“Gracious, how could anyone do that to a defenseless young woman?” Mrs. Jeffries stifled a surge of anger at the injustice of it. “Her only crime was being engaged!”
“That’s right. Polly Wakeman had kept it a secret, but her fiancé had given her an engagement ring and she made the mistake of showing it to the daughter of the house. Someone she thought she could trust. This was eighteen years ago and there were still some households that followed the old-fashioned customs and their rule was, no men under any circumstance.” He shook his head in disbelief. “They made her leave that very day.”
“I take it the daughter wasn’t trustworthy?”
“Correct. Paul Woodford thinks she was jealous of the maid. Apparently, she wasn’t the sort to attract young men herself and resented the fact that her housemaid could. But that’s just a guess on Woodford’s part.”
“A good guess, I’ll wager,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “What happened then?”
“Gilhaney couldn’t take her to his dormitory. No one would rent them a hotel room and, according to Woodford, neither of them had any money. Gilhaney had used what he had to buy the engagement ring, and the quarter had just started so Polly wasn’t due any wages.”
“Where did he take her?”
“To a half-built office building. Gilhaney wasn’t working on the site, but he’d been there and knew how to get in and out of the place. The company he apprenticed with was due to start the carpentry work as soon as the snow let up. It wasn’t ideal, but it would at least keep her out of the cold and wet. He took her there, got her inside, and made her as comfortable as possible. He told her he’d be back early the next morning to get her. But when he returned at sunrise, the roof had collapsed and Polly Wakeman was dead. What he didn’t know was it wasn’t just the snow that had halted work on the building, there were some dreadful structural flaws.”
“How terrible for that poor girl. I hope she was sound asleep when it happened. But how does this connect to Gilhaney’s behavior the night he was murdered?”
“Because most of the people at the dinner had some part in Polly Wakeman’s death, at least that’s what Gilhaney thought. She worked at the Holter home.”
“And it was Ann Holter who betrayed her confidence?”
He nodded. “That’s correct. Mrs. Holter sacked the girl. But that’s not all of it. The actual roof collapse happened for two reasons: The metal fastenings that had been supplied and used in the beams were the wrong size and poorly made. The fastenings had been supplied by Webster’s Metals. During the investigation that followed, Webster’s claimed they’d notified the builder not to use the defective parts but that the manager of the project was in a hurry and he ignored their instructions. He claimed he never received any such notice.”
“That explains Leon Webster.”
“It also explains Theodore Bruce,” Witherspoon added. “He was manager on that project. He was courting Hazel Walker at the time and her father didn’t approve of him. He didn’t want to do anything that would make him look incompetent in Walker’s eyes. Finally, we get to the builder and I’m sure by this point you can guess who it was.”
“Walker and Company,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.
“That’s right.” Witherspoon drained his glass. “Gilhaney did everything he could to force both companies to take responsibility for her death, but because he’d broken into the place, the inquest ruled that Polly Wakeman’s death was an accident. Gilhaney was so furious, he burst into Newton Walker’s office and swore he’d make him pay, before he was tossed out; and when he tried to confront the Websters, they were on the lookout for him and had him dragged away before he could get past the clerks.
“How dreadful. But surely Walker should have recognized him?”
“It was eighteen years ago, Mrs. Jeffries, and the first time we interviewed Walker, he told us that Gilhaney looked familiar but he was terrible with faces. He simply didn’t recognize the man.”
“Didn’t he recall the scandal? Recognize Gilhaney’s name?”
“That’s just it, there was no scandal; her death was barely mentioned in the press. Walker’s is a huge firm and Newton Walker wasn’t in charge of that project. Once the inquest was over and Gilhaney was dragged out of his office, he forgot all about the fellow. But her death affected Gilhaney deeply. He started drinking heavily, and fighting, and finally he lost his apprenticeship. Then he decided to change his life. He asked one of the trustees from the Fulham Workhouse to help him get an accounting apprenticeship. Woodford says he thinks it was always Gilhaney’s plan to exact vengeance on the ones he considered responsible for her death. He just decided to use intellect instead of anger so he could do it properly.”
“But if he blamed them, why did he subsequently agree to work for Newton Walker?”
“According to Woodford, it was because of a specific set of circumstances,” Witherspoon explained. “Gilhaney was going to refuse Walker’s offer and tell him the reason, that he considered Walker partially responsible for the death of his fiancée, but suddenly, he changed his mind and took the position. When Paul Woodford pressed him on it, all he’d say was that, for once, providence had smiled on him and all his enemies would be in the same place at the same time.”
CHAPTER 9
Mrs. Jeffries locked the back door and went back to the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the ticking of the carriage clock and the jangle of a horse’s harness as a hansom went past outside. Sleep was impossible now—she had too much to think about and, if she was brutally honest, she was too excited.
She opened the bottom cupboard of the pine sideboard and pulled out the brandy she kept for emergencies. Putting it on the table, she grabbed a glass and uncorked the liquor. This wasn’t precisely an emergency; it was actually more of a celebration. Her chat with the inspector had changed everything. She was certain she knew why Christopher Gilhaney had been killed and now that she knew the “why,” the “who” would soon follow.
She pulled out her chair, sat, and poured herself a generous quantity of brandy. She gazed across the room, letting her eyes unfocus as she thought about the victim. Why had he been murdered and why at that particular time?
The answer was simple. Someone at that dinner party realized Gilhaney had come back to London for vengeance.
In the years he’d been in Manchester, he’d not married nor, it seemed, formed any lasting romantic connections. He was still obsessed with his dead love. More importantly, he was now respected enough and probably wealthy enough to go after those he thought responsible for the death of his beloved. Gilhaney could do real damage now and that made someone very afraid. Fear, she knew, often led to murder.
She took a sip just as an unwelcome idea sprang into her mind. He was murdered with a gun, something most guests didn’t bring to a dinner party. Putting the glass down, she considered the problem. He was killed with a gun, probably a revolver. Which meant that unless the killer carried the weapon with him or her all the time, he or she would have had to know beforehand that Gilhaney was going to be there that night.
But it wasn’t a secret. According to what Gordon Chase had told the inspector, they knew he was coming. They’d ordered furniture and supplies for his office. What’s more, Newton Walker had insisted the Chases invite the man to their home, so it was entirely possible that not only did the people at the office and the Chase home know, but the other guests could have easily found out as well. Which meant that whoever wanted him dead had armed him-or herself accordingly and Gilhaney had foolishly walked right into a trap.
She sipped her brandy as she thought about every detail they knew, but no matter how she looked at the crime, the only motive she could see for Gilhaney’s murder was fear, plain old fear.
Occasionally, an idea that didn’t quite fit popped into her head, but she brushed it aside. Not everything they learned was connected with the murder. Some of it was just extra bits and pieces they picked up along the way.
She yawned as she real
ized she was now sleepy. She put the brandy away, washed her glass, and picked up the small lamp she’d brought downstairs. She understood exactly what to tell the others they must do to put this one to bed. They would have their Christmas and none of them would have to cancel their plans, she was sure of it.
• • •
Despite the brandy, Mrs. Jeffries didn’t sleep well. She awakened early and went downstairs, making enough noise as she put the kettle on to boil to wake the cook. She had the tea ready when Mrs. Goodge and a very cranky Samson came shuffling out of her quarters. Over tea, she told the cook everything.
“So that’s the reason Gilhaney was killed.” Mrs. Goodge tapped the rim of her teacup. “Someone was afraid of him?”
“That’s right. Now our task is to find out who it was,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
Mrs. Goodge wasn’t as certain. It sounded to her like a flimsy excuse for a murder, but this early in the morning, she wasn’t at her best and couldn’t think of how to say what she felt. “Right, then. I’ll get dressed and we’ll see what we can get out of Constable Barnes.”
“We’ve much to share with him,” Mrs. Jeffries said cheerfully. “So let’s hope he comes early.”
But he didn’t. If anything, he was later than usual, so they rushed through their report and kept hurrying him as he filled in some of the details of the previous day’s activities.
Mrs. Jeffries was still in a positive frame of mind when the others arrived for their morning meeting. “We’ve a lot of information to share, so we’ll need to get started immediately.” She told them everything they’d learned from Witherspoon and Barnes.
Wiggins was the first to react. “Cor blimey, so that’s why someone killed him.”
“It’s such a sad story,” Phyllis murmured. “Poor Polly. She must have been so terrified.”
“No wonder Gilhaney wanted vengeance.” Smythe grabbed Betsy’s hand under the table. “He lost the only thing that meant anything to him.”
Mrs. Goodge helped herself to another cup of tea and glanced at Mrs. Jeffries. “If Gilhaney was murdered because someone at the dinner party was scared of him, how are we going to find out which one of them it was? Except for the Chases and Robert Longworth, all of them had a hand in what happened to Polly Wakeman.”
“But it was so long ago.” Ruth’s brow furrowed. “And are we sure that Gilhaney had enough power to hurt any of them?”
“I considered that question,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “I finally decided it didn’t matter whether in fact he could do them any real damage, what mattered was that one of them believed he was capable of it. Look at it from the killer’s point of view. After eighteen years, they meet Gilhaney at a dinner party, and what does he do? He immediately goes on the attack, not just to one of them, but to everyone at the party who had some involvement in Polly Wakeman’s death.”
“What about Robert Longworth? He didn’t have a hand in her death,” Luty pointed out, “but Gilhaney made some nasty comments to him.”
“Only because of his past association. Longworth did let Gilhaney take the blame for his crime,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “And Longworth himself said that Gilhaney stopped almost immediately. He told the inspector he thought Gilhaney realized he was ill.”
“It’s like ’e was sendin’ all of ’em a message,” Wiggins said.
“Right, or as Mrs. Chase commented to the inspector, ‘It was almost as if he’d prepared a script for the evening.’ But Mrs. Goodge is right, it will be difficult to find out which of them felt threatened enough by his presence here in London to take such drastic action,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Do you have any idea how we should go about finding this person?” Ruth asked.
“Unfortunately, the only thing we can do is keep on as we’ve been doing, uncovering as much information as possible about all of them.”
“We do know that one of them has a gun, Ann Holter. But did she take it with her to the dinner party?” Betsy said.
“I can try and find out,” Phyllis volunteered. “Today’s Tuesday and the housemaid always takes Mrs. Holter to the train station. I know she doesn’t go back to the Holter home—she waits somewhere near the station for Mrs. Holter to come back on the afternoon train. I’ll try to find her and see if she’ll tell me anything useful.”
“Do that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We know that Leon Webster didn’t go straight home and Gordon Chase went back out after Mrs. Chase went upstairs, but what about the rest of them? I think we should find out if Ann Holter, the Bruces, and Newton Walker all went straight home that night.”
“That should be easy enough,” Hatchet said. “But does that mean we shouldn’t continue to find out other specific information? I was going to see my friends and try to discover who Ann Holter’s fiancé might have been.”
“And you should definitely do that,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “We really should do both tasks; they’re equally important.”
“Good.” Ruth grinned. “I was quite looking forward to seeing if I can uncover who Hazel Bruce’s alleged lover might be.”
• • •
Leon Webster frowned as Witherspoon and Barnes were led into the outer office of Webster’s Metals. Shoving his chair back, he jumped up from his desk and stalked toward the policemen. “What are you doing here? I’ve already told you everything I know. This won’t do, Inspector, it simply won’t do. I’ll not be subjected to this kind of harassment.”
Barnes edged himself between the angry man and Witherspoon. “We’re not harassing you, sir. But we do have more questions. You can either answer them here or you can accompany us to the station. It’s your choice, sir.”
Webster’s mouth flattened into a grim line and his hands clenched into fists. “Follow me,” he muttered. He stormed down the hall, shoving the door open to the file room and stomping inside.
They trailed after him. When they stepped inside, Webster sat at the head of the table. He gave them a sour look and waved them toward the rickety chairs. “Go on, then, ask your damned questions.”
Barnes closed the door before he took a seat. He pulled out his pencil and notebook.
Witherspoon waited till the constable was settled before he spoke. “Mr. Webster, you said you went to the White Hart Pub when you left the Chase home, is that correct?”
“That’s correct. What of it?”
“You also said that no one would remember you because this happened so long ago, correct?”
“Again, yes. What of it?”
“You were wrong, Mr. Webster. We sent a constable there to confirm your statement and lo and behold, someone did recall your being there on Bonfire Night. I’m surprised it slipped your mind.”
“What do you mean? What are you saying?”
“You ran into someone you knew that night, a former worker here at Webster’s Metals, and you bought him and his uncle a drink. Why didn’t you tell us about that encounter?”
He shrugged, but the bluster had disappeared. “I forgot. It happens, you know. One can’t be expected to remember every little thing one does. It was weeks ago, Inspector.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, Mr. Webster. I think you neglected to mention it because if you had, we’d have tracked these witnesses down and they would have told us that you didn’t arrive at the White Hart when you told us you had. You didn’t get there until ten minutes before last call, so it was very nearly half past ten.”
“You left the Chase home at eight thirty or thereabouts,” Barnes said. “The White Hart is less than half a mile from there. Where were you all that time?”
Webster swallowed and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He dabbed at his forehead. “I went for a walk, a very long walk. I was most upset. Christopher Gilhaney had been very rude.”
Barnes said, “Were you scared of him? He once accused you of supplying inferior products to a building site where a roof collapsed and a young woman died as the result of your actions. She was his fiancée and her name was Polly Wakem
an.”
He gasped. “How did you know that? It was years ago and our company did nothing wrong. It was an accident, an accident, I tell you.”
“Nonetheless, he considered you partially responsible. You were in charge of Webster’s during that time, weren’t you?” Witherspoon guessed.
He looked like he was going to cry. “Her death was an accident, a terrible, terrible accident. I wasn’t responsible.”
“But Gilhaney didn’t see it that way,” Barnes pointed out. “If I were you, Mr. Webster, I’d tell us where you went when you left the Chase house that night. This is a murder investigation.”
“I went to a house down by the river—there’s always a card game there.” His voice had dropped to a mere whisper. “But you can’t tell my family. If they find out I’m gambling again, they’ll cut me off completely.”
• • •
“It’s about time you came to see us.” Myra Manley handed Hatchet a cup of tea. “We were beginning to think you’d forgotten us.”
“Never.” Hatchet laughed. He adored Myra and her husband, Reginald. The three of them were having tea in front of a roaring fire in Myra’s lovely day room. The walls were papered with cheerful blue and red flowers on a cream background, the furniture was overstuffed, elegant, and comfortable, and an amazing portrait of Myra hung over the white marble mantelpiece.
Reginald, an artist, had captured his wife’s true beauty. Most people would have regarded her as homely; her once-dark hair was laced with gray, her face was narrow, and her teeth protruded ever so slightly. He had captured her perfectly. The painting portrayed a woman of great compassion, humor, and character. It was one of the most beautiful portraits Hatchet had ever seen.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Three Wise Women Page 19
