Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) (22 page)

Blast a Spaniard, Smythe thought. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “You have nothing for me?”

“I’ve got a little. But it’s not much, and I don’t think the information has anything at all to do with your case.” Blimpey shrugged apologetically.

In an effort to hide his disappointment, Smythe forced a smile. “Let’s ’ear it, then.” He’d been counting on learning a few facts from Blimpey, especially as his own snooping had turned up nothing. “Don’t concern yourself on whether or not your information is useful. You never know what little fact ’elps solve the case. Who is it about?”

“Rosalind Murray.”

Smythe relaxed a bit. “She’s one of our stronger suspects. What did you find out about her?”

“I got a tidbit out of one of her servants . . .”

“They always know what’s what.” Smythe smiled encouragingly.

“Actually, it was someone who used to work for her, a housemaid.”

“You mean the maid doesn’t work in the household now?” His smile faded.

Blimpey glanced at the fireplace and then back at his pint. “The truth is, the girl left in September . . .”

“September,” Smythe interrupted. “But that was months ago. Cor blimey, Whitfield was just killed a few days ago. How could this girl possibly know anything?”

“You said yourself that you don’t know until the very end what might or might not be of value, so just drink your pint and have a listen,” Blimpey retorted. “I’ve paid good money for this, so you can at least do me the courtesy of pretendin’ you’re interested.”

Smythe took a deep breath. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Rosalind Murray keeps a diary. She’s done so for years. My source read this diary.”

“And what did it say?” Smythe didn’t see how a diary entry from three months before the murder could help, but he’d agreed to listen.

Blimpey eyed him appraisingly. “Your lot is lookin’ at everyone who was at dinner the night Whitfield was killed, and wonderin’ what their motives might be, right?”

“That’s generally what we do. Why?”

“Because I’m thinkin’ that, seein’ as how the word I got was that Rosalind Murray was supposedly Whitfield’s mistress for the past ten years, you’re all thinkin’ her motive for murderin’ him is because he was goin’ to jilt her for another woman, right?”

“Are we playin’ guessin’ games here, or are you goin’ to tell me what you found out?” Smythe cried impatiently. He had the horrible feeling they were going to lose another one of their few motives for this murder.

“Alright, alright, hold yer horses. I’m gettin’ to it. What I’m tryin’ to tell ya is, if that’s what you’ve been thinkin’ about Mrs. Murray, you’d be dead wrong. Rosalind Murray wasn’t jealous of Stephen Whitfield carryin’ on with another woman.” Blimpey grinned. “As a matter of fact, according to her own words, she was glad he’d taken up with someone else so she could get on with her own life. She had plans.”

Smythe thought for a moment; then he shook his head. “Are you sure your source wasn’t lying? This can’t be right. We’ve a witness who claims Mrs. Murray and Whitfield ’ad a terrible row, and it was about him gettin’ serious with Mrs. Graham.”

“My source has no reason to lie,” Blimpey declared.

“Did you pay her?”

“What’s that got to do with the price of turnips? I pay all my sources. That’s why I’m able to do what I do,” Blimpey said indignantly.

Smythe studied his companion for a long moment. A dull red flush had crept up Blimpey’s cheeks, and once again he was studying the tabletop as though it could tell him where King Midas’ gold was buried. “She came to you after you’d put the word out that you were lookin’ for any information about the Whitfield household, didn’t she?”

Blimpey nodded. “But she’s a good source, Smythe. I made sure of that. I asked about, and she’s not a greedy lass who’d make something up for a bit of coin, nor is she one of them kind that lies just to get people to notice her.”

“You know your business, Blimpey,” Smythe said. “I’m not questionin’ that. It’s just—this doesn’t make sense . . . or does it?”

“You mean you’re wonderin’ if maybe the dustup between the Murray woman and Whitfield didn’t ’ave sod-all to do with him takin’ up with the Graham woman? Maybe you just assumed that’s what she was goin’ on about, because that’s what made sense to you.”

“That is what I’m startin’ to think,” Smythe admitted. In which case, he wondered how many of their other assumptions might be wrong.

Blimpey shrugged. “I wouldn’t know whether or not there was some misunderstandin’ on what the two of ’em were squabblin’ about, but I do know what my source reported.”

Smythe nodded, his expression thoughtful. “The girl claimed that Mrs. Murray had plans. Did she know what those plans might be?”

“Nah, she only got to read a few pages of the diary before she had to chuck it back when she heard Mrs. Murray comin’ up the stairs.” He laughed.

“Rosalind Murray was in the house when the girl was readin’ her diary?” Smythe asked incredulously. “That was brave of her.”

“Not really.” Blimpey laughed again. “She’d already given her notice, and claimed that she didn’t much care if she got caught. I don’t think she liked the Whitfield house very much. But she’s not lying—I’m sure of it. She’s a good girl.”

“Good girl, my foot,” Smythe snorted. “She’s a slyboots, she is. She read Mrs. Murray’s diary. What does that say about her character?”

Blimpey’s eyebrows rose. “It says she was curious. Not everyone who started out in service was lucky enough or clever enough to go off to Australia and make a fortune.”

“Even when I was just a coachman, I’d never ’ave read someone’s private papers,” he replied.

“Climb down off your high horse, Smythe.” Blimpey plopped his elbows on the rickety table and leaned forward. “Have you forgotten what bein’ in service is like for most young girls? They’re worked harder than cart horses, abused by their employers, and constantly dodgin’ the lecherous advances of the master or his sons. You can’t blame them for wantin’ to get a little of their own back.”

“But Rosalind Murray had a reputation for treatin’ staff decently,” Smythe said.

“Maybe so, but even the decent employers work most of their servants harder than slaves, begrudge every bite of food they put in their mouths, and treat ’em lower than dirt.”

“Not every household is like that,” Smythe said defensively. But he was a bit ashamed. Blimpey had a point. “Besides, you was just complainin’ about your people takin’ to their beds and wantin’ more money.”

“Yes, but I was just makin’ excuses to cover up bein’ embarrassed because I’d found out so little,” he said smugly. “You said it yourself—I treat my people real well, and I do it because I know what it’s like to work my fingers to the bone for not much more than a crust of bread. Most of the prosperous ones in this town don’t have any idea what life is really like for workin’ people. Euphemia Witherspoon was a decent sort, and your inspector’s a good man as well. But neither of them was from the upper class, were they? Neither of them was trained from birth to see the rest of the human race as slaves put here to do their bidding or make their lives easy. You’ve had it better than most, Smythe, but not everyone is as lucky as you. Not everyone has a chance to get out.”

Smythe stared at him for a long moment. “I ’ave ’ad it better than most.”

Blimpey blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on and on. Cor blimey, you probably think I’m soundin’ like one of them ruddy Socialists. But sometimes they have a point.”

“Yeah, there is some injustice in this old world.” Smythe took another sip of his beer. “And most servants do get treated badly.”

“My mother was in service,” Blimpey said softly. “Her master tossed her out when she got bronchitis and couldn’t work anymore. She never even made it ’ome the night she died. She collapsed in the street.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

“That’s ’ard,” Smythe said. No wonder Blimpey sounded so bitter.

Blimpey shrugged. “It was. I loved my mum, Smythe. She was a wonderful woman. Despite how little we had, she made sure I got a bit of education. She never knew I did any thievin’. She’d have hated that. But I think she’d have liked how I’ve turned out.”

“You’ve become a very prosperous businessman,” Smythe said quickly. “Your mum would have been very proud.”

“Indeed she would have,” Blimpey agreed. “I’ve money in the bank, I’ve a nice house, and I own quite a bit of property, if I do say so myself.”

“You’ve done very well.”

“I’ve married a good woman and made a decent home for us,” he continued. “But you know what she’d have been most proud of?”

“What?”

Blimpey smiled. “Most of all, she’d have been happy I managed to bankrupt the bastard that tossed her into the streets that night.”

 
Barnes pulled open the heavy front door of New Scotland Yard and held it for the inspector. “What time are you seeing Chief Inspector Barrows?” he asked as Witherspoon stepped past him into the reception area. Barnes followed him inside.

“He said that anytime after three o’clock would do.” Witherspoon stopped, pulled out his pocket watch, and noted the time. “So we can go right on up. He ought to be in his office.” He nodded at the two policemen on duty behind the counter, and headed for the stairs.

“Is the chief expecting a full report, sir?” Barnes asked as they started up.

“Oh, I daresay he’s hoping we’ve got the case solved”—Witherspoon sighed—“and that I’ll walk into his office and tell him we’re making an arrest today. You know how the powers that be hate having an unsolved murder over Christmas.”

They reached the first-floor landing and turned down the long hallway to Barrows’ office, which was at the far end. They were halfway down the corridor when the door just ahead of them opened and Inspector Nigel Nivens stepped out. He stopped when he saw them.

Nivens was a man of medium height who was running to fat. He had dark blond hair going gray at the temples; bulging, watery blue eyes; and a thick mustache. He was dressed in a gray-blue checked overcoat open far enough to reveal a dark blue suit and gray sateen waistcoat. A deerstalker hat in the same fabric as the overcoat dangled from his fingers.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the fair-haired lads of the Metropolitan Police Department.” He sneered. “Here to give the chief an update on your latest case?”

“We’re here to make a report,” Witherspoon said politely as he swept past. He didn’t like being rude, but he was aware that Nigel Nivens didn’t like him and probably did in fact hate him. Their encounters this past year had convinced him that Nivens would like nothing better than to see him utterly destroyed.

Nivens slammed the deerstalker onto his head. He hurried after them, his boots pounding heavily against the wooden floor. “You’d better be close to an arrest, Witherspoon,” he said in a loud voice. “If you can’t get this case solved soon, they’re going to give it to someone who will.”

Barnes looked behind him and gave Nivens a good glare. Witherspoon ignored the man and kept on walking.

“That means me, Witherspoon,” Nivens cried.

Barnes glanced at Witherspoon, but the inspector resolutely kept his gaze straight ahead.

“Did you hear what I said?” Nivens yelled. He was furious at being ignored—especially as some of the doors down the long hallway had opened and a number of policemen were now watching.

Witherspoon reached Barrows’ office. He continued ignoring Nivens, lifted his hand, and rapped softly on the door.

Unable to stop himself, Barnes turned. Nivens had halted a few feet away. “Don’t worry, sir,” the constable said. “You’re not going to be overly burdened with additional work. Inspector Witherspoon has this case well in hand. An arrest is imminent.”

“Good, glad to hear that.” The voice came from behind him and belonged to the chief inspector.

Barnes turned slowly and saw Witherspoon staring at him with an expression of undisguised horror on his face. Chief Inspector Barrows was beaming. Barnes heard a snort from Nivens, who then turned and stomped off. As he moved down the hall, the constables who’d been watching quickly closed their doors and went back to their business.

“Actually,” Witherspoon said quickly, “we’re making progress, but I’m not sure we’re ready to . . .”

“Don’t be so modest, Witherspoon. As the good constable said, you’ve got the case well in hand.” Barrows clapped him on the back. “You’re always hiding your light under a basket. Come inside and give me a proper report. You, too, Constable.” He ushered the two of them into his office and pointed at two chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” Witherspoon began.

“Don’t mind anything Inspector Nivens might have said. His nose is more out of joint than usual. He lost a case in court this morning. Two burglars he nabbed were acquitted.” Barrows frowned and shook his head in disgust. “Stupid fool should learn to make sure he’s got the evidence before he makes an arrest.”

Barnes exhaled the breath he was holding and sat down. He knew he should have held his tongue, but he hadn’t expected Chief Inspector Barrows to pop out of his ruddy office. “Actually, sir, I spoke a bit too soon.”

Barrows looked amused. “Of course you did, Constable. Your words were for Nivens’ benefit. I know that. The man gets on my nerves as well, especially when he makes the police look like incompetent fools in front of a judge and jury, but he does have good political connections. But that aside”—he looked at Witherspoon—“even if you’re not close to an arrest, I take it you are making progress.”

“Yes, sir, we are. We’re working very hard,” Witherspoon replied. “But there are some difficulties.”

“Difficulties.” Barrows frowned as if the word itself was offensive. “What sort of difficulties?”

Witherspoon hesitated. “Unfortunately we’ve no idea why Mr. Whitfield was murdered. There simply doesn’t seem to be any compelling reason for anyone at the dinner party or any member of his household to have wanted him dead.”