that, whisky and beer,” he replied. “Mind you, it wasn’t particularly high quality—had too much water in it to be the best of the best. As to why Santorini had it or what those dates on the bottles meant, we’ve no idea.”

  “And the money?”

  “We’ve not found any evidence that Santorini had a bank account, so it could just be he didn’t trust banks. He had that pony and cart for three years, so it’s possible the money was simply what he’d saved.”

  “But ten pounds of that was in gold sovereigns,” the cook pointed out. “And that seems strange. No one would have paid for ice or flowers with sovereigns.”

  “I agree, and we’re still lookin’ into the matter.” Barnes got up. “I’d better get upstairs. We’ve got to go to Scotland Yard this morning, and we want to get that over with in time to have a chat with Dickie Stiles at the Pig and Ale.”

  Ten minutes later, Phyllis came downstairs carrying the dishes from the inspector’s breakfast. Everyone else was already at the table. She put the tray on the wooden counter by the sink and hurried to her seat. It didn’t take long for Mrs. Jeffries to pass along everything she’d learned from Inspector Witherspoon and for Mrs. Goodge to add the details the constable had supplied.

  “Seems to me like we know a lot of facts, but we’re no closer to findin’ the killer,” Luty grumbled. “I’ll bet that’s why our inspector and Constable Barnes have to go to Scotland Yard. The newspapers haven’t stopped hinting that the police are covering up for Nivens.”

  “Indeed, madam.” Hatchet let out a long breath. “That does appear to be the case. Even the quality newspapers have begun to speculate along those lines.”

  “Maybe this’ll be the one that we never solve,” Wiggins muttered. “I can’t even think of what to do next.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have many sources in that part of the city.” Ruth sighed. “I wish I could do more. I hate to think of poor Gerald being under such pressure.”

  “And the people over there can be a bit scary,” Phyllis admitted. “Not all of them,” she amended quickly, “but some of ’em.”

  “Stop it,” Mrs. Jeffries demanded. “If we keep putting our minds on what we can’t do or can’t find out, we’ll lose sight of what we have done and have found out.”

  “But we’ve not found out very much,” Betsy protested.

  “I disagree. We’ve found out a tremendous amount of information, and we can’t stop now.” Mrs. Jeffries was beginning to believe her own words. “You’re forgetting that none of our cases has ever been easy. With each and every one of them, we’ve had to demand the most of ourselves when we’re on the hunt. It’s always hard, but it’s always worth it, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because we demand justice, that’s why. When someone has taken a human life, all of you put yourselves at risk by going into the killer’s world.”

  “But it’s not that dangerous,” Wiggins murmured.

  “Isn’t it? When you’re on the hunt, you’ve no idea who you might be talking to when you’re out there looking for information. It could easily be the killer. Ask yourself this question: Why do you do it? You’ve never met the victims, so why put yourself at any risk whatsoever for someone you don’t even know?”

  For a moment, no one said anything, then Phyllis straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I’ll tell you why I do it,” she announced. “It makes me feel like my life matters, that I’m not just a housemaid who was unlucky enough to be born poor, and that maybe because of my sma
ll efforts, some other poor person won’t face the hangman for a crime they didn’t commit.”

  “You’re demanding justice for the innocent who might be unjustly hanged.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled. Phyllis made her realize her own perspective had come full circle—she loved justice more than she loathed Nigel Nivens, and, despite his miserable character, she wouldn’t see him hanged for a crime he didn’t commit. “That’s a good reason. As a matter of fact, that’s the best reason of all, and I suspect it’s why all of us do everything we can to find the truth when we’ve got a case. Not because we know the victim of the crime, but because if we don’t demand justice for the dead and the innocent, we can’t expect justice for anyone. Not even ourselves. Now, no more of this complaining. I, for one, don’t think Nivens is a killer. But if we don’t get out there and dig up what we can on Santorini’s murder, Nivens is probably going to be prosecuted for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Chief Superintendent Barrows motioned Witherspoon and the constable into his office. “Come in, come in,” he called impatiently as he waved at the straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Witherspoon sat, and Barnes took up a position against the wall by the door.

  Barrows looked up from the papers on his desk. “I’m sure you know why I’ve called you here.”

  “You’d like a progress report, sir?”

  “That’s correct, Inspector.” He gave Witherspoon a brief, perfunctory smile.

  “The investigation is going well, sir. We’ve interviewed a number of witnesses and have taken statements from each of them.”

  “Yes, yes, proper police procedure, I’m sure you’ve done a splendid job. Go on, please.”

  “Unfortunately, there were several people in the victim’s circle of acquaintances that appear to have a motive to want him dead.” He gave the chief superintendent a short, but to his mind, very thorough report on their findings thus far.

  Barrows listened carefully, occasionally interrupting to ask a question or make a comment. Finally, when Witherspoon finished, he said, “So what you’re telling me is that there were lots of people who hated Santorini, but the only real physical evidence we have points directly at Inspector Nivens. Is that correct?”

  “We’re not certain of that, sir. It’s still too early to come to any definite conclusions,” Witherspoon replied.

  “Are you sure of that?” Barrows leaned forward. “I’m not trying to interfere, but you do have substantial physical evidence against him, right?”

  “That’s right, but—”

  Barrows interrupted. “No buts about it, Inspector—facts are facts. It was Nivens’ gun that killed the man and, on top of that, it was Nivens’ pillow that was used to silence the shot. That’s fairly damning evidence, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, but there are a number of people involved in the case who knew that Nivens wasn’t at his home on the night before the murder,” the inspector pointed out. “Some of these people might have had the skills necessary to break into the Nivens home and steal both the dueling pistol and the pillow.”

  Barrows stared at him for a few moments. “Are you seriously suggesting that someone framed Inspector Nivens?”

  “It’s not beyond the bounds of probability, sir,” Witherspoon argued. “We must investigate every possible suspect to be certain that justice is done.”

  “Justice is a matter for the courts to decide, Witherspoon, but bad press is quite another.” Barrows jabbed his finger at a stack of folded newspapers on the side of his desk. “It’s not just the gutter press anymore; now the decent papers are hinting that we’re covering up a terrible crime for one of our own. That isn’t something that we can simply ignore, especially as there is evidence to make an arrest.”

  “But we have to arrest the person we know is guilty.”

  “Try telling that to the Home Secretary,” Barrows snapped.

  “I take it the Home Secretary is upset,” Witherspoon murmured. “I’m sorry about that, sir.”

  “He is upset that we’re getting bad press, and, if we don’t make an arrest soon, it’s going to get worse. He’s not known for being a patient man, Inspector, so I expect you to do your duty.”

  “Are you ordering me to arrest Inspector Nivens?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Not at all. What I’m telling you is that we need to get this case solved, Inspector, and sooner rather than later. I think three more days should be sufficient.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Wiggins picked up his pint and took a sip. It was his second, and generally, he never had more than one, but he was bored and more than a little depressed. He’d come to the Crying Crows mainly because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, and he’d been hoping to learn something useful. He’d tried talking to the locals, but there wasn’t more than half a dozen in the bar, and none of them were friendly.

  He felt a bit foolish—he’d not contributed much at all to the solving of this case, and now he’d have to show up this afternoon with nothing.

  The barman grabbed a wet cloth from underneath the bar and wiped up some spilled beer. “Oh God, no,” he muttered as he looked up. “Please don’t come in here. Please, please just keep on walking. She’ll have a conniption fit if she sees him again.”

  “Hey, Alex, looks like old man Dinsworth is makin’ a run for it again,” a red-haired man sitting by the window called out.

  “I don’t care where he goes as long as it isn’t in here,” the barman yelled back. “She’ll have my head on a pike if she finds him in ’ere.”

  Wiggins glanced at the window just in time to see an elderly, white-haired man wearing an old-fashioned top hat and black overcoat walking quickly past the pub. “What’s he doin’?”

  “That’s Enoch Dinsworth. He’s senile and sometimes he runs away,” the red-haired man explained. “Anyone want to take bets on how long it’ll be before young Rosemary comes chasin’ after ’im?”

  Wiggins couldn’t believe his ears—these people were just sitting here making light of a poor soul who’d lost his reason. Cor blimey, he might not be a ruddy local here, but he knew what was right. He slid off the stool and slapped some coins next to his unfinished pint before racing for the door. Flinging it open, he ignored the gasps of surprise and the shouted comments from the men in the pub.

  He caught sight of Mr. Dinsworth turning the corner onto the busier Commercial Road. Wiggins was after him in a flash. He’d no idea what he’d do when he caught the fellow, but common decency dictated he couldn’t let some poor senile soul go wandering around on his own. He heard footsteps running behind him, but he was in such a hurry, he couldn’t look around and see if it was someone from the pub.

  He dodged around a costermonger whose cart was half on and half off the pavement, but even running flat out, he couldn’t escape the smell of overripe fish. He spotted a fully loaded cooper’s van come racing around the corner at a far faster speed than was legal. Sensing disaster, Wiggins flew past a trio of black-clad women chatting in front of a secondhand shop and finally reached his quarry just as the elderly man started to cross the busy roadway, unaware of the wagon rushing toward hm.

  Wiggins hurled himself forward and, by the grace of the saint who watches out for children and fools, managed to get a grip on the old fellow’s coat. Using all his strength, he pulled him backward just as the horses of the cooper’s van rushed past. The two men stumbled backward, and Wiggins struggled to stay on his feet. But just then a pair of arms pushed him from behind, keeping him upright so that neither man fell.

  “Are you alright, sir?” a woman asked breathlessly.

  He straightened, made sure the old man was steady, and then turned. Standing before him was a dark-haired young woman wearing a green coat that had seen better days. She had blue eyes, a
rosebud mouth, and skin the color of cream. Wiggins stared at her for a moment.

  “Are you alright, sir?” she persisted. She glanced at the old man who was still staring at the street in front of him. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  Wiggins finally found his tongue. “I’m fine, miss.”

  She smiled broadly. “That’s a relief. I’d felt awful if you’d hurt yourself. If you’d not pulled my grandfather back, he’d have been run over by those horses. Thank God you were here, sir.”

  “Happy to help, miss.” Wiggins took pains to speak properly. She’d not spoken many words, but he’d noticed she didn’t have the same accent as most of the people here and, for some reason, he wanted her to think well of him. “I’m glad the gentleman wasn’t hurt.”

  “Grandfather.” She tugged at the elderly man’s arm. “Are you alright?”

  He turned to face her, a wide smile on his face. “Rosemary, girl, what are you doin’ here?”

  “I came to find you, Grandfather. You left the house. Remember, you’re never supposed to go outside unless one of us is with you. I know that you forget sometimes, but it’s important that you try to remember.” She took his arm. “Come along now. Thank this gentleman here; he kept you from being badly hurt. You almost stepped out in front of a team of horses.”

  His smile disappeared and he looked at Wiggins. “Do I know you?”

  “No, sir. I just happened to be in the Crying Crows when you went past. I overheard them sayin’ you had a spot of trouble with your memory, and I thought you might need a bit of ’elp.”

  “You were at the Crying Crows?” He laughed. “That’s Millie Slavik’s place.”

  “No, Grandfather, it belongs to Mrs. Callahan,” she said. She looked at Wiggins. “Thank you again, sir. I must get him home now.”