Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (16 page)

“Everybody in York knew who they were.” Lottie continued as though the cook hadn’t spoken. “They employed
half the city. Mind you, everyone’s nose was out of joint when they moved the head office down here to London, but they did keep most of the plant work in York. They make gears or something like that. I know because Mr. Keighley—he was a solicitor—did some of the legal work for the company.”

Mrs. Goodge straightened to attention. “You worked for the Sutcliffe lawyer?”

“He didn’t handle all their legal work.” She popped another bite into her mouth and chewed. “Just some of their contracts with other companies. Sutcliffe’s spread the wealth around a bit. That’s one of the reasons they were so well liked by the local community.”

“You know that one of their general managers was just murdered, don’t you?” Mrs. Goodge decided to get right to the heart of the matter. Lottie talked so much that even if she went all over London telling everyone she’d been here, no one would pay much attention to her. That’s what happened when you got a reputation as a talker. People simply didn’t pay you much mind.

“Ronald Dearman,” she said. “I read about him in the newspapers.”

“You’d never heard of him before? You’d never heard your old employer mention his name?”

Lottie gave a negative shake of her head. “No, not that I can recall. Mr. Keighley wasn’t a great talker. Once he got home from work, he liked his dinner, and then he’d retire to the drawing room with a glass of whiskey and the newspaper.”

“So he never spoke much about Mr. and Mrs. Sutcliffe or the Dearmans? Lucretia Dearman was a Sutcliffe, surely you’d heard of her.”

Lottie glanced at her now-empty plate. “May I have another?” She nodded toward the plate of scones.

“Please do, that’s why I made them,” the cook said quickly. “Now about the Dearmans …”

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you.” Lottie helped herself to another scone. “As I recall, you never allowed us to gossip when you ran the kitchen at the Rampling house.”

“Yes, well, I was much stupider back then.” The cook chuckled. “But I’ve come to my senses. I love gossip. Especially about people who get their names in the paper, even if it is as a murder victim.”

Lottie laughed as she spread more butter on her pastry. “Me, too. You know that Mrs. Dearman’s best friend was all set to marry John Sutcliffe when he up and married that paid companion?”

“Yes, I’d heard that much.” Mrs. Goodge poured them both more tea and then gently shoved the cream and sugar toward her guest.

“Everyone pretended to be so surprised when it happened, but the maid that worked in the house next to us told me that she’d heard that Sutcliffe had his eye on the companion all along and that he’d only been publicly courting Antonia Whitley so his parents would leave him alone.”

Mrs. Goodge wanted to scream in frustration. Lottie jumped from subject to subject in the blink of an eye. But she needed some information from this woman, so she’d do her best to be patient.

“It was sad about her; she became Antonia Meadows,” Lottie explained. “Mr. Keighley did the marriage settlement for her and Thaddeus Meadows. She married him right after John Sutcliffe up and married, and everyone
claimed that Meadows caught her because her pride was wounded. It wasn’t a very good marriage, either. The Meadows men were notorious for being mean and cheap. Everyone thought the family was so wealthy, but it turned out they weren’t. When old George Meadows, he was Thaddeus’ father, up and died, there wasn’t anything left, and the gossip was that he’d gambled everything away. His wife had to sell their home and move in with her daughter. Mind you, Thaddeus was lucky. Some relative of his had died and left him a modest yearly income and a house here in London. Thaddeus was the lucky one in that family. Though I did hear that he died recently.”

Mrs. Jeffries stepped off the omnibus and onto the pavement. She had gotten off a half mile from her usual stop because she wanted to walk the rest of the way home; she wanted to think. She started up Holland Road, walking slowly past the six-story brown brick and white town houses toward Upper Edmonton Gardens. One part of her mind paid attention to her surroundings while the rest of her thoughts went over and over what they knew thus far. It wasn’t much. Ronald Dearman wasn’t a much loved man. His wife hated him, his servants feared him, and he kept his office staff in a constant state of anxiety, so to speak. She frowned as she tried to recall the details of the murder itself. Fact: He’d been killed at the end of a workday when the office was empty but the building itself still had people coming and going. The employment bureau on the third floor was open until seven so the day laborers could collect their pay. But they generally used the back stairs, not the front staircase. She
smiled and nodded politely at a well-dressed matron she’d seen in the communal garden.

But what about the porter? He came on at half past six. So if the murderer came in the front way, he—or
she
, Mrs. Jeffries reminded herself—risked being seen by the porter, but if he used the back staircase, he risked running into a day laborer. Unless the murderer knew that there was a small window of time when it could be done with only a small chance of being seen by anyone. Which meant the killer either knew the comings and goings of the building workers or had watched the place. Or perhaps he simply was incredibly lucky, she thought. That had happened any number of times in their previous cases. She picked up her pace and as she did, snatches of conversation and ideas flicked in and out of her consciousness so quickly they made no sense at all.

A cold gust of wind slammed into her, and she pulled her cloak tighter and lowered her head as her eyes watered. Hansom cabs, delivery vans, and carriages drove briskly up and down the roadway. She moved to one side as a shoeblack lad carrying his box hurried past her, heading for Uxbridge Road Station where he’d no doubt pick up plenty of custom from the afternoon trains as people came home from work.

There was a break in the traffic, so she nipped across the road, dodging past a cooper’s van that appeared out of nowhere. When she stepped onto the pavement, she slowed her steps and decided to try and think logically about this case. To begin with, Dearman was murdered in his place of work
and
after everyone else had gone home. The weapon was a gun, which meant the murder was a planned event. People simply didn’t walk about
the city on the off chance they’d have an opportunity to shoot an enemy. So if the murder was premeditated, she was going to assume the killer didn’t get lucky but knew the layout of the office and the comings and goings of everyone in the building. But that information wouldn’t have been hard to gain, she reminded herself.

Second, the body wasn’t discovered till the next morning. Was that part of the killer’s plan? She was going to assume it was. If so, that meant that he or she must have known that Lucretia Dearman wouldn’t raise the alarm for hours. Mrs. Jeffries stopped and stared straight ahead as that idea blossomed into another. Goodness, that would mean that whoever murdered him knew enough about his marriage to know that he and his wife had separate rooms
and
that when he was late, she didn’t bother to wait up for him. That was the kind of intimate knowledge that few people outside the household would know and certainly not the kind of detail that Dearman would have shared with his employees. But then again, servants talked and one of them could very easily have mentioned it.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Jeffries?” said a young voice from behind her.

She whirled about to see two street lads staring at her. The taller of the two had curly red hair under his gray flat cap and wore a threadbare brown jacket that was too big for him. He looked vaguely familiar to her. The other boy was brown haired, hatless, and wore a grubby, shapeless blue coat. “I’m fine, thank you.” She smiled. “Do I know you?”

“’Course you do,” the redhead replied. “We’ve taken messages for you a time or two. Usually to the police station on Ladbroke Road. We were hoping you’d stopped
because you were waitin’ for us, you know, maybe you wanted to hire us.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve nothing for you today. I simply stopped because I was thinking, that’s all.” London was full of young boys, generally from very poor families, who roamed the streets hoping to earn a bob or two by taking notes, small packages, and messages between one place and another.

“Sorry for botherin’ you.” The redhead doffed his cap. “But if you need us for anythin’, one of us is generally in front of the station. That’s our patch.” With that, they took off running, flying past her toward the corner.

Mrs. Jeffries resumed walking, her mind working furiously as she went over and over the details they knew thus far. She reached the corner of Upper Edmonton Garden just as the street lads dashed across the road, and for the briefest moment, an idea flashed through her mind. But it was gone before she could grab it.

Constable Barnes waited till the foyer was empty before he opened the heavy double doors and stepped inside. Eddie Harwood glanced up at the sound of the constable’s footsteps on the wooden floor. “You picked a good time to come,” he commented. “It’s gone quiet. The CI is in a long meeting, and last I looked, none of Nivens’ minions are about.”

Barnes grinned. “Thanks, Eddie. What time is your shift over?”

“In another thirty minutes. I was thinking we could go have a pint when you’ve finished looking over the report. I had a quick glance at it and it’s not too long.”

“That’ll be fine, Eddie.” Barnes kept his smile firmly in place. He’d sensed there’d be a price to pay for the man’s help, and he’d suspected it would be an evening drink. Eddie had no reason to hurry home, but luckily, Barnes had told his good wife he’d be late so she wouldn’t
worry. “Is there a place I can use that’s a bit private? Maybe none of his minions are here, but Nivens has eyes everywhere and I’d not like him to cotton onto the fact I’m reading his reports before they get to the chief inspector.”

Harwood jerked his thumb straight up. “I’ve left an office unlocked. It was Inspector Tarbell’s old office. He retired last week, and they’ve not reassigned the space. Do you know where it is? It’s the first one in the corridor by the staircase.”

“I know which one it is,” Barnes replied.

Harwood pulled a flat, brown envelope out from under the counter and handed it across. “By the way, you may want to have a word with Charlie Wakeham. He’s working this case, and he doesn’t like Nivens much. He’s a sharp lad, and I know he thinks highly of you and the inspector. He might be able to add the bits and pieces that Nivens hasn’t put in his report, if you know what I mean.”

Barnes nodded. He knew exactly what Eddie meant; there were always small details that were left out of official reports. “That’s a good idea. Is Wakeham the sort that can hold his tongue?” He took the proffered envelope.

“He is and he generally has a drink at the Blakely Arms when he gets off work. Do you know the place? If you want, I can ask him to meet us there tomorrow evening.”

“I know where it is,” Barnes said. “And I’d appreciate having a word with him. But I don’t want you to go to any trouble—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Eddie interrupted.

“Good, then, I’ll see you in a bit.” He turned and hurried up the staircase. When he reached the top, he slowed
his steps and stuck his head into the corridor before stepping out into the open. He’d been exaggerating when he’d said that Nivens had eyes everywhere; the truth was most of the rank and file loathed the fellow, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t some smarmy little sod who’d run tattling to him. It was best if no one saw him going into an empty office.

The corridor was clear, so he stepped into the office and closed the door quietly behind him. The room was dim, but there was enough light from outside so that he could make his way to the desk. Barnes didn’t want anyone walking past to wonder why there was light coming from an empty office, so he ignored the lamp on the desk and pulled the chair around so he’d be facing the window. He sat down and took the report out of the envelope. He balanced the pages across his knees and fished his small hand lantern out of his jacket pocket. With his back to the office door, he readied the light and aimed it at the paper. He began to read the witness statements.

Barnes frowned as he scanned the first page. He flicked to the second page, his frown deepening to a scowl as he realized that in every single interview with witnesses, the answers to Nivens’ questions were so short as to be meaningless. The stupid sod was still up to his old tricks of intimidating and bullying anyone he considered lower class, namely, the Sutcliffe office clerks and any poor servant who happened to cross his path. Good God, the man had been a copper long enough to know that if you wanted to get any useful information, you needed to get the witness to talk freely, get them relaxed, let them feel respected. Barnes sighed and continued reading; complaining about the man wouldn’t do any
good. Nivens’ political and family connections were too strong, and in all fairness, he did have a decent record for solving house burglaries. But the rumor was that he used a network of paid informants for those cases. Too bad his ruddy informants couldn’t help him solve this one properly, because he certainly wasn’t going to do it with his shoddy detective work, Barnes told himself. He squinted as he got to the last page and put the hand lamp closer to the paper so he could finish the last few paragraphs. Though he had a good memory, he knew that he’d not recall everything, so as soon as he finished reading, he took out his notebook and began writing.