Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (12 page)

Even though it was only fifteen minutes past opening time, the pub was already crowded. Dockworkers, day laborers, tally clerks, and bargemen were two deep at the bar, and there wasn’t a single empty seat on the side benches. The tables were full as well, but Blimpey was in his usual spot. A rough-looking man with wild black hair and a scar bisecting his right cheek sat next to him.

Blimpey glanced in Smythe’s direction, then leaned over and said something to his companion as Smythe pushed his way through the crowd. As he drew close, the man got up.

“Sorry,” Smythe apologized. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I need to ’ave a quick word with Blimpey.”

“After what your lot done for Tommy Odell, I’d gladly give up my seat to you,” the man said. “It’s rare that people like us get any justice in this old world.”

Smythe was dumbstruck. Did the entire world know the inspector’s household had kept a pickpocket from hanging for a murder he’d not committed? Blast a Spaniard, this was getting out of hand.

“This is Eddie Blanding. He’s Tommy’s uncle. He works on a merchant ship and he only got back a few days ago,” Blimpey explained quickly.

“Pleased to meet you.” Smythe extended his hand and the two men shook.

“If there’s ever a favor I can do for you,” Eddie said, “you’ve just to name it. I felt real bad that I wasn’t here when Tommy and Edna—that’s his mum and my sister—were goin’ through their troubles. But I was at sea.”

“You weren’t to know then,” Smythe said easily. “And I appreciate the offer of a favor. Maybe I’ll take you up on it one day.”

“I’m here for the next three months. Blimpey knows where to find me.” Eddie nodded gravely, glanced at Blimpey, and then headed for the door.

Blimpey waved at the barmaid and mouthed “two pints” as Smythe took Eddie’s chair.

“Now before you get all het up,” Blimpey said, “I didn’t say anything to Eddie. It was Tommy and his mum that let the cat out of the bag. But Eddie’s a taciturn type; he’ll not be speaking out of turn about what your lot is up to.”

“That’s good,” Smythe said. “The fewer people that know what we’re about, the better. But then, you know that better than anyone. It wouldn’t do you much good if every mother’s son was privy to your business.”

“That’s why I keep my ’ead down and my ears open,” he replied. Blimpey was a ginger-haired man of late middle age with a ruddy complexion and a bit of a belly. He’d once been a petty thief. However, as he possessed a phenomenal memory and the ability to pick up bits and pieces of information from a variety of sources, he soon realized he could make far more money selling information than stealing. Blimpey had no stomach for violence or prison, so he changed careers and was now a successful businessman with a vast network of informants. Impoverished noblemen, court clerks, bailiffs, shopgirls, and bar-maids fed him a steady stream of facts, gossip, and speculation that he turned into a useful commodity. He sold that commodity to whoever was willing to pay his price. Smythe had been using him for years, but on their last case, it had been Blimpey who had come to them seeking help.

“Not to worry, old sport. Those of us who know the truth can keep our mouths closed.” Blimpey broke off as the barmaid brought their pints and put them on the table. “Thanks, love.” He waited till she’d moved off before he spoke. “I heard your inspector got that banker’s murder.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Smythe replied. He was certain that Blimpey knew as much about the victim as he did. “It’s a bit of an odd one.”

“Killer tried to make it look like an accident.” Blimpey took a quick sip of his beer.

“That’s what it looks like.” Smythe lifted his pint and took a quick drink. It was a bit early for him, but he didn’t wish to offend Blimpey. “Now I need you to find out what you can about Lawrence Boyd.”

“Your victim?” Blimpey’s eyesbrows shot up. “Is that all?

I already know a bit about him. Don’t you have any other names for me?”

“That’s just it: we’re not sure who we ought to be concentratin’ on. There were only two people in the house when the murder was done, but Boyd was ’avin’ a fancy luncheon that day and the guests turned up before they even carted off the body.”

“Just give me the names you’ve got,” Blimpey ordered.

“James Glover—he was Boyd’s chief clerk—and there was a young woman, a Miss Eva Clarke. She’s one of them typewriter girls. They were the two that were there when it happened.”

“Who were the guests?”

“Arnold and Maud Sapington. He’s another banker.”

“I know who he is,” Blimpey said. “Go on.”

“And a man named Walter Gibbons. I don’t know what he does for a living, but he was there to give Boyd some news about bein’ the honorary chairman of the Bankers Benevolent Society.”

Blimpey snorted. “There’s no such thing as a benevolent banker, but this ought to do for now. Not to worry, I’ve already got my boys looking into the matter. Boyd had plenty of business rivals; that’ll do for a start.”

“You said you had some information for me already,” Smythe reminded him. “What is it?” He hoped it was something really good. He’d like to show up at today’s meeting with some interesting tidbits.

“Your Mr. Boyd wasn’t very good at his job,” Blimpey said. “He recently loaned a great deal of his bank’s money to a mining enterprise called Bagley Hills out in Australia.”

“I take it the venture isn’t doing too well,” Smythe said.

“It’s a heap of red sand out in the middle of nowhere.” Blimpey laughed. “You’ve been to the bush, Smythe. You know what it’s like. Anyways, Boyd not only invested his bank’s money in the thing, but he talked some of the bank’s biggest clients into backing a loan for equipment and operating expenses. So not only are some of his clients furious at him, but his general partners aren’t too happy.”

“How come none of this has been made public?”

“Are you daft, man?” Blimpey laughed cynically. “This isn’t the sort of news any bank wants bandied about. They bury this sort of information. I found out because . . . well, it’s my job to know these kinds of things, and seein’ as how I’m a bit beholdin’ to you, I thought I’d pass this on. You might put a word in your inspector’s ear to have a good look at the books.”

“Thanks, Blimpey. I appreciate it.”

Blimpey burped softly. “Oops, that slipped out. Sorry. Nell would have my guts for garters if she heard me belchin’ this way.”

“How is your good lady?” Smythe asked.

“She’s fine. Mind you, a wife does change a man’s habits. Time was I could break wind out of either end and not think anything of it, but not now. Nell’s always going on about how to behave in public.” Blimpey chuckled good naturedly. Then he sobered. “There is one thing I’d like to ask you about. It’s more in the way of advice, if you know what I mean.”

Smythe raised an eyebrow. “The last time I gave you advice, you ended up married.”

“And it was the best bit of advice a man ever got,” Blimpey declared. “That’s why I’m glad you stopped by today. I need to ask you something else, and frankly, it’s not the sort of thing I’d be comfortable askin’ anyone else.”

“What is it?”

Blimpey took a deep breath. “I told you before that the reason I wanted you and your lot to find Tommy’s killer is because I thought Tommy was mine.”

“I remember, and I’ve kept my promise. I’ve not told anyone. No one knows that Tommy is your son. Your secret is still safe.” He took a quick sip of his beer.

“I know I can trust you. That’s not what I’m worried about.” He sighed heavily and looked down at the tabletop.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s Nell. I feel bad about keepin’ it from her. I think I should tell her.”

Blimpey was still staring at the tabletop, and his voice was so low that Smythe had to lean forward to catch his words. He had no idea how to respond. This was very dangerous territory, so he took the coward’s way out and said nothing.

After a long moment, Blimpey raised his head and stared at Smythe. “Well, what should I do? I don’t like keepin’ this kind of secret from Nell. She’s been too good to me and it don’t feel right.”

“I’m no expert on women,” Smythe muttered. “But if keepin’ it to yourself makes you feel bad, then maybe you should tell her.”

“You really think so?” Blimpey asked hopefully.

“She knows you weren’t a saint all these years,” he said.

“And she knows the kind of life I led. I never lied to her about how I made my living.”

“So, she can hardly be surprised that you’d sowed a wild oat or two, can she?” Smythe pointed out.

“Of course she’s got to understand,” Blimpey agreed. “Once you get to be our age, you’ve got a past, and it’s not always one you’re real proud of, if you know what I mean.”

“Blimpey, you’re fifteen years older than me.”

“I wasn’t meanin’ you.” Blimpey shook his head impatiently. “I meant once you got to be mine and Nell’s age. Mind you, you’re no spring chicken. What are you, forty?”

“I’m thirty-eight,” he said defensively. His age was a bit of a sore subject as Betsy was only twenty-four. It had once been an issue between them, but she’d put a stop to that nonsense.

“Now, now, don’t get yourself all het up. I was only makin’ a comment. So you think I ought to tell Nell?”

Smythe felt a great deal more confident now that the two of them had discussed it man to man. He also knew he’d not like to keep anything important from Betsy. “Nell’s a good woman. I don’t think she’d begrudge you spending a bit of time or lolly on your own flesh and blood.”

“This will be a big load off my mind.” Blimpey grinned broadly. “I like to share everything with my Nell.”

“Glad I was able to help.” Smythe drained his glass and rose to his feet. “I’ve got to be goin’. I’ll come by in the next day or two. Thanks for the information about Boyd’s business ventures. I’ll put a flea in the inspector’s ear to have a look in that direction.”

“Don’t be nervous, miss.” Inspector Witherspoon gave the red-haired young woman a reassuring smile. “I’m only going to ask you a few questions. What’s your name?”

“Lydia White” she replied. “But I wasn’t even here when the master was killed, so I don’t see what I could tell you.”

“Please sit down.” The inspector pointed at the chair directly across from him. “I know you weren’t here, but it’s important we question everyone from the household.”

She sat down. “All right, then, what do you want to know?”

“How long have you been employed here, Lydia?” Witherspoon hoped Barnes was having an easier time of it. So far, he’d not learned anything useful from Boyd’s servants. Barnes, on the other hand, had gone to the house next door to see if they’d seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.

“A little more than a year, sir,” she replied.

Witherspoon nodded. He’d expected that sort of answer. Except for the housekeeper and the butler, virtually the entire staff was relatively new. “Did you like working for Mr. Boyd?”

She hesitated for a second and then said, “I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but I didn’t like it at all. Mr. Boyd wasn’t very nice to us. Truth is, I was looking for a new position.”

“How was he ‘not nice’?”

“He never wanted to give us our full afternoon out,” she said. “On your free day, you’re supposed to be allowed off at noon, but he was always finding little jobs and things for you to do before you could go. It weren’t just me; he did it to everyone. He kept a list of who had what afternoon off, and on those days, he’d make Mrs. Rothwell give us these stupid things to do that kept us here for half the afternoon. Last Friday he had poor Mary—she’s the upstairs girl—cleaning out the attic before she could get off. She missed her train and didn’t get to go home to see her parents.”

He’d heard much the same from the others. Boyd wasn’t very good to his servants, but from what the inspector had observed, half of London’s gentry treated their staff badly. Strange, really, that people who had so much could begrudge those who had so little a few hours of leisure.

“And he wanted me to clean the paint off the floor in his studio on my day out last week,” she continued. “The only reason I didn’t have my afternoon ruined was because he suddenly decided he had to start workin’ on a new painting. He never lets any of us in the studio when he’s painting. Doesn’t like people to see his work, not that any of us would want to anyway, but that’s the only reason I got my day out.”

“Did you see Mr. Boyd yesterday before you left for your friend’s funeral?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw him alive?”

“The day before he was murdered. I saw him come out of his study.” Lydia grinned, exposing a mouthful of lovely white teeth. “He’d just had an awful row with Mrs. Rothwell and he looked fit to be tied.”

“He had a row with Mrs. Rothwell?” Witherspoon repeated. “How do you know?”

“I heard it,” Lydia replied. She looked over her shoulder at the door to the drawing room. “I don’t suppose telling you about it will make any difference now. We’re all goin’ to be turfed out now that he’s dead. Mind you, there’s plenty of positions about, but I’m thinkin’ about goin’ back home and getting a job at the shoe factory. They’ve just opened up two of them in Nottingham and one’s right close to my home. I don’t really like London all that much . . .”

“That sounds perfectly splendid, miss,” Witherspoon interrupted. “But could you tell me a bit more about Mrs. Rothwell’s row with Mr. Boyd? Exactly when did this happen?”

“Like I said, the day before he was murdered. It was early of the morning and the two of them were in Mr. Boyd’s study. I’d come down the back stairs to get my shoes out of the kitchen. They’d gotten wet in the rain, so I’d left them by the cooker to dry. The rest of the household was still upstairs; not even Leeson had come down yet. The house was real quiet, so I could hear everything.” She paused and took a breath. “I’d started back up the stairs when I heard Mrs. Rothwell shouting loud enough to wake the dead. Then he’d shout right back at her and then she’d scream at him. It was awful but it was interesting, too.”