“How long did the board members stay after the staff had gone?” Witherspoon asked.
He thought for a moment. “Not long, perhaps twenty minutes or half an hour. It doesn’t take long to drink a cup of tea, Inspector.”
“What was everyone doing?” Witherspoon asked.
“People chatted and milled about the office. Nicholas Parr showed us a set of photographs from the American West. Montague Pettigrew was looking at some old manifests—they’re actually quite interesting—and Stephen was staring at one of the paintings on the wall. Camilla Houghton-Jones and Anne Bremmer had gone over to the window. I could see Camilla and Anne were amused by Louise offering to wash up the tea things and, truth be told, so was I. But she’s tried very hard to help me with this event so don’t think I’m not grateful to her. “
“I take it Mrs. Mannion isn’t domestic,” Barnes said.
“She was raised with servants.” He folded his arms over his chest and sat back. “I don’t see how the board meeting had anything to do with Stephen’s murder. Why are you asking all these questions?”
“Background information is very important, Mr. Pierce,” Witherspoon replied. “Additionally, I’d like to get some sense of everyone’s movements and whereabouts on the afternoon of the murder.”
Pierce relaxed. “I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but I was here until five o’clock and then I went home to get ready for the ball. The meeting was over at about half past three and then, as I said, everyone stayed for tea. Most of them left about four. Except for Anne Bremmer and Louise; she went down the hall with the tea things and then came to say good-bye a few minutes later.”
“What about Mrs. Bremmer?” Barnes asked.
“I kept her company while she waited for Louise and then they indicated they were going to share a hansom back to their homes. They live quite close to each other.”
“You’d let the staff go so there is no one who can verify you were here until five that evening,” Witherspoon commented.
“That’s right, but I did stop and speak to Mr. Crawley on my way to the station. He runs the tobacconist stand across the road.”
“Do you keep any poisons on the premises? Rat poisons, prussic acid, anything like that?” Barnes asked.
Witherspoon noticed the constable hadn’t mentioned arsenic.
Pierce laughed. “No, we don’t. My father never liked using poisons, he said they were too dangerous. We use cats. They’re quite efficient and they not only keep the rats out of the warehouse, but they keep them from coming up here.”
“Was this the first meeting of your board?” Witherspoon shifted in a bid to get comfortable.
“No, we had a preliminary meeting on January eighteenth.”
“Was that the first time that Mr. Parr met Stephen Bremmer?”
Pierce’s expression grew wary. “It was.”
“On the eighteenth, Mr. Parr stayed behind to speak to you privately after the others had gone,” Barnes commented. It was a statement, not a question.
“I think you already know the answer to that, Constable,” Pierce retorted. “Nicholas told me that he had it on good authority that Stephen Bremmer was a blackmailer.”
Witherspoon stared at him coldly. “Don’t you think this is information you should have told us immediately? Blackmail could have been the reason Stephen Bremmer was murdered.”
“I doubt that, Inspector.” Pierce got up and walked to the window. “I struggled with whether or not to repeat what I’d heard. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was no proof, you see. I only had Nicholas Parr’s word on the matter and he refused to say how he’d learned it. So I said nothing.” He turned to face them.
“Was that because you didn’t believe Mr. Parr?”
“I believed him; I knew it to be true.”
“How did you know?”
“Because Stephen tried to blackmail me, Inspector.” He sighed, went to his chair, and sat down. “But it was such a stupid, clumsy attempt I simply didn’t take it seriously. Frankly, when Nicholas Parr made the accusation against Stephen, I assumed it was the same sort of ridiculous nonsense he’d tried with me.”
“But you still asked him to be on your board of directors?” The constable met his gaze.
“That’s right. As I just said, I didn’t take him seriously. But what I did take seriously was my promise to my father.” Pierce smiled wryly. “And I believe I’ve already told you about that.”
“What information did the victim claim to have against you?”
“It was so idiotic, it was unbelievable; but then, Stephen was quite stupid.”
“Tell us anyway,” Barnes ordered.
“It happened about seven years ago. I don’t recall the exact date. Stephen asked me to meet him for dinner. I thought it odd as we weren’t friends and had nothing in common, but he insisted. We met at Carnack’s on Oxford Street. He’d already ordered a bottle of wine and was well on his way to being drunk when I arrived. We ordered our dinner and chatted politely. Finally, as the coffee was being served, he told me he knew something about me, something that would ruin my reputation.” Pierce broke off and smiled cynically. “He said he had it on good authority that Elise had gone to America because she was terrified of me. That he knew I had threatened to kill her and our unborn child.”
“What did you say?” Witherspoon asked.
“I laughed in his face.” Pierce leaned forward. “I’m sure by now you’ll have discovered that at one time, Elise and I were very close.” He looked away. “I’d hoped we would marry. But our relationship was not of a carnal nature nor was she ever involved with anyone else. She was certainly not pregnant when she left England.”
“Then why did Bremmer think he could blackmail you?” Barnes stared at him curiously.
“He was desperate for money,” Pierce replied. “Anne had cut him off that quarter and he was about to get tossed out of the only club that still allowed him in as a member.”
“But surely, sir, he had to have known you’d not go along with his foolishness,” Barnes argued. “The two of you have known each other for years. I’ve only met you a few times, but given what I’ve seen and heard about you, you’d be the last person I would think could be blackmailed.”
Pierce gave a genuine laugh. “Thank you, Constable, I think you’ve either complimented me or let me know you think I’m lying. But I’m not. As I’ve said before, Bremmer was a fool. He thought everyone was like him: vile, stupid, and willing to do anything for money and status. He tried it on with me because he knew the firm had expanded and he was hoping I’d pay him off to avoid a scandal. It would have been bad for business. But I didn’t. Instead, I laughed at him and invited him to my home to see all the letters that Elise had written to my wife, Nora.”
“What did he do then?” Witherspoon asked.
“He shrugged, drained his coffee cup, stood up, and said, ‘It was worth a try.’ Then he left, sticking me with the bill.”
* * *
• • •
Hatchet frowned at his host, Reginald Manley. “I’ve been here twice since Christmas, so you can’t accuse me of only coming to see you when I need information.”
“Don’t take him so seriously. Reginald’s just teasing you.” Myra Manley cast a quick frown at her handsome husband. The three of them were sitting in Myra’s comfortable morning room sipping tea. “Regardless of why you’re here, we’re delighted to see you.”
Reginald put his teacup down. “Of course we are. I can’t believe this case involves Elise Newcomb. She’s a brilliant portrait artist. She’s much better than I am.”
Hatchet laughed. Reginald and Myra Manley were always wonderful to visit. He was black-haired, blue-eyed, and middle-aged, but still handsome enough to cause more than one matron to cast an envious glance at his wife, Myra. She was brown-haired, long-faced, and slightl
y bucktoothed. Her face wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but it was compelling. Reginald was an artist but not one who’d found substantial success. Myra was from one of the richest families in London. They’d met, fallen in love, and married against the wishes of just about everyone in both their circles. Neither his bohemian artist friends nor her aristocratic ones could understand the bond between these two. But Hatchet could see it; they were devoted to each other.
They were also devoted to justice and had provided important information on other cases. Reginald had colleagues from the art world in both England and Europe while Myra had access to news and gossip from the wealthiest in London.
“Now, don’t say that, darling,” Myra chided. “You can’t compare the two of you. Even if you both do portraits, you’re still very different. Besides, you’ve only seen one of her paintings. Perhaps the others are dreadful.”
“Where did you see her work?” Hatchet didn’t recall anyone saying that Elise Cory—or Newcomb as she was then—had exhibited in London.
“At her father’s funeral reception,” Reginald replied. “I’d gone to pay my respects because I was acquainted with him and I admired his work. He painted seascapes and still lifes. He was quite successful. But like so many artists, he spent it as soon as he got it and left his poor daughter destitute.”
“But you said she was a brilliant artist,” Myra pointed out. “Why couldn’t she sell her own work? People with money always want their portraits done.”
“Yes, but Elise Newcomb was young and very, very beautiful, so I doubt that many wives would fancy her painting their husband’s picture. Some women, especially rich ones, don’t respect the idea that a woman can even be an artist.”
“Surely that can’t be true,” she protested. “If her work was as good as you claim, even the stupidest of the rich would rather have their portraits done by a woman with talent than a mediocre man.”
“There’s the rub, my dear.” Reginald smiled ruefully. “Very few people would have been able to see her work unless they’d gone to her father’s funeral.”
“But surely she could have had an exhibition. And galleries are always wanting fresh talent.”
“They say that, but it isn’t true. Art galleries are in business to make money, not give budding talent a showcase,” he said. “Getting an exhibit is difficult even for an established male artist. For a young woman, it would have been nigh impossible.”
“Perhaps that is why she left the country,” Hatchet speculated. “Perhaps it’s easier to be accepted as an artist in America.”
“In the West, perhaps, but in the big Eastern cities like Boston or New York it’s much the same as here.” He stretched his shoulders. “But it is easier now than it would have been eight years ago, which I believe is when you said she left England. I’m not saying a woman artist couldn’t be accepted, but it is ten times more difficult for them. Add to that she was so very young when her father died. I doubt anyone would have taken her work seriously.”
“But you saw the portrait she did of him and you said it was brilliant.” Myra sat up straighter.
“And it was, but that doesn’t mean anything,” he argued. “Creativity cannot be equated with commerce and galleries show what they think will make them money. Many wonderful artists never get their work recognized and she was a young woman with only a small body of work. Even if a gallery owner recognized the quality of her talent, they’d have been wary of giving her a chance.”
“Humph, that’s what’s wrong with this world,” Myra said. “Hard work and talent should be rewarded, not gender and prejudice.”
“I agree, darling. On the bright side, I think we’ve made progress in the past eight years. Perhaps now that she’s a rich widow, she’ll buy a gallery and have her own show.” He looked at Hatchet. “Who else might be a person of interest to your inspector?”
“Do either of you know or know anything about James Pierce or Nicholas Parr?”
“Sorry, no,” Reginald said.
Myra gave a negative shake of her head. “I’m afraid not. Anyone else considered a suspect?”
“His wife, Anne Bremmer, she was sitting next to him and could easily have added poison to his glass. Add to that, we’ve heard she made him miserable.”
Myra interrupted. “She did, but as you already know it, go on.”
“Louise Lyndhurst Mannion was on his other side, but I can’t see her murdering him. As far as we know, she had no reason to want him dead, and they grew up together.”
“From the shipping family?” Myra asked.
He nodded. “Do you know her?”
“I’ve met her socially but we’re of different generations so it was only the most superficial of acquaintances.” Her brows drew together. “She’s an odd one, though. Incredibly beautiful, but with such a perfect face, she’s—”
“Boring,” Reginald interrupted.
“Yes, I think so. At one time, she had every young man in society paying court to her. People were quite stunned when she married Osgood Mannion. He was rich but hardly a dashing, romantic figure. He drowned in a boating accident at their country house last year.”
“And she’s now a very rich widow,” Hatchet mused. “As are several of our other suspects.”
“Who else?” Reginald prodded.
“Camilla Houghton-Jones and her fiancé, Montague Pettigrew.” He paused as they exchanged amused glances. “I think I know why you’re smiling. We’ve already heard that Pettigrew was in love with an actor.”
“It’s common knowledge,” Reginald stated. “What I can’t understand is why she wants to marry him.”
“Because he’s going to inherit a fortune.” Myra smiled wryly. “If he can keep his uncle in the dark.”
“But she’s rich herself,” Reginald argued. “With her money, she should be able to do better than Pettigrew. The man’s a silly fool, and I’m not saying that because of the actor fellow.”
“Her family was rich,” Myra corrected. “But all she has is that huge house and an allowance from a trust. Her father lost everything and that big house belonged to her mother, who left it to Camilla. She lives on the interest from the trust and is continuously short of money.”
“How do you know that?” Reginald charged.
“The same way we know everything, darling: gossip. As far as I can see, she and Pettigrew are well suited to each other.”
“So she needs Pettigrew’s inheritance,” Hatchet murmured.
“I imagine so,” Myra said. “From what I’ve heard, Camilla Houghton-Jones is very ambitious socially.”
“As is Anne Bremmer.” Hatchet sipped his tea. “She wants to be presented at court.”
“Ironic, isn’t it.” Myra put her cup down, her expression thoughtful. “Louise Mannion and Elise Newcomb Cory are the only two women involved in this affair that don’t seem at all concerned about their social status.”
“Louise Mannion is,” Reginald said. “I remember her now; I saw her at the Barrington ball. She pranced in as if she owned the place. I doubt she’d allow anyone to sneer at her.”
“True, but only because she always assumes she’s better than everyone else,” Myra declared. “She would have had an irrationally high opinion of herself even if she’d been born poor. Her character is very strong; she’s never cared what people think of her.”
“How do you know that?” Hatchet asked.
“Because she fell in love with a man from the working class, and despite it causing a minor scandal, she declared she’d never give him up. At one point her father almost disowned her. But they reconciled and her father agreed that if she went on a European tour for six months, when she returned, she could marry the man of her choice.”
“So he gave in to his daughter’s demands? Why? He was the one with the money.” Reginald looked skeptical.
“Because she was
all her father had left.” Myra smiled triumphantly. “Her father wouldn’t cut her off because her brother had died.”
“But she agreed to leave the man she loved for six months,” Hatchet pointed out.
“Yes, but perhaps she thought that it was worth leaving if she got to marry him when she returned.”
“All right, I’ll grant you that one, but why didn’t she marry this pauper when she returned?” Reginald asked.
“Because by the time she got back from Europe he’d married someone else.”
* * *
• • •
“Let me go first,” Luty demanded when everyone, except Wiggins, had settled at the table. “I’ve got to get home so I can get ready to go to dinner tonight.”
“Of course, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“But Wiggins isn’t here yet,” Phyllis protested. “Shouldn’t we wait for him?”
“You can tell him later,” Luty replied. “I spent most of the day with bankers and tryin’ to get anything interestin’ out of that tight-lipped bunch would take a miracle. But I got one. I found out somethin’ good.”
“Do tell, madam,” Hatchet said.
“Camilla Houghton-Jones is desperate for money. She’s got creditors chasin’ her and she’s been pestering Pettigrew to set the date for the wedding. The gossip is that Pettigrew’s uncle is going to give the two of ’em a hefty settlement when they marry.” Luty stood up. “That’s all I found out; now I’m goin’ to git home to change into my clothes for my dinner out. Hatchet, you listen sharp so you can tell me what everyone said later tonight.”
“I’ll probably have retired by the time you come home.” He sniffed disapprovingly.
“You still have your nose out of joint because I’m lettin’ Jon accompany me tonight instead of you,” she accused. “I’m only doin’ it so you can stay here and hear what’s what. We can’t both miss the meetin’. I’ll see you at home tonight.” She hurried off down the back corridor.
Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods Page 16
