Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  He glanced at Barnes to see if he was at the ready and saw that the constable was comfortably seated with pencil in hand and notebook open.

  “Mr. Walker, we understand that you left the Chase home at approximately the same time as Mr. Gilhaney, is that correct?”

  “That’s right. I had to wait while the footman fetched my carriage. I offered Gilhaney a lift, but he insisted on walking, he didn’t want to take me out of my way.”

  Barnes looked up from his notebook. “As you were leaving, did you see anyone hanging about the immediate area?”

  Walker frowned slightly. “Not really, but I can’t say that I would have noticed. It was a very peculiar evening, Constable. The dinner party hadn’t gone well and the other guests had already left. I had a terrible case of indigestion. All I wanted to do was to get home to my bed.”

  “Do you know if anyone had a grudge against Mr. Gilhaney?” Witherspoon asked. “I know that seems a strange question—someone obviously wanted him dead—but it would be helpful if we knew of anyone who might have a reason for hating the man.”

  “I’ve thought about that, Inspector, and I honestly can’t give you a useful answer. I didn’t really know the man well at all. I’d hired him based on several recommendations from a business associate in Manchester. Gilhaney had established quite a reputation there and I’d mentioned to a number of colleagues, other men that I did business with, that I was looking for someone with a specific set of talents. Christopher Gilhaney fit my requirements perfectly.”

  “What were those requirements, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I needed a genius, Inspector, someone brilliant with numbers but also able to look at the whole company and help me determine its worth. I took the company public last year and, as it has turned out, I’m not sure that was a wise decision. I’m still the majority shareholder, but I needed some expert advice on the best course of action for the future. When I met with Gilhaney in Manchester, we had a lengthy discussion and it was obvious to me that he was the right person. The only trouble was, he had two other employment offers. Both of which I thought were more generous than mine, so I was surprised when he accepted my terms. The only thing he insisted upon was that he report only to me, not the managing director or the board. That seemed a reasonable request. As a matter of fact, I was quite pleased that he instinctively seemed to understand what it was I needed from him.”

  “Which was?”

  “Impartiality and honesty, Inspector. I wanted the truth about my company’s finances and prospects.”

  “Did Mr. Gilhaney make it a habit to change employment often?” Witherspoon asked.

  “He never stayed long at any firm and that was his choice. He made it perfectly clear to me that he’d examine my books, ensure that everything was in decent order, and then give me his best advice on whether or not to sell the company. After that, he’d leave for another position. He was unorthodox, Inspector, but a man of his genius could get away with such behavior.”

  Barnes stared at him skeptically. “In what way was he a genius?”

  “Gilhaney could take one look at the ledgers and know if something was off or not.”

  The constable cocked his head to one side. “With all due respect, sir, that’s a bit hard to believe.”

  Walker, instead of being offended, laughed. “Of course it is. I didn’t believe it myself until I saw it with my very own eyes. I’m afraid I haven’t been as clear as I should have been. Gilhaney wasn’t a magician—he couldn’t tell at first glance if there was something amiss with the finances. His talent was that he could remember what he saw. All he had to do was look at something once and he could recall it as if it was still in front of him. I don’t know whether that was an inborn skill or a talent he’d cultivated over the years, but I do know he had it. As I said, I took the company public last year and we’ve an enormous amount of activity at the moment. We’re building an office block, and we’ve several government contracts and overseas tenders in the works and half a dozen private residences. I needed someone who could look at everything and give me the best possible advice.”

  “How did the board of directors feel about bringing Mr. Gilhaney into the company?” The inspector felt something bump his leg. Looking down, he was surprised to see the cat rubbing against his trousers. He reached down and stroked the animal’s head.

  “They were fine with it.” Walker grinned. “Sheba, behave yourself. He’s not here to pet you. I’m sorry, Inspector, she’s very friendly.”

  Witherspoon chuckled as he ran his hands over her soft fur. “She’s fine, Mr. Walker. I like animals. What did Mr. Chase and Mr. Bruce and your other managers think about it?”

  “Gordon Chase was fine with it. He’s set to retire again next summer.”

  “Retire again,” Barnes interrupted. “What does that mean? Had he retired previously?”

  “Not from our firm—from another company of builders,” Walker explained. “We belong to the same club and he’d been retired for a year or so when I talked him into joining us. He’s an excellent manager. He was quite happy when I told him that Gilhaney was coming on board.”

  “And Mr. Bruce, he’s your managing director, how did he feel about an outsider coming in?” Witherspoon straightened up as Sheba trotted back to her bed by the fire.

  “He wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about it as Gordon had been,” Walker admitted. “He, of course, doesn’t want to see me sell the firm. But I’m getting old and he and my daughter haven’t been blessed with children. At least if I sell the company, I can make certain my daughter will never want for anything as long as she lives.”

  “Mr. Walker, you stated that you tried to tell Inspector Nivens that Gilhaney’s death hadn’t been a robbery and he wouldn’t listen,” Barnes began.

  “That’s right, the fellow wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I got the distinct impression he thought I was senile.” Walker snorted. “I may be old, Constable, but there’s nothing wrong with my mind.”

  “Of course, sir,” Barnes agreed, “but what I need to know is what made you think it hadn’t been a robbery? His landlady testified at the coroner’s inquest that Gilhaney had on a diamond stickpin and gold ring when he left for the Chase home that night. They were missing when he was found dead.”

  “I understand that, Constable.” Walker folded his hands together and leaned back. “And I’ve no proof for what I think, but my instincts told me that poor fellow was murdered for some other reason than robbery. I’ve learned to trust my feelings over the years. Gilhaney was a working-class lad who wasn’t in the least ashamed of where he came from, nor was he intimidated by the upper classes or anyone else. He knew how to take care of himself and he wasn’t a fool. I’m certain if he thought someone was following him, he’d have taken steps to evade his assailant. What’s more, no one but the members of the dinner party could have possibly known he was wearing valuable jewelry. He was never ostentatious. During our interviews, he wore good-quality but very plain clothing. I’d met with him several times and I only saw him wear the stickpin and the ring that night.”

  “Someone may have seen him coming to the Chase house,” Barnes argued.

  Walker shook his head. “No, he came by hansom. My carriage pulled up right behind his cab and we went into the house together.”

  “Mr. Gilhaney was originally from London,” Witherspoon said. “Had you ever met him prior to meeting him in Manchester?”

  Walker smiled slightly. “It’s odd that you should ask me that, Inspector. When I met Gilhaney for the first time, I thought I’d seen him somewhere before, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall where it would have been.”

  “Did you ask him if you’d ever met?”

  “I did and he assured me we hadn’t.” Walker shrugged. “He had no reason to lie about such a matter, Inspector, and as my late wife used to say, I’m quite bad at recalling faces. I tend to get people mixed up.”

  • • •

  Smythe took a sip
of his beer and tried not to grimace as it hit the back of his throat. What was he doing here? The place was empty save for a grizzled old man drinking gin by the fireplace. He was tired, his stomach was soured from the beer he’d drunk, and this was his third ruddy pub. The White Hart was a working-class place on a small street off the river and the farthest from the spot where Gilhaney drew his last breath. But this pub, just like the others, might as well be on the moon. He’d learned nothing and he was wasting his time here.

  Blast a Spaniard, this wasn’t right. He and Betsy ought to be out shopping and picking up last-minute bits and pieces for their trip to Paris. The tickets were booked, the hotel was waiting for them, and for the first time since they’d been married, he’d be able to give his wife anything money could buy. He was a wealthy man but because of their circumstances he’d had to hide it.

  Years ago, he’d made a fortune in Australia. But because he’d promised his old employer, Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s aunt, he’d watch out for him and not let him be taken advantage of by greedy people, he’d found himself in a situation where only a few friends and, of course, Betsy knew that he could afford anything he wanted. Most of the time he and Betsy didn’t mind the pretense; after all, they were doing something important. They were serving justice.

  But a trip to Paris was different. It would let them do what they wanted, spend what they liked, with no one the wiser. They could eat, drink, and be merry. If Betsy was of a mind to, she could bathe in champagne. The thought made him smile and then, just as quickly, he sobered. But now, because they’d got stuck with a ruddy case that was so cold the clues were covered in frost, they might have to cancel their trip. He put his beer on the counter and pushed it away.

  “That not sittin’ well with you?” the publican, a ruddy-faced man with slightly bulging hazel eyes, asked. “The beer’s decent here, sir.”

  Smythe stood up straighter and tapped his glass. “The beer’s fine, it’s me stomach that’s acting up.”

  The publican nodded and pulled a clean rag out from beneath the counter. “I’ve not seen you in here before.”

  “That’s because I’ve never set foot in the place.” Smythe made a quick decision. “That’s probably why my gut’s gone sour. My guv sent me here to do the impossible.” He was suddenly glad he’d worn a decent coat and jacket and not his usual coachman’s attire.

  “And what would that be?” The publican moved a few feet down the counter and began wiping up spills.

  “I work for a newspaper”—Smythe was making it up as he went along—“and the guv wants me to find out what I can about that murder that happened on Bonfire Night.”

  “You mean the man that was shot in the mews?” The publican stopped cleaning. “I thought that was a robbery.”

  Smythe shook his head. “Guv has a source at the Yard—now they think it was just a straight old murder and the killer just took a few bits and pieces off the dead man to make it look like a robbery.” He grimaced in disgust. “I don’t know what my guv is thinking. Gilhaney—he’s the victim—was at a dinner party the night it happened and none of those toffs is goin’ to open their door to me or anyone else who works for a newspaper that isn’t the Telegraph or the Times.”

  “That’s hard luck.” The barman gave him a quick, sympathetic smile. “One of the advantages of ownin’ your own place is you get to be your own boss. The only thing I ’ave to worry about is people losin’ their taste for beer or gin and I don’t think that’s goin’ to happen soon.”

  Smythe knew this had all been a waste of time. This fellow didn’t know anything, either. If he did, he’d be puffed up like a self-important bullfrog and talking his ruddy head off. “I’d better get moving. I can’t go back empty-handed. There must be someone around here that saw or heard something that night that fellow was shot.”

  “Everyone heard something!” The publican laughed heartily. “It was Bonfire Night.”

  “I know something.”

  Smythe turned to see the old man by the fireplace watching him. “You do?”

  “If you’ll buy me a gin, I’ll tell you.”

  Smythe hesitated. This could be just a ruse to get another drink. He glanced at the publican, but even though he’d heard everything, he kept his gaze averted as he continued cleaning the bar. Smythe suspected he didn’t want to miss out on another sale. “Two gins, please,” he ordered. “And make it your best.”

  “Coming right up.” He stopped wiping and grabbed two glasses from beneath the counter. He poured the drinks as Smythe slapped some coins on the bar.

  Picking up their gins, he crossed the room and gave the old fellow a friendly smile. “What do you have to say?”

  Nodding his thanks, the old man grabbed the glass and took a fast sip. “One of the people who was at that party with the murdered man, he was here that night. Bonfire Night.”

  “And who would that be?” Smythe found it interesting that the locals knew Gilhaney had been killed after leaving a dinner party.

  “Leon Webster. He was at the Chase house that night and he was here later.”

  Smythe looked behind him at the barman. He was watching them with a skeptical but interested expression. “Is he tellin’ the truth?”

  “Could be. Sometimes he does. But I don’t know this Webster person from Adam and I’m not sure that old Hamish there does, either. He does like his gin so it’s a safe bet that he’ll say anything to get a drink.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll do anything to sell one. You held your tongue until after I’d paid,” Smythe shot back.

  “That’s not true—Leon Webster was here that night,” Hamish insisted. “I know because my nephew was with me and he used to work at Webster’s. Mr. Leon Webster bought us both a couple of drinks.” He jabbed his finger at the barman. “You ought to remember, he paid you properly.”

  The publican frowned in concentration. “Was he that nervous rabbit of a fellow in the black suit? The one that kept spilling his drink every time the fireworks exploded?”

  “That’s right—we was sitting right over there.” He pointed to an empty table by the end of the bar. “And Mr. Webster bought us both two drinks—good stuff, too, not that swill you pour and then pretend it’s decent.”

  The barman shrugged and pulled a tray of glasses out from beneath the counter.

  Smythe had heard enough to believe the man was telling the truth. He yanked a stool away from the nearest table and sat down. “Tell me everything you remember,” he instructed. “And I’ll buy you another drink.”

  • • •

  “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, but I’ve lost the paper that had Mr. Longworth’s address on it,” Mrs. Jeffries explained to the butcher. He was a young man and rather nice looking.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him. I don’t think he shops here, but let me ask my brother. He does the accounts.” He turned to a man in a bloodstained apron cutting at a rack of ribs on the worktable behind the meat counter. “Hey, Syd, you ever heard of this Robert Longworth? This lady is lookin’ for his house and he’s supposed to live in this neighborhood. Does he have an account with us?”

  Syd didn’t look up from his task. “No Longworths on our books.”

  The butcher gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “That’s quite alright.” She smiled as she backed away from the counter. “I appreciate your efforts.” She whirled about and almost ran for the door. How on earth did the others do it? This was a disaster. After all her big talk about getting out and about, she’d have to be at their meeting this afternoon with nothing to show for her efforts.

  She dodged to one side to avoid crashing into a matronly woman coming in the front door. As soon as she was safely outside she took a deep breath and tried to get her wits about her. She had no idea what she was doing wrong. This was the right neighborhood—it had to be. It was the closest to the Longworth home. The other street of shops was over a mile away so she couldn’t imagine their househol
d did their shopping there.

  Before coming here, she’d done what she’d heard the others did; she’d had a good look at the Longworth residence. It was a four-story brown brick town house with a neatly fenced front garden and nicely painted white trim around the windows. A home like that would need several servants to maintain it properly, and servants, because they were smart, didn’t waste time going miles away to do their shopping.

  She reached the corner, turned, and looked back the way she’d just come. Was she using the wrong approach? She’d heard Wiggins, Betsy, and Phyllis talk about their methods and she’d duplicated them to some extent. But she’d been to the grocer’s, the chemist’s, the greengrocer’s and even the haberdashery. None of them had ever heard of Robert Longworth. Or if they had, they certainly weren’t going to share any information with her.

  Sighing, she started to cross the road and then stopped. She refused to show up at the meeting with nothing. This case was irritating enough without her having to endure the smug expressions on everyone’s faces. Perhaps she wasn’t as good as they were at getting merchants and clerks to talk, but there was something she could do. She glanced up and down the busy road until she spotted a hansom and waved it down.

  “Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked as he pulled up next to the curb.

  “St. Thomas’ Hospital,” she replied before stepping inside. With any luck, she could find out what she needed to know and still get back to Upper Edmonton Gardens by four o’clock.

  • • •

  The Bruce home was as carefully maintained as the Walker house, both inside and out. Witherspoon and Barnes stood in the elegantly appointed drawing room waiting for the arrival of the lady of the house.

  The double doors opened and a tall, blonde-haired woman stepped into the room. She moved gracefully and wore a maroon and white dress. An ornate diamond ring and a pair of pearl earrings were her only jewelry. “I’m Mrs. Theodore Bruce,” she announced as she took a seat on the sofa. “I understand you wish to speak to me about the late Mr. Gilhaney.”