Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat (14 page)

“Grab us a seat at that bench over there.” Smythe pointed to a spot to the left of the fireplace. Three men were getting up and leaving. Wiggins made a run for it. He slid his bottom on the bench against the wall and slapped his foot on the chair opposite, saving it for Smythe. An elderly man sitting
in the spot next to him looked up from his tankard and stared hard at the lad but said nothing.

A moment later, Smythe ambled across and handed Wiggins a glass of beer. He lowered his big frame into the chair the boy had saved him. “See any likely prospects?” he asked absently.

Wiggins was taken aback. He was also flattered that the coachman would ask his opinion. “Prospects? You mean people to talk about the murder?”

“That’s why we came,” Smythe replied. He wasn’t at all in the mood for chasing after clues. He was too busy brooding over Betsy. Just like the lass to take it into her head to be stubborn. He didn’t know what was worse, his worrying about how she’d take the truth or her not believing him when he tried to tell her.

“You a copper?” the old man who’d glared at Wiggins asked.

Smythe cringed; he hadn’t realized how loud he’d been talking. Blast, if there had been a decent prospect around, his surly expression probably scared them off.

“Course I’m not a peeler,” he sneered. “We was just curious, that’s all. My friend and I.” He jerked his head at Wiggins. “We got us a bet goin’. I say it’s that ripper feller up to’ is old tricks, and ’e says it’s someone else what done it.”

“It’s not the bleedin’ ripper.” The old man drained his beer. “She weren’t sliced up.”

“Maybe the ripper’s changed the way he does things,” Smythe pressed. “Besides, ’ow do you know what the feller did to her?”

The man smiled faintly. “I know ’cause I was there. I work just across the street, and I saw ’em bring her out.”

“If ya saw ’em bringing ’er out, ’ow do you know she weren’t sliced? She’da been covered with a sheet,” Smythe goaded. “They always cover ’em with somethin’.”

“Everyone knows that,” the fellow sneered. “But I know what I knows ’cause I went into the garden the next day. Soon as the coppers cleared off, Jon took me in and showed
me where she’d been killed.” He lifted his tankard and drank. “There weren’t enough blood on the ground fer it to have been the ripper,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Siler showed me the spot, and there weren’t enough blood.”

“Who’s Siler and ’ow does ’e ’ave anything to do with it?” Smythe asked belligerently. He couldn’t back off now; otherwise the fellow might dry up completely. He’d learned that some kinds of people told you more if they were just that bit annoyed. He also deliberately played up his accent. A working man like this one was far more likely to trust one of his own rather than someone from a different class. Besides, Smythe was beginning to enjoy himself. Acting the part cheered him up a little. At least it took his mind off a certain fair-haired lovely that could drive a decent man to drink.

“He’s the ruddy gardener over on Sheridan Square and a good mate o’ mine,” the man shot back. His thick, calloused hands wrapped around the base of the tankard, and his watery gray eyes looked mournfully into its empty depths. “He could tell them coppers a few things about what’s what, but they never asked him much. Just kept goin’ on about how many ruddy keys there was to the garden. As if that made any difference. Jon says people are always slippin’ in there at night an’ unlockin’ the gate.”

Smythe stiffened. He’d struck gold. Pure gold. He hesitated a split second wondering what tactic to use now. He didn’t want to risk shuttin’ the fellow up by sayin’ the wrong thing now.

But it was Wiggins who hit upon just the right note.

“It’s shameful the way them coppers won’t listen to what a workin’ man ’as to say,” Wiggins agreed sympathetically.

“More their ’ard luck.” The fellow shook his head emphatically. “They’re the ones that ain’t goin’ to solve this ’ere murder. Not with the sort of silly questions that inspector was askin’. Mind you, Jon did say this bloke was polite like, better than most peelers. Treated him with respect.”

“Ooh, I’d love to talk to yer friend. I bet ’e knows what’s what,” Wiggins said eagerly.

“Maybe you’ll get yer chance,” a quiet voice said from behind the coachman.

Smythe turned and saw a tall, gaunt-faced fellow with dark hair and a ruddy complexion standing staring down at them. He was dressed in a dark coat and heavy, black trousers that were creased and stained. He wore brown, workingman’s boots.

“You Mr. Siler?” the coachman asked.

“Who wants to know?”

Smythe eased out of the chair and rose to his feet. He extended his hand. “My name’s Smythe. Yer friend there.” He jerked his chin at the man they’d been talking with. “He’s told us all about that awful murder over on Sheridan Square. I’d be pleased to buy ya a drink if you’ll let me.”

Siler hesitated a split second and then shook the extended hand. “I’ll not turn down a free drink.”

“It’s a cheap enough price to pay fer satisfyin’ me curiosity.” Smythe grinned broadly, playing the part of a curiosity seeker as well as he could. “It’s not often ya get to meet someone that’s been there and seen where it ’appened.”

Wiggins got up as well. “I’m Wiggins,” he introduced himself. “And we’ve ’eard all about ya.”

“Beer or whiskey?” Smythe asked as he started for the bar.

Siler looked surprised at the offer. Whiskey was ruddy expensive. “Whiskey,” he called before the fellow changed his mind.

“You can get me one too,” the man next to Wiggins yelled.

“’E will,” the footman assured him. “What’s yer name?”

“Bill Trent.” The fellow slid over to make room for Jon Siler.

Smythe came back with the drinks and handed them round. Wiggins looked down at his now-empty glass and said, “Don’t I get another one?”

“Maybe later, lad.” The coachman took his seat. “We
don’t want you goin’ ’ome all wobbly kneed, do we? Now, Mr. Siler, yer friend ’ere,”

“’Is name’s Bill Trent,” Wiggins interrupted.

“’E says you know a lot more than yer lettin’ on to the coppers? That right?”

Siler stared at him suspiciously. “Why you so interested?”

“Just curious. Like I told ya, it ain’t often ya can talk to someone who’s been to the scene, so to speak.” Smythe shrugged and tossed back a swig of the whiskey he’d ordered for himself.

“Can’t blame a man for bein’ interested.” Siler took another sip from his glass and then wiped his hand across his mouth. “It ain’t that I know more than I’m sayin’. It’s that the coppers ain’t askin’ the right questions. They was only interested in who had keys to the ruddy garden.”

“That’s kinda important, isn’t it?” Wiggins asked.

“Not really,” Siler replied. He grinned broadly. “That garden was very convenient for a lot of people livin’ on that square, if you get my drift.”

“You mean there was them that was usin’ the place to ’ave a bit o’privacy?” Smythe guessed.

“More than one was doin’ it.” Siler chuckled. “Well, it stands to reason, don’t it? If you’re a married feller and you want to have a safe place to meet your sweetie, all ya got to do is wait till old Tavistock walks his dog and then nip out and unlock the gate. Late at night, the wifey’s sound asleep, the garden’s empty, and you’ve got the place to yourself.”

“Cor blimey,” Smythe said. “That’s a right good little idea. But if these people was meetin’ at night, ’ow did you find out? No offense meant, but I thought most gardenin’ took place during the day?” He wanted to verify that Siler was telling the truth and not just making up tales. Then he’d try and figure out exactly who the man was talking about.

“’Ere, you sayin’ he’s makin’ it up?” Trent asked belligerently.

“Don’t get shirty now, Bill,” Siler said easily. “It’s a reasonable question. I know about what was goin’ on ’cause I
saw it with my own eyes. A time or two they left the front gate unlocked when they was finished. Well, I knew that if Tavistock saw that, it’d be my job. I also noticed it almost always happened on Sunday night. So after I found the gate open for a third time when I come in on Monday morning, I decided to suss out what was goin’ on. The following Sunday I waited till after I saw Tavistock take his stupid dog walkies, then I used my key and let myself in. I hid in the bushes behind the bench. Didn’t have to wait long, either. About half past one, that Mr. Heckston came waltzing in as big as you please. Whistling, he was, like he didn’t have a care in the world. He plopped down on the bench, and within ten minutes his ladyfriend had shown up.”

“Who was she?” Wiggins asked.

Siler smiled broadly. “It was that toffee-nosed cow that lives at number six. Mrs. Prosper.”

CHAPTER 6

“She’s a right old tartar, she is,” the girl declared. “You’d think that havin’ been a maid herself she’d be a bit nicer, but no, not her. Acts like the bloomin’ Queen of Sheba, she does.” The homely young woman lifted her glass and tossed back the gin in a single gulp. It was her third drink in fifteen minutes. “Wouldn’t even have my day out if it weren’t for Mr. Prosper,” she declared. “She tried to make me stay in today, tried to tell me that she needed me because of all that bother with her sister gettin’ stabbed. But that was just an excuse to keep me at her beck and call.”

Betsy nodded sympathetically. The pub was noisy and crowded and reeked with the stench of tobacco, gin and unwashed bodies. She resisted the urge to cover her nose. She didn’t want to give offense. It’d been hard enough to follow the girl into this dirty place without doing something that might cause her to stop talking altogether. Added to that, Betsy’s conscience bothered her. She’d bought Alice Sparkle, Annabelle Prosper’s maid, three drinks now and, somehow, that didn’t feel right. Betsy had flirted with men before to get them to shed their secrets, but this was the first time she’d followed a pathetic young woman into a horrid, smelly little pub and plied her with alcohol. But she couldn’t stop now, not when the woman was finally starting to talk. Betsy hadn’t been comfortable going into a pub without an escort. But this place was filled with serious drinkers, and no one had even noticed the two women coming in on their own. God knows she’d done it before coming to live at the inspector’s house, but that had been a whole lifetime ago.

She sighed silently, knowing that if she’d not been lucky enough to collapse on the inspector’s doorstep, she might be in just the same shape as the girl sitting opposite her.

Alice was able to hide her need now. Her clothes were clean and pressed, and she could talk without slurring her words. But in a few short years, the brown eyes would be bloodshot, and she’d be dropping things because her hands were shaking. She wouldn’t be working as a lady’s maid either.

Overwhelmed with pity, Betsy smiled at Alice and wished there was something she could do to ease her misery. But there was nothing. Maybe Alice might have had a chance at a better life if she’d not turned to drink.

“Why do you think Mrs. Prosper’s like that?” Betsy asked. “I mean, it’s horrible that it’s her sister that was stabbed, but why is she tryin’ to take it out on you?”

“Because she’s a cow.” Alice shrugged and pushed a strand of frizzy brown hair off her sunken cheek. “She’s mean and nasty. She’s got everyone else fooled, but she can’t fool me.” She looked down at her empty glass and made a face.

“Let me buy you another,” Betsy said quickly. She raised her hand, caught the barman’s attention and jerked her chin at Alice. He nodded, poured another gin and handed it to the barmaid to bring to their table.

“Ta,” Alice said as the woman set the glass in front of her. “This is right nice of ya.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Betsy replied. “I had a good night.” She forced the ugly words out knowing that if Alice thought she was a prostitute, it’d loosen her tongue even more. She wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. Betsy didn’t think she could stomach buying the woman another drink. It was too much like drowning a kitten. So she’d pretend she was something she wasn’t. She’d noticed that people tended to speak freely around those at the bottom of the ladder and watch their tongues around those closer to the top. She forced herself to laugh gaily. “If you know what I mean. Do go on with what you were sayin’”

Alice’s brows came together in a frown. “What was I sayin’?”

“That Mrs. Prosper could fool everyone else, but not you,” she reminded her. “What’d ya mean by that?”

Alice sighed. “Oh, she’s got everyone thinkin’ she’s heartbroken about her sister. But it’s all a ruddy lie.”

“Really?”

“God, yes.” Alice continued eagerly. “She used to pull faces everytime she got one of her sister’s letters. She’d read ’em and then rip ’em in half and toss ’em in the trash. You can’t tell me she cared one whit for the woman. Why, she almost had a fit when she got that letter six weeks ago tellin’ her that Mirabelle was comin’ for a visit.”

“She had a letter?” Betsy prodded. She had to be careful here. It wouldn’t do to slip and put the maid on guard that she knew more about this murder than she’d let on.

“Oh, she didn’t tell anyone about it.” Alice took a gulp from her glass and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “She didn’t want Mr. Prosper knowin’ that family was comin’ to visit. Right ashamed of ’em, she was. I could tell by the look on ’er face when she was readin’ the letter. She went all pale and shaky like. Honestly, you’d think she’d been born to the gentry the way she acts. It’s not as if Mr. Prosper didn’t know what kind of a family she’d come from.”