Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  Hatchet eased to one side, far enough from Nivens’ line of sight so that he wouldn’t be spotted if Nivens looked up. But he didn’t. Hatchet stood quietly for a good twenty minutes while Nivens sat at the desk, his attention focused on whatever was in the pages in front of him.

  All of a sudden, he looked at the window, and Hatchet hastily stepped back. He held his breath, expecting at any moment that Nivens would throw open the casement and demand to know who he was. But nothing happened. After a few moments, Hatchet peeked inside again.

  Nivens was at his bookcase. He pulled a flat, wooden box off the shelf, took it to his desk, opened it, and reached inside.

  Hatchet’s eyes widened as he saw it was a gun. Specifically, a dueling pistol.

  Nivens held the gun in his hand and stared at it for a good two minutes. Then he opened his coat and put the weapon into the inner pocket. He moved fast now, stopping only long enough to grab the bowler he’d tossed on the chair before disappearing out the door.

  Hatchet raced back the way he’d come, getting to the carriage and inside it just as Nivens exited his front door. He watched Nivens stride to the hansom that was still on the corner and step inside. A moment later, the cab pulled away from the curb.

  “Oy.” Hatchet thumbed the ceiling of the carriage, stuck his head out the window, and yelled at Cecil, who awoke with a start. “Follow the hansom.” Hatchet pointed at the cab, which was now turning the corner. “Don’t lose it.”

  Cecil didn’t hesitate. He cracked his whip in the air and took off after the cab. They followed closely, moving across the busy streets of the West End to the smaller, more congested streets of the City of London and then on to the East End.

  Hatchet held on to the handhold as Cecil weaved the vehicle in and out of the heavy traffic while keeping the right hansom in sight. Hatchet was thinking furiously. He wanted to get word to Mrs. Jeffries about this startling turn of events, but his instincts, which he’d learned to trust years ago, were screaming at him that he didn’t have time to get back to Upper Edmonton Gardens. He had to do something now. But what?

  The hansom pulled onto the Commercial Road, blending in with dozens of other cabs. Hatchet watched from the small window, trying his best to keep the right cab in sight. At one point, he was sure that Cecil had lost it, but he was only changing lanes, jockeying and moving fast. Finally, after what seemed like hours but was in truth far shorter, Cecil swung the big carriage past the hansom as it pulled up at the curb. Cecil slowed down, and Hatchet, hoping his bad ankle wouldn’t pick this moment to fail him, leapt out. He nodded at Cecil, who pointed at a side street farther up the road.

  Hatchet ran to where the hansom had stopped and got there in time to see Nigel Nivens hurrying along the pavement just ahead of him. Nivens turned a corner, and Hatchet dashed after him. He rounded the corner and watched Nivens easing back into a darkened walkway between two buildings. Hatchet quickly crossed the street so he’d not be spotted and continued walking. What on earth was Nivens doing? Hatchet slowed his steps as he walked, and he was almost past the place before he realized exactly where he was. He was in front of the Crying Crows Pub, and Nigel Nivens was hiding across the street with a gun.

  No matter how one looked at the situation, it wasn’t good. Hatchet moved a bit faster now, trying to put the pieces together. Betsy volunteering to see what she could find out about Susan Callahan’s past. Mrs. Jeffries sending Phyllis to speak to Janice Everly, the barmaid from the Crying Crows, and sending Wiggins and Smythe to keep an eye on the pub. They should be close by, and right now, he could use all the help he could get.

  Hatchet stopped and surveyed the area, his gaze raking both sides of the road. But he couldn’t see either of them. Where the devil were they? He knew something horrible was going to happen if he didn’t take action. He could feel it in his bones.

  Hatchet didn’t know how much attention Nivens had paid to him when he burst into their meeting the other day, but he didn’t want to risk Nivens’ recognizing him. Hatchet went to the end of the street, far enough away so that if Nivens stuck his head out of his hiding place, he couldn’t see him.

  As he walked, he yanked his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and looked at the time. It was already twenty past twelve, and the pub would close at one p.m. When he reached the busy corner, he surveyed the area quickly and spotted what he was looking for across the road. Hatchet dashed across the busy thoroughfare to where a young brown-haired lad, no more than twelve, ambled down the road, his attention fixed on a pretty lass much older than himself walking ahead of him.

  Hatchet stepped in front of him. “How would you like to earn a shilling?”

  “Huh?” The lad blinked and stepped back. He was slender, blue eyed, and wearing a black jacket that was a bit too big for his thin frame. “Did I hear you right? You’re offerin’ me a shilling? To do what?”

  “Get to the Leman Street Police Station and find Inspector Witherspoon or Constable Barnes. Tell them there’s big trouble at the Crying Crows Pub and to get there quick. Go fast and then get back here. If you’re there and back in fifteen minutes, I’ll give you two more of these.”

  “They’ll not believe someone like me.” He bit his lip.

  “They will if you tell them you saw that police inspector everyone knows killed Bert Santorini going into the pub and that he was carrying a gun.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I know where she went when she disappeared.” Mattie cackled. “She pulled a good one back then, she did. Up and vanished like a puff of smoke. Mind you, she’d been arrested a time or two before, but when she got out of prison that last time, she vowed she’d never go back. She meant it, too.”

  “Is that when she went to Leeds?” Betsy asked.

  Mattie shook her head. “Nah, she took up with a troupe of actors, not one of them respectable ones like you see in the West End. It was one of them kind you don’t see much of anymore. Small groups that put on plays and such wherever they can find a village hall or pub that’ll pay a bit to see ’em perform. That’s where she learned them tricks.”

  “What kind of tricks?” Betsy stared at her skeptically.

  “The ones she used to fool everyone ’round these parts.” Mattie laughed again. “She dyed her hair that ugly red, put on a good two stone in weight, got them spectacles, and changed her voice.”

  “You mean she got rid of her accent?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? She changed the sound—her voice sounded different when she come back as old Mr. Callahan’s bride. She didn’t sound at all like Millie Slavik. But despite her best efforts, she couldn’t fool everybody. She didn’t fool me, and she didn’t fool that Inspector Nivens. He was always askin’ her questions about where she was and what she was doin’ twenty-five years ago.”

  “How do you know that?” Betsy demanded.

  “Alex Parker, her barman, he’s been braggin’ to some of his mates, one of which is my grandson, that Susan Callahan paid him extra to keep his ears open whenever that Inspector Nivens was in the pub. Seems that fellow likes the sound of his own voice and wasn’t shy about givin’ his opinion or tellin’ that stupid police constable that was always lickin’ his boots lots of details about himself.”

  Betsy dug another coin out of her purse. “What kind of details?”

  Mattie held out her hand, and Betsy handed over the money. “Seein’ as you’ve asked so nicely, I’ll tell ya. He complained about ’avin’ to stay at his mother’s house on Sunday and Monday night. Mickey—he’s my grandson—said that Alex was whining that Susan started in on him on Saturday night, when Nivens showed up at the pub. She claimed Alex said that Nivens was leavin’ town, so what in blazes was ’e doin’ in the pub? Alex corrected her and said he’d told her that it was Nivens’ mother that was leavin’ town. He was right scared she was goin’ to sack ’im, but all of a sudden she got sweet as pie, grabbi
n’ a couple of beers and givin’ ’em out to a couple of fellas for free. Alex was stunned when she did that. Susan never gives anythin’ away for free.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “We’ve wasted half the morning looking for that wretched file box. Sometimes following proper police procedure is very inefficient.” Witherspoon shook his head in disbelief as he and Barnes came out of the lockup and headed for the front foyer. “You don’t suppose that someone took it upon themselves to send the file to the Yard?”

  Barnes knew exactly where the file was. “I don’t think it’s likely, sir. Who would do such a thing? Inspector Nivens isn’t well liked, but most officers would think twice before doing something so outside the normal channels. I suspect it was Nivens himself who took the file.”

  “I agree, but we can’t accuse him of that unless we’ve searched everywhere. We’d look like fools if we accused him and the file had accidentally been mislaid somewhere here in the station. I hope you’re right that no one has sent it along to the Yard. If Chief Superintendent Barrows gets wind of Dickie Stiles’ statement, he’ll insist we arrest Inspector Nivens.”

  They went to the reception counter, and Witherspoon drummed his fingers on the wood, wondering what to do next.

  “Has Inspector Havers been in the office?” Barnes asked Constable Rhodes.

  Rhodes shook his head. “No. He’s used the chief inspector’s office since you’ve been here. Other than yourselves, the only people who have been in that office are Constable Donner—he takes the evening post in—and Inspector Nivens, who, as you both know, was here this morning. None of us like to think it, but I’ve a feeling that the inspector wanted to have a good look at the evidence against him . . .” He broke off as a young lad burst through the front door, dashed across the floor, and skidded to a halt.

  “You’d best hurry up and send some constables to the Crying Crows Pub,” he shouted. “That copper that killed Santorini is there, and he’s got a gun.” The boy turned and raced out the way he’d come.

  Barnes was the first to react. “We’d better go see what’s wrong, sir.” He was already heading for the front door. “This sounds very bad.”

  Inspector Witherspoon hurried after him. “Send along some constables,” he called to Rhodes as they raced out of the station.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Janice told me that Susan Callahan walked right behind Inspector Nivens when she was taking two pints to a couple of men that helped her with a nasty customer. She gave them free beer, and when I pressed Janice, she remembered that after Susan put the pints down, she dropped her handkerchief and bent down to pick it up,” Phyllis reported as she tore off her outer garments and hung them on the coat tree. She hurried to the table and took her seat. “As for the other thing you asked about, Janice was sure that when Alex was outside Susan’s flat on Saturday night, he was shouting loud enough for her to have heard that they were out of gin.”

  “Yet she didn’t buy any,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Thank you, Phyllis. You’ve done well. I hope it wasn’t too difficult getting Janice to speak with you.”

  “She’s got the day off, so I went to her house.” Phyllis grinned. “But she spoke to me readily enough. Seems she’s decided to look for work someplace else.”

  Luty shifted a sleepy Amanda to a more comfortable position. Ruth, who realized the toddler was just a bit too heavy for the elderly American, quickly moved to pick up the little one. “I’ll put her in her cot if it’s alright with you.” She looked at Mrs. Goodge as she spoke. The cook had a sleeping cot for her godchild in her quarters.

  “Thank you, Ruth,” Mrs. Goodge said. In truth, the little one was a bit too heavy for her as well, though she’d die before admitting such a thing to anyone else. She glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. “I’ve got a feeling this case is comin’ to a head very soon.”

  “It may well be,” the housekeeper agreed. “If I’m right, by tomorrow.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hatchet gave the lad another three shillings and, as soon as the boy had scarpered off, took note of his surroundings. He still couldn’t see hide nor hair of Smythe or Wiggins, but he dared not search for them. Nivens was still in his hiding spot, but he might stick his head out any second and see him.

  He leaned against a lamppost and frowned as he watched people empty out of the front door of the pub. Time had run out; the pub was closing for the afternoon. He glanced toward Nivens’ hiding place just as the man himself emerged and ran across the road and down the small narrow opening between the pub and the building next to it.

  It took Hatchet a moment to realize that Nivens was heading for either a back or a side door to the place. Suddenly, from the other side of the pub, Wiggins and Smythe stepped from between the buildings onto the pavement. Hatchet raced toward them.

  “Cor blimey, what are you doin’ ’ere?” Wiggins exclaimed as he drew closer.

  “Following Inspector Nivens.” Hatchet pointed to the front door. “He’s inside, and he’s got a gun.”

  “Blast a Spaniard.” Smythe was staring at the corner. “When did ’e get ’ere? We’ve been takin’ turns watchin’ the place from the side so we wouldn’t get spotted by Inspector Witherspoon. Oh Lord, look.” He pointed. “Speakin’ of the devil, there he is along with Constable Barnes. We’ve got to move. Now!” He ran back to the slender opening between the buildings they’d just left. Wiggins and Hatchet charged after him. The three men crammed themselves into the cluttered space, moving as fast as they dared while dodging splintered wood pallets, broken kegs, and the rusted metal strips from the cooper’s barrels.

  All of them were panting hard as they reached the end of the space and flattened themselves against the cold brick of the pub. “Is there a window anywhere?” Hatchet whispered.

  “Yeah, but it’s at the back of the pub.” Smythe pointed as he spoke. “That’s why we come in here. We were hopin’ to find a window to see inside, but the only one we found is in the back, and the opening between the pub and old flour mill behind it is too narrow for any of us to use. We’re stuck ’ere until this is over.”

  Hatchet gave them a quick summary of his morning. “When I saw Nivens had a gun, I had to follow him. I sent a lad to Leman Street Station with a message, so if we’re lucky, Inspector Witherspoon and the police will be able to stop any further bloodshed.”

  Wiggins looked grim. “I don’t like this. Sounds to me like Nivens has gone off ’is ’ead. There’s no tellin’ what ’e’ll do. Cor blimey, I wish we knew what was goin’ on inside.”

  “Sh . . . sh . . . sh.” Smythe shushed them as they heard banging on the front door and a second later, Constable Barnes calling out, “Open up in the name of the law. Unlock this door, I tell you.” They waited for a few moments, then Barnes said, “We’ll have to go around to the side door.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What’s going on out there?” Startled, Susan Callahan looked up from the stack of bills and coins she’d been counting and frowned at the front door. She started to get up from the stool and then stopped as she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. “Good Lord, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Inspector Nivens ignored the commotion going on outside. He’d planned his entrance well, waiting until he’d seen Alex step outside before rushing out of his hiding place and getting to the side door before Alex was able to lock it. He’d grabbed the door key, pushed the stunned barman to the ground, shoved his way inside, and locked the door. Then he’d calmly taken the dueling pistol out of his coat pocket and entered the pub proper. As expected, Susan was sitting behind the till, counting money.

  “Hello, Millie.” Nivens raised the gun. “You and I have some catching up to do.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “That fellow’s gone mad,” Alex shouted as Witherspoon, Barnes, and four uniformed policemen c
ame racing around the corner to the side door. “And he’s locked the ruddy door.” He scrambled to his feet.

  Constable Poole tried the handle.

  “I just told ya he locked it,” Alex called as he turned and raced toward the corner. “I live close by. I’ll get the key.”

  “Hurry,” Witherspoon ordered. He knew that Susan Callahan was inside and, if the young lad who raised the alarm was telling the truth, apparently so was Inspector Nivens. He looked at Barnes. “What do you think? Should we break the door down? If that boy was telling the truth, then Nivens came here with a gun. If that’s the case, we have to assume he’s prepared to use it.”

  But it was Constable Poole, rather than Barnes, who spoke up. “I don’t think he was larking about or lying, sir. He’s Charlie Hickam’s boy. They’re a decent family, and young Nevil is to be apprenticed soon to learn carpentry at Fitzgerald’s Workshop. He’d not risk losing his place by lying to the police.”

  Barnes looked back at Witherspoon. “Trouble with breaking it down, sir, is that if Nivens has lost his mind and he hears us, he might do something rash.”

  “Why would Nivens bring a gun here?” Witherspoon muttered. He was frantically thinking of what they could do. “It doesn’t make any sense whatsoever.”

  “It does if he thinks Susan Callahan murdered Santorini and then maneuvered the bits and pieces for him to take the blame,” Barnes pointed out. Some of the comments and questions from his meeting this morning with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge were finally beginning to make sense.

  “We’ve got to get into this pub.” Witherspoon looked at the constables. “Is there another entrance, a window on the other side or the back?”