Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he replied. He hoped she’d ask them to sit down. “You’re correct, ma’am, we are here to ask you some questions.”

  She gestured toward the two balloon-back chairs across from her. “You may sit down if you like, but I doubt you’ll be staying very long. I’ve already made a statement about that evening. Surely you know that.”

  Witherspoon didn’t reply until he and Barnes were seated. “We understand that, ma’am, but we still need to ask you a few questions.”

  She shrugged. “You may ask what you like. My father seems to think you might be able to solve this puzzling crime, but frankly, I doubt it. Mr. Gilhaney was killed weeks ago. I hardly think you’ll find out anything new about the matter.”

  “Nonetheless, ma’am, we must do our duty,” Witherspoon murmured.

  “Was the Chases’ Bonfire Night party the first time you’d met Mr. Gilhaney?” Barnes asked.

  “No, I had met him on a previous occasion.”

  “When was that?” Witherspoon asked.

  “In Manchester. He worked for my friend’s husband and I met him at a dinner party. He expressed his desire to come to London, which was where he was originally from, and as he was highly regarded, I was the one who recommended him to my father.”

  Witherspoon hoped his surprise didn’t show on his face. Newton Walker hadn’t mentioned this fact. He’d specifically said that several of his business acquaintances had recommended Gilhaney. “You knew your father was looking for someone like Mr. Gilhaney? We understand he was well known for his financial abilities.”

  “He was excellent at his work,” she replied. “And yes, I did know that my father was looking for someone. He wanted the finances of Walker and Company vetted properly. It’s now a public company and Father wanted to ensure the shareholders were getting true value for their money.”

  Witherspoon nodded but made a mental note that she hadn’t mentioned the fact that her father hired Gilhaney for advice on selling the company, not on ensuring the shareholders made a profit. “We understand that Mr. Gilhaney was rather rude to people at Mrs. Chase’s dinner party—was that your impression?”

  “Did Abigail Chase tell you that?” She smiled mirthlessly. “I imagine she’s still smarting over having her dinner party ruined.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we got that information from Mrs. Chase, and Mr. Chase confirmed it as well,” Witherspoon replied. “Can you tell us about the evening?”

  “It was awkward from the very beginning. As I said, I’d met Christopher Gilhaney several times and on those occasions, his behavior was exemplary. It was obvious he was from a rougher background than what one would expect to find at a social occasion such as the Chases’ Bonfire Night party; nonetheless, despite his background, I was quite surprised by the way he acted.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Barnes asked.

  “He was very working class, Constable,” she replied. “He was obviously self-educated and well-read and perhaps could have behaved as a gentleman, but I don’t think he particularly cared about what we thought of him. His behavior that night was shocking.”

  “Can you be more specific, ma’am?” Witherspoon pressed.

  “Gilhaney was already in the drawing room when we arrived”—her brows drew together and she frowned slightly—“Abigail was serving sherry, and after we greeted everyone, I went to speak with Mr. Longworth. I was surprised to see him there. He didn’t look well; he was very pale. We started chatting, and suddenly he looked over at Leon Webster. Gilhaney was talking with him. He was standing close to him, his face was only inches away from Leon, and there was a strange expression on his face.”

  “What kind of expression?” the inspector asked.

  She cocked her head to one side as she thought back. “Victorious, Inspector, that’s the only way I can describe it. Christopher Gilhaney looked as if he’d just triumphed over the whole world. Leon’s eyes were big as saucers and he was obviously very upset.”

  “Upset how?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

  “I’ve tried to forget that dreadful evening, Constable, so my recollection isn’t perfect, but I do remember seeing poor Leon turn red and gulp his sherry.”

  “What did Mr. Gilhaney do?” the inspector asked.

  “Nothing, he just smiled and then he turned and looked at us.”

  “Us?”

  “Robert and I. He started towards us, but just then, dinner was announced and we went into the dining room.” She closed her eyes and a small shudder wracked her body. “That’s when the insults really started. I don’t remember exactly how he said it, but he made a comment to Ann Holter about how it was better to be a spinster than to be left at the altar.” She shook her head in remembered disbelief. “We were all shocked. But Ann, to her credit, simply stared at him and then she said something odd. I can’t recall exactly what it was.”

  “You don’t need to remember her exact words,” Witherspoon urged. “Just tell us what she might have meant.”

  “That’s just it, Inspector, I don’t know. Her comment made little sense. She said something to the effect that an intelligent ape was nothing more than an animal with a bag of tricks, but in the end, it was still just an animal. After that, she said very little, but she left the party early. She didn’t withdraw with the ladies while the gentlemen had their port.”

  “What happened then?” Witherspoon wondered if concentrating on the dinner party guests was the best course of action. Mrs. Bruce was essentially giving the same account as both the Chases and, to some extent, even her own father. Albeit, with a very different point of view. He was afraid he was going around in circles. None of this was new information. Perhaps the killer was an old enemy from Manchester or someone who resented Gilhaney coming into the firm and usurping their authority or even someone from his distant past.

  “He started making strange comments again. This time I think they were directed toward Robert Longworth.” She clasped her hands together. “But I don’t recall what it was he actually said. I’m sorry.”

  Witherspoon made a mental note to ask Longworth. Surely the man would remember a disparaging remark directed to him. “Anything else, ma’am?”

  “Isn’t this enough, Inspector? He insulted people left and right, so much so that the party was over before nine o’clock. Poor Abigail was at her wits’ end. Even Gordon was upset. Before the dessert was served he interrupted the meal to drag everyone out to the terrace to watch the fireworks.” She gave a short, denigrating laugh. “That did nothing to improve the situation. The fireworks were barely visible over the trees, but oddly enough, Gilhaney said nothing derogatory at that point. We all trooped back inside. Oh yes, now I remember, it was then that Ann Holter left and then Leon Webster bolted as soon as he’d eaten two bites of his charlotte russe. That’s really all I can recall, Inspector.” She got to her feet. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t very helpful. You’ve probably already heard most of this from the Chases. But that’s really all I can tell you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment.”

  Barnes glanced at Witherspoon. He nodded and the two men got up. But the constable had one more question to ask. “Mrs. Bruce, wasn’t it odd that with Mr. Gilhaney insulting everyone he didn’t insult you or your husband?” He watched her closely. He wanted to see how she would respond. Mrs. Chase had made some very interesting comments about both Theodore and Hazel Bruce. According to her, Gilhaney claimed the Bruce marriage was a sham and that Theodore Bruce had married his wife so he could run Walker and Company.

  She stared at him impassively. “Don’t be absurd, Constable. Gilhaney was bold, but he wasn’t a fool—he’d not make that kind of mistake. My husband is his superior. He reports to him directly. He’d make sure not to offend either of us.”

  Barnes looked at the inspector. This, too, was a lie. Walker had specifically said that Gilhaney would report only to him.

  • • •

  “I’m sor
ry to barge in like this, Doctor, but we’re in a bit of a muddle,” Mrs. Jeffries explained as she followed her friend Dr. Bosworth into his small, cluttered office. She’d been lucky upon arriving at St. Thomas’ Hospital that Bosworth was not only on duty, but able to see her.

  He was a tall man with dark red hair, a longish nose, and very pale skin. He smiled and pulled a stack of medical periodicals off the chair opposite his desk. He popped the magazines onto the floor and gestured for her to sit down. “No apology is needed, Mrs. Jeffries, you’re always welcome here.”

  Dr. Bosworth was one of their “special friends.” After completing medical school in Scotland, he’d gone to San Francisco, where he became somewhat of an expert on bullet wounds and, more importantly, on the type of gun that had inflicted a wound. Apparently, there was no shortage of bodies in that part of the world. Mrs. Jeffries frequently relied on his expertise when they had a difficult case. He firmly believed that much could be ascertained about a crime by a thorough study of the body and the surrounding environment.

  Bosworth was not only a physician at St. Thomas’ Hospital, he was currently the police surgeon for both K and W districts of the Metropolitan Police. He went behind his desk and sat down. “Now, what can I do for you? I haven’t seen the inspector’s name mentioned lately in the press. Does he have a new case?”

  “If only it were a new one.” She gave him a rueful smile. “But unfortunately, it’s an old one, I’m afraid.”

  “An old case?” Bosworth repeated.

  “The victim was killed some weeks ago,” she began.

  He interrupted. “And they’ve just now discovered the body? That’s dreadful. I know I’ve told you before, but depending on the environment, once a corpse gets past rigor mortis it decays quickly and then it’s hard to ascertain anything useful from either the location or the flesh itself.”

  “No, no, they discovered the body at the time of the murder. Oh dear, I’m not explaining this very well. Forgive me, but I’ve had a dreadful day. I’m apparently not very good at getting information out of people, but that’s neither here nor there.” She broke off and sighed. “Let me start over. The victim was a man named Christopher Gilhaney and he was shot on Guy Fawkes Night.”

  “Guy Fawkes Night!” he exclaimed.

  “I know. The problem is that the crime was mistakenly assumed to be a robbery gone wrong rather than a premeditated murder. Unfortunately, the inspector in charge of the case handled it badly and now our inspector has been tasked to find the killer.”

  “A rather thankless task, I’ll wager.” Bosworth shook his head. “That was weeks ago—it’s nearly Christmas.”

  Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve come to see you. I’m hoping you can help. At least if we knew what kind of gun killed the fellow, we’d have a bit more information to work with.”

  Bosworth put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “What about the original postmortem report? Surely it contained some useful facts.”

  She shook her head. “No, from what the inspector said the postmortem merely stated cause of death.” She stared at him curiously. “I was surprised. Dr. Procash is the police surgeon for the division that includes Chelsea and he’s done a number of postmortems on the inspector’s cases. He’s usually very good, almost as detailed as you are in his reports.”

  “Dr. Procash retired at the end of October and I’m afraid the man who replaced him got the position through his connections and not his abilities. Dr. Spicer is a very old man and frankly, he should have been struck off the medical register years ago, but as I said, he has some very powerful connections.” Bosworth smiled sympathetically. “What’s more, like many incompetent people, Spicer doesn’t like to share his reports. He doesn’t want anyone competent to know what he’s done. I’ll do anything I can to help, but if the postmortem report merely states cause of death, I doubt there’s much I can learn.”

  Mrs. Jeffries sagged against the chair. Her day just went from bad to worse. She’d been counting on Bosworth even though she’d known before she came that the original report was very brief. The inspector had complained about it before dinner last night, but somehow, she’d expected the good doctor to be able to provide some assistance. She was annoyed at herself for being so foolish. She’d come here because her vanity was bruised and she hadn’t wanted to admit she was terrible at getting people to talk. Gracious, this investigation really was going to Hades in a handbasket. She’d no idea what to do now.

  “The victim was murdered in Chelsea,” he murmured. “Close to the river?”

  “Yes, in Kilbane Mews.”

  “Then the postmortem was probably done at Belgrave Hospital. I’ve a colleague there, a young doctor who is very interested in pathology. There’s a chance he might have observed Dr. Spicer’s postmortem. I’ll contact him and see if he did, and if we get lucky, he might remember what he saw.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Bosworth, that would be wonderful.” She smiled gratefully.

  “I don’t want to raise your hopes, Mrs. Jeffries. Even if he observed the autopsy, he might not remember anything useful.”

  • • •

  “That sounds to me like someone was pullin’ your leg,” Luty said to the young clerk. She was in the outer office of Widdowes and Walthrop, Merchant Bankers. She was waiting to see one of her sources, John Widdowes. But as she had a few minutes to kill, she’d decided to try her luck with the only person left in the room, a young man diligently laboring over a huge, open ledger.

  His eyes widened at the mention of the word “leg” and he hastily looked away as a blush spread up his cheeks. “Er, no, ma’am,” he stammered. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “You tellin’ me that this Gilhaney fella could see something once and remember it even weeks later?”

  The lad smiled gratefully as the inner office door opened and John Widdowes appeared. “Now, Luty, stop tormenting the poor boy. You’ll scare him to death with all your questions.”

  John Widdowes was a middle-aged man with dark, honey-colored hair and a precisely groomed beard, a burly build that was muscle, not fat, and a ready grin. He was half the owner of Widdowes and Walthrop. Luty had never met his partner.

  “Scare him? Hogswaller. I’m a sweet little old lady and most of your staff like me.”

  “That’s true, they do, they love it when you come by—so much so that Byron went to fetch the tea the moment you arrived.” John nodded toward the clerk. “But he’s new and quite talented, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t scare the devil out of the lad. Let’s go into my office and have tea.”

  Luty winked at the young man as she moved through the wooden barrier that surrounded the clerks’ desks and followed her friend into his inner sanctum.

  John motioned her toward the wing-back chair in front of his massive desk. The wall next to the door was lined with boxes and ledgers, two windows looked out upon the Thames, and on the wall opposite the desk hung a series of lovely paintings of the ocean.

  Luty pointed at them. “Those are new.”

  John grinned. “Yes, they are. I saw them at a gallery recently and a friend of mine suggested they’d look lovely here.”

  Luty chuckled. “I betcha I know who the friend is. How is Chloe?”

  “She’s very well. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re here. Chloe and I were just talking about you—she hopes you’ll be free for dinner sometime soon.” He sat down behind his desk.

  “I’d love to, just name the date and I’ll be there with bells on,” she replied. Chloe Attwater had been involved in one of their previous cases and then had provided some very pertinent information in the inspector’s last investigation. Luty was the one who introduced her to John and she was now delighted that two of her favorite people seemed to be happy together. He was a good man who’d come from rough beginnings and made a success of his life. But he wasn’t one of those that looked down on the less fortunate because he’d pulled himself up by his bootstraps. She
knew that he gave more to charity than most of the aristocrats in London put together.

  “Excellent. Now, how can I help you? Did the inspector get another case?”

  “It’s an old case, I’m afraid. Do you remember a few weeks back when a man named Christopher Gilhaney was shot? It was on Bonfire Night.”

  “Of course. I knew Gilhaney,” John replied. “He was a decent man. Like me, he’d come up the hard way. But he was very successful. I went to his funeral. It was a sad affair, not many people there at all, but some of his old mates from Clapham came and that was nice.”

  “Did he have a family?” Luty asked.

  “No, like me, he grew up in a workhouse. But wasn’t he killed during a robbery?”

  Luty was amazed at the lack of bitterness in John’s voice. But either he’d gotten over any misery of having been raised in one of those hellholes or he’d learned to hide his feelings. “No one rightly knows, and now the inspector has got stuck with the case. Can you tell me what you know about him?”

  “What I know … Well, to begin with, he was a genius. Secondly, I was shocked when I heard he’d come back to London to work for Newton Walker.”

  “Why?”

  “He had some sort of grudge against the company. Something happened years ago. I never heard what it was. We had a business relationship. We weren’t close friends. Gilhaney had a strange life. After leaving the workhouse, he did carpentry work on the docks for a few years and then, about twenty years ago, he decided to use his brains.” He looked toward the door as it opened and a young clerk carrying a loaded tea tray stepped inside. He grinned at Luty as he put the tray down on the edge of John’s desk. She gave him a wink and a wave as he retreated.

  John poured their tea and handed Luty a cup. “That’s how I met Gilhaney. He came to see me to obtain seed money for a new product. One of his friends had invented a new process for waterproofing wood. Gilhaney talked the man into manufacturing the item instead of selling it or licensing it to an existing company. We both made a lot of money off the deal and that was the beginning of Gilhaney’s business career.”