Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “The Bremmers came over with the Conqueror,” Camilla added. “They were a very wealthy family for many, many generations.”

  “I thought they owned ships?” Barnes interjected.

  “Yes, yes, they did,” she hastened to explain. “But at one time they owned more than just a few ships. Over the years they lost most of their landholdings. Stephen’s great-grandfather managed to buy a few vessels and he did quite well with them. They’d grown into a large fleet but then Stephen’s father took over and, well, by the time Stephen was old enough to take over the firm, it had gone out of business.”

  “And you’re related to the Bremmer family?” Witherspoon said.

  “He’s a distant cousin,” she replied. “But I’ve known him all my life. We’ve all known one another for years.”

  “By ‘all,’ who do you mean?” the inspector asked.

  “Everyone at the head table.”

  Barnes stopped writing again. “Does that include James Pierce? I got the distinct impression he’s not, uh . . . how can I put this . . . one of you?”

  “Admittedly, Mr. Pierce has working-class roots, but his family has done exceptionally well in business, which afforded James an excellent education. As I’ve already told you, we’re not dreadful snobs. James is genuinely liked and respected.”

  “Oh, do tell the truth, Camilla, dearest. That’s what you say now but I can recall that when Louise first began inviting the fellow to her dinner parties, you were appalled. The only reason you let James Pierce into our social circle is because Louise Mannion insisted he be included.” He broke off with a snicker. “I don’t think she’ll be too happy this morning, though, not since Elise Newcomb showed up last night.”

  “Montague, really, watch your tongue,” Camilla snapped. “Louise would be very upset if she knew you said such things. It’s not decent; Osgood hasn’t been dead a year.”

  “Osgood?” Witherspoon repeated. “Who is that?”

  “Osgood Mannion,” Camilla replied. “Louise’s late husband. He drowned in a boating accident last March.”

  “And who is Elise Newcomb?” Barnes added.

  “She’s an artist, Constable, and she used to live next door to the Pierce family, but for the past eight or so years, she’s lived in the United States. She and James were once very close.”

  “And now that she’s back in England, it looked to me as if he was doing his best to bring her close again.” Montague chuckled. “She might have been gone for years, but I happen to know that she loathed Stephen Bremmer.”

  “Could you repeat her name, please?” Barnes put down his pencil and stretched his right hand out flat, wiggling his fingers to relax the muscles.

  “Elise Newcomb.”

  “Cory,” Camilla corrected. “She’s now Elise Cory. She married while she was away and apparently she’s come back a rich widow.”

  Montague looked at her. “How did you find that out?”

  “We share the same dressmaker and Madame Verlaine is a dreadful gossip.” She smiled. “Of course, her chatter does relieve the tedium of getting one’s dresses fitted.”

  “Do you know why Elise Cory loathed the deceased?” Witherspoon asked.

  Montague gave a negative shake of his head. “Afraid not, Constable. You’ll have to ask the lady yourself, but mark my words, it was common knowledge eight years ago that she hated him.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “That’s one of the worst-lookin’ boils I’ve ever seen.” Luty Belle Crookshank clucked her tongue as she examined the ugly growth on Harry Meeker’s right hand. She reached into her cloak pocket, yanked out a handful of coins, picked out a shilling, and handed it to the young man standing next to her. “Take this and run down to the butcher shop on the corner. Buy a couple of rashers of bacon and then get back here lickety-split.”

  Donald Callendar looked uncertainly at the money in her outstretched hand.

  “Luty, what on earth are you doing to my clerks?” John Widdowes stood in the door of his office. He watched the group crowding around the elderly American with an amused expression on his broad face.

  “I’m trying to help this young feller. So you tell this here one”—she pointed at Donald—“it’s okay to go buy that bacon.”

  John stifled a laugh and then nodded at his clerk. “Go on, do as she says. She might know what she’s talking about.”

  “Might know?” Luty winked at Harry as she moved toward her friend. “I know exactly what I’m doin’. Once I get finished doctorin’ this one, he’ll be as fit as a fiddle and happier than a hog in a corn patch.”

  “Bring us tea, Jeremy,” John called to his private secretary. The dark-haired lad had been hovering outside John’s office so he could see Luty. The staff at Widdowes and Walthrop, Merchant Bankers, loved it when the American came to visit. She livened the place up and the guv was always in a good mood after she’d gone. Luty patted Jeremy on his arm as she passed him and stepped into John’s office.

  John followed her inside and settled her into the chair across from his desk. “I’m so glad you’ve come by, Luty. I’ve some news.”

  “Good news, I hope.” Luty grinned. She’d heard gossip and she hoped what she’d heard was true.

  John actually blushed. He was a middle-aged man with a burly build that was muscle and not fat and a head full of honey-colored hair that made him the envy of his friends. Born in the Limehouse Workhouse, his intelligence and hard work had led to his being a founding partner of one of the premier merchant banks in London. Honest, ethical, and decent, he was one of the few bankers in London that Luty trusted wholeheartedly; he didn’t let social class determine his opinion of people.

  “Most definitely.” His cheeks reddened even more. “Actually, I was going to send you a note, but as you’re here, I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” she demanded. “Come on, spill it. I’m an old woman and time’s a’wastin’.”

  “We got married. Chloe and I, we got married in Paris. We’ve just come back.”

  Luty laughed in delight, jumped up, clapped her hands together, and then threw her arms around him in a big hug. “You can thank me now.” She poked him in the ribs. “I had a hand in you two coming together. You’da not met her if it hadn’t been for me cornering the two of you at the Pattisons’ ball.”

  “Thank you, Luty.” John laughed and gave her a good squeeze before letting her go. “Chloe is dying to see you so you must come to dinner soon. As a matter of fact, I think I know why you’re here, so why don’t you come tomorrow night? There might be a bit more news and some very pertinent gossip to be had.”

  “You’re a clever one, aren’t you.” She gave him another poke in the ribs and then plopped down in her chair.

  “I didn’t need to be clever to figure out why you’ve come.” He went around his massive desk and took his seat. “Stephen Bremmer’s death is all over the newspapers. If you read between the lines, there’s substantial speculation that he didn’t die of natural causes. Some of the bolder papers hinted he’d been poisoned, but no one has confirmed it.”

  “And no one will until the police surgeon’s report is finished,” Luty said. “But we’ve got it on good authority that it was murder.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because one of our friends, Dr. Bosworth—he’s helped us on a few of the inspector’s cases—happened to be there that night, and when Bremmer fell ill, he ran to help him. He saw something that made him insist on callin’ in the police. Wiggins—he works for the inspector and does a bit more than that if you take my meanin’—he was there, too.”

  John’s heavy eyebrows rose in surprise. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “They do happen.” Luty shrugged. “I’ve got a whole list of ’em rattlin’ around somewhere in my head, but as I said, I’m an old lady and time’s a
’wastin’. Let me tell ya what we know. Bremmer was attendin’ the Lighterman’s Ball at the Wrexley Hotel and was sittin’ at the head table.” She told him what they knew thus far, taking care to mention every detail and hoping she’d not overlooked anything. “Accordin’ to Wiggins, who is a sharp one, it was probably one of the guests sitting either at the top table or the one next to it that murdered the feller,” she finished.

  “But you just said James Pierce called for two minutes of darkness. Surely that means anyone could have crept close enough to do it,” John said. “Or am I missing something?”

  Luty cringed inwardly. Nell’s bells, she was getting forgetful. “Sorry, my mistake. I shoulda told ya, it was dark but not for the whole two minutes. Sparks started flyin’ off one of the electric lights and the manager turned everything back on. Wiggins is sure the lights weren’t out long enough for anyone from the other tables to have snuck up, tampered with the victim’s drink, and then made it back to their seat.”

  “That makes sense,” John murmured.

  “I’ve not read the morning papers so I don’t know if any of ’em listed the names of the ones sittin’ close enough to Bremmer to kill him,” she began.

  But he held up his hand. “I know who was there. Chloe, who is an early riser, had already read all the papers by the time I joined her for breakfast. And when I say all the newspapers, I mean it literally. She has a real fondness for what some people call the ‘gutter’ press, and they published the names. She knew one or two of them, so do come to supper tomorrow evening.”

  “What time?” Luty asked.

  “Come at six and we’ll eat at seven. Chloe and I don’t hold to the ridiculous custom of eating a full meal at half past eight.”

  “Good, I don’t like eatin’ late, either. Now, what can you tell me about Stephen Bremmer?”

  John had provided important information on several of their past cases. He was discreet and dedicated to the notion that only guilty people should be punished. Growing up poor and friendless, he’d seen firsthand how the rich, the powerful, and the connected got away with the most heinous of crimes.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. His family used to be one of the largest landowners in England, but that was generations ago. They ended up owning a shipping company but Reginald Bremmer, Stephen’s father, drove that into bankruptcy. I’ve heard rumors that he’s completely broke.”

  “So what’s he livin’ on?” Luty asked.

  “His wife’s money,” John replied. “Chloe told me this morning that he only married Anne Bremmer, who is a good ten years his senior, because she was rich.”

  “How about James Pierce? Know anything about him?”

  “Yes, but I can’t say a word as he’s one of my clients and I won’t discuss them . . . No, that’s not right; I will tell you that he’s honest, decent, and incredibly talented in business.”

  “Well, hell’s bells, John.” Luty crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a frown. “That’s not tellin’ me much.”

  “I’m telling you all I can about him.” He grinned. “You know my rules, Luty, I’ll not discuss my clients. That’s why I want you to come to dinner tomorrow night. Believe me, by then Chloe will have found out every morsel of gossip there is to be had about the people at Bremmer’s table. But I can tell you this much: Chloe dropped a few tidbits about Montague Pettigrew this morning at breakfast.”

  “What did she say?” Luty demanded.

  “Enough to make his ears burn.” He broke off as Jeremy entered. The secretary crossed the room and put a loaded tea tray on the side of the desk. “Thank you, Jeremy.” He poured their tea and held up a dainty blue and white china cup. “Sugar?”

  “Two lumps, please.”

  He put the sugar in and stirred the tea with a delicate silver spoon. “According to my lovely wife”—he handed Luty her tea—“Montague Pettigrew is the heir to a rather large fortune, a fortune which now belongs to his uncle, Frederick Montague Pettigrew. The gentleman currently provides his nephew a very generous quarterly allowance and that is what he lives on.” John picked up his cup and took a sip. “Pettigrew is engaged. He’s to be married later this spring. I can’t recall his fiancée’s name.”

  “Camilla Houghton-Jones,” Luty said quickly, delighted that she’d remembered.

  He nodded. “I hope this won’t shock you, Luty, but there were rumors that Pettigrew was in love with an actor.”

  “I notice you didn’t say actress,” Luty replied. “And I’m not shocked. Live and let live, that’s my motto. But even if Pettigrew was in love with someone other than his intended, what of it? It’s not like he could marry this actor, and the class he comes from marry for property, not love.”

  “True, but Pettigrew is desperate for his uncle to remain in the dark about his, er . . . predilections. Old Mr. Pettigrew is very religious and doesn’t even approve of drinking. If he found out his nephew and heir was involved with another man, he’d cut him off without a penny.”

  “Hence, the engagement.” Luty shook her head. “That makes sense. But if Chloe has heard the gossip, surely his fiancée has heard it as well, so why’d she say yes?”

  John shrugged. “It’s possible she doesn’t know. Many young women are very sheltered from the true nature of the world.”

  “And even if she is aware of it,” Luty muttered, “a nice fat fortune goes a long way to easing whatever qualms she might have.”

  John laughed. “Goodness, Luty, you are cynical. Perhaps the young lady is actually in love with Pettigrew.”

  “If she is and he’s in love with someone else, then she’s in for a world of hurt,” Luty said.

  Jeremy stuck his head back into the office. “Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Connolly is here for your meeting.”

  “I’ll be right there,” John said.

  Luty stood up and put her cup on the tray. “Thanks for takin’ time to see me, and you tell that wife of yours I’ll be there tomorrow with bells on!”

  He walked her to the outer office. “Six o’clock, then.”

  Jeremy was standing with an elderly white-haired man wearing an old-fashioned black frock coat and holding a top hat. He bowed politely to Luty and then followed the secretary into the office.

  “You don’t need to see me to the street. You’re busy and I’ve got business with this young feller here.” She pointed at Harry. The lad was gaping at an open sheet of brown paper, on top of which were two rashers of raw bacon.

  John laughed. “I wish I could stay and watch, but I don’t want to keep Mr. Connolly.”

  Luty waited till John’s office door closed behind him and then she marched to Harry’s desk. “Hold out that hand,” she ordered. She shoved her fingers into her cloak again and yanked out a huge, pristine white handkerchief.

  “Is it goin’ to hurt?” Harry asked as he extended his arm toward her.

  “Nah, you’ll feel it a bit later today, but it ain’t goin’ to hurt ya none.” She picked up a slice of bacon, folded it in half, and plopped it directly on top of the boil. Then she grabbed her handkerchief and wound it around his hand, pulling it tight before topping the material into a knot. She wrapped the paper around the unused rasher. “Hang on to this one, and tonight before you go to bed, pull the other one off and put this one on. Now, you leave the bacon on until lunch tomorrow, and when you take it off, the boil will have squirted its pus and you’ll be fit as a fiddle. But just in case this don’t work, if you ain’t better, go to St. Thomas’ Hospital tomorrow and see a feller named Dr. Bosworth. He knows what he’s about and he’ll take good care of that hand.”

  “But I can’t take your handkerchief, ma’am.” Despite the lack of lace or embroidery, Harry could see it was an expensive item.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s only a handkerchief, and what’s more, it don’t even belong to me. Belongs to Hatchet, my butler. I hate them dainty little fema
le hankies. One good blow and they’re as useless as tits on a bull.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The moment she entered the Hanover Gallery, Ruth spotted Octavia Wells. The tall red-haired woman was on the far side of the room, standing between two elegantly dressed women and chatting. She was smartly dressed in a gray suit with a matching gray felt hat trimmed with emerald green feathers.

  As the treasurer of their women’s suffrage society, Octavia knew almost to the penny how much a man or woman in London’s high society was worth. She made it her business to know such things. She worked hard to convey the impression she was simply a society matron, obsessed with gossip, clothes, and parties. In reality, she kept her eyes and ears open and her opinions to herself when she was gathering information about which women might or might not be sympathetic to their cause or angry enough at an errant husband to hand over a nice-sized donation.

  At the meeting this morning, Luty had volunteered to find out about the financial situations of those sitting at the head table with the victim, but Ruth knew that Octavia could help with that as well. She’d mentioned it to Luty as they’d crossed the communal garden to Luty’s carriage, and the elderly American had given her blessing.

  Ruth watched her friend for a moment and then opened her catalogue. She didn’t want to interrupt so she’d wait till Octavia was free. Besides, it had cost a shilling to get inside so she might as well look at the paintings.

  Moving to her left, she stopped in front of the first picture and angled her body so she could keep an eye on Octavia while simultaneously looking at the painting. It was a still life of a vase of wildflowers sitting in a window. She neither liked nor disliked it very much. She moved on to the next one and then the next until she’d seen every single one on this side of the gallery. Finally, the two women moved away from her friend. Ruth waited till they’d gone through the door before she spoke. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve tracked you down? Please say you’ve a few moments to spare for me.”