“Mrs. Jeffries said you’re only to rest tonight. You can tell us what’s what tomorrow morning,” Phyllis instructed. “So you took the young lady home. That was very kind of you.”
“I was right tempted to let her go on one of the omnibuses the company provided to get their staff back to the East End, but she works as a typist in the office and I thought she might know something useful. Turns out she did, but I’ll wait and tell it tomorrow.” He gave Fred one last pet, yawned, and headed for the staircase. “See ya in the mornin’.”
“Good night,” Phyllis murmured as the dog went back to his spot by the cooker and curled up on his thick rug to sleep.
She stood there for a long moment, wondering what on earth was wrong with her. She wasn’t interested in Wiggins. He was just a friend, she’d been very clear about that to everyone in the household. But if that was true, why was she so bothered that he’d been with Tommy’s sister tonight?
It didn’t make sense, simply didn’t make any sense at all.
* * *
• • •
As was his custom when they were investigating a homicide, Constable Barnes stopped by the inspector’s home so they could plan their day as they walked to the Ladbroke Road station together. As was also his custom, Barnes stopped in the kitchen first to have a chat with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge.
When he’d begun working with the inspector, it had come as a surprise when he realized Witherspoon was getting information about their murder cases from sources other than witnesses, suspects, or even informants. But he was a wily old copper and it hadn’t taken long to figure out exactly where all the useful bits and pieces had come from. At first, he’d been annoyed because no one in the Witherspoon household was a properly trained police officer. But he’d soon seen the advantage they had: They could get people who would spit on a policeman’s shoe rather than help him to not only answer questions but answer them honestly.
Servants of their suspects, scared of losing their position and the roof over their heads, would often become deaf, dumb, and blind when questioned by a constable but would chat a mile a minute to one of their own. Street lads who spent most of their lives ducking the local coppers could easily be persuaded to tell Wiggins or Smythe what they’d seen or heard. Betsy and Phyllis picked up gossip about victims and suspects from the local high street shop clerks as easily as buying a pound of potatoes. Even Mrs. Goodge contributed and she did her share without leaving the kitchen. She had a vast network of delivery boys, repairmen, and old colleagues that she plied with tea and treats as she discreetly questioned them. Then, of course, there was Mrs. Jeffries. He hated to admit it, but it was God’s own truth, when it came to solving murders, that woman had more talent in her little finger than any of the detectives at Scotland Yard. She was blessed with a mind that could take seemingly unrelated facts and put them together so the truth could be found.
On one of their early cases, he’d decided it was foolish not to take advantage of the situation and so he’d boldly gone into the kitchen, plopped himself down at the table, and told the two startled women that sharing might be a very good thing. They’d been wary at first, but had soon learned he could be trusted.
This morning it didn’t take long for Barnes to add some additional details to what Mrs. Jeffries had learned from the inspector. “If what we were told last night is actually true, then either the victim committed suicide or the killer was sitting at one of the two tables by the musicians’ platform,” he stated.
“But Wiggins told you that the room was in darkness for so little time, he’s doubtful that anyone from the table next to the victim could have done it?” Mrs. Goodge said. “Isn’t that right?”
“That’s what he said and he’s a sharp one, so he knows what he’s on about so he’s probably right.”
“And everyone was sure that the lights weren’t out for the full two minutes?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. “Time can seem distorted when it’s dark.”
“Mr. Stargill was sure of it as was James Pierce.” The constable drained his cup and stood up. “I’d best get upstairs. We’ve got to get cracking on this one. I’ve a feeling there’s going to be pressure coming down from on high. My wife told me that Stephen Bremmer is the godson of Sir Elliot White Ridley.”
“The cabinet minister?” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed.
“That’s him.” Barnes nodded and then disappeared up the stairs.
Five minutes later, they heard the front door close so the two women began setting up for their “morning meeting.” Mrs. Jeffries, who hadn’t been able to sleep, had gone out before dawn to Betsy and Smythe’s flat. She’d slipped a note through their letterbox telling them to be here by nine. She’d sent Wiggins to Knightsbridge with a similar message for Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet.
The clock struck nine just as the back door opened. There was a flurry of footsteps and Betsy, a beautiful blonde matron in her mid-twenties, dashed into the kitchen. Her husband, Smythe, was right behind her. He was a heavily muscled, brown-haired man a good fifteen years older than his wife. Betsy had once been the housemaid but had given that up when she had their daughter, Amanda. Smythe was still supposedly the inspector’s coachman, but as Witherspoon rarely used the carriage, he did a number of other tasks around the household.
“Where’s my baby?” Mrs. Goodge put the big brown teapot on the table. “Why isn’t she with you?” The cook shared godparent duties with Luty Belle Crookshank and the inspector.
“We were going to bring her, but she wanted to play with Maisie, the little girl from across the road.” Betsy hated disappointing Mrs. Goodge and she knew that Luty Belle would be upset as well. But Amanda didn’t get many opportunities to play with other toddlers and she wanted her daughter to learn how to get along with other children. “I’ll bring her for our afternoon meeting.”
“But that’s when she naps.”
“Not anymore,” Smythe muttered. “The little one doesn’t sleep as much as she used to.”
Again, they heard the back door open, and within a few minutes, everyone was present. Lady Ruth Cannonberry, their neighbor from across the communal garden and the inspector’s “special” friend, was the last to arrive. A woman of middle age with dark blonde hair interlaced with gray, she was the widow of a peer and the daughter of a country churchman. Ruth sincerely believed in Christ’s admonition to love thy neighbor as thy self. She worked tirelessly for the rights of women, the oppressed, and those that couldn’t fight for themselves.
Luty Belle Crookshank was an elderly, wealthy, white-haired American. She’d been a witness in Witherspoon’s second case. But she was no fool and she’d noticed the inspector’s household asking questions in her communal garden and around the neighborhood at large. Soon after that case was solved, she’d come to them with a problem of her own and ever since then had insisted on helping with their work. Luty believed in justice. So did the man sitting next to her, Hatchet, her butler. He was a tall, white-haired man with a past he rarely mentioned and a number of sources he could call upon for information when they were “on the hunt.”
“We’ve much to tell you,” Mrs. Jeffries announced as everyone settled down.
“Your note said there was a murder last night at the Wrexley Hotel,” Hatchet said. “Isn’t that where Thomas Mundy was killed?”
“It was and that’s not the only coincidence.” Mrs. Jeffries gave them a quick but thorough report on everything they’d learned from the inspector and Constable Barnes before motioning to Wiggins. “Tell us what you found out last night.”
“I did what ya told me this morning and I stopped in and spoke to the inspector while he was ’avin’ his breakfast.” Wiggins put his tea mug down. “So he already knows what I’m goin’ to tell ya. When I took Ellen ’ome last night, she gave me an earful.” He gave them almost a word-for-word recount of his conversation with the young woman. When he was t
hrough, he said, “I think it’s a good idea to meet her again after she’s finished work today. She might know more.”
“But what about the Wrexley Hotel?” Phyllis protested. “You have sources there as well. Remember, those two footmen from the Mundy murder think you’re a reporter and they might have seen or heard something useful.”
He shook his head. “Nah, Ellen’s a better bet. There’s been a murder and there’ll be lots of tongues waggin’ at the office today.”
“I agree with Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “And I also think we’ve no time to waste. Constable Barnes seems to think there’s going to be a lot of pressure from the Home Office to get this one solved quickly.” She got to her feet and the others followed suit. She didn’t need to give them instructions; each and every one of them knew what they needed to do.
* * *
• • •
The Mannion home was located in the middle of a row of town houses on Barlow Square in Holland Park.
Witherspoon sighed heavily as he waited for Barnes to pay the hansom driver and join him. The flawless white façade of the five-story house reeked of wealth, privilege, and probably arrogance as well. He wasn’t a pauper himself, but he’d grown up in modest circumstances, and despite his current financial situation, he still considered himself a working member of the middle class. “Let’s see what the lady has to say,” he muttered.
“Right, sir.” Barnes charged up the short walkway and banged the polished brass knocker. A black-clad butler opened the door. “Yes? What do you want?”
The constable decided to take immediate control of the situation. “What do we want,” he repeated. “We want to speak to your mistress. We’re investigating a murder here, not smarming around banging on doors for the fun of it.”
The butler’s mouth dropped open in shock.
“Surely Mrs. Mannion is expecting us,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We made it perfectly clear we’d be here this morning.”
The butler clamped his mouth shut and opened the door wider. “Wait here,” he snapped as they stepped inside. “I’ll tell the mistress you’re here.”
“I’m glad you set the fellow straight,” Witherspoon said as he gazed at his surroundings. “We’ve already wasted enough time in this investigation. I’m afraid that letting the people at the head table go home last night instead of taking their statements properly might have been a mistake. Goodness, this place is amazing.”
The floor was white marble, a lush pale green and gray carpet climbed up the curved staircase, and on the first-floor landing, he could see a set of double French doors topped with a huge fanlight. Against the wall was a trio of green and white Chinese-style porcelain on a rosewood library drum table. Directly opposite was a huge mirror with a carved rosewood frame.
“She’s not hurting for money,” the constable muttered.
The butler returned. “The mistress will see you now. Follow me.” He led them past the staircase and down a long hall, passing two reception rooms and a huge dining room.
“The police are here, ma’am,” he announced as they stepped into the drawing room.
The same white, green, and gray colors were evident in the ornate French-empire style furniture. Louise Mannion, dressed from head to toe in black, was seated on a pale green and white striped sofa.
“Good day, Inspector, I hope this won’t take too long.” She waved them toward two uncomfortable-looking chairs. “Poor Anne is in a state and I’d like to stay with her until her sister arrives.”
“We’ll be as quick as possible.” Witherspoon sat down but waited until Barnes had pulled out his notebook before he spoke.
“Well, get on with it, man,” she snapped. “I’ve not got all day.”
“Neither do we, ma’am,” the inspector replied. “And as you’ll be seeing Mrs. Bremmer today, you might do her a kindness and remind her that we’ll be along later today to take her statement.”
Louise drew back. “Surely you’re not going to speak to her today? She’s just lost her husband.”
“And she was sitting right next to him when he was poisoned.” Barnes looked up from his notebook and gave her a cool, polite smile. “As were you, Mrs. Mannion.”
She drew back, her expression outraged. “What are you trying to imply?”
“The constable wasn’t implying anything, Mrs. Mannion,” Witherspoon said. “He was merely pointing out that both of you were in a position where you might have heard or seen something important.”
“I don’t think I can be of any help to you. It was dark so I couldn’t see anything and the only thing I heard were people coughing and scraping their chairs.”
Witherspoon nodded as if he understood, but she, like most witnesses, heard more and even saw more than they knew. “When the lights went out, was everyone still seated at the head table?”
“Yes, we all knew that when the lights came back on, James was going to do the toast.”
“And was Mr. Bremmer sitting back in his chair or was he right up against the table edge?” Barnes asked.
Her perfect brows drew together in thought. “I think he’d moved his chair back a bit. He was not a slender man.”
“Can you estimate how far back he’d moved?” Witherspoon tried to picture it in his mind. “Was there enough space between him and the table so that someone could have slipped close and tampered with his drink without you or Mrs. Bremmer being aware of their presence?”
“No, there wasn’t enough room.” She frowned. “But I could be mistaken. A few seconds before the lights came back on, he pushed his chair further back.”
“Did you hear anything unusual when he did this?” Barnes asked.
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “But as I said, for the first few seconds, it was actually quite noisy. Everyone had taken his or her seat but not everyone had settled down. You could hear chairs scraping, glasses clinking together, and someone had dropped a knife or a fork onto the floor. When the room finally went quiet, one could hear the traffic noise from outside. The hotel is close to the train station so there are always carriages and hansoms.”
“Do you know of anyone who might have wished to harm Mr. Bremmer?” Witherspoon asked.
“Harm him? Of course not. He was a gentleman, not some street ruffian.”
“It’s odd you should say that, Mrs. Mannion,” the inspector said. “Mr. Pierce said that Mr. Bremmer was good at making enemies and that there were a number of people who disliked him.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and she took a breath. “Oh dear, I suppose that now that James has let the cat out of the bag, I don’t need to worry about being disrespectful to the dead. It’s true, Stephen wasn’t well liked. He could be abrasive and rude. I know that Camilla and her fiancé weren’t particularly fond of him.”
“Why did Miss Jones dislike him?” Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose.
Louise smiled. “I wouldn’t say it was dislike, Inspector. She simply found him to be a boor and said she hoped she and Montague didn’t get seated next to him. When I was doing the place cards, I deliberately put the two of them on the other side of Mrs. Bremmer.”
“Were he and Mrs. Bremmer happily married?”
Louise said nothing for a moment. “I don’t know how to answer that question, Inspector. How can one tell if a marriage is or isn’t happy? But as far as I could tell, they seemed most suited for each other.”
“Did you see Mr. Bremmer arrive at the hotel?” Barnes asked. “It’s important we establish his movements.”
“Not really. James, Mr. Pierce, asked me to help plan the ball. He’s a widower, you know. So I was checking with the manager to make certain everything was as it should be when Stephen arrived. He was standing near the head table when I first saw him.”
“You knew about the darkening of the lights and the proposed toast?”
“I see. How did Mr. Bremmer seem last night?”
“How did he seem?”
“Was he nervous or did he appear upset or frightened?”
“Not in the least. He was a bit annoyed because one of the hotel staff had mistaken him for the man from the electric company, but other than complaining for a few moments, he was perfectly fine. No, that’s not quite true, either; I noticed he was limping as he came around to take his seat, so I think his gout must have been bothering him.”
“Gout?” Witherspoon repeated. “That’s quite painful. I wonder why he didn’t stay home.”
“I imagine he didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Pierce. James was adamant that the members of his board be at the ball.”
“What did Mr. Bremmer do for a living?”
“He was a gentleman, Inspector, he lived off his family income.”
“How was that income generated?” Witherspoon stared at her quizzically. “Mr. Pierce told us that the Bremmer family once owned Bremmer Shipping, but that’s been gone for years.”
“The family did lose all their ships, Inspector, but there was some investment income left.”
“Are you certain of that, Mrs. Mannion?” Barnes interjected.
She looked momentarily confused. “I can’t say that Stephen ever discussed his income specifically, but he certainly implied he wasn’t destitute.”
“Mrs. Bremmer’s family has money, don’t they?” Witherspoon asked.
“As far as I know. Again, Inspector, we’re not the kind of people that discuss personal finances.”
“Pity,” Barnes murmured. “This is murder, and money, or the lack thereof, is often at the heart of a motive.”
Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods Page 5
