Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (21 page)

“That’s good, then. What about her friend?” the man said. “Maybe she needs some paintin’ done.”

“You mean Mrs. Meadows?” She laughed. “You’d
need Mrs. Dearman to vouch for you, and she’d not do that unless you’d worked for her first.”

He shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink. “It was just an idea. Anyway, I’ve got to get back and load the rest of them pallets. It don’t pay as well as paintin’, but it’s better than nothing. Will I see ya tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I can get away. She’s makin’ all of us go to the funeral, and then we’ve all got to serve at the reception afterward. But at least she’s out of the way today, and I can come back this evening for a quick one because the housekeeper will be gone, too.”

“Let’s meet at half six. I’ll be finished workin’ by then.” He slapped his cap on his head and left.

Wiggins waited until the door closed behind the man before turning to the woman. “Excuse me, miss, but I feel bad about my earlier behavior. It was rude to stare at you, even if I did think you were my cousin. Would you allow me to buy you a drink by way of apology?”

“Oh, you do talk posh,” she cried. “But then again, you probably work in a posh house, don’t you, and yes, you can buy me another drink.” She waved at the barman. “Give us another one ’ere, Johnny, this bloke is payin’.”

Johnny duly poured another shot of gin in her glass, and Wiggins handed him the coins.

“I don’t want you to get in trouble with your mistress,” he began.

But she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. “Don’t you worry about that. The merry widow has gone to some village in Essex and won’t be home until eight o’clock.”

He grinned. “I wasn’t eavesdroppin’, but it did sound like there’s a lot of work for your household.”

“You mean the funeral and reception.” She waved her hand again. “That’s no trouble for any of us; all we’ve got to do is serve. It’s to be a cold dish reception, and Cook has already done the beef joint and the ham.” She knocked back the rest of her gin. “My mistress isn’t goin’ to waste any more time on gettin’ him planted than she has to. I don’t think she even cares if we get the house cleaned properly. She’s got the housekeeper off running errands that don’t have anythin’ to do with the funeral, she’s gone off to his cottage in Essex, a place she’s never gone to as long as I’ve worked for her, and she sent me next door this morning to ask the neighbors to send their footman to Liverpool Street Station to meet the seven thirty-five train.”

“Why does she need a footman to meet her?” he asked. He nodded at the barman to pour her another one.

“To help with the boxes.” She smiled her thanks at the barman. “She’s bringin’ some of his old stuff back from the cottage. Maybe she’s lookin’ for an old suit to bury him in—I wouldn’t put it past her. God knows there was no love lost between the two of ’em, and now that he’s dead, I expect she’ll be scarperin’ off to someplace warm.”

“She’s leavin’ the country?” He wanted to make sure he got this part correct.

“I don’t know for certain that’s what she’s plannin’, and if you’d asked me last week, I’d said she didn’t have enough money to go to Brighton and back, but now that he’s gone, she’s spendin’ fast enough.”

“Maybe she’s goin’ to inherit from him,” Wiggins suggested.

“Could be. He had plenty he didn’t tell her about,
that’s for certain.” She took a sip of her gin. “He was never short of cash, I can tell you that.” She winked and poked him in the arm.

“Why, you clever woman, how did ya find that out?”

“I do the cleanin’ upstairs, and twice now, when he didn’t know I was up there, I’ve seen him pullin’ big wads of cash out of his pocket and stuffin’ it into his travelin’ bag. Now, I ask you, why would he be doin’ that if he wasn’t tryin’ to hide money from his missus?”

“Don’t be alarmed, sir.” Witherspoon rose to his feet. “We check everyone’s movements, not just yours.” Barnes put his notebook in his pocket and got up, too.

“I’m relieved it’s not just me you’re—” Anson broke off as his office door opened. “John, what are you doing here? I thought you were at your sister’s helping with the funeral arrangements?”

“She wasn’t there. She’s probably gone to Mrs. Meadows’. Women are so much more understanding of one another at time like this.” He moved farther into the office, his gaze locked on the two policemen. “Back again, are you?” Then he frowned. “Wait a moment, you’re not the chap that was here earlier.”

“There’s been a change in the investigation,” Anson said quickly. He introduced them and explained the situation. “They’d finished with me and were going out to interview the staff,” he concluded.

“I hope you’re better mannered than that other chap.” Sutcliffe eyed Witherspoon cautiously. “He was most abrasive and rather rude.”

Barnes chuckled, and the inspector tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t. “We’ve heard that complaint
before,” Witherspoon replied. “I assure you, sir, we do our best to be respectful of witnesses.”

“In that case, come along to my office first. You were going to interview me again, weren’t you?” He was already at the door and heading for the hallway.

“We were indeed, sir,” Witherspoon said as they hurried after him.

Sutcliffe stopped at a door at the end of the corridor and waved them inside. “Please have a seat, gentlemen. Would you like tea?”

“Thank you but no.” Witherspoon sank down into one of the two upholstered leather chairs in front of the man’s massive desk. Barnes took the other one.

Sutcliffe took his seat. “Right then, let’s get on with this. What do you need to know?”

“To begin with, do you know of anyone who might have wished to harm Mr. Dearman?” Witherspoon asked.

Sutcliffe gave a negative shake of his head. “Ronald wasn’t a popular person, but I don’t know of anyone who would have wanted to kill him. Yet, obviously, someone did.”

“Had he sacked anyone recently?” Barnes asked.

“He let James Tremlett, one of the accounting staff, go. That was about ten days ago, I think,” Sutcliffe said. “To tell you the truth, I was surprised he’d done it. Tremlett’s always been a good worker and completely reliable. But when I asked Ronald about it, he claimed he’d found irregularities in the fellow’s work.”

“We’ll need Tremlett’s address,” Witherspoon said.

“Of course, I’ll have our head clerk get it for you before you leave. Henry didn’t look pleased when he said you’d be speaking to the entire staff again. He’s a
good man, but like so many of the young, he thinks efficiency is a virtue on the par with justice.”

“I take it you don’t agree?” Barnes asked.

“I did when I was his age.” Sutcliffe suddenly smiled and it transformed his face; gone was the stern visage, replaced by the expression of a wise and kind grandfatherly type. “But now that I’m older, I’ve come to believe that kindness is more important than intelligence and people should be judged on their character and not their class or background.” He sighed. “But you didn’t come here for a philosophy debate. Go on, ask your questions.”

Barnes leaned forward. “Mr. Anson said that Mr. Dearman resented him. Can you comment on that?”

“Henry is being overly sensitive. Ronald most certainly did not resent him. I’ll admit there was a bit of conflict between the two of them, but that’s to be expected considering that Henry took over much of Ronald’s responsibilities. Surely you don’t suspect Henry? That’s absurd.”

“We don’t suspect anyone as yet,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We’re trying to find the truth. But you do admit the men had conflicts?”

“Yes, and that was my fault. I didn’t adeptly handle the transition between hiring Henry and easing Ronald out of his responsibilities.”

“Why did you decide to decrease Mr. Dearman’s role in the company?” Witherspoon shifted in his chair.

“Because he was getting older, Inspector, and I was trying to gently push him toward retiring.”

“Mr. Sutcliffe, in your previous statement, you claimed that the victim and Mr. Anson didn’t get along, yet now you seem to be implying that there was only the occasional
mild disagreement between them,” Barnes said. Unlike the inspector, he had read the reports and witness statements. “Which is it?”

Sutcliffe tilted his head to one side. “Uhm, looks like you did read your predecessor’s reports.”

Barnes nodded. He didn’t dare look at Witherspoon; now he was going to have to explain when and where he’d seen the witness statements. Drat.

“Alright, I have tried to tone it down. The truth is they couldn’t stand one another. It was getting awkward and I was sorry for it. Ronald wasn’t incompetent, but the company had grown so much that I felt we needed someone younger and frankly, better educated. I hired Henry, and within a very short time, he proved so valuable, I put him in charge of the operations of both plants. Of course, Ronald was upset.”

“Weren’t you going to sack him?” Barnes pressed. “Shouldn’t he have been grateful you kept him on at all?”

“Who told you I was going to sack him?” Sutcliffe demanded.

“Henry Anson,” the constable said. “He said that when you hired him, you gave him the impression you meant to get rid of Mr. Dearman.”

“Henry was mistaken.” Sutcliffe got to his feet. “I never had any intention of sacking Ronald. He is my brother-in-law, and such an act would have hurt my sister deeply. Now, if you’ve no more questions, I really must get to work.”

They got up. “I do have one more question, sir.” Barnes put his notebook in his jacket pocket. “You went to Birmingham on business the day that Mr. Dearman was killed, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What train did you take?”

“The five forty-five,” he replied. “And I came back the next morning as soon as I heard about Ronald’s death.”

“How did you hear, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“Henry sent me a telegram, and I came back immediately.”

“Do you have your ticket stub, sir?” Barnes pressed.

“Certainly not, why would I keep such a thing? I threw it away.”

“Did you see anyone on the train who you know, anyone who can verify you were there?” the inspector added. He’d no idea what Barnes was doing, but he was going to play along. He trusted the constable completely.

Sutcliffe’s eyes widened in surprise. “I saw no one, Inspector. I didn’t realize I’d be needing to account for my whereabouts. Surely you don’t suspect that I had anything to do with Ronald’s murder? Why? I’ve no reason to want the fellow dead.”

“Our questions are just routine, sir,” Barnes said quickly. “We’re asking everyone to account for themselves.”

Hatchet smiled at his companion and signaled the barman for another drink. He, of course, was drinking mineral water, but Alexander Dreyfus loved his gin. They were seated at a small, elegant table in the Kings Spaniel, one of the fanciest pubs in Mayfair. The walls were covered with flocked red silk wallpaper; French embossed glass adorned the wooden panels separating the sections; and from overhead, three red and gold chandeliers cast the room in cheerful light.

“I was surprised to hear from you.” Dreyfus nodded his thanks as the waiter put his drink in front of him and then hurried off. “It’s been a long time.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean I neglect my old friend forever,” Hatchet replied. He and Dreyfus had once been fast friends, but over the years as their lives had gone in different directions, they had drifted apart. Like Hatchet, Dreyfus had started out in service, but had made a fortune by opening a temporary employment agency supplying “Gentlemen’s Gentlemen” to those that could afford his exorbitant fees. “Every time I’ve sent you a message, you’ve been either in Paris or Edinburgh. Good Lord, man, don’t you ever stay in London?”

Dreyfus laughed. He was a tall man with hazel eyes, a huge forehead, and a fringe of gray hair. “Business, I’m afraid. Even in France and Scotland there’s a call for my services. Amazing how many households hire temporary butlers and footman for either special occasions or to impress a dinner guest. But I can’t complain; it’s made me a rich man. How about you? Are you still working for that American woman? You do know that if you’d come to work for me, I’d make sure you got only plum jobs right here in London.”

This time, Hatchet laughed. “Thank you, Alex, but there’s no need for that. I’m well fixed. As a matter of fact, I’ve plenty of money thanks to some wise investments. The only reason I don’t retire is that I enjoy working for my American lady. She’s quite the character, and life with her is always interesting.”

“I’m glad life has worked out well for you.” Alex grinned broadly. “There was a time when it looked as if it wouldn’t.”

Hatchet knew he was referring to those dark days when he was held firmly in the grip of an addiction often referred to as “demon rum,” though at the height of his cravings, anything with alcohol in it would do. “It was my eccentric American lady who found me in an alley in Baltimore and offered me a chance. That’s one of the reasons I’ll never leave her. But to be perfectly frank, I do have another reason for wanting to see you. I need your help.”

“You know I’ll help you in any way that I can,” Alex replied. “I owe you a great deal.”

Hatchet waved him off impatiently. “You don’t owe me anything. You’d have done the same for me.”

Years earlier, Dreyfus, who was Jewish, had been accosted by a gang of anti-Semitic thugs as he left a pub. Hatchet happened to follow him out, saw him getting attacked, and leapt into the fray himself. The thugs ran off into the night, and Dreyfus and Hatchet had become fast friends. “I know that you’d die before you’d admit this to most people, but you do hear a substantial amount of gossip from your staff, right?”

Alex chuckled. “That’s true, but don’t tell anyone. All of our advertisements claim we’re the very soul of discretion. But I admit that when the men come in to pick up their pay packets, we sit around the fire and have a right good natter. But we make sure we keep it in the family, so to speak. I do draw the line at the staff spreading gossip to outsiders. It would kill my business.”

“My lips are sealed, but it would be very helpful to me if you happened to have heard anything about a family named Dearman or Sutcliffe.”