“Good job, Constable.” He knew the young officer was familiar with his methods. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He and Barnes went around the barrier. The table still had the name cards, the tablecloth, and the floral centerpiece—everything else had been taken into evidence. He noticed the name cards were all on one side, facing out toward the room.
The body of the man was on the floor. Dr. Bosworth was kneeling beside it, his attention fixed on the florid face of the deceased.
“Dr. Bosworth. So you’re the one who reckons this poor soul has been murdered.” Witherspoon kept his voice low.
Bosworth stood up. “Unfortunately, yes. I did my best to save him, but it was impossible. At first I thought he might have had an epileptic seizure or possibly a heart attack. But when I had a close look at the mucus and the foodstuffs he had disgorged, I noticed white granules were present.”
“And that led you to conclude he’d been poisoned?” Witherspoon clarified.
“Yes, Inspector, I’m certain those granules are arsenic.”
“We’ll soon know. I’d better have a look at the deceased.” Witherspoon steeled himself; despite his many homicide investigations, he was very squeamish about corpses. But he knew his duty, so he knelt down beside the dead man.
Barnes spared his inspector a sympathetic glance before moving around to the spot Bosworth had just vacated and gingerly lowering himself onto his knees. “Have the constables searched his pockets?”
“No, sir,” Constable Griffiths said. “Not yet.”
Barnes nodded and opened the gaping dinner jacket so he could put his fingers into the inside breast pocket. “Nothing here, sir.” He checked the trouser pockets and pulled out a silver cigar case, a gentleman’s purse, and two half-crowns. He stood up and gave them to Griffiths.
Witherspoon looked at Bosworth. “How do you think the poison might have been administered?”
“Tests will need to be done before we can say for certain, but it was probably in the champagne flute. Arsenic won’t dissolve in a cold liquid and the champagne was the only thing that had been served.”
“What specifically happened here?” Witherspoon rose to his feet.
“James Pierce—he’s the host for tonight—rose to give the toast. The lights went out, and then when they came back on, everyone drank their champagne and the poor fellow went into spasms. Mr. Pierce yelled for a doctor and I rushed up.” Bosworth shook his head. “But it was already too late and there was nothing I could do.”
“The lights went out?”
“It’s our custom, Inspector.” James Pierce stepped around the barrier. He winced as his gaze flicked to the body and then back to Witherspoon. “We do it every year at our annual party. We go into darkness to honor the lightermen and dockworkers who have lost their lives this past year. My father started the custom, and not only have I kept it up, but I’ve included additional time in order to honor my late father.”
“May I have your name, sir?” Witherspoon asked.
“James Pierce. I’m the owner of Pierce and Son and the host for tonight. Inspector, I’ll be happy to cooperate in any way I can, but can my guests be allowed to leave?”
“We’ve a few questions we must ask.” Witherspoon could easily see over the makeshift barrier. There was a huge number of people out there and it would require dozens of constables to take each and every statement. “This could well be a murder investigation.”
“I understand that, Inspector, but most of these people didn’t even know Mr. Bremmer,” Pierce argued. “And most of them have to work tomorrow.”
The inspector considered his request. “I suppose we could take down their names and addresses as long as either you or someone from your company can verify no one is giving us false information.”
“Offhand, there are very few here tonight I don’t know.” Pierce surveyed the room and then pointed to a table. “Wait, I tell a lie. There’s a fellow with our typist that I’ve never met but I expect he’s her guest.”
Witherspoon looked at the sea of faces and blinked in surprise. “Goodness gracious, that’s Wiggins.”
The footman had by now realized he’d been spotted so he stood up, waved, and hurried toward the inspector.
“You know the young man?” Pierce stared at him curiously.
“Indeed I do. He works in my household.” The inspector smiled as Wiggins approached. “Goodness, Wiggins, what are you doing here?”
Wiggins stayed on his side of the tablecloth. “My friend Tommy sprained his ankle so he sent me a message askin’ me to escort his sister to this ’ere party tonight.”
“So you saw what happened?” Barnes interjected quickly. The constable knew that the footman could and would be a valuable asset in the investigation. He was one of the few people who understood how much help Gerald Witherspoon received when he was investigating a murder.
“I did and it were right sad,” Wiggins said. “Do you want me to make a statement now?”
“No, we’ll do that later,” Witherspoon replied. “Right now, we just need to get everyone’s name and address so these people can go home.” He turned to Pierce. “Can you have your office staff assist the constable in verifying names and addresses?”
“Of course, I’ll see to it immediately,” he said as he headed for the guest tables.
“I’ll get the constables onto the task.” Barnes circled around the table. “Wiggins, walk with me. I’d like to hear what you’ve seen tonight.” In truth, he wanted a quick word out of earshot of the inspector. As soon as they were a few feet away, he whispered, “Have you found out anything?”
“Picked up some gossip, but the main thing I want to tell you is that no one here could have killed the bloke. The lights weren’t out long enough for anyone to have gotten out of their seats, made it up to where he was, and then put some poison in the fellow’s glass. What’s more, when it went dark, it was like we were all blinded.”
They dodged around an elderly woman who was on her way to the buffet table for seconds.
“So what are you sayin’?”
“I’m sayin’ unless someone could fly, the only ones you should be lookin’ at are the people at the ’ead table,” Wiggins replied. “The only other ones that coulda got there might be from the table next to where the victim was sittin’, but even that woulda been ’ard.”
“But not impossible?”
“Not impossible.” Wiggins shrugged. “But he or she would ’ave to be ruddy fast on their feet.”
* * *
• • •
Behind the barrier, Constable Griffiths put the contents from Bremmer’s pockets into another evidence box and glanced up. “Inspector, Dr. Beacham, the police surgeon, is here, sir.”
“Good, I’ll get out of his way. Where are the guests that were sitting at the table with Mr. Bremmer?”
“I sent them into the lobby, sir. I hope that’s alright, sir.”
“It’s fine, Constable. As soon as Constable Barnes and Mr. Pierce return, send them into the lobby as well.” He looked at Bosworth. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything untoward you noticed?”
Bosworth shook his head. “Not really. I was too far away. My table is right at the back. I didn’t even notice that the man was in distress until Mr. Pierce called for a doctor. I’m sorry not to be more helpful.”
“Are you acquainted with the host?” Witherspoon asked.
Bosworth grinned. “You mean what am I doing here? I’m here as a favor to my aunt Nellie. She’s a widow and she needed an escort. She and her late husband own a chandlery shop and they’ve supplied Pierce and Son for years.”
“So you’d never met the victim?”
“Never seen him before tonight,” he said.
Witherspoon nodded and said a quick hello to Dr. Beacham before going to the lobby. There was a clerk on du
ty at reception and the door to the manager’s office was wide open. Hotel guests had politely but firmly been asked to go to their rooms.
The lobby had been spruced up a bit since Witherspoon’s last visit. The settees and armchairs were now upholstered in blue and pale green stripes, the old, worn carpet had been replaced by bright red and green patterned rugs, and the huge potted ferns were now in shiny brass urns.
Five people stared at him as he approached.
“Where’s Mr. Pierce?” A lovely blonde woman stood up. “Why isn’t he here? Are we expected to sit here all night? What’s happening? Why did that doctor fellow say that Stephen had been poisoned?”
“I’m sorry to keep you, but there is evidence that a murder has been committed,” Witherspoon said. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and I’ll be conducting the investigation.”
“Good, you’ve an excellent reputation, Inspector,” James Pierce said as he joined them. “I’m sure you’ve many questions for us, but that lady there”—he pointed to the woman crying softly into her handkerchief—“is Mr. Bremmer’s widow. This must be very distressful for her.”
Witherspoon hesitated. He’d have liked to interview everyone who was at the table, but they’d already had plenty of time to share information with one another so trying to separate them would be pointless. Perhaps it would be better to take statements from them tomorrow, when they were alone in their homes. Tonight he might gain more information from the hotel staff and James Pierce. “I’m sure it is difficult for the lady and she has our condolences. I’ll have my constable take down everyone’s address and we’ll take formal statements from everyone tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Pierce said.
“If you wouldn’t mind staying, I do have a number of questions for you.” Witherspoon nodded to Barnes, who’d been standing behind Pierce and had heard everything.
The constable whipped out his little brown notebook and moved toward the weeping widow.
“I can stay as long as you need, Inspector.” He sat down in an armchair.
It took less than ten minutes before the lobby was clear. Witherspoon and Barnes took a seat across from James Pierce. “Mr. Pierce, what relationship did you have with Mr. Bremmer?”
“Stephen Bremmer is, or was, to be on our board of directors. I’ve known him for a number of years.”
Witherspoon noticed that Pierce hadn’t called him a “friend.” “In what capacity?”
“I own Pierce and Son. I inherited it from my father. He was a lighterman and worked his way up from being an apprentice on a barge to owning half a dozen of them. One of the reasons we’ve been successful is because years ago, my father got the contract to ferry cargoes from the Bremmer family’s ships to the wharves. I felt somewhat obligated to offer Mr. Bremmer a seat on my board.”
“Mr. Bremmer’s family owns ships?” Barnes asked.
“Not anymore. The family had a series of misfortunes and lost their vessels, but by that time my father had expanded and we didn’t just ferry cargoes off the big ships onto the wharves. We haul coal, oil, wool, anything that can be loaded onto a barge. We’ve recently raised additional capital to expand further.”
“So except for his being on your board, you didn’t have a business relationship with him?” Witherspoon wanted to be sure he understood.
Pierce smiled slightly. “I’d like to say it was more of a social relationship, but that’s not quite true, either. Stephen was a dreadful snob, and though we have a number of friends and acquaintances in common, I’m a working-class lad who he’d never consider his equal. Mind you, I never considered him my equal, either.”
“You thought him better than yourself?”
Pierce laughed. “No, sir, I thought him far less than me.”
“You didn’t like him, sir?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.
“Of course not. Stephen wasn’t a likeable man. I only invited him tonight because he’s on my board. Despite his upper-class roots and Oxford education, Stephen was practically illiterate. He could barely read a newspaper, married his wife because he needed her money, and generally took no interest in anything other than himself.”
“Then why did you want him to be on your board of directors?” Witherspoon asked.
“Simple, Inspector. I asked him because my father made me promise to help out the Bremmers should they ever need it. My father was a wonderful man and he believed in paying one’s debts. He always felt that he’d never have been successful if Stephen’s grandfather hadn’t given him that first contract. It laid the groundwork for everything that came later.”
“I noticed there were only place settings on one side of the head table,” Barnes said. “Why was that?”
“I wanted to be with my employees. I wouldn’t have even had a head table, but Louise Mannion—she helped me make all these arrangements—insisted it was the proper thing to do. But I was adamant that none of us should have our backs to our guests.”
“Who was sitting next to Mr. Bremmer?” Witherspoon asked.
Pierce thought for a moment. “I was in the middle, Louise was to my right, and Stephen was next to her.”
“Where were the others sitting?”
“Anne Bremmer was on his other side. Camilla and Montague were on the other side of Anne, and Nicholas Parr was on my side of the table at the very end.”
Barnes said, “Why did you insist the lights go out?”
“As I said earlier, it’s our custom. We have this function every year. Mind you, this is the first time we’ve included so many guests. But we do it to honor those who died the past year.”
“How long were the lights to be out?”
“It was supposed to be dark for a full two minutes, but there was a problem with the electricity and they came back on within”—he frowned—“I’d say a minute, perhaps a minute and a half.”
“I see,” Witherspoon said. “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Stephen Bremmer dead?”
Pierce stared at him for a long moment. “Quite a few, Inspector. Stephen Bremmer was only good at one thing: making enemies.”
CHAPTER 2
Wiggins wished he could put Ellen into a hansom cab and be done with it, but he was too much of a gentleman for that. He struggled to keep a smile on his face as he ushered Ellen to the cloakroom for her wrap. It was downright aggravating that he couldn’t stay here and start asking questions; he’d overheard snippets from at least two conversations that sounded as if they might know something about the guests at the head table. “I’m sorry the evenin’ turned out like this. But now that they’re lettin’ us go, we’ll find a hansom and I’ll see ya ’ome.”
“Don’t be sorry, Wiggins. This is the most exciting evening I’ve ever had.” She laughed and patted his arm as he held her mantle. Ellen Duncan was a tall woman with brown hair, a long, narrow face, deep-set gray green eyes, and slightly buck teeth. She had dressed for the evening in her best maroon skirt, a cream-colored blouse with puffy sleeves and lace around the square-necked bodice, and a matching hat and veil. Wiggins slipped the heavy garment over her shoulders, took her elbow, and led her out into the street.
Many of the guests from the ball still milled about in front of the entrance, women swathed in heavy coats and scarves against the cold and workingmen wearing awkward-fitting dark suits deemed suitable for the evening’s festivities.
“We don’t have to take a hansom.” Ellen grabbed his arm as they weaved through the crowd. “Mr. Pierce has arranged for omnibuses to take us back to the East End. There are four of them and they’re the big ones as well. There’s one for Barking and two for the Commercial Road and another for Dagenham.”
Wiggins considered her suggestion. He wanted to learn as much as possible. If they took the omnibus, he might overhear something useful, but on the other hand, Ellen worked in the office of Pierce and Son, so she might know
a good deal about the guests sitting with the victim. “No, I’ve got plenty of coin. We’ll take a hansom. Tommy would want me to make sure you got home quickly after something as wicked as this.”
“That’s fine, then.” She broke off and waved at a couple. “That’s Margaret Chastain. She thinks she’s so special because she and Ned had a right posh wedding last month. Ned handles the accounts in the office. I don’t know why he married her; she’s not much to look at and she can’t do anything except scrub floors and peel potatoes. Mind you, her parents own the bake shop on the Barking High Street.”
“Not everyone can be as clever as you.” Wiggins knew a bit of flattery went a long way. “Sorry, don’t mean to act forward, but you can work a typewriter and you’ve got a proper job.”
“Oh, I’m not all that clever.” She giggled. “And you’re not being forward. My brother wouldn’t have let you escort me tonight unless he knew you were a gentleman. Tommy’s nose is going to be out of joint when he finds out what he missed. I mean, how often do you see someone being murdered right before your eyes? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
Wiggins relaxed. He’d made the right choice. Ellen had been on her best behavior earlier, but the strange turn of events seemed to have loosened her tongue. He hoped she’d keep it loose until he walked her to her door. “Did you know the gentleman that was killed?”
“He’s not a gentleman.” She snorted as they turned the corner. “He might be an upper-class toff, but he’s a nasty pig. Oh no, I shouldn’t have said that—you’re going to think I’m a terrible person for sayin’ such things about the dead.”
Blast, he didn’t want her going quiet now, not when he had her talking. “Don’t be silly. Just because someone died, it doesn’t mean you can’t tell the truth about what they were like when they was alive. And what you was sayin’ was right interestin’.”
Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods Page 3
