Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (14 page)

Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “What Nivens does or doesn’t do wouldn’t matter one whit. For goodness’ sake, Hepzibah, you’re makin’ a mountain out of a molehill. Do you honestly think the chief inspector is goin’ to sack a constable that works hand in glove with the inspector that has solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force?”

“But … but …”

“There are no buts,” she snapped. She shifted her weight, and Samson flicked his tail, got up, and leapt down. He shot both women an angry glare before trotting off to find a quieter place to nap. “For goodness’ sake, we weren’t born yesterday, you know what’s what in this old world, and the men that run the force aren’t going to risk losin’ their most valuable man. What do you think Inspector Witherspoon would do if they tried to sack Constable Barnes?”

Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t considered this aspect of the situation. “He’d probably retire.”

“That’s right.” The cook chuckled. “As far as I can see, Constable Barnes could sit outside Nivens’ office readin’ the ruddy reports and there would be nothing he could do about it.”

Mrs. Jeffries was quiet for a long moment, and then she shook her head. “You’re right, I don’t know why I’ve let myself get in such a state.”

“You’re in a state because you don’t like or trust your sister-in-law.”

Mrs. Jeffries went perfectly still. “You’re right,” she said. “You’re absolutely right, and I think that deep down I’m worried that Fiona may have lured me into a mess that will end up hurting all of you.”

“That’s not goin’ to happen.” Mrs. Goodge got up and grabbed the teapot. “We’re smart and we know how to take care of ourselves. We went into this with our eyes wide open, and we’ll get at the truth. It’s what we do, and no one except you is worried about how it’s goin’ to turn out. Now stop your frettin’. I’m going to make more tea. The others will be here soon.”

By the time the others began to trail into the kitchen, Mrs. Jeffries was in much better spirits. Come what may, they’d all agreed to help Fiona and they’d do the best they could.

“You’re not gonna believe this, but I actually have somethin’ to report,” Luty exclaimed as she flopped into her chair. “Who’d a thought that I’d hear anythin’ useful at Lord Billington’s dinner party.”

“Then let’s take our seats and get started,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We’ve a lot to do today.”

Luty waited till they were all in their usual spots before she spoke. “Last night I started chattin’ with the fellow I was sittin’ next to. I brought up the Dearman murder, and he ended up givin’ me an earful.” She told them what she’d heard from her dinner companion, making sure she mentioned every detail, and ending with Featherstone’s dramatic statement that despite all the wagging tongues and gossip, the woman John Sutcliffe married turned out to be his lucky charm.

“And their marriage did indeed cause tongues to wag,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “I remember it well. David and I were stunned when we heard the news.” She frowned slightly, her expression thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, now that I think of it, David went to see Fiona when he heard the news of their engagement. He was upset about it but wouldn’t tell me why, and we hadn’t been married very long ourselves, so I didn’t want to press him.”

“Press him about what?” Phyllis asked.

“About the engagement, about his meeting with his sister.” Her brow furrowed as the memories flooded back. “Oh my gracious, he was in a terrible state when he came home that afternoon.” Her voice trailed off as the scenes from her past flashed through her mind. The room was quiet save for the faint clip-clop of horses’ hooves from the nearby streets.

Finally, Mrs. Goodge said, “Exactly what do you mean by ‘a terrible state’?”

“He was so upset he drank half a bottle of whiskey,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “It was the only time in our married life I saw him drunk. We’d been given the bottle as a wedding present, and I’d stuck it up in cupboard and forgotten about it. When he came home from seeing
Fiona, he pulled the bottle out and drank it in front of the fire. I kept asking him why he was so upset—of course I was surprised by the news, too, and they were from different classes and backgrounds—but Fiona was well educated and she’d lived in the Sutcliffe home as a paid companion to Lucretia Sutcliffe, so even though there would be gossip, it should be alright. But nothing I said made any difference. He just sat there, staring into the fire and drinking. Now that I think about it, he wasn’t just upset, he was stunned.”

Hatchet asked, “What do you mean?”

“It was as if he’d found out something that had shocked him to his very core. I remember now, at one point, he looked up from the fire and there were tears in his eyes.”

“He said nothing?” Ruth asked.

“The only thing I recall is him muttering that a marriage based on mutual greed was doomed to failure. At the time, I thought he was referring to Fiona wanting to move up the social scale, but now I’m not so sure what he meant.” Mrs. Jeffries gave herself a gentle shake as she glanced at the faces of the others. Everyone was staring at her with expressions of worry and concern on their faces. “It’s alright, I’m fine. Thinking about David, even of one of lowest moments in our marriage, makes me happy. But I’m annoyed with myself for having forgotten this particular incident. It might be important.” She made up her mind to go and have another word with her sister-in-law. Something had happened between David and Fiona when he’d confronted her about her sudden engagement to Sutcliffe, and even if it had nothing to do with Dearman’s murder, Mrs. Jeffries wanted to get to the bottom of it.

“You probably wanted to forget it,” Ruth said. “All married women have times in their marriages they don’t wish to think about, even those of us who were wed to good men.”

“Who was the other woman?” Phyllis asked Luty. “Did your source know her name?”

Luty grinned broadly. “He did. Sutcliffe was supposed to marry Antonia Whitley, who later became Antonia Meadows.”

“You mean Lucretia Dearman’s friend?” Wiggins asked. “The lady that lives ’ere in London?”

“That’s right. Basil said she was the one everyone thought Sutcliffe would marry. He’d been escortin’ her to parties and payin’ her the kind of attention that usually means a feller is serious about a gal. But when he announced he was gettin’ married, it wasn’t to her.”

“I’ll bet she was very humiliated.” Ruth shook her head sympathetically.

“She was. That’s why she married Thaddeus Meadows,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “I’ve been so stupid. I should have made the connection the moment I heard her name. Meadows had been in the background the entire time Antonia Whitley was being courted by Sutcliffe.” She was amazed at how it was all coming back to her. “I remember now—she and Meadows married within a week of Fiona and John.”

“When did she come to London?” Hatchet asked curiously.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Maybe we ought to find out,” Phyllis suggested. “Seems like half of Yorkshire ended up coming to London. Maybe there’s a reason.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. Her old memories had shaken her to her core, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from doing what was right. “I think we ought to broaden the scope of our investigation,” she announced.

“But we’re already stretched thin as it is,” Mrs. Goodge protested.

“I know, but Phyllis is right, a number of people from Yorkshire ended up following the Sutcliffes to London.”

“You think that might have anything to do with Dearman’s murder?” Ruth looked doubtful. “Surely most of them came because they worked for the company.”

“That’s true of Ronald and Lucretia Dearman and both the Sutcliffes, but what about Antonia Meadows? As I recall, she was nothing more than a close friend of Lucretia’s, but she’s here in London as well. When I left Yorkshire, I had a number of very dear, devoted friends, and not one of them followed me.”

Mrs. Jeffries stepped into the Dirty Duck Pub and stood by the door. The room was crowded with day laborers, van drivers, dock workers, and shop clerks. The tables and the benches along the walls were filled. A trio of bread sellers holding gin glasses clustered together in front of the fire with their empty baskets stacked on the hearth.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the sharp tang of cigar smoke mingled with the scent of barley and beer. She surveyed the room, studying the faces and hoping her quarry was here. This was Smythe’s territory and she wasn’t sure of her welcome.

She spotted him sitting at a table on the far side of the spacious room. He wasn’t alone. Sitting next to him was
a well-dressed man wearing a black greatcoat. Just then Blimpey Groggins glanced her way and their gazes met. She stared him directly in the eye, wondering if the fact that she and the others had once helped him would be of any value now.

He grinned broadly and then turned back to his companion. He said a few words, and the man nodded and then got up and left. Mrs. Jeffries headed toward Blimpey’s table.

“This is a pleasant surprise.” Blimpey rose to his feet as she approached. He pointed to the stool that had just been vacated. “Sit yerself down, Mrs. Jeffries. Would you like somethin’ to drink? How about a sherry? Smythe tells me yer partial to that brew.”

It was still early in the day and she started to refuse, but then just as quickly changed her mind. She might end up needing that drink before this was over. “Thank you, Blimpey, that would be very nice.” She sat down and took off her gloves as he waved the bar maid over.

“A glass of sherry for the lady and a pint for me,” he said to the girl as she drew close. She nodded and went back behind the bar.

“I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this,” Mrs. Jeffries said apologetically. Now that she was here, she wasn’t certain how to handle the situation. He owed her nothing. Yes, they’d once helped Blimpey, but he’d repaid them handsomely and she knew he didn’t work for free.

This was Blimpey’s business. He bought and sold information. She was the only one in the household who knew that Smythe used his services every time they had a case; but Smythe was wealthy and he could afford Blimpey’s high prices. She wondered if she was supposed
to negotiate or if he charged a flat fee. Smythe had told her that Blimpey had started out as a second-story thief, but after a nasty fall and a painful run-in with a mastiff, he’d decided to make his living by using his incredible memory skills instead of risking life, limb, and liberty. Once he heard, saw, or even read something, it stayed in his brain forever. He now had a network of paid informants that covered not only the criminal activities of London’s underworld, but also every important institution in England: Parliament, shipping lines, police stations, magistrates courts, insurance companies, hospitals, the Old Bailey, and even the newspapers. But Blimpey had standards—he wouldn’t trade in information that harmed women or children. He was old-fashioned that way.

“Yer always welcome ’ere, Mrs. Jeffries,” Blimpey said solemnly. “But I’ll admit I’m a bit surprised. I’ve not ’eard of the inspector gettin’ a murder. I thought he was workin’ on that fraud case.” The barmaid came and put their drinks on the table.

To give herself time to think before she answered, Mrs. Jeffries picked up her sherry and took a sip. Surprised, she stared at the amber liquid. “This is Harvey’s Bristol Cream,” she exclaimed.

He laughed. “Were you expectin’ the cheap stuff?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way,” she explained. “Please, don’t be offended.”

“I’m not.” He regarded her steadily. “But you’ve not answered my question.”

“You’re right, of course. The inspector hasn’t a murder at the moment, but I do need some help with another case.”

“And what would that be?” He picked up his pint and took a sip.

Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath. “Oh dear, this is far more difficult than I thought it would be. You see, it’s rather complicated.”

“Life usually is,” he commented.

“There is a murder, but it’s one that’s being investigated by Inspector Nivens.”

“You mean the Dearman murder? But what’s that got to do with you?” he asked. “No offense meant, but I can’t see your lot lendin’ that toff Nivens a ’and. He’s about as well liked as a case of cholera.”

She laughed again. “We’re not helping him. We’ve been asked by another interested party to look into the case. Oh, what’s the use, there’s no point in being coy about this—with your resources you’re going to find out everything anyway. My sister-in-law is married to John Sutcliffe, and Dearman worked at Sutcliffe Manufacturing. He was murdered in his office.”

“I know,” he said. “He was shot. But go on.”

“Fiona—she’s my sister-in-law—is afraid, terrified actually, that she’s going to become the prime suspect, so she asked me to help her, and I’ve agreed,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “That’s where you come in.”

“You told her that you helped the inspector?” he asked, his expression incredulous.

“No, she found out when Nivens was examining Dearman’s body,” she said. “He’s made no secret of the fact that he thinks Inspector Witherspoon has help on his cases.” She told him how Fiona had come to hear of her involvement.

Blimpey listened carefully, making no comment until she’d finished. “What is it you want me to do?”

“The same thing you’d do for Smythe,” she blurted. “I’ll pay you the normal rates. I wouldn’t presume upon our acquaintance.”

He waved her off impatiently. “I’ll not take money from you,” he said. “Yer lot helped me when I needed it, and I want to return the favor.”

“But you’ve already returned the favor,” she insisted. “I don’t want to take advantage of your relationship with Smythe. Besides, you charge him for your services.”

He laughed again. “That’s because he’s rich, but yer not. He’d be right offended if I didn’t make ’im pay. But enough of this silly argument. I take it you want me to find out anythin’ I can about the Dearman murder, right?”

“Yes, thank you, Blimpey. I’m very grateful you’re going to help me.”

“Don’t mention it, Mrs. Jeffries. You’ll just embarrass me.”

“What other information do you need from me?”

“Names, I need names. I want to know who hates ’im, who loves ’im, and who he deals with every day of ’is life.”