Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women

by Emily Brightwell

  “I see.” Witherspoon nodded. “Let’s get back to Mr. Gilhaney’s enemies. Is there anyone who might have had reason to dislike him?”

  “Ted Bruce didn’t like him. As a matter of fact he was quite annoyed when Newton announced he was bringing Gilhaney into the firm. He announced it at our last shareholders’ meeting and I could tell that Bruce was furious. Oh, he gave us all that smarmy little smile of his, but I happened to go past his office on my way out and he was still ranting and raving to his secretary about how unfair it was.”

  “Isn’t Mr. Bruce the managing director?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.

  “What difference does that make? Newton still has the power. He retains the majority share in the company.”

  The inspector tried to think of what to ask next, but his mind simply went blank. He took a deep breath and remembered Mrs. Jeffries’ words about “trusting his inner voice.” He expelled the air in his chest. He’d give his “inner voice” time to work and then he’d be back. He glanced at Barnes, who shook his head.

  “Thank you for your time,” the inspector said as he and the constable rose to their feet.

  Once outside, Witherspoon said, “What did you think, Constable?”

  “I think there’s something he’s not telling us. That’s why I asked him about going straight home the night of the murder.” The constable chose his words carefully. Of course, he knew from Mrs. Jeffries that Smythe’s source at the White Hart claimed Webster had shown up at closing time. But he could hardly admit that to Witherspoon. “There was something about his manner that made me think he was lying, sir. You know, sir, policeman’s intuition.”

  “I thought so as well. I think Webster knows exactly why Gilhaney went out of his way to be rude.”

  “You think they’d met previous to the dinner party,” Barnes said.

  “I do.” Witherspoon pulled his gloves out of his overcoat pocket and slipped them on. “We’re policemen, Constable, and sometimes we simply have to rely on our ‘inner voice,’ as Mrs. Jeffries calls it. We both sensed Webster was hiding something pertinent from us. Now we’ve got to find out what it is. Let’s send a constable over to the White Hart in Chelsea. Perhaps someone will remember him.”

  “Where to now, sir?”

  “Let’s go to Walker and Company and have a word with Theodore Bruce.”

  • • •

  “Oh, there was a bit of a scandal about Webster’s Metals.” Ida Leahcock grinned at Mrs. Goodge. “But it was hushed up by the family. You remember Gracie Toller.”

  “The tweeny, the one with curly hair and the blue eyes?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. She grinned at her friend. She and Ida had worked together years earlier. Ida had left service and come to London. She and her late husband had opened a tobacconist’s shop and done very, very well. Ida, a widow, now owned a half dozen shops throughout the city. But her greatest talent was in gossip. She spent her time chatting with her old associates, who were spread all over London and the southeast of England, listening to her customers’ conversations, and generally sticking her nose in where most people would say it didn’t belong. She had helped in a number of the inspector’s cases with the tidbits of information and gossip she’d passed along to the cook.

  “Gracious, I haven’t thought of her for fifty years.” Mrs. Goodge sipped her tea and stared off into space. “I liked her. She was intelligent.”

  “She still is.” Ida chuckled. “But she’s retired now and lives with a cousin in Fulham. We generally have tea together once or twice a month. When Christopher Gilhaney was murdered, I thought for sure your inspector would get the case, but then he didn’t, and I thought no more about him until I met Gracie for tea and she told me the most amazing thing.”

  Mrs. Goodge wasn’t certain she understood. “Gracie knows you pass along a bit of gossip whenever the inspector has a case?”

  “Of course not.” Ida waved her hand dismissively. “I know that’s something you don’t want spread about. It was just our regular get-together, but of course the Gilhaney murder came up. Gracie’s niece works for one of the Webster family and after the murder there was a big family row. They were very upset because one of the family was a guest at the dinner party on the night Gilhaney was murdered.”

  “Why would that upset them?”

  “Because they didn’t want the family name associated with his killing. Turns out that Gilhaney had once worked for Webster’s and there had been a scandal. They were terrified the police would find out about the connection to the dead man and the old matter would come up once again.”

  “What kind of scandal was it?” Mrs. Goodge was fairly certain she could guess, but additional information was always useful.

  “Gracie said her niece wasn’t sure, but one of the nephews—Leon, I think she called him—was at the center of it.”

  • • •

  “Inspector, I’ve already made a statement. Why don’t you just read it and save me from wasting my time. We’re very busy here, we’ve a tender due by noon tomorrow and, frankly, that is more important to me than repeating what I’ve already told that other policeman.” Theodore Bruce crossed his arms and stared at them from behind his massive desk. His hair was dark brown, parted at the side, and slicked back from a broad face. His eyes were small, his nose prominent, and the skin under his chin flaccid.

  They were in Bruce’s office and, despite the two wing-back chairs available for visitors, the inspector knew they weren’t going to be offered a seat.

  “We’ve read your statement, Mr. Bruce. But we’d still like you to answer our questions.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, get on with it, then.”

  “Was the night of the murder the first time you’d ever met the victim?”

  Bruce unfolded his arms and straightened up. “It was.”

  “Are you certain of that, Mr. Bruce?” Barnes asked softly.

  “I am.”

  “Can you describe for us what happened that night?”

  Bruce didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “We went to the Chase home for dinner, the purpose of which was to introduce Christopher Gilhaney to myself and other members of the board. It was a most unpleasant encounter and the other guests began to leave as soon as decently possible. We did the same; I put my wife and sister in a hansom cab and then I walked home. You can verify all this with both the Chases and my household servants.”

  “How long did it take you to get home?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Twenty minutes or so. I was in no hurry as I had a headache and wanted some fresh air.” He reached for a stack of paper. “Now, if that’s all, Inspector, I must get back to work. Railway tenders wait for no one.”

  “We understand that Mr. Gilhaney was very rude that night,” Witherspoon said. “Have you any idea why?”

  Bruce didn’t look up from his work. “None whatsoever. Perhaps he’s just a nasty person.”

  “Did you know your wife was acquainted with Mr. Gilhaney?” Barnes watched him carefully as he spoke.

  Again, Bruce didn’t look up, but the constable noticed an angry flush creep up his flabby cheeks. “Of course. She was one of the reasons Newton Walker hired the man—she recommended him. Presumably he was some sort of financial genius.”

  “Would you object to our speaking with your staff?” Witherspoon asked.

  Bruce’s head jerked up. “I most certainly would. This is a business, Inspector, and I’ll not have you pestering my employees when they’re supposed to be working.”

  “Your employees?” a familiar voice said.

  Witherspoon and Barnes both turned as Newton Walker stepped through the door. He didn’t acknowledge the policemen but kept his gaze on his son-in-law.

  Bruce got to his feet and smiled. “You know what I meant, Newton. The railway tender is due by noon tomorrow. I’ve got the clerks working flat-out and I don’t want them distracted. You know how important this contract could be—it’s incredibly lucrative.”

  “Lucrativ
e?” Walker sneered. “You said the same thing about supplying those bridge girders, and that ended up costing us a fortune. I still don’t know where all that money went! I don’t know why I ever let you convince me and the other directors that expanding into these kinds of commercial enterprises was a good idea. But we’ll not air our problems in front of outsiders. I’m going to insist that you allow these policemen to speak to our staff. Answering a few questions will not take much time. Frankly, I want this murder solved as quickly as possible. In case you’ve forgotten, there are some ugly things being said about us.”

  “Ugly things,” Witherspoon repeated. “What sort of ugly things, Mr. Walker?” He knew from long experience that gossip frequently held the seeds of truth.

  “Exactly what you’d expect was being bandied about by our competitors. Gilhaney had just been hired and some people are wondering what was it about our finances that someone in the firm was so desperate to hide that they did the unthinkable.”

  “No intelligent person believes such nonsense,” Bruce argued. “You said it yourself, it’s merely our competitors smearing our good name.”

  “We’re a public company now, Ted,” Walker snapped. “And I’ll not have the scandal of a murder hanging over my good name.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Mrs. Cwookshank, I’m so pleased to see you.”

  Luty froze for a split second and then forced herself to smile as she turned to face the brother of the man she’d come to visit. She’d come to the offices of Biddlington and Biddlington, Solicitors, one of the many firms that handled her business affairs, because she needed information for this afternoon’s meeting. Ronald Biddlington, who she’d specifically asked to see, could always be counted on to know the latest business gossip.

  “I’m right pleased to see you, too, Nelson. Where’s your brother? I’d thought I’d be able to meet with him. I know how busy you are. Ronald’s always sayin’ you’re the real brains around here.” She extended her hand and they shook. She didn’t dislike Nelson Biddlington; she genuinely admired his intelligence and integrity. But Nelson had a problem that kept him in the back office while Ronald, his twin, dealt with their fee-paying clients: The poor man couldn’t pronounce the letter r. No matter how often Luty told herself it wasn’t his fault, after just a few minutes of listening to him she was either trying not to laugh or wanting to scream.

  “Wonald isn’t well.” He took her elbow and led her past his secretary’s small desk and through a door at the end of a short corridor. “His wheumatism is acting up again so he stayed home today. But I’ll be happy to help you. Please, take a seat and I’ll have Biggs get us tea.”

  Luty was suddenly ashamed of herself. Nelson was trying his best to avoid words with an r in them and, doggone it, she was going to keep control of herself and treat him with the respect he deserved. “Thank you, Nelson, that would be lovely.” She sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

  “I’ll be wight back.” He dashed off and Luty took the time to have a good look at her surroundings. This was her first time here; the Biddlingtons generally came to see her when she needed something done. His office was modest but nicely furnished, with a brightly colored Persian rug on the floor, a colorful seaside painting over the unlighted fireplace, and a huge brass urn filled with a dried flower arrangement that was quite lovely.

  Nelson stepped back into the room. He was a small, thin man with a shock of curly gray hair, a longish nose, and blue eyes. “I’m so delighted you’ve come to visit. Wonald is going to be sowwy he missed you.”

  “I hope my bargin’ in like this didn’t take you away from something important,” she began, but he held up a hand.

  “Please, this is a tweat for me. Usually it’s Wonald who gets to see you. Now, what can I do fo … uh, to help you?”

  “I’ve got a real delicate problem.” Dang, she thought, Ronald was the one who liked to gossip. She had no idea if Nelson did or not, but she was here, and there was no harm in trying. She had to show up with something this afternoon or the plan she and the other two had cooked up wouldn’t work. “I’m not sure how to put it, because it sounds right silly when I say it out loud.”

  “You awe never silly,” he replied. “Just tell me what it is you need and …” He broke off as the door opened and a young man carrying a tray loaded with delicate white and green bone china entered. Nelson pointed at the edge of his desk and then waited till the lad left before he spoke.

  “How do you take tea?” He stood up, reached for the teapot, and began to pour.

  “Cream and one sugar,” she replied. She’d used the tiny interlude to come up with what she hoped was a clever way to say her piece. “The truth is, Nelson, I’m thinkin’ about investin’ in a building company, a big one named Walker and Company.” She nodded her thanks as he handed her a cup and saucer.

  “Biscuit?”

  “No, thanks. Uh, have you ever heard of them?”

  “Yes, they’re quite well known.” He took his tea and a ginger biscuit and slipped back into his chair. “May I ask what made you decide they would be a good investment?”

  “Well, I’ve heard they’re makin’ a lot of money these days and since they went public last year, this might be a good opportunity. Why? What have you heard?”

  Nelson took a sip of his tea and then put the cup and saucer down. “Just the opposite: that the company isn’t making money these days and no one knows why. Newton Walker had even gone to the length of hiwing a man from Manchestew, a consultant of some kind, but he was killed before he could get a good look at the company finances.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m supwised you didn’t know that, Mrs. Cwookshank. Wonald tells me you know everything that goes on in London, especially when it comes to mudder.”

  His words were polite enough, but the smile he gave her was sardonic and didn’t quite reach his eyes. Luty suddenly remembered he was a very smart man, but because of a speech problem, she’d fallen into the trap of thinking him less intelligent than he was. Well, Nell’s bells, she was the one that was acting dumb. From the way he was watching her, she suspected he knew exactly why she’d come here.

  “You’re right, I generally do know what’s goin’ on here in town, especially about murder. Do you know anything about the Gilhaney murder?”

  He shook his head. “If I did, I’d tell you. Wonald tells me that there’s gossip you help your policeman fwiend solve mudders. I don’t approve of mudder. It’s wwong to take a human life. I don’t believe the state should do it, either—I don’t believe in hanging.”

  Luty knew there’d been some talk about her, but she didn’t much care. She’d already made up her mind that if Inspector Witherspoon ever got wind of it, she’d just say it was because of her involvement in one of his recent cases. Her name had been mentioned in the press. “I do; if you murder someone, you should hang. An eye for an eye, that’s what it says in the good book.”

  “That’s what it says in the Old Testament,” he pointed out. “I believe we should love one another, just like Jesus says in the New Testament.” He smiled as he spoke, and this time his smile was genuine. “Why don’t you tell me what you need to know and I’ll see if I can help. Don’t wowwy, I won’t tell youh secwet.” He giggled. “You could say, my lips are sealed.”

  • • •

  “I’m glad everyone is here on time today,” Mrs. Jeffries said as everyone took their place around the table.

  “It was easy for me.” Wiggins shrugged. “It was so cold out, it was hard to find anyone who wanted to chat. I talked to a housemaid from the Bruce home, but you could fill a thimble with the little bit she had to say.”

  “That’s too bad. We’ll never get this case solved properly if you can’t get people to talk.” The cook handed him his cup of tea. “You’ve had a very bad two days now, haven’t you, Wiggins?”

  “You said that like it’s my fault,” he protested. “But it’s not. Some days you ’ear a lot, some days not as much. B
ut I’ve not come empty-handed. I did ’ear something.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Goodge shoved the plate of seedcake toward Ruth. “That’s good, then. Maybe if we all find out a few tiny bits and pieces, we’ll catch this killer by Easter.”

  Mrs. Jeffries’ brows drew together, her expression puzzled. It wasn’t like Mrs. Goodge to be so sarcastic. The cook was usually the lad’s staunchest supporter. “Wiggins, since you’ve started, tell us what you learned.”

  The footman shot the cook a quick, hurt look. He knew he hadn’t done his best on this case, but he hadn’t thought anyone would notice. It wasn’t as if the others were doing any better. He took a deep breath and decided he’d stretch what little he’d gotten out of the housemaid as far as he could. “Like I said, I ’ad a word with a housemaid from the Bruce home. She was still up when the family got home that night.” He paused and wondered why a lie had popped out of his mouth. But now that he’d started, he couldn’t think of a way to stop. Blast a Spaniard, he was really in a mess now. “Usually when the family is out, only one of the housemaids has to stay up, and that night, it was ’er turn and—”

  Ruth interrupted. “She was sure it was the night of the murder? She recalls that time specifically?” She stared at him, her expression skeptical.

  Wiggins gaped at her. He couldn’t believe his ears. She couldn’t possibly know he was lying. “She said she did. There’s no reason not to believe her.” He looked uncertain. “She’d no reason to lie.”

  “People lie all the time,” Luty interjected, “especially young girls wantin’ to impress a handsome young feller like you. But go on and tell us what she said.”

  “She told me that Mrs. Bruce and Miss Bruce got ’ome first.” He felt a bit better. This was true, as Mrs. Jeffries had reported hearing it from the inspector. “Mr. Bruce came in later.”

  “Did she know what time he came home?” Luty asked. “Seems to me that’s important.”

  “I asked, but she said she wasn’t lookin’ at the clock, so she didn’t know.” He looked off into the distance to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. “She also said the Bruce home is a right miserable place to work, that Mr. and Mrs. Bruce watch each other like hawks …”