Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  “Let me help you.” He took the man’s other arm. “My name is”—he hesitated and then gave her one of the names he used when he was on the hunt, “Albert Jones.”

  “Gracious, how rude of me. I should have asked your name and introduced myself,” she said as they started walking. “I’m Rosemary Dinsworth, and this is my grandfather Enoch Dinsworth.”

  “I used to work at the Whitechapel Station.” He smiled at Wiggins again. “I’d still be there, but they said I was too old to work.”

  “Now you get to rest,” Rosemary said cheerfully. “Come along, then. Let’s not trouble Mr. Jones further.”

  “It’s no trouble, miss.” Wiggins slowed his steps to keep the same pace as his two companions. “I’m happy to escort you and your grandfather home.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” She sighed. “Much kinder than some around here. Thank goodness you spotted Grandfather and realized he might need help.”

  “Actually, miss, I didn’t really notice him so much as overheard some of the comments the others at the pub made,” Wiggins said honestly. “It was a bit shocking, it was.”

  “They don’t like him in there,” she explained as they maneuvered around a group of lads squatting on the pavement and playing dice. “We used to take Grandfather there occasionally as a special treat, but he kept calling Mrs. Callahan ‘Millie’ instead of her proper name, and she asked us not to bring him in anymore.”

  “Still, that’s no reason for some of the comments I overheard,” Wiggins exclaimed. “Them blighters were taking bets on how long it would be before you come running after your grandfather. Not one of ’em got off their backsides to ’elp.” He clamped his mouth shut as he realized how he sounded.

  Rosemary didn’t seem to notice. “I’m not surprised. Susan Callahan has a reputation for banning people from her pub. The only people she really seems to want there are the police or the local businessmen. There’s a lot of resentment against her in the community.”

  “That’s no way to run a business.”

  “True, but she’s successful nonetheless.”

  “She was always a sharp one, was Millie. Picked pockets faster than anyone in the East End,” Dinsworth said. “Used to try it on at the station, but we were on to her, and we’d chase her off.”

  “Grandfather, you’re getting mixed up again.”

  “I’m not. She’s a smart one, she is. I saw her the other morning, too.”

  “Grandfather, it was still dark when you slipped out of the house—you couldn’t have seen anyone.” Rosemary glanced at Wiggins. “He got out last Sunday morning as well. We found him at the station. That’s usually where he goes.”

  “It was her, too,” he insisted. “The wind was blowing hard, and her veil slipped off for a good minute. I know I’m a bit daft, Rosemary, but I’m not blind. It was Millie Slavik alright.”

  Rosemary looked at Wiggins. “I’m sorry, he does go on a bit when he gets an idea into his head.”

  They had reached the Crying Crows. Dinsworth stopped and stared in through the window. “She’s done well for herself—I’ll give her that. Mind you, back then she was a pretty lass and smart enough to figure out that if she put on a decent dress and washed her face, she could pick the pockets of the rich in the West End. She had a tiny waist and lovely blonde curls, pretty as an angel she was.”

  Rosemary tugged at his arm. “Come along, Grandfather. Millie Slavik disappeared years ago. Besides, Mrs. Callahan isn’t in the least pretty, and I doubt that she ever had a tiny waist.”

  Wiggins suddenly realized he’d done the right thing, but that once again, he’d be at their afternoon meeting with nothing to report. A bit of gossip from a senile elderly gent didn’t really count. “Uh, Miss Dinsworth, if you can manage, I’ll leave you here. I’ve just remembered I left my cap in the pub.”

  “I can manage, thank you, and you’ve been more than kind. We don’t live far from here.” She gave him a grateful smile. “Come along, Grandfather. Let’s get you home for a cup of tea.”

  “I’d rather have a pint,” he complained, but he let himself be led off.

  Wiggins waited a moment and then stepped back inside the pub.

  * * *

  * * *

  “I do hope that Chief Superintendent Barrows understood that I wasn’t being insubordinate, but I don’t believe there is enough evidence to arrest Inspector Nivens,” Witherspoon said as they reached the front door of the Pig and Ale Pub. It was in a dusty, two-story brown brick building that leaned slightly to one side on the Whitechapel High Street.

  “In the end, he did give us more time.” Barnes shoved open the heavy wooden door. “But from his point of view, this situation is perfect for getting rid of Inspector Nivens once and for all. Especially since it appears that the Home Secretary is more worried about bad press for the police rather than keeping Nivens’ family happy.”

  “I got that impression as well.” Witherspoon squinted as they stepped into the dim pub. The bar was directly across from them. The wooden floor was darkened with age and covered with scuff marks from years of heavy boots, and the glass in the one small window was so crusted with dirt that even at midday the two oil lamps hanging from the beam on the ceiling were lighted. The place was small but crowded and everyone, save for a scrawny man at the end of the counter, was watching them.

  “But we might need more than three days to finish the investigation and that is essentially all the time we have,” Witherspoon complained. “Today shouldn’t count, as we had to waste half of it at the Yard.”

  “Not to worry, sir. We’re making good progress.” Barnes didn’t like to think of what the inspector would do if Barrows tried to force him to arrest Nivens. The very idea that a fine man like Witherspoon would give up his career for someone like Nivens was too hard to bear. Instead, he forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “It’s a quarter to one, sir, and if I’m not mistaken, that’s Dickie Stiles over there. He’s the one with the black hair and pockmarked face.” He pointed to the scrawny man wearing a blue, oversized jacket standing at the far end. “Constable Rhodes described him to me.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps he’ll shed more light on this case.” Witherspoon started across the floor, but Barnes pushed ahead of him and reached their quarry first. “You Dickie Stiles?” He elbowed into the spot next to him.

  “I am, but I’ve not done anything. What do ya want with me?” He stared at them now, his expression alarmed.

  “We just want to speak with you,” Witherspoon said as he joined them. “It’s about the murder of Humberto Santorini.”

  “I don’t know nuffink about that,” Stiles blustered.

  “That’s not the way we heard it.” Barnes stared at him. “We heard you and Santorini were good friends—no, that’s not how it was put. We were told you were one of Bert’s toadies.”

  “I’m no one’s toady.” Stiles swiped at his nose.

  “But you admit you knew him and that you were friends,” Witherspoon said.

  “Yeah, we was mates. Sometimes he’d buy me a pint and sometimes I’d buy ’im one, but that don’t mean nuffink. Bert ’ad lots of friends.”

  “Please, Dickie, don’t waste our time.” Barnes laughed derisively. “We both know that Bert had more enemies than the queen has children. Now, you can either tell us the truth, or we can take a walk to Leman Street Station. Which will it be?”

  “You’ve no cause to roust me like this,” Stiles whined. “There’s no law against being mates with someone. It’s not my fault someone killed Bert. It’s nuffink to do with me.”

  Several of the men at the bar grumbled, and two of the bolder ones fixed them with a good glare. But the constable narrowed his eyes and stared them down. The grumbles stopped, and all of them, a fairly old, broken-down bunch, went back to their drinking.

  “Were you in the Crying Crows
Pub on Saturday night?” Witherspoon asked.

  Stiles quickly took another drink of his pint and then shrugged. “I might ’ave been. It’s hard to remember.”

  “We know you were there,” Barnes interjected. “We also know that you’re banned from that pub, so why did you go inside?”

  “That Callahan witch can ban all she wants, but I go where I want. She thinks she’s better than the rest of us, tellin’ this one and that one and anyone she thinks is beneath her they can’t go into that ruddy pub. Well, Bert asked me to do him a favor, and I did it.”

  “What kind of favor?” Barnes suspected he knew what kind it was. But he couldn’t be sure until he heard Dickie admit it.

  “He wanted me to get a note to that police inspector.” He grabbed his glass and drained it.

  “Would you like another?” Witherspoon waved at the barman, who had been staring at them the entire time.

  “You buyin’?” Dickie laughed. “That’s a ruddy first.” But he didn’t say no when the barman slid another pint in front of him.

  “Let me make certain I understand,” the inspector said. “Bert Santorini gave you a note to give to Inspector Nigel Nivens. Is that correct?”

  “I didn’t give it to ’im. I put it where he’d find it. Bert told me to slip it to him and make sure no one saw me do it, and that’s what I did. The copper was tossin’ back whisky and had his coat slung over the back of a chair. It was dead easy to stick it in his pocket.”

  “But someone did see you do it,” the constable said. “You must be losing your touch. The lads at the Leman Street Station said you were a good pickpocket.”

  “Who cares what they say?” Dickie snapped. “And I ain’t admittin’ to nuffink. You’re just guessin’ ’ere—no one saw me slip that note into his coat pocket. No one.”

  “It’s too bad you can’t read,” Barnes said. “Because if you could, you could tell us what the note said.”

  “I can read,” Stiles snapped. “I weren’t raised on the ruddy streets. Me mam sent all of us to St. Giles church school until we was ten, and my sister Dolly was there until she was fourteen.”

  “Then what did the note say?”

  “Why should I tell you?” He sneered. “You’ll only think I’m makin’ it up to get that ruddy copper in trouble.”

  “In other words”—Barnes smirked—“you can’t read.”

  “I bloody well can,” he yelled. “I don’t remember the exact words, but it said for the copper to meet Bert at the Felix Mews on Monday evening just after full dark and to have his cash ready. There, that good enough for ya?”

  * * *

  * * *

  “’Ere comes the Good Samaritan,” the red-haired man said as Wiggins stepped back inside the Crying Crows. “Did ya catch ’im?”

  Wiggins would have loved to ignore the man, but as he was still on the hunt for information, he said, “Yeah, I caught ’im. Nice old gent. Seems to think the owner ’ere isn’t who she says she is. Kept callin’ her Millie Slavik.”

  “Watch it.” The barman looked nervously over his shoulder at the closed door behind the bar. “She goes mad when she hears that name. That’s why the old feller isn’t welcome here.”

  “What? Just because some poor senile old gent calls her by another name, she’s turfed him out for good? Get me another pint. There’s time for last orders.” He was determined to find out something before he had to head back to Upper Edmonton Gardens.

  “Be careful what ya say, then,” the barman warned. “She’s been in a miserable mood for days now, and if she hears ya use that name, she’ll have a fit.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a ninny, Alex.” The red-haired man chuckled. “Get the lad a pint—he’s earned it—and Mrs. Callahan has been in a bad mood for years, not days. I just about fell off my stool Saturday night when she gave Wilkie Bramwell and his mate them pints on the ’ouse.”

  “Shocked me, too.” Alex put the beer in front of Wiggins. “Especially as Wilkie had been in on Friday night, and she’d ignored him. But who can understand women?”

  “What ’appened?” Wiggins took a sip.

  Alex glanced at the door again before he spoke. “Thursday night one of our customers got into a scuffle with another fellow, and Wilkie gave her a hand sorting him out.”

  Wiggins hid his disappointment by taking another drink. He’d been hoping to hear something directly related to the murder. “So she bought him a pint on Saturday—that don’t sound so surprising.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen her buy anyone a drink,” Alex muttered. “What’s more, it was right after Dickie Stiles had gone. I’d been holdin’ my breath when I spotted him in ’ere, but she didn’t seem bothered. But like I said, who can understand females?”

  Red-hair snickered. “From what I ’ear, the late Bert Santorini understood ’er as well as a couple of others.”

  Alex ignored that comment. “It was right odd, too. I mean the fracas on Thursday night. Inspector Nivens and that other policeman were ’ere when Goddard started up with his shenanigans, but they was slow off the mark, and Bramwell was the one who showed Goddard the door.”

  “The policemen were off duty,” red-hair pointed out. “You can’t blame ’em for not wantin’ to arrest Goddard and haul him back to Leman Street. And to their credit, they did get off their arses and make sure Goddard was well and truly gone.”

  Alex snorted. “Come on, they waited till it was over and then stepped outside for a minute or two. I don’t know why Mrs. Callahan likes havin’ the police in here all the time. Seems to me it drives people away. The locals don’t much like coppers.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Witherspoon was uncharacteristically morose as the hansom pulled up in front of Frida Sorensen’s lodging house. Barnes glanced at him before he swung out of the cab and held the door open for the inspector. “I can tell Dickie’s statement is upsettin’ you,” he said as Witherspoon stepped onto the pavement. “But just because Dickie said it, doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “It’s not that I think Inspector Nivens is as pure as driven snow, but I don’t believe he’s a murderer. If Stiles is telling the truth about that note, we’ll have no choice but to arrest Inspector Nivens.”

  “We don’t know that Stiles was telling the truth.”

  “But why would he lie?” Witherspoon sighed heavily. “I know that he has no love for the police, but allegedly Stiles was Santorini’s ‘toady,’ so why would he make up a story about Santorini giving him a note to slip to Inspector Nivens?”

  “Think about it, sir. Stiles does have a reason to lie. If he really believes that Nivens is guilty and that the police are going to cover it up,” Barnes suggested, “he might lie about the note to push you into arresting Nivens right away. He and Santorini might have been genuine friends.” He stepped to the front of the cab, paid the driver, and rejoined Witherspoon, who was looking a bit less glum.

  They went to the door, and Barnes banged the knocker against the wood. It was opened immediately, this time by Frida Sorensen herself.

  She stared at them coldly. “What do you want? I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “Please, Mrs. Sorensen, we know that you and Humberto Santorini were more than just landlady and tenant,” Witherspoon said. “You had a close and intimate relationship with the victim, enough of a relationship that you confronted him at the Thistle and Thorn about his supposed feelings for the barmaid who works in that establishment.”

  Frida’s mouth dropped open, and she hastily stepped back, opening the door wider. “Alright, then, come in and be quick about it before all the neighbors see you.”

  They stepped inside and followed her into the drawing room. Frida stalked to the fireplace, turned, and glared at them. “Ask your questions and then get out.”

  “You admit that you were at the Thi
stle and Thorn the night before Santorini was murdered and that you threatened him?” Barnes whipped out his notebook and propped it on top of a half-empty bookcase and then yanked his pencil out of his coat pocket.

  “You already know the answer to that, so why bother asking me?” She smiled cynically. “Yes, I told him that if he tried playing me about, I’d make him sorry. No one, and I mean no one, makes a fool of me.”

  “Did Mr. Santorini come home that night?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Yes, and he promised me that the gossip I’d heard, the talk that he was sweet on that barmaid, was just that, talk.” She sucked in a deep breath and licked her lips.

  “He promised you it was just gossip and you believed him?” The constable looked at her, his expression clearly skeptical.

  “Bert wasn’t a liar.” She tapped her fingers on the top of the mantel. “I believed him, and we made up. Now, if that’s all, I’d like you to go.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” the inspector said. “We’ve a number of other questions. To begin with, why didn’t you tell us about the true nature of your relationship with the victim?”

  “Because it wasn’t any of your business,” she snapped.

  “Someone murdered him,” Barnes retorted. “And if you and he had really made up, and you had feelings for him, you should want us to catch his killer. But instead, you deliberately gave us the impression he was just a tenant. How do you explain that?”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you.” Frida’s eyes filled with tears. “You think I don’t want whoever did this to get caught—course I do! But you’re lookin’ at me like I’ve something to do with it, and I didn’t. If you want to find his killer, maybe you should look at the Thistle and Thorn. Bet she wasn’t happy when he come home to me.”

  “Where were you on Monday evening between five forty-five and six fifteen?”

  She shrugged. “Right here.”