Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (3 page)

“Ask and thou shalt receive.” Mrs. Goodge rolled her eyes heavenward. “Thank you, Lord.”

“Who was killed?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“A man named Harrison Nye,” Betsy said. She accepted the cup of tea the housekeeper handed her. “He was found stabbed to death in a garden in Fulham.”

“Whose garden?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She liked to get as many details as possible. As she did all her investigating right from this kitchen, it was important to get as many names as possible as quickly as possible. Mrs. Goodge had a secret-army of informants. Deliverymen, rags-and-bones boys, chimney sweeps, gas men, tweenys and street arabs. She plied them with tea and cake and got their tongues wagging. If that didn’t work, she used her vast network of former colleagues, which stretched from one end of London to the other, to unearth every morsel of gossip about suspects and victims. She could do a better background investigation on someone than the spies at the foreign office and do it quicker as well.

Betsy took a quick sip of tea. “I don’t know. I only got the name of the victim and the address. It was number thirteen Dunbarton Street in Fulham. That’s where he was found.”

“Harrison Nye,” Smythe repeated thoughtfully. “That name sounds familiar. Now where ‘ave I ‘eard it before?”

“Tell us what happened,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Betsy. It was important that they get the full story. She knew that it was easy to leave out something that could be a vital clue when one was telling something piecemeal.

“I got to the station and the sergeant on duty let me go up to the inspector’s office. He wasn’t there. He was in a meeting of some sort, so I put his things on his desk. Then I left to come home, but just as I was leaving the building, who should pop up but Inspector Nivens.”

Everyone groaned. Inspector Nigel Nivens was universally and heartily disliked. The man had made it his mission in life to prove that Inspector Witherspoon had help solving his cases. He was rude, caustic and quite stupid.

‘That was my reaction as well,” Betsy said with a grin. She’d groaned when he’d waylaid her in the foyer. “But as it turned out, it was just as well. If Nivens hadn’t stopped me, I wouldn’t have found out about the inspector nor the name of the victim.”

“What happened?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

Betsy’s grin broadened. “Well, there I was trying to get away from Nivens, who was asking me what I was doing there in the first place, when all of a sudden, who should come racing down the stairs but our inspector and Constable Barnes. He stopped when he saw me, thanked me for bringing his things, then told me to tell you”—she nodded at Mrs. Jeffries—“that he’d be home quite late tonight as he’d just been given a murder. You should have seen Inspector Nivens’s face. He got so angry he looked like he was going to have an apoplexy attack. He demanded to know who’d been killed and where it had happened. Of course our inspector told him, and that’s how I heard. Then Nivens took off up the stairs muttering something to the effect that this should be his murder and that the chief inspector had no business giving it to our inspector.” She broke off and laughed. “Oh, you should have seen him. It was a sight. Even the police constables milling about and the sergeant were staring at Nivens like he’d lost his mind.”

“Nye. That name sounds so familiar,” Smythe muttered again.

Betsy was glad her beloved was so worried about who the victim was rather than why Nivens had stopped her in the first place. She’d told them he’d been questioning her about why she was at the station and that, to some extent, was the truth. He’d whipped off his hat, done a funny little bow and then grinned at her like she ought to be grateful he was taking any notice of her at all. It had taken a few minutes before she’d realized he was flirting with her. She’d been horrified. He’d actually had the nerve to ask her when was her day out.

She’d told him her day out each week varied according to what the household’s needs happened to be. Mercifully, the inspector and Constable Barnes had come rushing down the stairs at that point.

The inspector hadn’t noticed anything amiss with her, but she’d seen the constable’s eyes narrow suspiciously. Constable Barnes didn’t miss much. She’d seen him shoot Nivens a really dirty look too.

She had no intention of seeing Nigel Nivens on her day out, and she’d tell him so the next time she saw him. She couldn’t stand the little toad, and she was an engaged woman. She intended to keep it that way.

“Should we send for Luty and Hatchet?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet were dear friends. They’d inadvertently gotten involved in one of the inspector’s earlier cases and ended up using their considerable resources to help catch a killer. Now they helped all the time.

“I can pop along and get ‘em,” Wiggins volunteered. “If they’re ‘ome, I can ‘ave ‘em back ‘ere before noon.”

“That’d give me time to nip around to Fulham and see what I can suss out about the murder,” Smythe said. “Cor blimey, though, I wish I could remember where I’d heard that name.”

“Do be careful, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries cautioned. “If Nivens is on his high horse, he could well be snooping around number thirteen Dunbarton Street even if it isn’t his case.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open, Mrs. Jeffries,” Smythe said. “But we need to get crackin’. It’s not often we get a jump on a case like this.”
 

“The doctor is finished, sir,” Constable Barnes said to the inspector. “We’d better have a look. The van to take him to the mortuary will be here any moment now.”

The doctor, a portly, balding fellow with a huge handlebar mustache, rose from where he’d been kneeling beside the body and started toward the waiting policemen. “I’m Dr. John Boyer,” he introduced himself as he drew near.

Witherspoon extended his hand, and the two men shook. “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes. What can you tell us, Doctor?”

Boyer nodded at the constable. “Not much at this stage,” he replied. “Fellow’s been stabbed. But I’m not saying that’s the cause of death. I won’t know that officially until I do the postmortem.”

“When will you be finished with the autopsy?” he asked. From the corner of his eye, he could see that quite a crowd of locals had gathered. Several police constables were keeping them well away from the crime scene.

“I’ll do it this morning and get the report over to you straight away.” Boyer smiled slightly. “Providing, of course, that I don’t have any emergencies waiting for me when I get to my office. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. Oh, by the way, you might want to have your lads do a search of the local area. From the size of the wound, my guess, and mind you, it’s only a guess at this stage, is that he was killed with a fairly large knife.” He nodded one last time and turned on his heel and left.

‘That’s not good, sir.” Constable Barnes pursed his lips. “It’s better if we’ve got the murder weapon.”

“I agree,” Witherspoon replied. He began walking toward the corpse. “But we don’t. As soon as we examine the body, we’d best do as the doctor says and have our lads do a thorough search. Most killers try to rid themselves of the weapon as soon as possible.” He turned his head and looked off to where the road ended. Beyond the last house, there was a spindly copse of trees. The Fulham and Putney Railway line was just the other side of the trees. “Have them search amongst the trees.”

“How about the railway line? How far should they walk it in each direction?” He started toward the body.

Witherspoon followed. He’d solved many murders, yet sometimes the simplest question caught him off guard. “Uh, well, I’m not sure.”

“I’ll have them go a mile each way, sir.” Barnes reached the victim first. He knelt beside the body. “It’s pretty bad, sir,” he said. “There’s a lot of blood. Looks like the knife went straight in through his back to the heart. Must have hurt like the devil too.”

Witherspoon hung back for a few moments, then took a deep breath and stepped to the other side of the dead man. He knew his duty. He hoped he wouldn’t disgrace himself by getting sick. Stabbing victims, in particular, always made him queasy. Mindful of the crowd eagerly watching from the sidelines, he forced himself to look down at the corpse sprawled at his feet.

The victim lay on his side, his body half on and half off the stone walkway leading to the front door of the small house. Blood seeped out from underneath the man’s back and pooled thinly on the stone. He’d worn a black overcoat, and it was soaked through of course. The inspector noted the position of the fatal wound and looked at Barnes. “Let’s roll him over,” he instructed. He knelt, took a deep breath and grasped the dead man’s shoulder. He and the constable turned him onto his back.

The corpse’s eyes were wide-open. “I say, he does look rather surprised,” Witherspoon murmured. “But then again, being stabbed in the back is rather unexpected.”

“Should we search his pockets, sir?”

“Good idea,” Witherspoon replied. He reached into the overcoat and his fingers brushed against its silk lining. He felt around the inside pocket thoroughly. “Nothing in here.”

Barnes had plunged his hands into the trouser pockets. “Just what you’d expect, sir,” he said. “A money clip loaded with small bills and some coins. Nothing else.”

“How was he identified so quickly?” Witherspoon asked.

Barnes jerked his chin toward one of the police constables standing at the edge of the front garden holding the crowd back. “Constable Peters recognized him, sir. He moved him enough to get a good look at his face before he raised the alarm, sir. He said he wanted to make sure the fellow was dead.”

Witherspoon nodded. “I’ll have a word with him in a moment.” He rose to his feet and stared at the silent house in front of them. Then he looked at the crowd being held back by the police constables. “Who lives here?” he called to the nearest constable.

“No one,” he replied. “The house has been empty for over two months.”

As the small crowd had gone quiet and was now avidly listening, Witherspoon decided it might be best to ask his questions more discreetly. “Thank you, Constable.”

“I’ll have a quiet word with the local lads, sir,” Barnes said. “They’ll be able to give us a few more details about this place.” He had realized the inspector’s dilemma. The police wanted information, but they didn’t want the entire neighborhood to watch them getting it.

“Which one of you is Constable Peters?” Witherspoon called out.

“I am, sir.” A tall young man with dark brown hair detached himself from the others and came to the inspector. The lad’s face was pasty white, and the expression in his hazel eyes haunted.

“Is this your first body?” the inspector asked softly.

Peters nodded. “Yes, sir. And to tell you the truth, I hope it’ll be my last. It weren’t pleasant, sir. Not pleasant at all.” In truth, Constable Peters had almost lost his stomach, but he wasn’t about to share that with the legendary Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. Mind you, Peters thought, the inspector didn’t look much like a legend. His face was long and kind of bony. Wisps of thin brown hair fluttered from underneath his bowler, and his spectacles had slipped halfway down his nose. No, Peters decided, he didn’t look like a legend at all. More like a mustached little mouse of a man. Except for the spectacles, of course. Mice didn’t wear spectacles …

“Constable Peters, are you all right?” Witherspoon asked sharply.

“Sorry, sir.” Peters realized the inspector had asked him a question. “What did you say?”

“Who found the body?” Witherspoon repeated for the second time. Goodness, the poor lad really was rattled.

“A Mrs. Moff. She lives next door.”

A police van trundled around the corner, and there was a flurry of activity as the constables holding the crowd back shooed people out of the way so the van could draw up close to the house.

“The wagon’s here, sir,” Barnes said. “Did you want to have another look at the body before they take it off, sir?”

“No. Let’s go have a word with this Mrs. Moff, then,” the inspector said.

“Are you finished with me, sir?” Peters asked.

“Not quite, Constable,” Witherspoon replied. “There’s a cafe up the road a bit. Go and have a cup of tea, a nice strong one with lots of sugar. As soon as Constable Barnes and I are finished here, we’ll be along to get a few more details from you.”

Constable Peters hesitated. He was suddenly ashamed of himself for thinking Inspector Witherspoon looked like a mouse. Blooming Ada, the man must be able to read minds, he’d just been thinking he’d give a week’s pay for a cuppa. But he didn’t want the others to think him a ninny. “I’m all right, sir…”

“Go along, lad,” Barnes said brusquely. He understood the young man didn’t want to appear weak. “Do as the inspector says and have a cup of tea. No one will think any the less of you for it.” They moved to one side as two police constables, a stretcher slung between them, hurried up the short walkway to the victim.

Peters, with one last terrified glance over his shoulder at the dead man, muttered a quick thanks to his superiors and took off down the road like a shot. Apparently, watching the victim get hauled away was more than he could stomach.

Barnes watched the police constables in their grim task long enough to ascertain that they knew what they were doing. Then he and the inspector made their way next door.

Witherspoon raised his hand to knock just as the door flew open. A middle-aged woman with a long nose and a flat, disapproving slash of a mouth stuck her head out and glared at them. “It took you long enough. That fellow’s been dead for hours.”

“I’m sorry, madam.” Witherspoon was a bit taken aback. “We got here as quickly as possible.”

“Humph,” she snorted, and motioned them inside. “Come in, then, and let’s get this over with. This whole business has upset my day enough already and I need to get to the shops before they close.”

They stepped into a dim, narrow hallway. The walls were painted a pale yellow that hadn’t aged particularly well and the air was heavy with the scent of wet wool and stale beer.

The inspector waited until the lady of the house had closed the door. She gave them a disgruntled look as she brushed past them. “Get a move on, then, I’ve told you, I’ve not got all day.”