Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (8 page)

“That's right.” Dulcie dumped two bundles wrapped in newspaper into the basket and brushed off her hands. “She'd bring the order on Fridays and Da would deliver it that afternoon. I don't know what's goin' to happen now. Da liked going there—he never had to wait long before they opened the tradesmen's door. Not like some places where you have to hang about for ages while they fetch up the housekeeper to go over the order.”

“Mrs. Clarridge didn't look at the order when it came in?” Phyllis thought that was odd. Mrs. Jeffries didn't go through household deliveries, either, but she was the exception rather than the rule. In every other household where she'd ever worked, either the lady of the house examined everything coming in or the housekeeper did.

Dulcie shook her head. “Nah, one of the maids would unlock the door, Da would take the order into the wet larder, and then the girl would lock up behind him. Straight in and out, that's what he liked. Will there be anything else?”

* * *

Wiggins stood outside the pub on Throgmorton Street and watched as people went inside. This was the financial heart of England and before he went inside he wanted to make sure the place wasn't going to fill up with toffs in shiny black top hats who wouldn't give him the time of day.

Coming here had been his second choice. He'd first tried to find a servant from Edison's household to chat up, but after waiting for what seemed ages without seeing so much as a housemaid stick her nose out for a bit of air, he'd decided to try his luck elsewhere. But once he'd made that decision, he wasn't sure where to go next. The only other address they had was Yancy Kimball's hotel in Paddington, or he could try to find out something about the men Edison had been quarreling with before he was killed, the ones Luty had called the Merry Gentlemen. They were professional investors and financiers and this was their territory, Throgmorton Street. It was close enough to the Bank of England and the stock exchange so that the money lads didn't have to walk too far to get a nice pint at lunchtime.

Two men, both of them wearing ordinary business suits, went past him and into the pub. He glanced down at his own brown jacket, white shirt, and tie, and decided he looked respectable enough to give it a go. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.

It was just after opening time and already the pub was filled with jobbers hanging on to their bowlers, accountants in navy suits and regimental ties, and ordinary clerks. Wiggins elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar. He wedged himself into a space next to two lads who looked to be about his age.

“What'll you have?” the barman asked.

“Pint of bitter, please.” He pulled some coins out of his pocket and had them at the ready when the barman put his beer in front of him. “Ta.”

Wiggins eased to one side to scan the room, looking for someone on their own who might be in the mood for a chat. It was a cut above a working-class pub, with booths along one wall and small tables packed densely in the remaining floor space.

“Southampton St. Mary got lucky.”

Wiggins turned his head sharply.

A dark-haired young man with deep-set brown eyes and pale, pockmarked skin tapped his fingers on the counter to make his point. “Two of those goals shouldn't have even counted. Seems to me the real score should have been a ruddy draw. Swindon Town played better.”

“Are you daft?” His companion, a young lad with wispy blond hair, snorted contemptuously. “All of those goals were good. Swindon's got a lousy team. Luton Town beat 'em by two goals last month.”

“And Millwall has thrashed them both,” Wiggins interjected. “They beat Luton last month and Southampton the week before.”

The two stopped their conversation and eyed him curiously. Wiggins knew he should have kept his opinion to himself, but he'd not been able to stop himself. Except for his friend Tommy, he'd no one to talk football with. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, it's just that—”

“You a Millwall supporter?” the first one asked.

He nodded.

“Then you must be looking forward to this Saturday.” The dark-haired lad grinned broadly. “I hear Clapton is out for revenge considerin' the way you thrashed them last month.”

“My mate's a Clapton supporter and even he says they're a sorry bunch,” the blond added. “They play like a pack of schoolgirls.”

Wiggins couldn't believe his luck. He jumped into the conversation with relish. When their glasses were empty, he ordered a round for the three of them and it was only as the two lads left to go back to work that he realized he'd not asked one single question about Orlando Edison or the Merry Gentlemen.

* * *

Jon Barlow, deliveryman for Hubbard's, the inspector's local wine merchant, put his cup down. “Are you talkin' about that fellow that got himself bashed over the head?” he said to Mrs. Goodge. “Is that who you're askin' about?”

Mrs. Goodge forced herself to smile and ignore the brown-paper-wrapped package that had been brought to the door by special messenger only moments before Barlow had arrived with a crate of wine for the holidays. She was dying to know who had sent her a present but she knew her duty: She had to see if Barlow knew anything. “Yes, that's who I'm asking about.”

Barlow scratched his chin. He was a short, wiry man with thinning black hair that stood up in tufts around his ears. “Yeah, he gives us his business. The guv liked him 'cause he always ordered the best whiskey and wine and, even better, he paid his bill right and proper every month.”

“Did you ever meet him?” Again, her gaze strayed to the package.

“Last week, I was deliverin' to the house when he come into the kitchen to tell the cook he'd not be home that night for dinner. Sad him gettin' coshed the way he did. The scullery maid there said he was always good to the servants.” He paused and stuffed another piece of shortbread into his mouth.

“Indeed it is awful when good people get murdered,” she murmured as her attention wandered to the bundle at the end of the table. Who would send her a present and what could it be? It couldn't be from anyone here at the house; they always waited till after Christmas breakfast to exchange presents. “But that's the way of it, isn't it.”

“The good die young and bad live to be a hundred.” Barlow took a sip of tea. “That's what my old gran used to say. Would you mind if I had another biscuit?”

“Go ahead, help yourself,” she murmured. Barlow loved the sound of his own voice so she only half listened to him. Perhaps the present was from one of her previous employers. No, why would they suddenly start sending gifts now—none of them had ever done it before.

“Mind you, my gran could also spout a lot of nonsense.” He reached for another biscuit and gobbled it up. “But it is a shame about Mr. Edison. You can always tell what kind of person someone is by the way they treat their people, can't you.”

“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Goodge muttered absently. She could barely understand the man. He was talking with his mouth full.

Barlow noticed the cook wasn't paying any attention to him, so he grabbed one last piece of shortbread, shoved it into his mouth, and chewed frantically. “Mind you”—he swallowed with a loud gulp—“not everyone liked Mr. Edison. Mrs. Morton—she runs the Nag's Head Pub at Shepherd's Bush and when I made her delivery this morning, she brought up the murder. She told me that she'd seen Edison getting his ears boxed last week. He was out in the mews behind the pub with a woman and, the way she was swinging her fists, she surely weren't no lady.”

But Mrs. Goodge had stopped listening. She was thinking so hard about who could be sending her a present and what it could be that she completely missed what he was saying.

* * *

“Mr. Ralston, where were you yesterday at six o'clock?” Witherspoon and Paul Ralston were now alone in the drawing room. Constable Barnes had taken Downing off to the study and Bagshot had gone with Constable Griffiths to the small sitting room at the end of the hall.

Ralston, who was sitting at the end of the sofa, looked surprised by the question. “Surely you don't think I had anything to do with Orlando's murder?”

“It's a routine inquiry, sir.” Witherspoon gave him a reassuring smile.

“I was shopping.” He shrugged. “I was looking for Christmas gifts.”

“You went shopping directly after leaving here?”

Ralston relaxed against the cushions and smiled. “So Mrs. Clarridge mentioned I'd stopped in to see Orlando. I thought she might have, but in answer to your question, I went home first and had tea with my fiancée, Anne Waterson. When she left, I went out.”

“Did you go to any particular shops?”

“The Burlington Arcade. They have some fine jewelers' shops there. I stayed for about an hour until the shops started closing and, as I couldn't find a hansom, I walked home.”

“Did you go into any specific shops, someplace where the clerk might remember you?”

Ralston thought for a moment. “I went into Minsky's, but it was very crowded so I doubt any of the shop assistants will remember me. Actually, Inspector, I was just having a look at the jewelry. I finally decided that I'm going to take my fiancée shopping and let her pick out what she wants.”

“You made a statement a few moments ago about legal action against the deceased,” Witherspoon said. “Would you explain what you meant, please?”

Ralston looked down at the floor and then back up. “One hates to speak ill of the dead, Inspector, but I might as well tell you the entire sordid story. You're bound to find out anyway and it's best you hear it from me.”

“Yes, do go ahead.”

“Two years ago, the three of us and another man by the name of Ezra Amberly were approached by Edison to serve as directors to a company he was forming to buy a gold mine on the Transvaal in southern Africa, specifically in the Witwatersrand.”

“Mr. Amberly is on the board of directors as well?”

“He is, but he's not been active for weeks now. He's ill and confined to bed. But my point, Inspector, is that Edison approached us with what we thought would be a great opportunity.”

“I understand that, sir. I'm aware of the fact that a substantial amount of gold has been found in that part of the world.”

“Huge fortunes have been made,” Ralston continued. “So the four of us thought this could be a great opportunity.”

“And England has almost been dragged into a war with the Boers over the area as well,” the inspector said.

“There's always conflict when the stakes are so high. Are you an investor, Inspector?”

Witherspoon hesitated. He didn't like to reveal personal details to suspects, but on the other hand, he might get more information by being candid about his own investments. “Yes, and I freely admit I have shares in two mines there and that they've done very well.”

Ralston smiled thinly. “You've very lucky, then. Not all investors have been as fortunate. A number of these mines have turned out to have very little, if any, gold. Unfortunately, my colleagues and I have recently found out that the mine we invested in and serve as directors of, the Granger Mine, is worthless.”

Witherspoon wasn't sure he understood. “Was Mr. Edison an investor as well?”

“We thought he was.” Ralston got to his feet and began pacing in front of the fireplace. “He certainly led us to believe he'd put his own money into the venture. But it turned out he was merely a ‘promoter,' I believe the expression is, for what turned out to be a completely worthless piece of land. The Granger Mine is now in bankruptcy court and every single one of us has lost every penny we put into it.”

“I'm not sure I understand. Didn't you know Mr. Edison either personally or by reputation before you invested in a company he recommended?”

“Of course we knew him.” Ralston waved around the opulent room. “Look at the way he lives—we thought he was one of us. He was at the exchange a fair bit and he had a good record of success. He'd recommended a number of other enterprises that made a great deal of money for their investors.”

“But no one is successful all the time.” Witherspoon smiled faintly. “Any good broker will tell you that all investments carry risk.” His own broker, Roger Linley, a stodgy and conservative fellow, had recommended he buy shares in a tea plantation only days before the entire crop and the plantation itself was destroyed by a typhoon. Losing money hadn't made him happy, but he certainly hadn't blamed Mr. Linley nor did he think he would have had grounds for a lawsuit against the man. “Even if he was just promoting the mine, I don't understand on what grounds you could take legal action against Mr. Edison.”

“We're not sure we had grounds—that's what this morning's meeting was about.”

Ralston flopped back onto the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. “We heard a rumor that Edison might have had prior knowledge that the Granger Mine was worthless. Which would mean, of course, that getting the four of us to invest and to use our reputations to attract other investors was nothing short of fraud.”

“Reputations?” Witherspoon repeated.

Ralston cocked his head to one side. “I thought you said you were an investor, sir. Surely you've heard of us. We're the Merry Gentlemen.”

CHAPTER 4

“Luty, you should have let me know you wanted to see me. I'd have been delighted to come to you.” Angus Fielding came from around his desk and hurried across his office.

“Don't fuss, Angus.” Luty chuckled. “I was in the neighborhood and hopin' you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”

“Now, now, Luty, I always have time for you. You will have refreshments?” She nodded and Fielding glanced at his secretary, a fine-looking young fellow who'd escorted her into the room and was now at the door on his way out. “Just a moment, Phillips—please bring us a pot of tea. The Assam will do nicely,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do come and sit down.” Fielding grabbed her hand. “It's been ages since I've seen you.”

Luty let herself be led to one of the overstuffed leather chairs in front of his desk. Middle-aged, balding, and one of the worst snobs she'd ever met, Angus Fielding was one of her many bankers. She sank down in her chair and waited while he went back behind the desk. “I know how busy you are,” she began, only to be interrupted.

“Nonsense, I always have time for you.” He leaned forward. “I say, you don't happen to have any more of that delightful drink I had at your house a few years ago, do you? You remember, it had a most unusual flavor as well as an odd name. I believe it was called ‘pale lightning' or ‘sunshine.'”

She smiled in spite of herself. Fielding was indeed an elitist, but not about money, social class, or position. He claimed to have the most discriminating palate in England and, by all accounts, it might be true. He drank like a fish but didn't waste his time or cash on anything as ordinary as a pint of bitter or good Scots whiskey. Only the odd, the unusual, and the rare would do for him. He claimed to have a wine in his cellar from every country that grew a grape as well as a collection of exotic brews from all over the world. Rumor had it that he'd spent a fortune obtaining beverages like aquavit, sake, retsina, and even one from Korea called soju for his personal cellar. Luty sometimes thought he was nothing more than an alcoholic with plenty of money.

“You mean white lightning or moonshine.” She laughed and shook her head. “No, sorry, I don't have any. The friend that brings it to me hasn't been to England in a while. But the next time he comes, I'll be sure to let you know and we'll have us a high old time again.”

She'd once gotten him drunk on the Appalachian home brew when she was after information. But today she didn't need to be so sneaky. She had a perfectly legitimate reason for seeking him out.

He hid his disappointment well, but Luty could see it in his eyes. “Well, keep me in mind if you do get more. I found it absolutely delicious.”

Delicious wasn't what she'd have called it, but she nodded in agreement. “You'll be the first in line for it. I was hoping you could tell me a little about the Merry Gentlemen. My stockbroker has been listening to that bunch some and seems to want me investin' in some of the shares they recommend. Now, Angus, you know how much I value your opinion, so I told my broker I wasn't goin' to let him invest in anything until I spoke to you.”

Flattered, he sat up straighter. “That was very wise of you, Luty, very wise indeed.”

His office door opened and Phillips stepped in, carrying a tray with the tea. He set it on the desk. “Shall I pour, sir?”

“Thank you, no, we can manage,” Fielding said. As soon as the secretary had gone, he walked around, perched himself on the edge of the desk next to the tea tray, and began to pour. “As I was saying, Luty, it was wise of you to come see me.” He handed her a delicate porcelain cup filled with the fragrant brew. “In my opinion, the so-called Merry Gentlemen aren't any more knowledgeable than half of the other financial men in the City. They simply got lucky a few years ago and they've been riding that particular train ever since.”

“What do ya mean?” She took a sip. It was delicious tea.

He put his cup down on the corner of the desk, stood up, and then sat down in the chair next to hers. “Surely you remember how they got their reputation and formed their little group? Martin Bagshot and Ezra Amberly were both traders on the floor of the exchange, as was Charles Downing. Paul Ralston, the fourth member, was nothing more than a jobber without floor privileges. Supposedly, Bagshot, Amberly, and Downing were all in dire straits financially when Ralston gave them a tip about buying diamonds and other minerals in the Transvaal.”

“But why would they listen to him if he was just a jobber?” Luty asked.

He leaned closer. “This isn't common knowledge, but do you remember those riots, the ones by the stock exchange on Throgmorton Street?”

She remembered them well. “They weren't really riots,” she argued. “It was just a bunch of jobbers and brokers trading after hours and blockin' the traffic.”

“It was a bit more than that,” he claimed. “Arrests were made and that's how the Merry Gentlemen were formed.”

Nell's bells, she'd forgotten that it took him forever to get to the point. “What do ya mean? I thought they formed their group after they'd pooled their resources and bought some stocks that had done real well.”

“They did do that, but not until later. The Merry Gentlemen were actually formed in jail.”

“Jail?”

He grinned proudly. “Indeed. If you'll remember, a number of respectable people in the financial community were caught up in the confusion and arrested. Downing and Bagshot were two of them and they happened to be in the same cell as Ralston. By the time their friend Ezra Amberly showed up to facilitate Bagshot's and Downing's release, Ralston had impressed them with his knowledge of the market. They were all in such cheerful moods as they left the police station that one of the reporters who had covered the riots asked why they were such ‘merry gentlemen.' Apparently, one of them retorted they were merry because they intended to make a lot of money.”

“And that's what they've done,” she finished.

“That's what they'd like us to think they've done.” Fielding sniffed disapprovingly. “Even though the rest of the City might hang on their every word and seek out their advice on investing, I'm of the opinion that, to some extent, they owe their past success to luck—and rumor has it, their luck had run out.”

* * *

Barnes didn't like Charles Downing; the fellow was puffed up with his own importance, dismissive of anyone he didn't consider his equal, and, from his attitude, behaved as if he didn't have to answer questions from a lowly policeman. But the constable had a lot of experience with men like this and knew precisely how to handle him. When they'd entered Edison's study, Downing had looked quite stunned when Barnes had commandeered the leather chair behind the massive mahogany desk, leaving Downing the choice to either pull over the straight-backed chair from beside the door or stand up like a naughty schoolboy in the headmaster's study. The man had glared at him, opened his mouth as if to protest, and then, wisely, dragged the chair over and sat down. “Let me ask you again, sir, what were you and Mr. Edison arguing about two days before he was murdered?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I stopped in to see Orlando that morning, but only to invite him to dinner,” Downing insisted.

Barnes fixed him with a cold stare and said nothing for a moment, letting the room fill with silence. Downing looked away first, making a show of taking his watch out of his waistcoat and noting the time. Finally, Barnes said, “Mr. Downing, please tell me the truth. We have several witnesses that overheard the row.”

“Witnesses.” He snorted. “Surely you're not going to take the testimony of a couple of servants seriously.”

“I assure you, sir, we take it very seriously, especially when one of the men involved in the quarrel ends up dead.” Barnes pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and laid it on the desktop. “What's more, the servants have no reason to lie about such a thing. Unless, of course, you're claiming that they would deliberately make up a story because they disliked you for some reason.”

“Don't be absurd, of course they don't dislike me, they're complete strangers . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized what he was saying.

“In which case, I hardly think they're making up tales. Now why don't you just tell me the truth?”

Downing flattened his lips into a thin, disapproving line. “Alright, we did argue, but it was about something very personal, something I'd prefer not to speak about.”

“Mr. Downing, I assure you, if your dispute with Mr. Edison has nothing to do with his murder, we'll be very discreet about the matter. But you must tell me the truth or, if you prefer, I can question your household and friends . . .”

“No, no, don't do that,” he said hastily. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Please, I'm sorry, but that's the last thing I want to happen. I'll tell you. Our dispute involved a domestic matter.”

“Go on.”

“Women found Orlando Edison very charming.” He looked down at the floor. “My wife found him attractive and he, in turn, seemed to find her equally so. Cecily is my second wife and she's a great deal younger than myself.”

“And you suspected she and Edison were having a relationship?” Barnes probed.

“No, they weren't involved and that's what the quarrel was about: I wanted to make sure it stayed that way.”

“Had he been making improper advances to her?” Barnes asked.

Downing grimaced. “He claimed he wasn't, but I'm not a fool, I could see what he was doing. He was trying to seduce her. Cecily was flattered, of course, but then she's a foolish young woman whose head is easily turned by the kind of nonsense he spouted.”

Barnes wondered if Downing realized he'd just admitted to having one of the oldest motives for murder in the world: jealousy. “Could you be more specific, sir?”

Downing's eyebrows rose. “I am being specific. I told you what the blackguard was trying to do. He was in love with her. Two weeks ago at the Harrimans' dinner party, he cornered her in their drawing room and spent half an hour listening to her prattle on about some silly novel.”

“And because he spent time actually listening to what she might have to say about a book, you decided he had feelings for her?”

“That wasn't the only reason.” Downing flushed angrily. “Every time he was around her, he watched her and smiled at her. He was in love with her, I tell you, in love with her, and I told him I wasn't having it.”

“How did he respond when you accused him of this?”

Downing shrugged. “He denied it, but that's to be expected from someone like him. He'd no honor, no breeding—he was nothing but a jumped-up little jackanapes.”

“But you did business with him,” Barnes reminded him.

Downing crossed one leg over the other. “We should never have trusted him. It was a terrible mistake. One that we were doing our utmost to rectify.”

“How?”

“We met this morning to determine if we had any legal recourse against him over this wretched Granger Mine problem. But before we could even discuss it properly, Cecily interrupted us with the news that he'd been murdered. She'd heard the news from our housekeeper.”

“And how had your housekeeper found out? The murder wasn't reported in the morning newspapers.”

“She heard it from a neighbor. Naturally, we were skeptical about the truth of it, which is why we came rushing over here.”

“On the day that you quarreled with Mr. Edison, what time did you arrive?”

“It was about ten o'clock,” he replied. “As I told you before, I dropped by to invite him to dinner and then he asked after my wife and before I quite realized what was happening, we were arguing.”

“Why were you inviting him to dinner if you thought he had designs on your wife?” Barnes asked.

Downing said nothing. He merely pursed his lips and looked down at the floor.

“Mr. Downing,” Barnes prompted, “please answer the question.”

“As I told you, I hadn't planned on quarreling with him, it just happened. The dinner wasn't going to be just for him. All the directors for the Granger Mine were going to be invited. It wouldn't have been right to ignore him.”

Barnes didn't believe him, but he decided to let it go for the moment. “Mr. Downing, exactly where were you at six o'clock yesterday evening?”

* * *

Smythe stopped just inside the door of the Dirty Duck Pub. The place was quiet, with only a couple of day laborers at the bar and a bread seller sitting alone at the side bench with her empty baskets piled next to her. Blimpey Groggins, the owner of this fine establishment, was the only one sitting at a table.

Blimpey spotted him just then and gave a cheerful wave. He was a ruddy-faced, ginger-haired, portly man wearing a checked coat and trousers, a cream-colored shirt that had once been white, and a faded brown waistcoat.