Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans (22 page)

Why he was thoroughly disliked was easy for her to understand. What was difficult to comprehend was why anyone would care enough about the man to murder him. That was what was bothering her about this case. Boyd had been the sort of man people would go out of their way to avoid, not someone who could inspire the kind of personal hatred it took to commit murder. Twenty years ago he jilted his fiancée and stole another man’s intended. Mrs. Jeffries imagined that a good number of people had been enraged with him then, but people rarely held onto rage for such a long period of time. Strong emotions tended to dim with the passage of the years. But then again, perhaps she wasn’t seeing the entire picture. Perhaps the murder had nothing to do with hatred, but was committed for an entirely different reason. It was quite possible that the chief clerk had committed the murder in the hopes of hiding his thievery. Or maybe the housekeeper had done it; she had been furious at Boyd as well. It was all very confusing. Mrs. Jeffries had the feeling that there was something right in front of her that she simply wasn’t seeing.

She was jerked out of her reverie by Dr. Bosworth’s voice. “Mrs. Jeffries, are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was thinking about the case.”

“You were obviously deep in thought. I called your name twice.” He smiled widely and closed the file. “I’m afraid the postmortem isn’t going to be of much help to you. The attending physician didn’t do anything except give a very general description of the wounds. He didn’t take any measurements nor did he give a detailed description of the shape.”

She was disappointed. She had so hoped he’d see something in the report that could help. “Oh, that is most unfortunate. Finding the murder weapon might be very important. This case isn’t going well at all.”

“I’m sorry.” He shrugged apologetically. “I’d have a look at the body myself, but it’s already been released to the undertakers.”

“You’ve no idea what kind of weapon might have been used?” she pressed.

“Mrs. Jeffries, without actually seeing the wounds or reading a good description of the precise size or shape, it’s impossible to say. The killer could have used anything: a hammer or a rock, a candlestick, or even a police truncheon. Without knowing the size and shape, I simply can’t speculate.”

Mrs. Jeffries mentally cursed the incompetence of most police surgeons. “I do wish other police surgeons would avail themselves of your methods. It would make our task so much easier.”

“Perhaps one day they will,” he replied. “Look, I can’t tell you what the weapon was, but I can tell you this much: Boyd died from massive head injuries, and the surgeon wrote that he thought no more than two blows were struck. There’s no mention that the skull was particularly thin, so I have to conclude that the blow was struck with a great deal of force.”

“Which leads you to what conclusion?” she queried.

“The killer was either very strong or the murder weapon was very heavy.” He gave her another apologetic smile. “I wish I could narrow it down further, but that’s really the best I can do.”

“You’ve been very helpful.” She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your assistance. I know you’re busy, so I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“It was a pleasure seeing you. Give my best regards to the others in the household.” He got up, came out from behind the desk, and went to the door. “I wish I could tell you more, but with the scarcity of detail in the report and not having seen the body, I really mustn’t speculate further. But do let me know how it all comes out.”

“Let’s just hope it all comes out with the right person being arrested for the crime,” she said somberly.

 

Wiggins quickened his steps and dodged around a family huddled together in front of the entrance to Hyde Park. Following people was a lot harder than it looked, but he was determined not to lose his quarry. He glanced over his shoulder again, needing to make sure there was no one hot on his heels. But he saw no sign of the man in a flat workingman’s cap nor of anyone else for that matter. He knew he was being overly cautious, but he couldn’t help himself. Just the idea that one of Niven’s lads had been pursuing him made him half sick to his stomach. But whatever Smythe had done last evening must have worked; he’d not seen hide nor hair of anyone since leaving Upper Edmonton Gardens.

He moved closer to the young woman he’d been trailing for the past ten minutes. She was a tall girl with dark blonde hair tucked into a topknot under a red bonnet that had seen better days. She wore a short gray jacket over a simple green day dress and sturdy black shoes. Under her arm, she’d tucked her umbrella and a small purse. Wiggins had seen her come out of the servant’s entrance at the Boyd house this morning, so he was fairly sure she was a housemaid. He knew he should have tried to find out a bit more about Maud Sapington’s movements on the morning of the murder, but as he knew Betsy was going over that way, he thought he might have another go at the Boyd servants. No one had really had any contact with them.

She rounded the corner and then slowed her pace. She stopped abruptly, looked around and then pulled open a door and stepped inside. Wiggins couldn’t see what kind of establishment she’d gone into, but he hoped it was a café.

He ran up to where he’d seen her disappear. “Oh blast,” he muttered aloud. She’d gone into a pub. A ruddy pub! Young girls in service weren’t supposed to hang about in pubs on their own. But maybe she wasn’t on her own, he thought. Maybe she was meeting her fella. He hoped not. He couldn’t have much of a chat with the girl if her bloke was standing there watching them.

Wiggins yanked open the door and went inside. As it was just past opening time, the room wasn’t very crowded. All three of the small tables were empty, and there was only one old man on the bench along the side wall. His quarry stood alone on this side of the bar. She was engaged in an intense conversation with the barmaid.

Moving nonchalantly, he ambled up to the bar and stopped a few feet away from where she stood. From behind him, he heard the door open, so he glanced over his shoulder, just to be sure it wasn’t the man in the flat cap. But it was just an old woman carrying a shopping basket. She trudged up to the bar and eased in between him and the girl.

“Hello, Mum.” The barmaid smiled brightly at the old woman. “Janie and I have been ’avin’ a nice old natter. We expected you five minutes ago. Where’ve you been?”

“It’s all right, Mum. Lallie’s just pullin’ your leg. I only just arrived myself.”

Blast, Wiggins thought. It was a ruddy family reunion. He’d never get close enough to the girl to find out anything now. He wondered if he ought to leave.

“Don’t you worry about me.” The old woman put her basket on the bar. “You just worry about findin’ another position. Get somethin’ decent like your sister’s got. But while you’re standin’ there, make yourself useful and pour me one.”

“Oh, Mum.” The barmaid rolled her eyes and then seemed to realize she had a customer. She smiled at Wiggins. “What can I get for you?”

Before he could stop himself, he said, “Please serve the lady first,” he bowed at the older woman, “and then the young lady. If you wouldn’t think me forward, it would be my pleasure to buy the both of you a libation.”

“What’s a libation?” the old woman asked.

“He means a drink, Mum.” The barmaid stared at him suspiciously.

Wiggins pulled a half crown out of his coat pocket and handed it to the barmaid. “I’d like a pint as well.”

She hesitated and then reached for the money. “That’s right nice of you. Are you buyin’ me one, too?”

“Of course,” he replied. He was suddenly very glad the pub wasn’t full. The elderly gent propped up on the bench in the corner was watching him avidly. Wiggins had a sudden, horrible thought that perhaps the old fellow worked for Nivens. Then he realized he was being stupid. The man had been sitting there when he’d come in. “It would my pleasure. The three of you remind me of my mum and sisters.” He searched their faces carefully, trying to tell by their expressions whether he was being too bold. It wouldn’t do him any good if they accepted the drinks and then ignored him.

“I’ll have a gin if you don’t mind.” The barmaid grinned broadly. “My name’s Lallie. That’s short for Eulalie. And this here’s my sister Janie and me mum.”

“The name is Mrs. Mull.” The old woman grinned. “And if you’re buyin’, I’ll ’ave a gin as well.”

“A half pint will do me,” Janie replied.

“And what would you like?” Lallie grabbed a half-pint glass from underneath the bar and filled it from the pump.

“A half pint will be fine for me as well.” Wiggins wasn’t sure what to do next, but his offer hadn’t ended in disaster, so he figured he might as well try to see what he could find out. “I don’t suppose any of you fine ladies might know of an establishment in need of a fully trained footman, do you?”

“You’re lookin’ for a position, then?” Mrs. Mull stared at him suspiciously.

“I’m not in desperate need of one just yet,” he lied. He didn’t like the way the old woman’s expression had hardened. He didn’t want them thinking he was down and out. “The household I’m currently in is gettin’ set to go out to India and they want me to go with ’em. But me mum, she lives over in Stepney, and she wants me to stay. I’d quite like to see one of them strange foreign countries, but I promised Mum I’d have a look around and see about gettin’ another position here.”

Mrs. Mull relaxed a bit. “No mother wants her children so far away.”

“There’s nothin’ goin’ where I work,” Janie added. “Our master just died, so we’re all goin’ to be lookin’ for positions ourselves.”

Wiggins gaze at her sympathetically. “That’s a bit of bad news for ya, isn’t it? Won’t the mistress of the house keep you on?”

“He weren’t married.” Janie grinned. “But it weren’t really bad news, not for me anyways. I was lookin’ for a new position anyways. It wasn’t a very nice place to work.”

“It was perfectly decent.” Mrs. Mull frowned at her daughter. “Your Mr. Boyd was a bit of an old maid, but there’s worse employers about. You should hear some of the troubles your father and I have had over the years tryin’ to make ends meet. At least your Mr. Boyd fed you decently and you had a roof over your head.”

“That’s about all we had,” Janie muttered.

“It’s not nice to speak ill of the dead,” Lallie said softly.

“Rubbish,” Janie snapped. “Just because he died doesn’t make him a better person than he was in life.”

Wiggins thought they’d forgotten he was standing here.

“It’s still not nice to speak ill of him,” Lallie shot back. “He’s not here to defend himself.”

“That’s true, I suppose. He might have been a bit of a tartar, but at least he’s not as bad as some.”

“Has either of you heard anything about the Sapington household?” Wiggins blurted. He knew this was a dangerous tactic. He didn’t want to say too much and give the game away. “I’ve heard they have a position open.”

Janie’s jaw dropped in surprise. “I know about them. I’d not go there if I was you. That’s about the only household in London worse than Mr. Boyd’s.”

“What’s so awful about it?” Wiggins asked.

“On the day that Mr. Boyd were murdered, our household was set to go to a funeral. But Mr. Boyd had a luncheon planned for one of his silly charities. Do you know that the Sapingtons sent a lad over to find out what was bein’ served that day? Bloomin’ cheeky.”

“Your Mr. Boyd was murdered?” Wiggins pretended to be shocked. “That’s terrible.”

“I suppose so.” Janie took a sip of her drink.

“Why did the Sapingtons want to know what was bein’ served?” he asked. “I mean, you’re right, that’s a bit of cheek. No one’s ever come around and asked my mistress what was on the menu when they were ’avin’ a do.”

Janie stared at him blankly for a few moments, then she shrugged. “The lad said Mr. Sapington had sent him over to make sure shrimp wasn’t bein’ served. Seems he’s got an allergy to shellfish and it’ll make ’im deathly ill. But Mrs. Rothwell told the boy it was just going to be a cold luncheon of ham and roast beef because we were all to be gone that morning and nothing was bein’ cooked.”

“How does that make him the meanest master in London?” Wiggins asked.

“Because when Helen—that’s the girl who died, the one whose funeral we all went to on the day Mr. Boyd was done in—when she first got ill and went round to the doctor’s, she run into another girl there who had the same thing. They both had bronchitis. She and this girl got to talking and it turns out the girl worked for the Sapingtons and that she’d been ill for over a month. She’d asked Mr. Sapington for an advance on her quarterly wages so she could pay the doctor, and he wouldn’t give it to her. The bastard had made her wait till the end of the month. All I can say is even Lawrence Boyd wasn’t that mean. When Helen got sick, he gave her an advance right away so she could get seen to!”

“And you remembered Mr. Sapington’s name all this time?” Wiggins thought that odd. He rarely recalled the names of people who he’d heard mentioned in casual conversation.

“Only because Helen come back and was tellin’ us all about it and Mr. Boyd happened to overhear her. Mr. Boyd never said a word to the likes of us unless it was to scream or scold, but he flopped his big arse down right there in the kitchen and made Helen tell him all the details.”

“That’s peculiar,” Wiggins said.

“Not for Mr. Boyd. A few days later, after Helen had gone home to recover, I heard Mrs. Rothwell tellin’ Mr. Leeson that Mr. Boyd was spreadin’ the story about Mr. Sapington all over town. It was like he wanted everyone to know that Mr. Sapington was a terrible person.”

Smythe pushed through the door of the Dirty Duck and headed for Blimpey’s table. He was sitting in his usual spot, but he was hunched over and staring at the tabletop like it was a racing sheet. He glanced up and frowned. “Humph, it’s you. I might have known the day wasn’t going to get any better.”