Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (23 page)

“They don’t mind.” Witherspoon waved his hand dismissively. “My household is very interested in my work. I’m very lucky in that regard. They do tend to be a bit overly protective of me though. You know, you’re not the only one who thinks Inspector Nivens isn’t to be trusted. Mrs. Jeffries has never liked the fellow. Why, by the way, I haven’t seen him about much lately. Where’s he got to?”

Barnes grinned. “He’s kept himself scarce ever since you complained to the chief inspector that he was interferin’ on your case.”

Witherspoon winced. “I did hate doing that. But I do believe you were right, Constable. Inspector Nivens does seem to resent me very much these days.”

“Not to worry, sir. Rumor has it he’ll be going up to Yorkshire soon,” Barnes replied. “They needed some help on a string of housebreakings that the local fellows can’t solve.” He didn’t tell the inspector that the gossip in the ranks was that Chief Inspector Barrows had gotten fed up with Nivens’s playing politics all the time, so he’d sent the fellow off to get him out of Barrows’s hair for a few days. “And I must admit, sir, I think you’re right about Daggett. I don’t think he did it either.”

“You and I are the only ones that think he’s innocent. I expect it’s because he’s not a very likable sort.” He sighed. “If we want to catch the real killer, we’ll have to keep on digging.”

“Oh, I don’t expect we’ll have to dig very far,” Barnes murmured softly.

“Cor blimey, I can’t see a ruddy thing,” Wiggins complained. “We’re too far away.”

They were flattened against the far side building at the end of the row of homes on Dunbarton Street. They weren’t positioned to see Frieda Geddy’s home very easily as it was halfway up-the block.

“There aren’t many hiding places about,” Smythe muttered. “And we don’t dare be seen. Lower yer ‘ead, Wiggins, you’re blockin’ my view.”

“What will we do if things begin to happen, and the inspector’s not here?” Hatchet asked softly.

“We’ll do what’s needed,” he said. He turned and gazed at Hatchet’s coat pocket. The butler, fully understanding, nodded in the affirmative and patted the pocket. Inside was a small, but deadly derringer. “I brought it. You?”

Smythe looked at Wiggins, who wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation, and then back at Hatchet. “I’ve something with me.” He cut a fast glance down to his right boot. Like Hatchet, he’d come prepared. He’d brought his old hunting knife from his days in the Australian outback. It was strapped snugly against his right shin. He hoped for all their sakes he didn’t have to use it.

“Cor blimey,” Wiggins hissed excitedly, “there’s a hansom coming.”

Smythe and Hatchet both craned their necks around the corner to get a better view. The hansom pulled up to the front of number 13 and a cloaked figure got down.

“It’s got to be Frieda Geddy,” Smythe whispered. He was fairly sure the killer was going to arrive by brougham, not by hansom. “Look, she’s getting out a carpetbag.” They watched her pay the driver and then head toward the front door. She stood on the doorstep for a moment, and then her front door opened and she stepped inside. A few moments later, a light appeared in the front-room window.

“Look, here comes another hansom.” Wiggins pointed down the road as a cab pulled around the corner.

Smythe and Hatchet looked at one another in dismay.

“He’s got here early,” Wiggins groaned. “What are we goin’ to do?”

“We’ll ‘ang on a bit and see what ‘appens,” Smythe muttered. He looked at Hatchet and saw his own fears mirrored on the butler’s face. “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“I think that’s a safe assumption.” Hatchet pursed his lips. “It appears as if our killer isn’t going to show himself. Apparently, we’ve been wrong about this.”

“We’re not wrong,” Wiggins insisted. He’d finally started paying attention. “Mrs. Jeffries is dead on about this. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Maybe he just ain’t got ‘ere yet.”

“And that’s even worse,” Smythe insisted. “Because if the inspector leaves after talkin’ to Miss Geddy, the killer‘11 be able to take his sweet time doin’ ‘er in and Inspector Witherspoon’ll never forgive ‘imself.”

“Then we’ll just have to spend the night here,” Hatchet said staunchly, “and make certain that doesn’t happen. What’s happening now?” he hissed at Wiggins, who’d craned his neck back around the side of the house.

“The hansom’s pullin’ up to the front of the ‘ouse,” Wiggins replied. “Ow, that smarts.”

“Sorry,” Smythe replied. Fearing they’d be seen, he’d pushed Wiggins down a bit harder than he’d intended. “Blast a Spaniard, the inspector and Constable Barnes is gettin’ out of the hansom.”

“This isn’t good,” Hatchet said. “I think we’re going to be here for the rest of the night.”

All of a sudden, the quiet night was filled with a blood-curdling scream. It came from inside the Geddy house.

Witherspoon and Barnes jumped and raced toward Miss Geddy’s front door.

Another scream came again, followed by a harsh cry.

The two policemen reached the front door. Barnes grabbed the knob and twisted. “It’s locked, sir.”

“Help, help,” a woman cried from inside the house. There was a loud crash, and then the sound of breaking glass.

“Break it open,” Witherspoon shouted. He and Barnes both took a step back and then shoved their shoulders hard against the door.

About that time, two police constables, hearing the commotion, came racing around the corner.

“Should we do somethin’?” Wiggins asked worriedly. That scream had just about made him faint, but he’d gotten ahold of himself. “It sounds like someone’s bein’ murdered in there.”

“Let’s wait a moment,” Hatchet replied. He’d caught sight of the two policemen running toward the Geddy house. “I believe there will be plenty of help.”

The two constables raced up to the house just as Barnes and Witherspoon took a step back to try again. One of the constables, a big, burly fellow, said, “Let me try kickin’ it, sir.” He raised his leg and gave a hard kick against the lock just as another scream came from the house. The door flew open and the police rushed inside.

Wiggins, Hatchet and Smythe came out from their hiding place, hoping to hide in the excitement of the moment and the darkness of the night. “Cor blimey, I wish I knew what was goin’ on in ‘at house … cor blimey, who’s that?” Wiggins pointed to a figure who’d just come around the corner. But whoever it was hadn’t walked around the corner, they’d crept quietly and kept close to the shadows, as though they didn’t want to be seen.

Even at this distance, they could see the figure wore a skirt.

She wasn’t watching them; she had her attention fixed firmly on the house midway down the row. Holding her arms stiffly down at her side, she started down the cobblestone street toward the house.

“Who is it?” Wiggins persisted. “And why’s she creep-in’ about like she don’t want to be seen?”

“Because she doesn’t,” Hatchet whispered. “Look, she’s heading for the Geddy house.” He had a strong feeling they’d better get closer. There was something about the stiff way the woman walked, something about her fixed attention on the house that sent alarm bells ringing in his head.

“What?” Smythe hissed. “You want us to get closer? But what if someone sees us?”

“We’ve got to risk it,” Hatchet persisted. He didn’t claim to be psychic or to believe in any of that sort of nonsense, but he knew if they didn’t get moving, something awful was going to happen.

Smythe caught something of Hatchet’s urgency. “All right, then, let’s go.” They moved farther out into the street and started walking toward the house. “But you’re the one that has to come up with some kind of story when we’re caught…” He broke off as he saw the woman reach the Geddy house. He also saw why she held her arms so stiffly at her side. She was carrying a revolver in her right hand.

“Blast a Spaniard …”

“I know,” Hatchet gulped. “I saw it too. Wiggins, go for help. Run and get more police constables; I think we’re going to need them.”

Inside the house, Witherspoon had plunged ahead of the others. To his right, a curved archway opened into a small sitting room.

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll slit her throat.”

Witherspoon skidded to a halt. The others did as well.

Lionel Bancroft was holding a terrified, middle-aged woman up on her knees by her hair. He held a long, wicked-looking knife at her throat. “I mean it,” he snarled. His handsome face was contorted in rage and fear, his hair was askew and a trickle of blood dribbled down his nose.

The room was in a shambles. A chair was knocked over, cushions had been tossed off the settee, and the front of a china hutch had been smashed. The inspector realized that Frieda Geddy had put up a fight. Good for her.

“Let Miss Geddy go,” he said calmly. “You don’t want to be in any more trouble than you already are.”

“Let me go, you great oaf,” Frieda Geddy snapped.

“Shut up, you stupid bitch,” Bancroft snarled. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be easy.”

“Now, now, let’s not be silly …” Witherspoon was terrified the knife was going to slip and sever the woman’s neck.

“I said, let me go.” Miss Geddy jerked her head to one side and Bancroft lost his grip on her hair. She jammed her elbow back and up as hard as she could. Bancroft screamed in pain, and the knife went flying to one side. Immediately, he was tackled by four policemen.

“Get off of me,” Miss Geddy called as she tried to crawl out from the flailing arms and legs of London’s finest.

“I’ve got him,” Barnes yelled out. He grabbed Bancroft’s collar and heaved the both of them to one side. The two other policemen scrambled to their feet and dived toward Bancroft, grabbing his arms and pinning them behind him.

Witherspoon disengaged his foot from under Freida Geddy’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“I’m unharmed,” she replied. They were both gasping for air as they staggered to their feet. “Thank God you were here. He tried to kill me …” She pointed at Bancroft.

“Take a moment and catch your breath,” Witherspoon said. “You’ve had a dreadful shock.”

“He was waiting inside my house,” she gasped.

“Are you sure you’re unharmed?” Witherspoon persisted as he ran his gaze up and down her person, searching for blood. Barnes, afraid his inspector might be hurt, had dashed over and was carefully, but surreptitiously doing the same to Witherspoon.

“I’m certain,” she replied. She glared at Bancroft, who was standing between the constables, his expression defiant. “Why was he trying to kill me? Who is he?”

“He’s a fool.” The words came from the archway and were spoken by a woman.

Witherspoon and Barnes both whirled about. Eliza Nye stood facing them. She had a revolver in her hand. It was pointed at the inspector’s head. “Lionel is a weak fool, but I’m not. I assure you, Inspector, I’ll blow your brains out if you don’t let us leave. I’m quite a good shot. I shan’t miss.”

Witherspoon swallowed heavily. There was a hard, crazed look in her eyes. A look that convinced him she was quite capable of doing precisely as she said. “You’re already in enough trouble, Mrs. Nye. I suggest you put that weapon down and come along peacefully.”

‘Trouble?” she laughed. “Don’t be a fool, Inspector. I’m going to hang. I stabbed my husband to death. Now do as I say, and no one will get hurt.”

“You stabbed him?” the inspector exclaimed in surprise. He cast a quick glance at Bancroft. He wasn’t quite sure precisely what was going on here, but he’d sort that out later. The important thing was to get everyone out of the house alive.

“Lionel was hardly up to the task,” she sneered. “For God’s sake, he can’t even do in one lone middle-aged woman.” She waved the gun at Miss Geddy. “But enough of this. Now listen carefully, Inspector. Order your men to release Lionel and do it now.”

Witherspoon turned and nodded at the constables holding Bancroft. “Step away, lads. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

As soon as he was free, Bancroft raced across the room. “I was going to do it,” he told her, “but the stupid bitch put up a struggle. What are we going to do now?” He and Eliza Nye stood with their backs to the door.

“We’re going to kill them all and make a run for it,” Eliza said bluntly. She took a step forward and aimed the gun at Frieda Geddy. “And she’s going to get it first.”

“You’re a very rude and awful person,” Frieda Geddy snapped, “and I certainly hope you’ll rot in hell.”

Witherspoon, holding out his arms, stepped in front of her. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that to happen. Now, please, put the gun down before you hurt someone.”

“Good God, you’re an even bigger fool than Lionel,” Eliza yelped. She leveled the gun at Witherspoon. “All right, then. As you’re in-such a hurry to die, let’s have at it.”

Suddenly, Bancroft screamed as he was brought to his knees by a flying tackle. Eliza Nye gasped and whirled around, leaping backwards a bit as the two grappling men crashed into her. Her arms flailed as she struggled to keep her balance. When she righted herself, she was staring down the short, blunt barrel of a derringer.

“Drop your gun, ma’am,” Hatchet ordered her. “I assure you, I’m an excellent shot and even if I weren’t, at this range, I couldn’t miss.”

Smythe drug Bancroft to his feet as the room went quiet and everyone’s attention turned to the two people with guns. Hatchet’s derringer was aimed at Eliza Nye’s head, her revolver was down at her side. She hadn’t a hope of aiming it before he fired. But still, she didn’t drop it.

Eliza Nye and Hatchet stared into one another’s eyes. The seconds ticked past and neither of them moved.

“You wouldn’t shoot a lady,” she said softly. “You’re a gentleman.”

“I assure you, madam,” he replied coldly, “I would. Now drop your weapon.”

She smiled slightly and dropped the gun onto the carpet. “I was wrong. You’re not a gentleman.”

“And you’re certainly no lady,” he said.

“Cor blimey, I almost fainted when I saw Hatchet take out that gun.” Wiggins could talk about it now that they were safely back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. It was very late, closer to morning than midnight. Everyone, except for the inspector, who’d stayed at the station to finish his report, was gathered around the kitchen table.