“Humph,” Reginald snorted in derision. “I don’t believe a word of it. She probably met him at a boring old dinner party.”
Smythe stepped into the Dirty Duck pub and stopped just inside the doorway. He’d not meant to come here today, but he’d had the worst luck. He’d wasted half the day chasing all over Islington trying to find Eddie Butcher. But it was as if the fellow had disappeared off the face of the ruddy earth. The other tenants at the doss- house on Stone Lane claimed that Eddie hadn’t been back in two days.
“And he’s paid in advance for the bed,” one of them had told Smythe. “He’d got his wages from the Morrisons and he was afraid he’d spend it at the pub if he didn’t pay up.” The old man had shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not like Eddie to give up a warm bed. Not when he’s paid for it.”
Smythe had then crossed the fellow’s palm with a bit of silver and learned that sometimes Eddie went to visit a sister in Stepney. He’d spent hours in the East End, and passed a bit more silver to Eddie’s sister only to learn she’d seen neither hide nor hair of him in months. Then he remembered he’d promised Betsy he’d stop in at the tailors to get his suit fitted, and if his luck held and Blimpey was actually here, he might just be able to get to the tailor shop before it closed. Much as he’d liked to continue investigating on his own, he had too much to do. It was time to spend a bit of money and get help from a professional.
He felt the door open behind him so he stepped to the side and craned his neck, looking for his quarry. When he spotted Blimpey Groggins, the professional he’d come to hire, sitting at his usual spot at a table by the fireplace, he was relieved. Smythe pushed his way through the crowd.
Blimpey saw him, grinned, and waved him over. He was a middle-aged man of sizeable girth with wispy, ginger-colored hair, rosy cheeks, and a broad, welcoming smile. He was dressed in the same clothes he always wore, a brown and white checked suit that had seen better days and a white shirt that was frayed at the collar and cuffs. A bright red scarf was wound around his neck, and a grimy porkpie hat of indeterminate color lay on the table next to his pint of beer.
“So you’ve finally decided to pay me a visit.” Blimpey tapped the empty stool next to him.
“I need your ’elp.” Smythe didn’t see any point in beating about the bush. Blimpey knew exactly why he was here. On a number of their previous cases, Smythe had used Blimpey’s rather unusual services. He charged an arm and a leg, but he was blooming good at his job and Smythe could afford him.
Blimpey had started out in life as a thief. Second-story work had been his specialty, but a narrow escape from a house in Belgravia, coupled with a nasty bite from a mastiff on a very tender part of his anatomy, had convinced him that he ought to find a new profession. Blimpey had an excellent memory and was far more intelligent than the average crook. He was good at putting divergent facts together to come to useful conclusions for the benefit of his clients. By the time the mastiff bite had healed, he’d realized he could make far more money buying and selling information than risking life and liberty climbing trees or running from dogs.
Blimpey now had sources at the police stations, the Old Bailey, the magistrate courts, the financial centers in the City, every shipping line, and all of the insurance companies. He paid his informants top wages and gave them hefty discounts on his services. His clients ranged from bankers looking to see if their managers were honest, to bookies wanting character references on potential customers.
But Blimpey had standards. He wouldn’t trade in information that caused harm to women or children, and he didn’t get involved in criminal warfare. Violence of any kind was simply bad for business.
“Of corse you do.” Blimpey signaled the barmaid to bring a pint. “You’re gettin’ married, you’ve got men workin’ on yer buildin’ and they’re needin’ one decision after another from you, and you’ve got yer soon-to-be in-laws ’ere from Canada.”
Smythe laughed. “Trust you to be so bloomin’ well informed. But then again, that’s what you’re good at.”
“Corse it is,” he agreed heartily. “I’m just surprised it took you so long to come see me. The lady was murdered two days ago.”
“I thought I could find out a few bits on me own,” Smythe muttered.
“You don’t ’ave time for that,” Blimpey retorted. “Yer weddin’ is in a few days and yer guv caught the Moran case. From what I’ve been hearin’, it’s goin’ to be nigh impossible to solve that one, especially by Christmas.”
“You’ve no business coming here, Inspector.” Eleanor North stood in the open doorway of her drawing room and glared at the two policemen. “The maid had no right to let you in the front door—”
Witherspoon cut her off. “It wasn’t your maid’s fault, Mrs. North; we insisted. It is very important that we speak with you.” He didn’t want some poor servant losing her position because she’d acted properly. “The only alternative to our coming here was to ask you to come down to the station, and frankly, we thought it more convenient for you if we—”
This time, she interrupted. “Then you thought wrong. I’d have much rather done that than have all and sundry see two policemen at my front door.” She flounced into the room and slammed the door shut behind her. She was a tall, slender woman with thin lips, deep-set eyes with dark circles underneath them, and hair that was now grayer than its original color of black. She wore a dark lavender high-necked wool day dress with an overskirt of purple and gray stripes. Amethyst earrings dangled from her ears and a long double string of pearls hung around her neck and dangled against the purple cummerbund circling her waist.
Witherspoon was torn between exasperation and pity. From the expression on her face, he could see she was dead serious. “We didn’t know that, ma’am,” he explained. “Most people we deal with would rather be interviewed in the comfort of their home than at the station. If you’d like, we can go there now.”
She waved him off impatiently and sank down on the sofa. “The damage is already done, so we might as well get this over with.” She pointed to the love seat opposite her. “You may both sit.”
They sat down and Barnes took out his notebook and glanced at Witherspoon expectantly. He was curious to see how the inspector was going to conduct this interview.
“Oh do get on with it, man,” Mrs. North ordered. “I don’t have all day.”
Witherspoon cleared his throat. He couldn’t tell if she was rude because it was her nature or if she was simply nervous about being questioned again. “Yes, of course. Mrs. North, in the original statement you gave to us, you said you arrived at the tea party at four fifty that afternoon.”
She looked down, picked up the bottom strand of her pearls and twisted it gently around her index finger. “That’s correct.”
“Are you absolutely certain that’s the time you arrived at the Evans house?” the inspector asked.
Her head jerked up and she fixed him with a cold stare. “I’m certain.”
“Mrs. North, I’m sorry, but we’ve a witness that contradicts your account,” he advised. “Are you sure you don’t want to amend your original statement?” He felt it only fair to give her a chance to tell the truth.
The drawing room door opened and a tall man with thinning red hair entered. He stopped, his hand resting on the doorknob. “Eleanor, is everything alright?” he asked, his gaze moving between her and the two policemen.
“I’m fine, Tobias; these men are here about the unfortunate incident that happened during the Evans celebration tea.” She gave him a weak smile. “We’ll be finished in a few moments. You can wait for me in the morning room.”
He inclined his head and began to withdraw.
“Just a moment, sir,” Witherspoon called in a raised voice. The man stopped and stared at him. “Were you here on the day the lady was murdered?”
“He was,” Eleanor answered for him.
“I’m capable of answering questions on my own.” He smiled at her to take the sting out of the word
s and came toward them, slipping into the seat next to Eleanor and taking her hand. “Dearest, you look very distressed. You shouldn’t be here on your own. That’s why you’ve got me.”
“Who are you, sir?” Barnes asked.
“I’m Tobias Sutton, Mrs. North’s fiancé. Why are you here? She’s already made a statement.”
“That’s why we’re here, sir,” Barnes replied. “There are inconsistencies in Mrs. North’s statement, and we’d like to give her an opportunity to clear them up.”
Sutton looked at his fiancé and then turned back to the policemen. “Inconsistencies? Surely there’s been a mistake.”
“There’s no mistake, sir,” Witherspoon responded. “Mrs. North’s statement says she arrived at the Evans tea party at four fifty that afternoon, but we’ve a witness that saw her coming in at five twenty.”
“That’s ridiculous.” He laughed softly. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking with, but I assure you they’re mistaken. Eleanor and I left the house together and we walked out the door just after four forty-five. I remember it distinctly. We both commented on what an odd time it was for high tea.”
“Were you a guest at the party, sir?” Barnes asked. “Your name wasn’t on the guest list.”
“The tea was for members of the wedding party,” Eleanor interjected. “I wasn’t, of course. Rosemary’s attendants are all young ladies. But Mrs. Evans asked me to come to the tea for her own reasons.”
“What would those reasons be?” Witherspoon prodded. Getting information out of some people was as difficult as getting a cat to fetch.
“Really, Inspector.” Eleanor frowned irritably. “I don’t see what that has to do with your investigation.”
“Mrs. Evans was exhausted,” Tobias Sutton offered. “She invited my fiancée to help her act as hostess.”
“Tobias,” Eleanor snapped.
“Now, now, dear,” he said soothingly. “You’re trying to protect Mrs. Evans’ social reputation, but the police are hardly likely to tell anyone that she needed help with the hostessing duties.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She smiled at him, then turned her attention to Witherspoon. “Mrs. Evans invited me because there were so many guests and she wanted to insure that everyone had a nice time.”
“Wouldn’t her daughter have acted as a hostess?” Barnes asked.
She laughed. “Of course, but Rosemary would naturally have spent most of her time with the young ladies.”
“Mrs. North, why do you think someone is claiming they saw you coming into the back door of the Evans home at twenty past five?”
“I’ve no idea.” She smiled smugly. “But as Mr. Sutton has just said, we left here at the very same time. Just after four forty-five.”
“Did Mr. Sutton walk you to the Evanses’ front door?” Barnes looked at Sutton as he asked the question.
They both spoke at the same time.
“Of course he did,” she replied. “He’s a gentleman.”
He said, “Oh no, I went the other way, toward the hansom stand. I was going home.”
CHAPTER 7
As she’d done half a dozen times in the last ten minutes, Mrs. Jeffries craned her neck and peeked out from her hiding place. She wanted to make sure there weren’t any constables patrolling the area. Agatha Moran was a murder victim; it was possible the inspector had instructed the local police to keep an eye on the neighborhood, and if one of them spotted her lurking in the lower ground-floor doorway of an empty house, she’d be hard-pressed to explain herself.
But she saw no one on the street except for a passing hansom cab and an elderly woman carrying a shopping basket.
She sagged against the doorframe and wondered if this was worth the effort. She’d been staring at the Moran place for a good fifteen minutes now, and only one person had crossed the threshold. A woman swathed in black from head to toe had gone into the house a few minutes ago, and for a brief moment, Mrs. Jeffries had felt the excitement of the hunt surging through her veins, but her elation had been short-lived as she’d realized the visitor wasn’t a visitor at all, but most likely one of the hotel residents. The lady had been dressed in mourning out of respect for her dead landlady.
Straightening away from the doorway, she sighed and rubbed her cold hands together. She really ought to go home. There was so much to do. Coming here had been a foolish mistake. She started toward the tiny staircase when she heard the church bells strike the quarter hour. She eased back into her hiding place; it wouldn’t hurt to stay another fifteen minutes. She’d come here because her pride had been wounded, but now that she was here, there was a slight chance she might learn something useful.
At their afternoon meeting the other day, the others had more or less implied she didn’t have the wits to avoid being spotted by the inspector or one of the many constables that knew her on sight. Their comments had stung, so much so that she’d determined to prove them all wrong. This, of course, just goes to show that pride goeth before a fall; by the time she got home today, she’d have wasted the whole morning and have nothing to show for it.
Just then, the front door of the Moran house opened and the lady in black appeared. She hovered in the doorway for a moment, talking to someone in the house, but just then a hansom went by and Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t hear a word that was said.
The woman came out onto the street and turned toward Hemmingford Road. Mrs. Jeffries took a swift look around to make sure she wasn’t being watched, and then dashed up the stairwell. She raced across the pavement as the lady disappeared around the corner. She kept back a bit, not wanting her quarry to know she was being followed, but then quickened her pace when she realized the woman was heading for the train station.
Mrs. Jeffries rushed into the ticket office just as the lady reached the window. Throwing caution to the wind, she ran across the small room just in time to hear the woman say, “A single to King’s Cross, please.”
When it was her turn, Mrs. Jeffries purchased the same. “When’s the next train?” she asked the ticket seller.
“Comin’ in now, ma’am.” He jerked his thumb to his right, indicating she was to go in that direction.
The carriage doors were opening when she came onto the platform, and Mrs. Jeffries saw the lady in black disappear into a car at the far end. Taking a deep breath, she ran for the car, leapt in, and slammed the door behind her just as the whistle blew.
There were three people in the compartment. Two men reading newspapers were sitting next to the windows, and her quarry had taken the spot by the door. Mrs. Jeffries had no choice but to take the seat opposite.
The lady leaned toward her, and for one, brief, horrifying moment, Mrs. Jeffries was sure she’d been caught. But instead of “Why have you been following me?” the woman asked, “Excuse me, madam, but is it possible to get from King’s Cross Station to Victoria? Your English trains are very confusing to me and I have a Channel crossing today.”
Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t believe her good luck. She’d not been caught, and even better, the lady was a foreigner, a stranger to London. “Of course it is. When we get to King’s Cross, I’ll show you exactly what you must do. Are you French?”
“Oui, madam,” she replied with a smile. “I came to London to attend a funeral.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said sympathetically. “I’m so very sorry.”
The woman was attractive and appeared to be in her late thirties. Her hair was light brown, her complexion smooth and unlined, and her eyes a light shade of green.
“It was expected.” She shrugged, causing her voluminous black coat to gape open. Beneath it, she wore a gray blouse with mother-of-pearl buttons and a black wool skirt. On her head was a high-crowned black felt hat swathed in so much veiling it reached the tip of her gloved fingers. “My uncle was very old. I am Madame Deloffre and I so appreciate your assistance. I’ve been in London for several days now taking care of my uncle’s business, and it’s such a confusing place.”
Mrs
. Jeffries’ heart sank as she realized she’d let her enthusiasm overcome her common sense. Agatha Moran had just come back from a trip to the continent, and though it was supposed to have been a holiday for her, no sensible businesswoman would pass up an opportunity to advertise her own establishment. She’d probably passed out brochures and cards everywhere. No doubt Madame Deloffre had found one of those cards and decided it would be a perfect place for a lone female traveler to stay while she was in London. Blast, she’d probably made another mistake, and this one was going to cost her the rest of the morning. Still, she’d do her best to help the woman.
“I’m”—she started to use her real name and then thought better of it—“Mrs. Johnson,” she finished.
“How do you do, madame.” She inclined her head. “One of these days I’d like to come back to your country under better circumstances.”
The train pulled into the next station and one of the two men got out. The other one didn’t look up from his paper.
“A death in the family is always a sad occasion,” Mrs. Jeffries said as the carriage door slammed and the train started off again.
“It wasn’t just that,” Madame Deloffre explained. “I expected my uncle to die; he was ninety-four and had a bad heart. Mais non, what was most upsetting was that I stopped to see my English friend and I found out she’d been murdered.”
From the corner of her eye, Mrs. Jeffries saw the man stick his head out from behind the newspaper. She ignored him. “Murdered. Oh my gracious, that’s terrible.” She felt her spirits rise. Perhaps this wasn’t to be a wasted morning after all.
“She was stabbed to death.” Madame Deloffre’s eyes were as big as saucers. “I couldn’t believe it when her housekeeper told me what happened. Mon Dieu—” She broke off with a shake of her head.
“Were you close friends?” Mrs. Jeffries asked softly.
Prime Crime Holiday Bundle Page 69
