Mrs. Jeffries Delivers the Goods

by Emily Brightwell

  “We were wondering if he’d tried to blackmail you, sir,” Barnes asked softly.

  Pettigrew’s right eye began to twitch. “Certainly not. That’s a ridiculous idea. What are you trying to imply? There’s nothing in my life that anyone, even a blackguard like Stephen Bremmer, could possibly know about me that would constitute grounds for blackmail.”

  “Mr. Pettigrew.” Witherspoon wasn’t sure how to phrase the question, but in all fairness it had to be asked. “I’m sorry to say this, but we’ve heard that there is something in your life that could cause you great harm, both legally and socially.”

  Pettigrew drew back and took a deep breath. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean. What’s more, I’m going to contact my solicitor immediately.”

  “That might be a good idea,” Witherspoon agreed, his expression sympathetic. “As the constable just said, what we’ve heard is not only socially unacceptable, but it is also illegal.”

  “Oh, dear God, I didn’t kill the bastard.” Pettigrew’s eyes filled with tears. “Please, please, if this comes out I’ll be ruined. He’s been bleeding me dry for months now, ever since my engagement to Camilla was announced. You must believe me. I hated him, but I didn’t murder the man.”

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Witherspoon said.

  “Can we sit down, please?” Barnes asked. He nodded toward the ugly dun-colored horsehair sofa.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I should have asked you sooner. Forgive me, please. I was just so upset when you walked into the room.” He hung his head. “I should have known it would all come out. I thought he cared about me, but obviously, Andre isn’t one to keep his mouth shut.”

  “I’m not sure who you’re referring to,” Witherspoon said as he sank into the thin cushions of the sofa, “but that’s not who we spoke with.”

  “He didn’t betray me, then.” Pettigrew brightened. “That’s some consolation, I suppose. Oh, dear God, what am I going to do?”

  “The wisest course of action, sir, is to answer our questions honestly.” The constable pulled out his notebook and pencil, flipped open the pages, and balanced it on his knee. “First of all, you admit that Stephen Bremmer was blackmailing you?”

  Pettigrew nodded dully. “Yes, as I said, two days after our engagement was announced in the newspapers, Bremmer paid me a visit. I don’t know how he’d done it, but he had some letters in his possession, letters I’d written to Andre Bellefleur, the actor. He said that if I didn’t pay him, he’d show the letters to my uncle.” He broke off and closed his eyes.

  “I presume your uncle would have disapproved?” Witherspoon murmured.

  “My uncle believes the Church of England is too liberal. He doesn’t smoke, drink, gamble, or enjoy life in any way, shape, or form. What’s more, he thinks that those of us that do enjoy life in any way, shape, or form ought to be punished accordingly.”

  “Why did it matter what your uncle thought?” Barnes already knew the answer, but he wanted Pettigrew to say it in front of the inspector.

  He laughed cynically. “Or course it mattered. I’m his heir. He’s a very rich man and I’m the only family he has left. But if he found out about my relationship with Andre, he’d cut me off without a penny and leave it all to the Great Awakening Bible Society.”

  Witherspoon nodded. “Is your uncle the only person who might be upset if they, er . . . uh . . . You’re engaged to be married, Mr. Pettigrew. Does Miss Houghton-Jones know about your uh—”

  “My past,” Pettigrew interrupted. “She might or she might not. But even if she did, I doubt it would bother her greatly. She needs this inheritance as much as I do. We’re not in love romantically but we do admire and respect each other. We get along well and we genuinely like each other. That’s more than many couples have, and despite what people may think, I’m quite prepared to fulfill all of my obligations as a husband.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I tell ya, that woman is in league with the devil.” Norma Baumgarten picked up her tankard of ale and took a drink.

  Phyllis nodded in agreement and took a sip of her beer. She hated the taste, but she had no choice if she wanted the woman to keep talking. Her day had started out as they usually did when she was on the hunt; she’d gone to the shops near the Bremmer home and started asking what she hoped were very discreet questions. Apparently, she’d not been discreet enough because as she was leaving the baker’s, she’d been accosted by one Norma Baumgarten, a red-haired, blue-eyed, pockmarked woman of late middle age who claimed she worked for Anne Bremmer. She’d insisted on the two of them coming to this pub, but now, after buying the woman a second tankard of ale, Phyllis was beginning to think she’d been tricked.

  “You’ve said that several times.” Phyllis put her beer mug down on the counter. “But you’ve not said anything specific. How do I know you even work for Mrs. Bremmer?”

  Norma eyed her suspiciously. “I’ve told you who I work for. You’re the one that isn’t bein’ honest. I heard you askin’ all them questions at the baker’s shop and tryin’ to pretend you was lost and lookin’ for the Bremmer house, but that’s not true, is it?”

  Phyllis studied her adversary for a few moments. Despite the alcohol she’d imbibed, Norma’s eyes were crystal clear. “You’re right, I’m not lost. I’m a private inquiry agent and I’ve been hired to look into the murder of Stephen Bremmer.”

  Norma’s jaw dropped. “You a private inquiry agent? That’s nonsense, you’re a woman. Whoever heard of a woman doing such a job?”

  She sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and gave her opponent a slow, knowing smile. “Of course no one has heard of such a thing, that’s why I’m so good at it. Now, why don’t you tell me what it is you know? I’ve bought you two tankards, and if you’re as clever as I think you are, you can tell me lots of things that may help me.” She waited to see how Norma would react and was both pleased and surprised when Norma shrugged and took another drink of her ale.

  Phyllis struggled to keep her expression calm. She couldn’t believe she’d done it. This was like a scene from one of those wonderful plays she loved in the West End theaters. She was delighted by her own audacity. She was truly a heroine. She couldn’t believe she’d had the courage not only to say such things but to actually use her smile and her body to convey the same message.

  Norma slammed her tankard onto the tabletop. “Right, then, what do you want to know?”

  “You said Mrs. Bremmer was in league with the devil. What did you mean?”

  “What do ya think? She’s a mean one, she is.” Norma leaned across the small table. “She found out he didn’t care anymore that she wasn’t goin’ to give him a settlement, he was goin’ to leave her anyway. I overheard her talkin’ to one of her friends and she said that if he left her, she’d never get presented at court and that’s what the stupid woman lived for, can you believe it? She’s got ten times more than any of us but the only thing the stupid woman wants is to meet the ruddy Queen.”

  “How did she know he was going to leave her?” Phyllis knew this was the most important question. “Had he told her that he was going?”

  Norma shook her head. “He never told her nothing.” She waved her empty tankard under Phyllis’ nose. She took the hint and signaled to the barmaid for another. Neither of them said anything until the woman brought the ale.

  Phyllis paid her and waited until Norma had taken a long swig. Then she said, “How did she know?”

  “She overheard him braggin’ to one of his mates that he had something in the works that was goin’ to make him a lot of money, enough lolly so that he didn’t need a settlement from her nibs.”

  Phyllis wasn’t sure she believed the woman. “That was stupid of him. Where and when did this happen?”

  Norma’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m lyin’? I’m not. He wasn’t ver
y smart and he was always trying to impress people. It happened less than two weeks ago. I remember because it was my afternoon out and I was tryin’ to get the downstairs done so I could leave right after lunch.”

  “Who was he talking to?”

  “One of them idiot friends of his from the only club that will still have him as a member. He’d invited the fellow for luncheon because Mrs. Bremmer was supposed to be out and gone to a fancy birthday do. I was out in the hall when it happened and I saw her standing by the drawing room door with her ear pressed to the wood. He thought she’d gone but she’d come back because she’d forgotten to take the gift she’d bought special for the hostess. Mr. Bremmer had a loud voice and you could hear him clear as the church bells on Sunday morning.”

  “What was he saying?”

  “Exactly what I just told you. That it didn’t matter if the cow—that’s what he called her when she wasn’t around—gave him any money or not. He had something big planned and it would give him enough so that he could do what he liked for the rest of his life.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Camilla Houghton-Jones was as unhappy with their reappearance in her drawing room as her fiancé had been. She stopped in the doorway and glared at the two policemen. “Really, Inspector, how long must you keep intruding into our lives? This is getting most tiresome.”

  “I imagine Stephen Bremmer thought being poisoned was tiresome as well,” Witherspoon replied. “Miss Houghton-Jones, we’re not here to harass you, but we do have a murder to solve.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I know about it.” She flounced into the room and sank down on the sofa.

  “Have you, ma’am?” Barnes fixed her with a hard stare.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Of course I have. Oh, do get on with it. Ask your wretched questions and then get out. I’ve an appointment with my dressmaker soon and I don’t wish to keep her waiting. I’m being fitted for my wedding dress, and frankly, that is more important to me than worrying about who put arsenic in Stephen Bremmer’s champagne.”

  Witherspoon glanced at Barnes. A thin, white line of pain circled the constable’s mouth and he realized his knee was probably hurting. “This will go faster if we can sit down,” he said. “The constable needs to be able to take notes.”

  She hesitated before finally giving a bare nod of assent. They each took a seat in one of the chairs catty-corner to the sofa. The inspector stayed silent while Barnes pulled out his pencil and notebook.

  Witherspoon tried to think of a polite way to broach the subject he and the constable had discussed only this morning. Barnes had a large network of informants, and after their visit to Montague Pettigrew, he’d realized the constable’s sources had been correct. It had been embarrassing enough to bring up the subject to Pettigrew; it was going to be dreadful to bring it up to a refined woman. But justice had to be served and the truth had to come out. He cleared his throat. “Miss Houghton-Jones, this is a very lovely house.”

  She drew back in surprise. “Yes, it’s been in my family for generations. But I hardly see what my home has to do with Stephen Bremmer.”

  “It takes a lot of money to keep up a place like this, doesn’t it,” Barnes interjected.

  “That’s not your business,” she snapped. “Look, if you’ve questions to ask me, get on with it.”

  “Did you know that Bremmer was blackmailing people?” Witherspoon blurted. He’d tried taking the long way around the issue, tried to soften what was going to be a blow by discussing the costs of living in her social set, but she was having none of it.

  An ugly red flush crept up her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about and, what’s more, it’s disgraceful to say such awful things about a man who is no longer here to defend himself.”

  Witherspoon remained quiet, staring at her and hoping she’d keep talking.

  “What you’re implying is vile and disgusting”—she leapt to her feet—“and I won’t have such things discussed in a decent home.”

  “Please sit down, Miss Houghton-Jones,” the inspector said. “You’ll be more comfortable answering our inquiries here than at the station. Mr. Pettigrew has already admitted that Bremmer was blackmailing him. Now the only question is, was he blackmailing you as well?”

  She sat down, staring off into the distance as the blood drained out of her face and she turned a deathly white. “He was a horrible man and I’m glad someone poisoned him. I only wish he’d suffered even more than he did.”

  “You were sitting very close to him; did you put the poison in his glass?” Barnes asked. “You could have easily done it when the lights were out.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Was he blackmailing you?” Witherspoon pressed.

  She gave a harsh laugh. “Of course he was. He had his hand in everyone’s pocket.”

  “When did it start?” Witherspoon asked.

  “He came to see me the day after my engagement to Montague was announced in the newspapers. He pretended it was a social call but it soon became apparent he was after much more. He began dropping hints about how awful it would be if Montague didn’t inherit from his uncle.” She broke off and gave him a sharp look. “I presume you know about my fiancé’s expectations?”

  “We do, Miss Houghton-Jones, please go on.”

  “At first I couldn’t fathom what he was going on about, but then I realized that all the rumors I’d heard about him were true, that he blackmailed members of his own set and he had set his sights on me.”

  “How much did he ask for?” Barnes asked.

  “More than I could give,” she admitted. “He wanted fifty pounds a month. I told him that was impossible, that my personal allowance couldn’t stretch that far and he’d have to be content with fifteen. He didn’t believe me; he kept arguing with me even when I explained that this house and the servants’ wages and even my clothes were paid for out of a trust that I couldn’t touch. He started yelling that my family had plenty of money and if I didn’t give him what he asked, he’d show everyone Montague’s letters to that actor.” She closed her eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. “I got angry then and I slapped him across the face. I said if he did such a thing, I’d make sure he was a social pariah and he’d not be welcome in any decent home for the rest of his life.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “Not at first. He sneered at me and said that I wasn’t the only one with influential friends. He claimed that Louise Mannion and the Bremmers would come to his defense.” She looked at the inspector and smiled cynically. “But I held my ground. I may not have any money, but my family does, and if I was to be socially ruined, they’d make sure the man who did it was ruined as well.”

  “So he agreed to your terms?” Witherspoon pressed.

  She nodded. “Reluctantly, but he saw that I wasn’t going to relent. I wasn’t going to let him ruin Montague’s and my life.”

  “Did you mean it?” Barnes stared at her curiously. “Forgive my asking, ma’am, but you don’t appear to be in love with Mr. Pettigrew, yet you’d risk social ruin for his sake.”

  “What makes you think I don’t love my fiancé? I know exactly what he is, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him and I know he cares for me. We’re good together and we bring each other a measure of genuine happiness. Why should our love, just because it’s different, be any less important than any other?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to imply anything,” Barnes said softly.

  “I realize Montague and I are now suspects, but you’d be foolish just to focus your investigation on us.” She got to her feet.

  “Why is that, ma’am?” Witherspoon got up as well.

  She smiled slowly. “Because the only person Bremmer wasn’t blackmailing at the table that night was probably his wife, but he’d have done it to her if he could.”

  * * *
>
  • • •

  Mrs. Jeffries dug her feet into the floor as the omnibus jolted over a bump on the road. She stared out the window, past the matron sitting next to her, her mind so intent on her thoughts that the streets of London, generally something she enjoyed watching, barely registered. She went over and over everything she and Dr. Bosworth had discussed. There was no doubt the postmortem was done correctly and that Bremmer had indeed been poisoned, but she, like Dr. Bosworth, thought the sequence of events didn’t make sense. But perhaps she was wrong. Even Dr. Bosworth, who knew a great deal more about poisons than she did, thought the current method of understanding arsenic wasn’t foolproof; that a variety of other factors could possibly influence the length of time it took for a dose to be fatal. Frowning, she thought back to some of their previous cases and then realized that neither of the two poison cases she could recall involved arsenic. Think, Hepzibah, think, she told herself. You must know something about poisons. You’ve read about them in books and magazines, surely you can recall something that might be useful. But the trouble was, she had no way of knowing what was an old wives’ tale from what was fact. Mrs. Vincent, who lived next door to her when she lived in Yorkshire, swore rat poison, or arsenic, could be used to polish silver. Her other neighbor, Mrs. Teasdale, insisted that she was wrong, that poison ruined metals. But as neither of them had so much as a silver spoon in their homes, no one ever knew the truth of it. Then there was Harriet Hockman, another Yorkshire neighbor who used arsenic because she thought it stopped wrinkles, and old Mrs. Lark, the village crone who girls seeking love charms and poor people who couldn’t afford doctors went to for help; she prescribed it for everything from insomnia to food poisoning. But that was years ago; surely no one believed this nonsense now, and even if someone did, what could it possibly have to do with Bremmer’s murder?

  The vehicle plodded along, stopping at three-minute intervals to let passengers on and off. She sighed inwardly and gave up trying to make sense of the science of the murder. Taking a deep breath, she let her mind drift and flow of its own accord. Snippets of their meetings mingled with facts. “The lights didn’t stay out for a full two minutes” intertwined with “Stephen Bremmer was only good at one thing: making enemies.”