Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post (4 page)

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes,” the inspector said as they trailed behind her. She grunted in response and turned to her left into an open doorway.

They followed her into a neatly furnished small sitting room. White antimacassars were placed on the backs of the sagging gray settee and chairs. The table by the window was covered with a fringed shawl and a spindly-looking fern was doing its best to soak up what little sun it could through the pale muslin curtains.

“I’m Mrs. Moff.” She sat down smack in the middle of the couch and looked pointedly at the two chairs.

Witherspoon and Barnes each took a seat. The inspector waited until Barnes whipped out his little brown notebook and his pencil, then he said, “I understand you’re the one who found the body.”

“Right.” Mrs. Moff bobbed her head up and down as she spoke. “I did. Saw him lying there big as you please when I went out this morning.”

“What time was that, ma’am?” the constable asked.

“Oh, it was right early. The sun were just comin’ up when I stepped outside and saw him lying there. I went dashing over to see what was what, but when I was a few feet away, I saw the blood and I knew he was done for. So I went off and got the copper on the corner.”

“Constable Peters,” Barnes said to Witherspoon. This is his patch.”

“Right, I see him every morning on my way to the baker’s. Mr. Moff and I get us a couple of buns every morning for our breakfast.” Mrs. Moff’s head began bobbing again. “I got the constable, and we come back here. He took one look at the fellow and gave a mighty blast on that whistle of his and before you could count your linens, there were more coppers about the place than fleas on a dog. Well, I told the constable what little I knew, went on and got my buns and come back inside. Mr. Moff and I had our breakfast, and he went off to work. I’ve been waiting for you ever since.”

Witherspoon stared at her for a moment. She certainly wasn’t upset that a murder had taken place right under her nose, so to speak. “Did Mr. Moff see the body?”

Mrs. Moff’s thick eyebrows rose in surprise. “No, why should he? He’s seen dead uns before.”

“Really?” Witherspoon said.

“Course he has,” Mrs. Moff said staunchly. “He works over at Fulham Cemetery, has done for nigh onto twenty-two years now. You know, digging graves and that sort of thing. Mind you, they’re usually in the box by the time Mr. Moff has anything to do with ‘em, but not always. No, no, seein’ a dead body wasn’t something Mr. Moff wanted to do before he’d even had his buns.”

“Er, did you happen to hear anything unusual during the night?” Witherspoon asked.

“Unusual?” She seemed puzzled by the question.

“You know,” Constable Barnes interjected, “did you hear footsteps or screaming or anything that might have been just a bit out of the ordinary?” He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his tone but wasn’t quite successful.

Mrs. Moff appeared not to notice. “You mean did I hear the killing? No, slept like a log, I did. Now Mr. Moff’s a light sleeper. He might have heard something.”

“What time will Mr. Moff be home?” the inspector asked quickly.

“Half past six,” she replied proudly. “Regular as clockwork, he is. Why? Do you want to speak to him?”

‘That’s the idea,” the inspector replied. He knew there were a number of other questions he ought to ask, but for the life of him, his mind had gone blank.

“Who owns the house next door?” Constable Barnes asked.

“Which one?”

Barnes took a deep breath. He’d met stupider people. He was sure of it, but he couldn’t remember when. “The one where the murder happened.”

“Oh, that one.” She nodded wisely. “Well, as far as I know, Miss Geddy still owns the place. Mind you, I can’t say it for a fact, she might have sold it, because she just up and disappeared one day without so much as a by-your-leave. She didn’t say a word about where she was goin’ or if she’d be back. The house ‘as been empty ever since.”

The two men looked at each other. Then Witherspoon leaned forward slightly. “What is Miss Geddy’s first name? What can you tell me about her?”

“Why do you want to know?” Mrs. Moff frowned. “I just told you, Miss Geddy’s been gone for nigh on to two months now. What could she have to do with this killing?”

Barnes opened his mouth to speak, but the inspector beat him to it. “Probably nothing, ma’am. But it’s important we know as much as possible. Now, please, just answer the question.”

“It’s all the same to me,” Mrs. Moff said with a shrug. “Her name’s Frieda Geddy, and she come here about fifteen years ago. That’s all I know about the woman.”

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty years.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why? What do you care how long I’ve been here?”

“As you implied you knew very little about your neighbor, I wondered if you’d just moved here,” he replied.

“I don’t know much about her because she kept to herself,” Mrs. Moff shot back. “And I mind my own business, too. There, that satisfy you?”

“Has Miss Geddy any relatives in the area?” Wither-spoon asked quickly.

“How would I know?” Mrs. Moff sniffed disapprovingly. “I just told you, she weren’t one to get friendly.”

“Did she have any visitors?” he persisted. Even if she did mind her own business, she had eyes. She could have seen someone coming and going next door.

Mrs. Moff’s expression darkened. “I don’t know, Inspector. I didn’t spend my time watchin’ her, and I don’t know why you’re goin’ on and on about some toff-nosed woman that’s been gone for over two months now. What’s she got to do with anything? She ain’t the one lying out there dead now, is she?”

Smythe hovered on the corner of Dunbarton Street and Hurlingham Road. He didn’t dare get any closer to the house, he didn’t want to be seen. But by keeping his ears open, he’d learned a lot. For starters, he’d found out the victim wasn’t a local man.

“What’s goin’ on?” he said casually to a young lad who’d come out of one of the houses on the other side of Dunbarton Street.

The sandy-haired lad of about fourteen stopped in his tracks. “Fellow’s been murdered. Bloke got stabbed in Miss Geddy’s front garden. The body’s in that van”—he pointed to the police van—“and they’re fixing to take it away.”

“Murder.” Smythe shook his head. “That’s awful. ‘Ave they caught who done it?”

“Nah, they’ll not catch him.” The boy shrugged. “This’ll be like that Ripper murder. They’ll never catch who did it.” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he spoke. “Mind you, my mam thinks it must be the same person who done in Miss Geddy.”

“Miss Geddy? You mean someone else ‘as been killed?”

“They ain’t never found her body,” the lad explained, “but she disappeared. Ain’t been seen for over two months. And now look what’s happened. Some bloke gets himself sliced up in her front garden.”

“Harold, what are you doin’? You get on to the chemist’s now and quit larking about,” a woman’s voice screeched at the hapless boy from the window of the house behind them. “I need my Bexley’s Pills, I’ve got a bleedin’ headache.”

The boy rolled his eyes and sighed, but turned toward the corner.

Smythe hesitated for a split second. He had a feeling he oughn’t to let the lad get away from him. This “disappearance” might not be connected to the murder at all, but then again, it might. He fell into step beside Harold. “So this ‘ere Miss Geddy disappeared too, you say?”

“One day she was there, the next day she weren’t.”

They rounded the corner and headed up the road toward the shops. Harold, delighted to have an audience, kept on chatting a mile a minute. “Mind you, me mam says we don’t none of us know how long it were before we even noticed Miss Geddy were gone, kept herself to herself, she did. But she’s gone, and that’s a fact.”

They’d reached the shops. “I’ve got to get me mam’s medicine,” Harold said.

Smythe racked his brain trying to think of something he needed. “Oh, I need to pop in and get a bottle of liniment for our housekeeper.” He pulled the door open, and the two of them went inside.

They made their purchases in just a few minutes and stepped back into the weak autumn sunshine. Smythe had a few more questions to ask the lad. He looked at him speculatively. “I’m goin’ over to that cafe”—he nodded toward a workingman’s cafe a few doors up—“and havin’ a cup of tea and a bun. You’re welcome to come along.”

Harold’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Truth is,” Smythe continued quickly, “I work for a detective …”

“You mean one of them private inquiry agents?” Harold interrupted excitedly.

“In a way,” Smythe hedged. He hated to out and out lie to the boy. But he wanted to talk to him. Not only could the lad tell him about this mysterious disappearance, but he’d probably know a number of details about the murder. Young lads like him were natural snoops, and this Harold looked like a bright young chap. “We’re workin’ on a case. A case that might involve your Miss Geddy and this ‘ere dead bloke in ‘er front garden.”

Harold nodded eagerly and started down the road. “I’ll just run Mam’s medicine home, then I’ll meet ya at the cafe. Will ya buy me a bun?”

“I’ll buy ya more than one if you’ve a hunger,” Smythe promised. Grinning, he watched the boy run around the corner. But his smile abruptly faded as, a moment later, he spotted Constable Barnes and the inspector heading his way. “Cor blimey,” he muttered. “What’s he doin’?”

Smythe turned on his heel and took off toward the corner. If he was lucky, he could duck into the cafe without being spotted.

His long legs ate up the short distance in no time. He yanked open the door and stepped inside. His eyes widened as he saw a police constable sitting at a table near the back of the cafe. Blast a Spaniard, he thought, what’s he doing here? Smythe had worked for the inspector long enough to know that police constables didn’t sit around drinking tea when a murder had been committed. They were out searching for murder weapons and taking statements and doing house-to-house searches. They blooming weren’t sitting around on their backsides drinking tea.

As unobtrusively as possible, Smythe eased out the door, spun on his heel and sauntered off. The inspector and Barnes were less than fifty yards away. But they were so engrossed in their conversation, they didn’t notice him.

He hunched his shoulders as he skirted the traffic, waiting for a break between the hansoms, wagons and horses so he could dash across the road. Finally, he loped across and reached the safety of the other side. He winced as he thought of poor Harold. He hoped the lad wouldn’t be too disappointed not to get his buns. Smythe dodged around a costermonger pushing a handcart of jellied eels. He’d find the lad tomorrow and do his best to make it up to him.

Constable Barnes squinted at the broad back and the hunched shoulders of the big bloke walking ahead of them. There was something very familiar about the fellow.

“I do think it’ll be worth coming back and interviewing Mr. Moff,” the inspector said. “He may have heard something.”

“Right, sir. Perhaps we can come back this evening.”

“That’s a good idea, Constable.” They’d reached the cafe. Witherspoon pulled the door open and they stepped inside. A short, red-faced fellow wearing a dirty apron stood behind the counter. There were five small tables scattered around the room and a long counter down one wall. The scent of hot tea and fried eggs filled the air. Except for one table where Constable Peters was sitting, the place was deserted. Constable Peters, seeing them, rose to his feet.

Witherspoon waved him back to his seat. “Would you be so kind as to get us both some tea, Constable Barnes.”

“Certainly, sir.” Barnes headed for the counter, and the inspector went and sat down opposite Peters. He noticed the man wasn’t quite as pale as he’d been. “You look a lot better than you did earlier.”

Peters smiled gratefully. “I feel better, sir. I’m sorry, I mean, I didn’t mean to get all het up… it’s just I’ve never seen someone who’s been murdered.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the inspector said quickly. “I understand. I’d like to say it gets easier over time, but the truth is, it doesn’t. Death is bad enough, no one but an undertaker could ever get used to it, but murder is quite different. It’s shocking and obscene. I hope to God none of us ever get used to it.”

“Here we are, sir.” Barnes put two steaming cups of milky tea on the small table and sat down.

“Thank you, Constable,” Witherspoon said. “Now, Constable Peters, tell us how you happened to be able to identify the victim so quickly.”

“I’ve seen him before, sir. Lots of times. He lives on Belgravia Square on Upper Belgrave Street. That was my patch when I first joined the force. I used to see Mr. Nye every morning as I was walking my beat.”

Witherspoon nodded approvingly. “You’d met him, then?”

“Yes, sir. He was a pleasant enough fellow. Always nodded and spoke when he walked past. I was called to a disturbance at his house right before I was transferred here. Someone had tossed a brick through one of his windows.”

“Tossed a brick through his window?” Witherspoon repeated. “How very odd. Was it a robbery?”

“No sir. Someone just chucked a ruddy huge brick through Mr. Nye’s front window, then went running off. It was done in the middle of the night, sir. We’d not a hope of catching ‘em.” Peters gave an embarrassed shrug. “Mr. Nye was rather annoyed. He said we weren’t doing our job properly. I think he might have filed a complaint, sir. He was really angry about that window. I was surprised a bit, I mean, like I said, he always seemed a pleasant enough sort.”

Witherspoon said nothing. He wasn’t sure what to make of this. But then again, perhaps it had nothing to do with Mr. Nye’s demise. Random cases of vandalism weren’t unheard of, even in the better parts of London.

“How long ago did this happen?” Barnes asked.

Peter’s brow creased as he thought back. “Let me see, now. It was a few days before I moved over here, and I’ve been walking this beat for about two months.”

“Two months.” The inspector frowned and glanced at Barnes. “Didn’t Miss Moff say that Miss Geddy had been missing for about two months?”