Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice

by Emily Brightwell

  Poole shook his head. “There’s just the front door and this side one. There’s a narrow window at the very back, but the space between the pub and old building behind it is too small for anyone to climb inside.”

  “Right, then. Let’s try banging on the door again; perhaps we’ll be able to get through to Inspector Nivens. After all, he is an officer of the law.” Witherspoon clenched his fist and began pounding on the wood.

  * * *

  * * *

  “My name isn’t Millie. It’s Susan Callahan, and what the hell is goin’ on ’ere? Police poundin’ on the door and now one of them standing in my pub without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  “Interesting how your accent changes from one word to the next. Why, now you sound just like little Millie Slavik.” Nivens smiled at her. “You were a pretty little guttersnipe twenty-five years ago. Even when I was arresting you, I couldn’t help noticing.”

  He studied her carefully. He could see who she really was now. Beneath the flesh on her cheeks there was still a hint of the lovely bone structure; behind the thick lens of the spectacles, her eyes were still a vivid blue; and even the shape of her jawline was almost the same, barely distorted by the sagging skin of age and fat.

  “You’re out of yer ’ead.” Susan’s bosom heaved as she dragged in one long breath after another. “I don’t know what’s got into you. You’ve no call to come here wavin’ that stupid pistol around.”

  “This stupid pistol is what’s going to make you tell the truth. Now, we can spend the next few minutes debating who you really are, but, as the police are already here, you’re going to walk outside with me and tell them yourself.”

  “What truth?” Susan slipped off the stool and stumbled slightly before steadying herself.

  Nivens sighed impatiently. “Alright, if you insist. We’ll do this the hard way.” With his free hand, he reached into his coat and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers. He tossed them onto the floor. “I know exactly what happened. I know that on Saturday night, Dickie Stiles came in and slipped a note into my coat pocket. Moments later, you, on the pretext of giving the customers at the table behind me a couple of pints, pretended to drop your handkerchief and retrieved that note from my jacket.”

  “You’re mad! I did no such thing.”

  “You’ve never given out a free drink in your life.” Nivens nodded at the folded sheaf of papers on the floor. “After I read the case file, it didn’t take long to realize what must have happened. I knew that there was no note in my coat pocket, so if Dickie was telling the truth, someone must have taken it out. Dickie came in that night even though he knew you’d banned him from the premises, and he did it because Santorini paid him to do it. He put the note in my pocket, but you took it out. Good to know that you’re still a decent pickpocket. It means that old skills never die.” He stepped closer and aimed the gun. “Now come out from behind that counter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She glanced toward the side door. “They’re here now, but it’s you that’ll be arrested. They’re going to hang you for killing Bert. You mark my words, you’ll be hanging soon.”

  “You know good and well I didn’t kill Santorini. You did—and if it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get you to admit it. This is your last chance. Come out of there before I put a bullet in that black heart of yours.”

  “You’ll not shoot me.” She sneered. “I know your sort. You’re a coward. Just another little rich boy that plays at being a copper so you can feel like a man.”

  “Shut up!”

  She cackled with glee. “I don’t take orders from little men like you. You should ’ear what the other coppers say about you, what they call you behind your back. They call you that dumb toff. No one has any respect for you. If it weren’t for your family’s influence, you’d have been tossed out of the police years ago . . .”

  Nivens tightened his grip and then stumbled backwards as the gun went off.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Dear God, that’s a gunshot. We can’t wait any longer—we’ll have to break it down,” Witherspoon cried as they heard the shot. He started to step back, intending to get the constables to put their shoulders to the wood.

  “Let me through! I tell you, I’ve got a bloody key.” A disheveled Alex Parker pushed his way through the group of constables crowding around the door.

  “Good Lord. Get over here, man,” Witherspoon yelled as all of them stepped back and made room for the barman.

  Alex, his shirt collar askew and his jacket dusty, shoved the key in the lock. “When her nibs had the place fixed up, she was too cheap to change the locks. Old man Callahan gave me this one when I first come to work here after he’d locked himself out and had to break in through the front door.”

  Witherspoon shushed him and everyone else as he stepped in front of the barman. He pushed Alex’s hand away and slowly turned the key. But before he eased the door open, he glanced at Constable Poole. “Have any of your constables ever played cricket?”

  Poole looked surprised by the question. “No, sir. We like football, not cricket.”

  “That’ll have to do, I suppose.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Inside Nivens stared in dismay at the gun in his hand. The slightest pressure on the handle, and the newly repaired finger spur had sent a bullet flying. “Bloody hell, I paid a pretty penny to have this wretched thing fixed.”

  “You stupid fool. Only a toff would be dumb enough to bring a one-shot dueling pistol to do your dirty work.” Susan Callahan stepped out from behind the counter. “You don’t have any more bullets in that gun. But I’ve got plenty of bullets in this one.” She lifted her arm and in her hand was a revolver. “Good God, you really are an idiot. Any minute now the police are going to break down that door, and when they get inside, you’ll be dead.”

  “You’re going to shoot me?” Nivens stared at her in horror.

  “You tried to shoot me.”

  “I did not.” He edged backwards. “It was an accident. You’re no good to me dead. The only way they’re not going to hang me for Santorini’s murder is if you’re alive to tell the truth.”

  She cocked her head in the direction of the side door. “Listen, it’s gone quiet now—that means they’ve sent off to the station for more men so they can break the door down. That should give us a few minutes.”

  “You’re the one that’s gone mad.” Nivens eased farther back, hoping to get out of range of her revolver.

  “Stand still, or I’ll put a bullet in you right now,” she threatened.

  He stopped.

  “Good man.” She smiled. “This actually is working out better than my original plan.”

  Nivens swallowed heavily. If he got out of this mess alive, he was going to have a word with that wretched gunsmith. “What plan?”

  “I thought you had it all figured out,” she mocked. “But you’re not so smart, are you? When they break in here, they’ll find me weeping and distraught because you attacked me, and I had to defend myself by shooting you.”

  Nivens’ heart was pounding so loud it sounded as if it was vibrating off the wall. “They won’t believe you.”

  “They will.” She laughed. “You’re the only one who knows who I really am. To the police, I’m a hardworking woman named Susan Callahan who took this hovel of a pub and made it something special. I wasn’t going to let Bert Santorini ruin that. So I shut him up for good, and I fixed it so that you’re going to get the blame for it.”

  “Santorini figured out who you were as well?” Nivens was desperately trying to keep her talking. It was his only chance to make it out of this room alive.

  She snorted derisively. “Don’t be daft—Santorini wasn’t that smart. Besides, he never knew Millie Slavik. No, he found out something else and, stupid fool that he was, instead of keepin
g his mouth shut about it, he started blackmailing me.”

  “Blackmail?” He slowly and quietly tried to force air into his lungs. He had to stop panicking. Otherwise, he’d end up dead. “If he didn’t find out who you really are, what else is there?”

  “Unfortunately, the brewery loan on this place costs a bit more to service each month than I’d thought, so let’s just say I found a nice way to increase profits, and Bert, sneaky bastard that he was, found out about it. Despite his words of love and devotion, he was always lookin’ out for number one.”

  It took a moment before Nivens realized what she’d just said. “You mean you watered the beer and the spirits.”

  “Not all of the spirits, just the whisky and the beer.” She shrugged. “But that’s enough to ruin me. Bryson’s won’t care that I never filtered the gin. I paid Bert for six months, two gold sovereigns a month. Can you believe that? Gold sovereigns instead of banknotes. It was a ruddy pain in the arse getting hold of the damned things, but he insisted.”

  “But the police only found ten gold sovereigns when they searched his rooms.” Nivens felt calmer.

  “I didn’t pay this month. I kept the sovereigns as a bit of a souvenir after I killed him.” She shrugged.

  “Why did you decide to frame me?”

  She stared at him as if he were a half-wit. “Good Lord, don’t you understand? You were askin’ too many questions about my past. You recognized me. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly who I was. After all, I look and sound very different than I did twenty-five years ago. But it was only a matter of time before you recognized me as Millie Slavik.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t risk that. Bryson’s would call in the loan if they found out I was watering their liquor or who I’d been in the past. So Santorini had to die, and frankly I was hoping you’d hang.”

  “You served six months in prison,” Nivens muttered. “That’s right. I was the arresting officer. Good Lord, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you right away. I arrested you several times.”

  “Yeah, but it was only that last arrest that got me sent up.” She shrugged. “It was a horrible place, but it taught me a few things. For starters, how to pick locks.”

  “Is that how you managed to get my gun and that pillow from my study?”

  “It was dead easy. I followed you home on Saturday night so I could find out where you lived. I already knew you weren’t going to be home on Sunday and Monday nights—you’d complained to everyone about havin’ to do your old mum a favor. Sunday night, after the pub closed, I took a trip to your place. Gettin’ inside was child’s play. For a copper, you’ve got miserable locks on your back door. It took me less than five minutes to get inside. I got the gun and the pillow and put them back early on Tuesday morning.”

  “How did you know my housekeeper wouldn’t be there?” Nivens wondered what the devil was taking Witherspoon so long. Surely, they hadn’t just gone away?

  “I followed her to the train station on Sunday morning, and I heard her ask the clerk for a return ticket from Leicester, then I heard her ask him if there was an express back to London on Tuesday morning. I’d been keeping watch on your house, waiting to see what time you’d been leaving for your mum’s and making sure I could get in and out easily. It pays to be thorough.” Susan raised her gun. “I don’t know why you’re pestering me with all these questions. It won’t matter to you when you’re dead.” She steadied the revolver and started toward him.

  “Drop the gun, Mrs. Callahan,” Witherspoon shouted. “You are surrounded by the Metropolitan Police Force, and we’ve heard everything you just admitted.”

  Susan whirled around just as Witherspoon, Barnes, and three police constables burst inside, flipped up the bar barrier, and raced into the room. Susan pointed the gun at the mass of police just as a loud crash banged hard against the front door.

  She jerked her head toward the sound as Witherspoon, Barnes, and Constable Poole rushed her, slamming into her with such force she dropped the gun. Barnes kicked it to one side as she began to scream.

  “You bloody bastards! You can’t do this to me,” she cried as she struggled to fight them off. She banged her fist into Poole’s cheek before he managed to snag her arm and kicked out at Witherspoon, connecting with his shin bone. Throwing her head back, she smashed against Constable Poole’s chin and stuck her elbow into Constable Farrow’s ribs. Another two constables raced through the door and into the fray.

  Finally, they got her subdued.

  Witherspoon took a deep breath, stepped back, and stared at the woman being held by the constables. “Susan Callahan, you’re under arrest for the murder of Humberto Santorini.”

  Unrepentant, she glared at them. “I’ll beat this. You broke into my place and unjustly accused me so that you could protect one of your own. That’s goin’ to be my story, and not you or that idiot Nivens will be able to prove otherwise.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Mrs. Callahan. No one will believe you,” Witherspoon warned.

  “Won’t they?” She laughed. “You’re all coppers, and everyone knows they protect their own. I’m a respectable businesswoman, someone who is known and admired by her friends and neighbors. The press and locals will all believe me and so will the court. I’m just a poor woman who is being used to make sure the police don’t have another black mark against them.”

  “Stand back, Witherspoon,” Nivens ordered.

  Witherspoon turned and couldn’t believe what he saw. Nivens had her gun, and he was pointing it at her heart. “Ye gods, Inspector Nivens, have you gone insane? What on earth are you doing?”

  “I’m making sure the police are protected,” he said softly. “Now stand back. I don’t want to shoot you.”

  “You really have lost your mind,” Witherspoon warned. “Put that weapon down.”

  “I won’t.” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “She’s right. They’ll believe her—and all of us, all of our careers will be over. She’s got to be stopped. Someone as evil as she is must be stopped.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector.” Witherspoon couldn’t believe it himself. “No one in their right mind will take her charges seriously. We can prove she isn’t who she claims to be.”

  “Oh, but I am.” Susan chuckled. “My real name is Millie Susan Slavik, and I married Callahan, which makes me legally Susan Callahan. There’s no law against using your middle name.”

  By this time Witherspoon was beginning to think that she was as crazy as he now thought Nivens might be. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a voice said, “I’m not a copper, Mrs. Callahan. I’m just someone who ’as worked ’ere for years, and I know what kind of person you are. The copper’s right: You are evil, and, what’s more, everyone will believe me, and I ’eard every word. You’re a bloomin’ murderer, and you deserve to meet the hangman.” Alex Parker stood behind the bar glaring at his employer. “And if that copper”—he nodded at Nivens—“has a brain in his ’ead, he’ll put that gun down and let the law handle this.”

  No one said a word as Nivens stared at the barman. After a few tense moments, he lowered the weapon and put it on a nearby table. “Believe it or not,” he murmured, “I do believe in the law. It’s the only thing that keeps us civilized.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’re not going to believe what’s happened,” Betsy cried as she raced into the kitchen. “Susan Callahan’s been arrested. Oh, my gracious, I couldn’t believe it myself.” She glanced at the faces around the table. Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Goodge, Luty, Phyllis, and even Ruth stared at her in confusion. The only female missing was her daughter. “Where’s Amanda?”

  “She’s taking a nap,” the cook said. “Come on, then, sit down and tell us what happened.”

  “I’ll pour the tea.” Phyllis jumped up and grabbed the kettle, which had just boiled, from the top of the cooker.

  “You didn’t expect this, di
d you?” Ruth asked Mrs. Jeffries.

  “Not this fast,” the housekeeper admitted. “But let’s hear what Betsy has to say.”

  “Go on, then, talk,” Phyllis directed. “I can listen while I’m making the tea.”

  “I was on my way back here after seeing my source.” Betsy sat down. She quickly related everything she’d heard from Mattie and then told them the rest of the information she’d learned. “I knew you’d sent Smythe and Wiggins to watch the Crying Crows. I had the cab stop so I could have a quick word. But I couldn’t get near the pub—there were police everywhere, and I was afraid I’d be spotted by our inspector.”

  “So how did you find out that Susan Callahan had been arrested?” the cook demanded.

  Betsy smiled. “I batted my eyelashes at one of the policemen, a sweet young constable named Farrow, and he said they’d arrested the owner of the pub for murder. I asked if anyone had been hurt, because I was a bit worried about our men being there, but Constable Farrow assured me that she’d been taken into custody without anyone being harmed, though a shot had been fired. I tried to have a quick look around to see if I could find Smythe or Wiggins, but I couldn’t see them.”

  “So we’ll just have to wait until they get back to find out what’s what,” Luty muttered. “Dang, I knew I shoulda gone with ’em. Now I’ve missed out on all the excitement.”

  “Indeed you have, madam,” Hatchet exclaimed. He, Smythe, and Wiggins stood in the archway.

  “We didn’t hear you come in.” Betsy jumped up and ran to her husband. She looked him up and down, her expression anxious. “Are you alright? It’s true, right, no one was hurt?”

  “I’m fine, love—you don’t need to fuss,” he said, but the big smile on his face proved he loved her fussing over him.

  “It was ever so excitin’,” Wiggins exclaimed. “Smythe and I ’ad been there for ages, crammed into a narrow strip beside the pub so we’d not be spotted by the locals or, even worse, the police while we was watchin’ the place. When we finally stuck our heads out, there was Hatchet as big as you please. Two seconds later, our inspector and Constable Barnes come barrelin’ around the corner like the ’ounds of ’ell was after ’em.” He paused to take a breath.