Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (15 page)

Witherspoon wasn’t sure he understood. “Let me make sure I understand what it is you’re telling us. Daggett’s demeanor changed dramatically after you told him he wasn’t going to die?”

“That’s right.” Wiltshire smiled faintly. “Believe me, I know it sounds ridiculous. Knowing the fellow as I do, I’d have predicted that upon learning he wasn’t going to die, he’d have been dancing for joy. But honestly, Inspector, it was at that moment when the fellow looked the worst I’ve ever seen him.”

Smythe knew that Betsy wasn’t going to be pleased with the way he’d crept out of the house this evening, but he simply had to find out what was keeping Blimpey Grog-gins from his usual haunts. He pulled his coat tight against the chill night air and headed across the darkened communal gardens to the back gate. Smythe unlocked the gate, pulled it open ancl stepped out onto Edmonton Gardens. Within a few minutes, he was flagging down a hansom on Holland Park Road. “The West India Dock, please,” he told the driver as he leapt into the seat. “And there’s an extra shilling in it for ya if ya get me there quick.”

They made it to the river in record time. “Where do you want to be let off?” the driver called over his shoulder.

“Anywhere along the waterfront will do.” Smythe dug some coins out of his coat pocket. A few moments later, he swung out of the cab, paid the driver and headed across the road toward his destination.

Opening the door of the Artichoke Tavern, Smythe stepped inside and paused for a moment so his eyes could adjust to the smoky room. The scent of beer and gin mixed with tobacco smoke and unwashed bodies. Smythe spotted his quarry across the room.

She spotted him at the same time. Lila Clair met his gaze steadily as he made his way through the crowded room. She was a tall, black-haired woman in her fifties, her eyes were deep set, dark blue and had seen more than their fair share of misery. She was sitting at a table with three other girls. As the big man approached, she jerked her head sharply and the girls immediately got up.

“Hello, Smythe.” She spoke first. “Funny seein’ you here. This isn’t your sort of place.”

“May I ‘ave a seat?” he asked. If he wanted her help, he knew he’d better treat her with respect.

She nodded. “You can buy me a drink if you’ve a mind to.” Without waiting for his answer, she signaled the barmaid. “Bring us another,” Lila called to the woman, “and a whiskey for the big fellah here.”

Smythe didn’t like whiskey, but he wanted her help, so he’d drink what she ordered. “I’m lookin’ for Blimpey,” he said.

Lila made a great show of gazing about the crowded room. “I don’t see him ‘ere,” she finally said.

The drinks arrived. Smythe paid and picked up his glass. He downed the stuff in one big gulp.

Lila laughed. “You don’t like it, do ya?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But as you’d taken the trouble to order it, I thought I’d better have a go. Look, I don’t ‘ave a lot of time …”

“Why’d you come ‘ere?” she asked calmly. She took a sip of gin and stared at him steadily over the rim of her glass. “I’m not Blimpey’s keeper.”

“No, but you’re the one that’d know if ‘e was in trouble or something,” he blurted. “You’re about the only person on the face of the earth that Blimpey trusts, and I’ve got some work for ‘im.”

She studied him for a moment, then she grinned. “Is it important?”

“Very.”

“Ya ‘ave money?”

“I wouldn’t come to see Blimpey without it.”

She tossed back the last of her gin and rose to her feet. “Come on, then. I’ll take ya to ‘im.” She laughed. “He’ll not be pleased. He didn’t want anyone to see him, but you’re a good customer.”

“Thanks, Lila.” Smythe finished off the whiskey and got up. “I appreciate you takin’ the trouble to ‘elp me.”

“You’re a good man, Smythe.” Lila smiled wearily. “Some say you and your friends ‘ave kept the coppers from arrestin’ the wrong people. That’s good enough fer me. Besides, Blimpey’s gettin’ a bit restless. It’ll do ‘im good to get back to work.”

Smythe gaped at her, but as she’d already started for the door, she didn’t notice. He took off after her. He wondered what on earth they were going to do now. Blast a Spaniard, he thought, did everyone in bloomin’ London know about their investigating?

Betsy was furious. She snatched up the bowl of mashed potatoes and whirled about toward the sink.

“Uh, Smythe’s not ‘ad supper yet,” Wiggins reminded her, “and I know ‘e’s right fond of Mrs. Goodge’s potatoes.”

“Then he ought to have been here in time for supper,” Betsy said tartly. She put the bowl on the counter and hurried back to the table. Supper was over and done with. Mrs. Jeffries had already gone upstairs to meet the inspector at the front door and Mrs. Goodge had gone to her room, so it was just her and Wiggins left to clear up.

Wiggins sensed that perhaps he ought to tread lightly. Betsy didn’t look very happy. She’d been all right when they first sat down to have their meal; but as it got later and later and the coachman hadn’t come home, the maid had gotten quieter and quieter.

“I’m going to clear up,” she said, “and if he comes home hungry, that’s just too bad.” She began snatching up the half-empty bowls and the dirty plates.

Wiggins opened his mouth to protest just as Mrs. Goodge came back into the kitchen. He looked at her for help, but she simply gave her head a barely imperceptible shake. He clamped his mouth shut. Maybe it would be best if he stayed out of this, Smythe wouldn’t starve if he missed his supper.

Upstairs, they heard the front door open. Mrs. Goodge. who wanted to distract the maid out of her worry and temper, said, “I expect that’s the inspector. You go up and see, then pop back down and I’ll fix him a tray.”

“But I wanted to finish clearing up,” Betsy protested. “He usually has a sherry first.”

In the old days, Mrs. Goodge would have flailed the girl with the back side of her tongue for daring to question an instruction, but not now. Betsy was too much like family to be treated like that. But nonetheless, she wanted the girl to have a moment to cool down just in case Smythe came home.

“I know,” Mrs. Goodge said firmly. “But sometimes the inspector wants to eat right away, especially if he’s planning on going back out.”

Betsy put the dirty dishes down on the counter by the sink. “All right, I’ll nip up and see what’s what.”

Wiggins waited till he heard her footsteps on the back stairs, then he said, “I think she’s a bit annoyed with Smythe. He didn’t tell ‘er where ‘e was goin’ tonight.”

“He’s done that lots of times,” Mrs. Goodge said as she stacked the dirty dishes in a neat pile. “I don’t know why she’s getting in such a state about it this evening.”

“Since they got engaged, they’ve got an agreement,” Wiggins told the cook. “I ‘eard ‘em talkin’ about it. Neither of ‘em is to go off without lettin’ the other know where they’re goin’.”

“You heard them discussing this?” Mrs. Goodge fixed the footman with a hard stare. “In front of you?”

Wiggins had the good grace to blush. “Well, uh, they didn’t really talk about it in front of me.”

“You were eavesdropping?”

“It weren’t my fault,” he argued. “I was waitin’ by the back door for Fred one night, and the two of ‘em was in ‘ere natterin’ away. They didn’t bother to keep their voices down. What could I do? I didn’t want ‘em to know I’d been there all along, so Fred and me waited till they went upstairs before we come in.”

Mrs. Goodge sighed. “It’s all right, Wiggins. Mind you, the next time you find yourself in that situation, you might call out so they’ll know you’re there.”

He grinned. “But that’d spoil all the fun now, wouldn’t it?”

Upstairs, Mrs. Jeffries met the inspector as he came in the front door. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening.” He handed her his bowler. “How is the household?”

“We’re all well, Inspector. How was your day?” She helped him off with his coat.

“It was very difficult,” he said with a sigh. “Very difficult indeed.”

“Would you care to relax with a sherry, sir?”

“Actually”—he gave her a weary smile—“I believe I’ll just have my dinner. I shall retire early tonight, Mrs. Jeffries. I’m very tired.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled serenely. “Of course, sir. I’ll bring your tray to the dining room.”

She met Betsy by the back stairs. “Can you bring up the inspector’s tray, please?”

Betsy’s eyes widened. “You mean he’s not having a sherry?”

“Not tonight; he seems very tired,” the housekeeper replied. “I doubt I shall get much out of him tonight.”

Betsy turned on her heel. “I’ll bring it right up.”

Mrs. Jeffries went back to the dining room. If she was lucky, she might get a bit of information out of him before he ate.

The kitchen at Upper Edmonton Gardens was quiet as the grave when Smythe came in at half past ten. “Betsy,” he whispered as he poked his head around the door, “did you wait up for me?”

But the room was empty as well as silent. “Blast.” he muttered. “She’s not ‘ere.”

“I expect she’s a bit annoyed with you.”

Smythe jumped and whirled about. “Cor blimey, Mrs, Jeffries, you did startle me some. Uh, you think Betsy’s a bit put out?”

Mrs. Jeffries held a covered tray in her hand. “Oh, I think it’s a bit more serious than being ‘put out,’ as you call it.” She went toward the table. “But I expect you’re hungry. I saved you a bite of supper.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m right famished.” He followed her to the table and slid into his seat.

“Smythe, I’m not one to interfere.” She put a plate of cold roast beef, cheese, pickled onions and bread in front of him. “But I do believe your relationship with Betsy might be a bit smoother if you didn’t disappear before meals.”

He flipped his serviette onto his lap and picked up his fork. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Jeffries, I ought to ‘ave told both you and Betsy where I was off to, but I honestly thought I’d be back before supper was over. I only meant to go across town and give someone a message. But things got complicated and instead of giving the message, I got drug off to see the person in the flesh… and it was one of them situations where you’re not sure what you ought to do and you don’t want to make trouble because you really need some ‘elp.” He paused for a breath. “Am I makin’ any sense at all?”

“I think so.” She smiled kindly. “I take it you were in a situation where you had no choice but to carry on once you’d arrived at your destination.”

He nodded eagerly and stuffed a bite of cheese into his mouth. “That’s right. One of my sources ‘asn’t been around lately, and I needed to get a message to ‘im. Only instead of takin’ my message, I got took to see ‘im in the flesh.”

Mrs. Jeffries sat down across from him. “Were you successful in your inquiries?”

‘That I was, Mrs. Jeffries.” He grinned, thinking of how annoyed Blimpey was when Lila escorted him into the small, rather nice cottage by the river where he was holed up. Blimpey hadn’t been at his usual haunts for a very good reason. His gout had flared up badly. “I went to see a feller by the name of Blimpey Groggins.”

“And was he able to help you?”

Smythe glanced up as footsteps pounded down the back stairs.

“I thought I ‘eard you,” Wiggins said cheerfully. He ambled toward the table and plopped down next to the coachman. “Where ya been? I think Betsy’s a bit miffed at ya. She kept starin’ at your empty place at supper.”

Mrs. Jeffries turned her head slightly, as another, lighter pair of feet came down the back stairs. “Smythe was held up by something rather important,” she said loudly.

Startled by the housekeeper’s tone, Wiggins jerked in his chair. “Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, you give me a fright there.”

Betsy came into the kitchen. She’d taken off her apron and had a soft lavender wool shawl around her shoulders. “So you finally came home.” She looked disapprovingly at Smythe. “It’s about time. I was worried.”

Smythe smiled in relief. She looked annoyed, but not angry enough to tear a strip off him. “I’m sorry, I should ‘ave told ya where I was off to, but I thought I’d be ‘ome in time for supper. Then, once I got there, things sort of got out of ‘and.”

“Got where?” Betsy crossed her arms over her chest.

“The Artichoke Tavern.” He took another quick bite of food. “It’s down by the docks. I wanted to get a message to one of my sources … but once I got there, I got drug off to see ‘im and I didn’t want to upset anyone as this source is bloomin’ good, if you know what I mean and …”

“Did you find out anything?” Betsy interrupted. She slipped into the chair next to him.

Taken aback, he blinked. For a brief moment he was a bit put out that she wasn’t more interested in where he’d been. Then he got a hold of himself and thanked his lucky stars that the lass trusted him. “I found out plenty. Now I know why Harrison Nye’s name sounded so familiar to me; there was a lot of talk about the bloke when ‘e first come to London.”

“What kind of talk?” Wiggins asked.

“Let me tell it my own way, lad,” Smythe said, “otherwise it’ll not make much sense. “No one really knows much about Harrison Nye’s background, but what they do know is that ‘e showed up one day at the offices of May-hew and Lundt, Stockbrokers, and bought a fistful of the best stock goin’.”

“What’s so odd about that?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously. “I believe huge numbers of shares change hands each day.”

“True, but I’ll lay you odds the people doin’ the tradin’ aren’t handin’ over gold to buy ‘em with. That’s what Nye did. He paid for his stock in gold. That’s ‘ow come I knew ‘is name. It were the talk of London.”

Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain that the only people who had heard about Harrison Nye were those who had a genuine interest in the City’s financial community. Smythe, even all those years ago, was such a person. Smythe was a rich man. He’d made a fortune in Australia and then come back to England and invested his money. He’d worked for the inspector’s Aunt Euphemia. When she’d left this house and a sizable fortune to Gerald Wither-spoon, Euphemia had made Smythe promise to ‘hang about and keep an eye on the boy’ for a few months. But once Betsy had arrived and they’d started their investigating, it had become impossible for him to leave. He enjoyed himself far too much to want to go anywhere else. However, as the coachman went to great pains to keep his true financial worth a secret from the rest of the household (except Betsy), she could hardly blurt this observation out for all and sundry to hear. “I’m sure it was.”