Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (23 page)

“What ’ave I done?” Smythe sank down on the stool.

“What have you done?” Blimpey repeated. “What have you done? Let me tell you what you’ve done: you’ve given me the worst advice I ever had. Nell’s so angry she’s not said a kind word to me since I took your bloomin’ advice and told her the truth about Tommy and his mum.”

Smythe was dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say. “But everything was fine last evening,” he blurted. “I saw you less than twelve hours ago and you never said a word.”

“Twelve hours ago I hadn’t told Nell the truth,” Blimpey shot back. “But after you left, I decided it was the right time. Nell was in nice mood and we was havin’ a nice natter about the upstairs curtains. So I told her the truth. Well, guess what, Smythe? She wasn’t in the least happy about the wild oats I’d sowed in my past.”

Smythe grimaced. “Oh Blimpey, I’m sorry. I thought she’d be reasonable.”

“And what’s more,” Blimpey continued, “Tommy’s mum is furious at me as well. Seems she liked things the way they were and didn’t appreciate the fact that now there’s a few people about who know Tommy’s my lad and not her dead husband’s. Though I can’t see that she really thought she was foolin’ anyone. Tommy were born eleven months after Angus died.”

“But you kept her son from bein’ hanged,” Smythe protested. He was willing to take the blame for Nell being angry, but he drew the line at Tommy’s mum. They’d done her a great favor. “I mean, you come to us . . .”

Blimpey waved him off impatiently. “I know what you meant.” “I’m sorry, Blimpey,” Smythe said. “I never meant for this to happen.” He would never, ever give anyone advice about women as long as he lived.

“Oh, what’s the use?” Blimpey sighed heavily. “I know it’s not really your fault. I was goin’ to tell Nell the truth all along.”

“Then why’d you ask my advice?” Smythe demanded.

“Because if things went wrong, which they did, I’d have you to blame.” He grinned broadly.

“I didn’t mean for my advice to cause you grief. But remember, you did ask me and all I did was tell you what I thought.”

“I know, I know. Like I said, it’s not your fault. Besides, Nell will get over it and so will Tommy’s good mother.” He sighed again. “Edna’s just a bit embarrassed, but once she gets past that, she’ll be fine. Now, let’s get down to business.” He caught the barmaid’s attention. “Two pints, please.”

“What have you got for me?” Smythe was relieved to be moving off this sticky subject.

“Quite a bit, actually.” Blimpey leaned forward. “Half of London disliked your Mr. Boyd. Turns out that Maud Sapington loathed him so much, she used her influence to try and get him turfed out of the Amateur Artists Guild, but he fought back by givin’ ’em a huge donation, so she wasn’t able to do much except sully his reputation.”

Smythe nodded. “Yeah, that’s what we’ve found out.”

“As for the guests that were comin’ to luncheon that day, the one you might want to keep your eye on is Walter Gibbons.” He smiled at the barmaid as she brought them their beer. “Thanks, love.”

Smythe waited until the barmaid had moved out of earshot before speaking. “What about Gibbons? What did you find out?”

“He hated Boyd,” Blimpey replied.

“We know that.” Smythe struggled to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“But did you know that he was seen walking down Queens Road in Bayswater around the time of the murder?” Blimpey grinned triumphantly.

“How do you know that?” Smythe asked.

Blimpey shrugged. “It’s my business to find out such things. Not only that, but Gibbons recommended to the board of the Bankers Benevolent Society that the honorary chairmanship be given to Arnold Sapington and not Lawrence Boyd.”

“But it was Boyd who got it,” Smythe pointed out. “How did that happen?”

“Gibbons was overruled.” Blimpey took a quick sip of beer. “There was quite a dustup at that board meeting. Gibbons told the other members that if they gave it to Boyd, he’d resign from the board. They still overruled him and he resigned.”

“But he went to Boyd’s house that day to tell him the news.”

“Did he?” Blimpey shrugged. “Or did he just show up after the fire to make sure the job was done properly?”

Smythe shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this. Are you sayin’ you think Gibbons did the murder?”

“All I’m sayin’ is that he was spotted in Boyd’s neighborhood at the time of the killin’.”

“He was on his way to luncheon at the Boyd house,” Smythe protested.

“You don’t show up for a luncheon an hour and a half early. As I just said, Gibbons had resigned from the board, so one of the other board members was goin’ to take his place at the luncheon,” Blimpey explained. “But then Gibbons relented and said he’d do it. The other board members weren’t keen on him doing it, considerin’ as he’d just resigned over the matter, but they couldn’t stop him as he’d made his resignation effective for the following day. Seems to me he was planning on more than just givin’ Lawrence Boyd some good news. Seems to me he was plannin’ on a lot more than that.”

 

Luty stood on the pavement and stared through the window of Brougham’s Fine Art. The elegant establishment catered to the rich and the powerful. She grabbed the doorknob, gave it a twist, and stepped inside. She paused just inside the doorway and surveyed the room. Tables covered with colorful brocade runners or fringed silk shawls were strategically placed to best display the shops offerings of antique Chinese vases, ornate woodcarvings, crystal glassware, porcelain statues, and other fine home furnishings.

Opposite the door, a young man with slicked-back hair and dressed in formal coattails was standing in front of a glass display case. He was speaking with a well-dressed matron. He glanced at Luty and then immediately turned back to the matron.

The door at the back of the shop opened and a tall, dignified man with iron-gray hair and wearing a pin-striped suit stepped inside. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Luty by the front door. “Oh, gracious, Mrs. Crookshank, how long have you been here? Gaspar, why haven’t you offered Mrs. Crookshank a chair?” He flew down the length of the shop.

“That’s all right, Harry.” Luty chuckled as the hapless clerk’s expression changed from haughty indifference to one of dismay. “Your clerk was helpin’ this other lady. I kin wait my turn.”

“Nonsense. I’ll be pleased to take care of you myself.” Harry Brougham took Luty’s elbow, shot the hapless Gaspar a dirty look, and then led her to a seat at a small round table near the window. “Gracious, Luty, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What can I do for you? Would you care for tea?”

As Luty planned to be back at Upper Edmonton Gardens in an hour, she thought it best to decline. “No thank you, Harry. What I’m really after is a bit of information. I’m hopin’ you kin help me.”

“But of course.” Harry smiled brightly. Mrs. Crookshank was a bit eccentric, but then again, she was an American and they were all a somewhat odd. Still, he’d known her for years and she was an excellent customer.

“I’m tryin’ to find out about that banker that was killed. I expect you’ve heard of him. His name was Lawrence Boyd.”

Harry’s smile faltered. “I saw something about it in the newspapers. But I don’t know that I could be of any help.”

“But he was an artist and a banker,” Luty said doggedly. “Are you tellin’ me you never met the man?”

“Perhaps I might have met him a time or two, but certainly I didn’t know him well enough to make any sort of comment about his circumstances.” Harry picked a piece of nonexistent lint off the arm of his pin-striped jacket.

“Oh, don’t be such an old stick, Harry.” Luty poked him in the ribs. “You and I go way back. I remember when you were running a stall out of the East End and pushing stuff you’d bought cheap off widows and orphans.”

Harry looked around quickly. “Shh . . . Really, Luty, keep your voice down. That was a long time ago.”

“I know. I’m just remindin’ you to git off that high horse of yours. This is me you’re talking to. Now, can you help me or not?”

Harry Brougham had been a friend of Luty’s late husband before he’d gone to America to seek his fortune. They’d renewed their acquaintance when the Crookshanks returned some years later. By then, all of them had been successful. Luty had used Harry’s services in redecorating her house in Knightsbridge, and over the years since, she’d also steered thousands of pounds worth of business his way.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and gave Gaspar, who was staring openly at them, a good glare. “Continue helping Mrs. Morgan,” he ordered. He turned back to Luty. “Alright, I did know him. But he was a dreadful man and certainly not someone I’m going to remember with any great fondness.”

“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.” Luty grinned. “I knew you had to know the fellow. I ain’t looking for a testimonial to the man’s character. I just need some information.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why? Did he lose your money?”

Luty nodded, relieved she didn’t have to make up some tale about why she was interested in Lawrence Boyd. “Yep, and I aim to git it back. A friend of mine recommended his bank for a commercial transaction, so instead of goin’ to my usual bankers, I went to him. Then I found out the fellow got himself murdered and that don’t sit well with me.”

“Come now, Luty, pull the other one. This is me, remember? Unless you’ve completely lost your mind, you wouldn’t have given Boyd a farthing. You’re far too good a businesswoman to do something that foolish.” Harry grinned and leaned closer. “Tell me the real reason you’re asking questions and I’ll tell you what I know about him.”

“You always did drive a hard bargain.” Luty laughed. She’d forgotten that under that fake upper-class exterior Harry adopted, there was still the sharp, hungry boy from the mean streets of the East End. He wasn’t easily fooled. “All right, I’m trying to find out who might have wanted to murder him.”

“Half of London,” Harry shot back. “And why do you care? I know he wasn’t a friend of yours. Boyd didn’t have any friends.”

“No, but a friend of mine might be in a lot of trouble soon if the police don’t catch the real killer,” Luty replied. Her explanation was close enough to have a ring of truth. It wasn’t a lie. The inspector might get into difficulties if this case went unsolved and Luty considered him a friend. “So tell me what you know.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know any more than most people who have some connections with both art and commerce in this city. Boyd was an exceptional artist, a miserable businessman, and a dreadful person. He’s spent virtually the last ten years pushing himself forward to be head of one committee or another. Honestly, the man positively delighted in building monuments to his name. I heard a rumor that he promised the board of the Amateur Artists Guild his house when he died if they’d elect him to their board. Can you believe such gall?”

Luty nodded. Harry wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know about Boyd. “How about the Sapingtons? Do you know them?”

“You mean Arnold and Maud Sapington?” Harry shook his head. “I’ve heard of them, of course. But I don’t know them. They shop at Coventry’s on Regent Street.” He sniffed disapprovingly at the mention of his rival’s name. “People like to say that Arnold Sapington got where he is by marriage to Maud Reese. He was the chief clerk at Reese and Cutlip when they got married.”

“Wasn’t she the boss’s daughter?”

“She was but I don’t think she married Arnold Sapington because she couldn’t find anyone else,” he replied. “And that’s frequently what people say when they hear about a marriage such as hers. I think she married him out of gratitude.”

“Gratitude?” Luty repeated. “Why would she be grateful to her father’s chief clerk?”

Harry laced his fingers together on the tabletop and stared at her. “Because she’d lost the true love of her life, her cousin Nicholas Cutlip. He drowned in a boating accident just a few weeks before they were to marry. Some say Maud only married Arnold because he’d tried so hard to save the young man.”

“Sapington was with him when the accident happened?”

“Yes, they were out rowing. The boat tipped over. According to witnesses, Sapington tried his best to pull the young man to shore, but he couldn’t manage it. Nicholas kept going under. It was sad. Sapington is a bit of a social climber but he’s no fool, and he’s not brought Reese and Cutlip to the edge of bankruptcy.”

“Was Boyd’s bank at the edge?”

Harry shrugged again. “I’ve heard the other partners have had to put in some infusions of cash and that there was a movement afoot to oust him from his position. But as Boyd held the most shares, it was going to be difficult to get rid of the fellow.”

Luty was getting desperate. She hated the thought of being the only one at their afternoon meeting who hadn’t found out anything useful and so far, she’d learned nothing they didn’t already know. “What about Walter Gibbons? You heard of him?”

Harry thought for a moment. “The name sound’s familiar, but I can’t say that I’ve heard anything about him.”

“Did Boyd have any other enemies . . . Oh, of course he did. You’ve already told me half of London hated him.” Luty sighed deeply. “But who hated him enough to want him dead? That’s the question.”

 

James Glover stared at the two policemen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector,” he finally blustered. “The police have all the files that I took to Mr. Boyd that morning.”

“They don’t have the Pressley file,” the inspector said. He wasn’t in the best of humor and he wasn’t inclined to beat about the bush with Mr. Glover. After he finished here, he was going to have to go back to the Boyd household, and as he’d already been there once today, he felt a tad foolish. But it was his own fault as he’d forgotten to question Boyd’s servants about an interesting idea he and Mrs. Jeffries had discussed over breakfast this morning. Drat, he hated being so forgetful.