Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “I’m fine, sir,” he replied. “The report arrived, and as instructed, I read it. Dr. Bosworth and the police surgeon were both right, sir. The victim was poisoned with arsenic. There were traces in his stomach, his mouth, and his champagne flute.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “I hope you didn’t have too difficult a time finding us.”

  “Not at all, sir. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll head back to the Wrexley Hotel. We’ve not finished interviewing the staff.”

  Witherspoon nodded and the three men went to Liverpool Street Station. Griffiths went inside to catch a local while the inspector and Barnes found a hansom.

  “What did you think of Mr. Pierce and Mrs. Cory?” Barnes braced himself as the hansom took the corner too fast. They were on their way to Belgravia to interview the widow.

  “I’m not certain what to think. James Pierce made it quite clear he had no liking for the victim, but perhaps he’s only being honest because he knows we’d find out anyway.”

  “You could say the same about Mrs. Cory, sir. She gave the appearance of being forthright about her previous feelings toward Bremmer while at the same time dismissing his importance to her current circumstances. Seems to me both of them were workin’ a bit too hard to convince us they considered the victim nothing more than a borin’ nuisance. What’s more, it’s as plain as the nose on your face that James Pierce was doin’ everything he could to protect Mrs. Cory.”

  “Agreed. I think the man is in love with her. Camilla Houghton-Jones and Montague Pettigrew gave us the same impression.” Witherspoon tapped his chin with a gloved finger. “But it could well be that any or all of them are lying. Constable Griffiths just confirmed that the arsenic was in Bremmer’s champagne glass, and from what we’ve learned of the man’s character, he didn’t do it himself.”

  “Maybe the widow will be able to shed some light on the situation.” Barnes grabbed the handhold as the hansom lurched to a hard stop.

  “Let’s hope so.” Witherspoon dug both his heels into the floor to keep from tumbling forward. “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “What is, sir?”

  “The number of coincidences there are in this case. The Wrexley Hotel, Dr. Bosworth and Wiggins being on the scene so to speak.”

  “Mrs. Cory showing up here unexpectedly,” the constable added.

  “And all the widows and widowers there were at that table.” He stared out the window, his expression thoughtful. “Mrs. Mannion is a widow, Mrs. Cory is widowed, and Mr. Pierce is a widower. What’s strange about it is they’re all relatively young.”

  “Mrs. Cory was at the next table,” Barnes corrected. “But I see what you mean, three of ’em, all without a husband or wife and all of them with a bit of history between them.”

  “Do we know how their respective spouses died?”

  The hansom jerked forward again. “No sir, we don’t, but I’ll make it a point to find out.”

  They discussed the case as the cab drove through the crowded afternoon traffic. By the time the rig pulled up in front of the Bremmer home, the sky had gone dark and mean. “Looks like a storm is coming,” the inspector said.

  The widow Bremmer lived on a small street off Eaton Square. The house was a six-story white town house at the end of the row on Rotwell Place. A black wrought-iron fence enclosed the staircase leading to the lower ground floor, the front door was painted a shiny black, and the brass door knocker was so highly polished, Barnes could see his reflection. He lifted the knocker and released it.

  When the door opened, a butler stared at them. “Yes, what do you want? This house is in mourning and the mistress isn’t receiving visitors.”

  “We are well aware that there’s been a death in the family,” Barnes said. “That’s the reason we’ve come.”

  “Please tell Mrs. Bremmer it’s imperative we speak with her,” Witherspoon added quickly.

  “Wait here.” He slammed the door.

  Neither of them spoke as they stood on the stoop. Witherspoon looked up as he felt a drop of rain splat against his spectacles. It began to rain in earnest just as the door reopened and the butler waved them inside. “She’ll see you.”

  The foyer was impressive. The walls were a bright white, the floor an intricate hex pattern of black, white, and brown diamond-shaped tiles, and the staircase was a polished dark wood that climbed to a first-floor landing before gracefully curving upward. A red ceramic umbrella stand decorated with gold Celtic knots stood by the door, and next to it was a huge hall stand complete with mirror and a bench seat upholstered in crimson velvet.

  The butler led them down the long hallway to a set of open double doors. “The police are here, madam,” he announced.

  They stepped inside and the inspector took a quick moment to survey his surroundings. The walls were pale green and liberally covered with portraits and paintings. Black runners were draped over the fireplace and mantel as well as on all the many tabletops and cabinets. The heavy velvet curtains were closed and the only spot of real color was the emerald green and cream striped upholstery on the empire style furniture.

  Anne Bremmer, wearing high-necked widow’s weeds, sat in the center of the sofa and stared at them. “Don’t just stand there, come in and get about your business.”

  Witherspoon moved toward her. “I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. You’re Mrs. Stephen Bremmer.”

  “I am. Was Stephen murdered?” She didn’t ask them to sit down.

  “Yes, ma’am, he was,” the inspector replied. He saw Barnes take out his notebook and pencil. “Unfortunately, that means we must ask you a number of questions.”

  “Get on with it, then. I’ve a lot to do now.”

  “First of all, please accept our condolences for your loss,” the inspector began, but she interrupted.

  “I said to get on with it.”

  “Do you know of anyone who wanted your husband dead?” Barnes asked.

  “Many people probably wanted him dead,” she retorted. “He was not a nice person. What exactly killed him?”

  “Arsenic, ma’am, there was arsenic in the champagne flute.” Witherspoon saw no reason not to tell her. Despite their best efforts, most details of a murder ended up in the newspapers. “Were you sitting next to your husband the entire time the lights were out?”

  “Of course. It was dark.”

  “Did you hear anyone moving about in the darkness?” Barnes asked. “Anyone coming close to your table?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “There might have been someone walking behind us, but I can’t be sure. It wasn’t noisy per se, but it wasn’t quiet, either. I could hear the kitchen noises and there were people scraping chairs and coughing; that sort of thing.”

  “Do you think it possible that if indeed there was someone moving about behind you, that person could have successfully put arsenic in Mr. Bremmer’s glass?” Witherspoon didn’t think such a scenario likely, but it had to be addressed.

  “Only if they could see in the dark, Inspector.” She gave him a slight smile. “We were all blinded when the electricity was turned off. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to what little light came in through the lobby and the street.”

  “What time did you and your husband arrive at the ball?” Barnes wished he could sit down.

  “I arrived a few minutes before it was due to commence,” she replied. “I’ve no idea what time Stephen arrived.”

  “You came separately?” Witherspoon couldn’t keep a note of surprise out of his voice.

  “We did. Stephen had things to do that afternoon and I presume he came by hansom cab. I took the carriage.”

  “What exactly was your husband doing before he came to the ball?” Barnes asked.

  “I don’t know. He wasn’t in the habit of explaining his comings and goings to me.” She shrug
ged as if it didn’t matter.

  “Wouldn’t he have had to come home to change into his evening clothes?” Witherspoon knew the corpse hadn’t been wearing daytime attire.

  “I suppose, but if he did, we didn’t see each other. I was busy getting ready myself.”

  “So you’ve no idea what he was doing in the hours before he was murdered?” Barnes was incredulous. He knew many marriages weren’t happy, especially upper-class ones where the principals were more interested in property than passion, but she was the coldest woman he’d ever seen.

  “I believe he muttered something about going to his tailor,” she shrugged. “You can ask Rankin if he knows.”

  “Who is Rankin?” Witherspoon asked.

  “He’s a footman. Sometimes Stephen tells him where he’ll be. I don’t know why, but I’ve heard him do it a time or two.”

  “Do you keep arsenic in the house?” Barnes fixed her with a hard stare.

  “Of course. We use it to kill vermin.”

  “Where do you store it?”

  Again, she shrugged. “I’ve no idea. That would be something you’d need to ask Mrs. Martin. The housekeeper takes care of that sort of thing. Shall I ring for her?”

  “No, ma’am, we’ll speak to her and the footman after we’ve finished here. I presume we can talk with them downstairs?” Witherspoon wasn’t going to question a servant in front of their employer.

  “If you must.” She sighed and glanced at the clock on the side table. “How much longer will you be? I’ve got to speak to the vicar and send a number of telegrams telling the family what’s happened.”

  “Not much longer, ma’am,” Witherspoon assured her. “Was your husband at the head table when you arrived?”

  Considering how everyone they’d interviewed had described the events leading up to Bremmer’s death, Witherspoon didn’t think it likely that the killer could have put arsenic in the victim’s champagne glass when the lights went out so quietly and stealthily that he or she was neither seen nor heard.

  “No, when I arrived, he was standing near the table but he’d not sat down.”

  “Was anyone sitting at the head table?” Barnes had realized the same thing as the inspector, that the glass might not have been poisoned when the lights went out.

  She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you see anyone in the vicinity?” Witherspoon pressed. The arsenic hadn’t leapt into Bremmer’s flute on its own. Someone had to have put it there. “Please, Mrs. Bremmer, I understand this is dreadful for you, but please, think hard. It’s very important.”

  She looked confused. “But there were so many people there that night, I don’t know . . . Oh, let me think, give me a moment.”

  “Take as much time as you need, ma’am.”

  She closed her eyes. “I’m trying to remember. I’m trying to think back to mentally retrace my steps. Yes, now that you’ve brought it up, there was someone there, someone hovering near the tables. Oh my Lord, she wasn’t just hovering, she was right there. How could I have forgotten? Of course, I knew the moment I saw her that it was going to raise eyebrows.”

  “Who did you see, Mrs. Bremmer? Who was it?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I remember now.” She shook her head incredulously. “I can’t believe I forgot because just a few minutes later after we’d all sat down, James made a spectacle of himself and then Stephen taunted Louise and even Camilla was talking about her.”

  By this time, both policemen could guess the identity of the woman Anne Bremmer claimed to have seen.

  But the inspector wanted to be sure. “Please tell us the name of the person you saw.”

  “It was Elise Cory.”

  “You’re certain?” Barnes wasn’t sure he believed her. “A few moments ago you couldn’t remember.”

  “Thinking about it brought it all back,” she replied. “And it was definitely her. She was standing right in front of the table reading the place cards. I saw her pick one up and then put it down.”

  “Could you tell which card it was she picked up?” Witherspoon asked.

  “From where she was standing, it could have been anyone who was sitting near the center. Mine or Stephen’s or even Louise’s card.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Smythe stepped into the Dirty Duck Pub and stopped for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the dim lighting. He’d spent most of the day at pubs and hansom cab shelters near the Bremmer house and the only thing he’d found out was what they already knew: No one liked the man. He didn’t want to show up with nothing to say at this afternoon’s meeting, so he decided to get help from his old friend Blimpey Groggins.

  Blimpey, a portly, ginger-haired man with a ruddy complexion and a face as round as a pie plate, was sitting at his usual table reading a newspaper. He owned the Dirty Duck along with a number of other properties in London but he made his living buying and selling information. He had people working for him at the newspapers, the shipping lines, the courts, the customs houses, all the pawnshops used by fences, insurance companies, estate agents, Parliament, Whitehall, and—rumor had it—he even had a source or two planted at Buckingham Palace. His enemies claimed he’d sell to anyone, but that wasn’t true; he had a hard-and-fast rule that he’d never sell information that he knew would harm a woman or a child.

  He knew what was going on in London’s upper echelon of society as well as who was doing what to whom in both the criminal underworld and the business community. Blimpey charged his clients a pretty penny but Smythe never haggled over the expense. He had plenty of money. Years earlier, he’d returned from Australia a rich man and he’d invested wisely, so his wealth had continued to grow. Blimpey, Betsy, Mrs. Jeffries, and his bankers were the only people in London who knew the truth about his finances.

  Blimpey looked up from his paper as Smythe approached. “I wondered if you’d be along.” He put the paper to the side. “Your guv must’ve caught that Bremmer case.”

  “How do you know there’s a case?” Smythe slid onto the stool. “They only think it’s a murder. They’ll not know for certain until the postmortem is finished.”

  “The postmortem is finished and the report is already at the Ladbroke Road Police Station.” Blimpey laughed. “Bremmer was poisoned. There was enough arsenic in his gut to kill a ruddy elephant.”

  Smythe wasn’t surprised that Blimpey already knew the contents of the report. Considering how he made his living, that was only to be expected. “You find out how it got into said gut?”

  “The champagne flute,” Blimpey replied. “But your guv will give those details to Mrs. Jeffries and she’ll pass them along to you lot. You’re here because you’re wantin’ to find out about who might have wanted to put the arsenic inside Stephen Bremmer.”

  “True. What can you tell me?”

  “A lot of people hated him.”

  “That’s what I ’eard today.” Smythe stared at him curiously. “You’re good, but how did you find out so fast?”

  “It pains me to admit that it’s a coincidence rather than brilliance on my part, but Bremmer’s name has come up before in my inquiries. Generally, I keep my customers’ inquiries confidential, but in this case, it’ll be alright to tell ya.” He broke off as Eldon, his man-of-all-work, came out from the storage room carrying a keg.

  “You want somethin’?” Eldon called to Smythe. He went behind the bar and eased the small barrel onto the counter.

  “Nothin’, thanks,” Smythe said quickly. He was good at holding his liquor but he’d already had to down several pints today and another glass would be sure to muddle his mind.

  “Like I was sayin’, I generally keep my clients’ business private, but the client in this case is long dead.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Vincent Lester. He’s the father of Anne Bremmer, Stephen Bre
mmer’s wife. He hired me to get the goods on Stephen as he didn’t want his daughter marryin’ the fellow. The Lesters are rich and he was sure Stephen was marryin’ her for her money. He was dead right about that.”

  “But she ended up marryin’ ’im anyway?”

  “That’s right. They say love is blind but in her case it must have been deaf and dumb as well.”

  “What ’ad he done?”

  “It wasn’t what he’d done—though that was bad enough—it was what he was: mean-spirited, foulmouthed, arrogant, and worst of all, poor. Vincent Lester did everything he could to keep him away from his daughter, but Bremmer latched on to her like a ruddy leach and wouldn’t let go.”

  “Why didn’t the old man threaten to cut her off if she married him?” Smythe asked. “Isn’t that what rich fathers usually do to make their daughters see sense?”

  “He threatened her, but she called his bluff and as she was of age she married Bremmer. But Vincent Lester had the last laugh. He made sure everything she inherited was hers and hers alone. She has complete control of her money. Supposedly, when Bremmer found out he had a right fit. He threatened to take the estate to court, but as he had such a bad reputation for not payin’ his bills, there wasn’t a competent solicitor in London who’d take his case, nor a decent barrister to argue it in court.”

  “What a miserable way to live your life.” Smythe shook his head, thinking of the happiness he’d found with Betsy and their child. Luck had been with him when he’d come back from Australia and on the spur of the moment decided to go to Upper Edmonton Gardens. He’d wanted to pay his respects to his previous employer, Euphemia Witherspoon, Inspector Witherspoon’s aunt.

  That decision had changed his life.

  He’d found the poor woman deathly ill and being cared for by a very young footman, Wiggins. The other servants were robbing her blind so he’d sacked them all, sent Wiggins to find a doctor, and set about taking care of his old friend.

  But medical help came too late, and despite the doctor’s best efforts, Euphemia Witherspoon couldn’t be saved. Before she died, she made Smythe promise that despite his not needing employment, he’d stay on at Upper Edmonton Gardens and see that her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, was properly looked after. Smythe agreed to remain long enough to make certain he had a household that wouldn’t take advantage of him. He’d stayed on as Witherspoon’s coachman, and before long, Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Goodge, and then his beloved Betsy had been added to the household. Then they’d started investigating murders and they’d become a family. The only fly in his ointment now was the worry that Wiggins and Mrs. Goodge would find out he’d not told them the truth about his circumstances and had continued to keep it secret for such a long time.