Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (17 page)

“It's decent of you to say so, Constable,” Rogers replied softly. “And I very much appreciate the sentiment. Would you like a cup of tea? I can send down to the canteen.”

Barnes shook his head. He'd had a cup both at home and with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge at Upper Edmonton Gardens. “No thanks, sir, I'm fine.”

“Right, then, down to business.” He opened the top drawer and pulled out the ledger. “No one here can figure it out. The entries obviously mean something, but as to what that might be, we simply don't know.” He shoved it across his desk. “I've taken a good long look at it and had a couple of my brighter lads and the other two duty inspectors see if they could understand it, but it was no good. I'm sorry, Constable Barnes, we tried our best.”

“I'm sure you did, sir.” Barnes picked it up.

“What will you do now?”

“Take it to the Yard, I expect.” He got to his feet. “I'll have to see what Inspector Witherspoon wants to do with it.”

“Perhaps her solicitor might be able to shed some light on it,” Rogers suggested. “I'm assuming, of course, that as a property owner she had someone to handle her legal affairs.”

“She did,” he agreed. “That's actually not a bad idea. The victim had no close friends or relatives.”

“She has relatives,” Rogers interrupted. “She's a niece in Edinburgh that she visits every month. You didn't know that?”

“No, we didn't. How did you find out?”

“From the officer who originally identified her as Alice Robinson,” Rogers replied. “Remember, I told you she was questioned as a witness in a burglary. A trunk was stolen from one of the houses across the road. When Constable Pierpoint asked if she'd seen anything during the time period the trunk was taken, she told him she wasn't home. That she'd left for the train station. She goes to Edinburgh once a month to visit her niece.”

Barnes wondered why none of the tenants nor the servants had mentioned this fact. “But she doesn't have a niece in Edinburgh. When Edith Durant went on the run, we contacted every member of her family. The Durants were all dead, the Rileys, Edith's cousins, loathed her, and the Claypools hadn't seen nor heard from her in years.”

“But blood is thicker than water,” Rogers mused. “And maybe this niece is a relative of Carl Christopher.”

“The only relative Christopher had was a sister and she moved to Italy years before Carl Christopher married into the Durant family. She came back when he was arrested and bankrupted herself paying for his defense when he went to trial. She'd not have anything to do with Edith Durant.”

“Well, she obviously had some reason for going to Scotland, unless, of course, she was lying to Constable Pierpoint.” Rogers clamped his hand over his mouth as he yawned. “Sorry, I'm a bit tired.”

“Have you been on duty all night?” Barnes asked. He looked more closely at Inspector Rogers and realized the poor fellow looked awful; his eyes were red rimmed, his face pale, and there was enough stubble on his cheeks to indicate he needed a shave.

Rogers smiled wanly. “Unfortunately, yes, but I'm not the only one. Everyone's working extra hours. I've had to double the constables out on patrol and every inspector in the division is doing additional shifts. It makes us tired and irritable.” He cleared his throat. “Please tell Inspector Witherspoon I'm sorry for my behavior at the cemetery. He's a good officer and from what I've heard, an exemplary human being. My only excuse is that I was exhausted.”

“I'll tell him, sir.” Barnes sat back down in the chair he'd just vacated. “Is it the burglaries?”

Rogers nodded, his expression glum. “It's like an epidemic. It's like nothing I've ever seen before, and we're all completely baffled.”

“How so?”

“The thieves are targeting small but valuable items: jewelry, silver, small paintings, ceramics, things like that, the sort of stuff that should be easy to trace.” Rogers leaned forward. “But none of it has shown up in the usual places. We're keeping an eye on a couple of dodgy art dealers, but so far, nothing from that quarter. Nor has any of the jewelry or silver turned up at any of the street markets or pawnshops. We've put a lot of pressure on our snitches, but none of them have heard of anything being moved. We've got all the known thieves under constant surveillance and the burglaries are still happening, so it's none of them. It's as if the thieves pinched the stuff and then did nothing with it. They're certainly not moving it along the usual routes for stolen goods.”

“What about the local fences? Wouldn't they have some idea?”

“Everyone claims to know nothing.” He sighed. “And we've leaned on some of the boys pretty hard. The Home Office has stuck their oar in now and there's pressure being put on the superintendent for us to make an arrest. But we don't even have any suspects.”

*   *   *

Wiggins hadn't thought that a simple trip to the East End would end up with him running for his life. He was fairly sure Mrs. Jeffries hadn't known it, either, when she asked him at their morning meeting to go along to the Black Swan and snoop about a bit. But he was in serious trouble now. The four toughs had fanned out and were blocking the far end of the mews. He looked the other way, wincing when he saw it was a dead end. There was nothing to do but go back into the pub. He either had to face the angry barkeep or risk his neck with the toughs, and considering it would be four against one, he thought he'd take his chances with the barkeep.

The Black Swan was on the Commercial Road, so if he could make it to the street, he might have a chance of getting away with his body parts intact. Blast, who'd a thought a few harmless questions could get him in this kind of a mess.

Taking a deep breath, he whirled around, yanked the door open, and raced inside. He ran down the narrow hallway to the public bar and into the small, crowded room. He charged toward the street door, grazing the shoulder of an old man at the end of the counter, leapt over a stool, and dodged to his left to avoid the hulking brute who'd suddenly popped up to block his way.

“Get back 'ere,” the barkeep yelled. But Wiggins knew he daren't stop. He lunged for the door handle just as he felt a hand grabbing at the back of his coat. Clawing at the knob, he got the door open and flew through it onto the street. The four toughs were now coming at him from around the corner and the hulking brute was right on his heels. Just ahead of him was the street, crowded with omnibuses, carts, vans, hansoms, and four-wheelers, all of which were moving fast.

“Don't let 'im git away. Surround 'im,” one of the toughs shouted.

Wiggins dashed into the street, leaping in front of a cooper's van, getting safely past it only to have to swerve to his left to avoid being run down by a hansom cab. This was his only chance, and he took it. He dodged around a handcart loaded with cockles and eels and directly into the path of a carriage. Ignoring the swearing and the shouting as drivers pulled on hand brakes and horses reared, Wiggins jumped, leapt, and weaved in and out of the traffic. Reaching the other side, he didn't stop, but continued running. He intended to get as far away from the Black Swan as possible, so he didn't look back, he simply ran down the pavement doing his best to avoid smashing into anyone unlucky enough to be in his path. He skidded to a halt as he rounded the corner and saw a fixed-point constable.

He gasped for breath and glanced over his shoulder but didn't see either the brute from the pub or the four toughs. Swallowing hard, he leaned against a lamppost to give his shaking legs a rest. His heart was pounding and he thought his lungs would burst, but it took only a few minutes before he straightened up and continued on, moving nonchalantly past the constable. His pursuers were gone, too. Apparently they didn't want to explain to the copper why they were chasing him. But nonetheless, Wiggins didn't feel really safe until he reached Whitechapel Station and boarded a train for the West End of London and home.

*   *   *

“Mr. Teasdale, we'd hoped to have a word with you yesterday,” Witherspoon said as he took a seat.

“I was unavoidably detained,” Teasdale said smoothly. “Business, Inspector. Frankly, sir, I've no idea why you thought it so important to speak to me. I know nothing of this matter.”

Tall, well-built, and impeccably dressed, Norman Teasdale leaned against the mantel of the drawing room and stared at the inspector. He was a handsome man—dark brown hair with just a bit of gray at the temples, brown eyes, and perfect features save for the beginnings of a double chin.

The inspector nodded as if in agreement, then said, “That's as may be, but we do need to question you. How long have you been a tenant here?”

“Six months. My company transferred me here from the Continent. Previously I was in Rome.”

“Who is your employer?”

Teasdale raised an eyebrow. “Is that relevant, Inspector?”

“It's a standard question, sir,” Witherspoon replied.

“Well, I suppose you could say I don't work for any one individual company; I act as an agent for a consortium of wine growers and food importers.”

“But I thought you said your company sent you here,” Witherspoon pressed.

“What I meant to say was that the companies I represent offered me some substantial incentives to relocate here.” He pushed away from the mantel. “My principals feel there's no reason that fine wines, preserved meats, and delicious Italian cheeses can't be appreciated by the sophisticated citizens of London.”

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Robinson?”

“At breakfast on the day she was killed.”

“What was your relationship with Mrs. Robinson?”

“I was her tenant, Inspector.”

“Was that all?” Witherspoon pressed.

“I don't know what you're trying to imply, Inspector,” he said coldly. “She was my landlady and, other than that, I had no relationship with her.”

“That's not what we've been told, Mr. Teasdale. We have it on good authority that you and the deceased were more than landlady and tenant. Two witnesses have stated that you had an . . . uh, very personal relationship with her.” He was exaggerating just to see if it would have any effect. Mrs. Fremont, the cook, was the only witness who'd seen the victim going into Teasdale's rooms, but then again, she'd seen it two nights in a row.

Teasdale's mouth opened and then snapped shut. “They were lying.”

“Mr. Teasdale, really, you'll save us both a great deal of time and trouble if you'll just tell me the truth. What was the true nature of your relationship with Mrs. Robinson?”

He said nothing for a long moment and then he flopped into a chair. “Alright, I'll admit it, we did have a personal relationship. We were lovers.”

“Were you aware of her true identity?”

“I'm not sure how to answer that, Inspector.”

“Just tell me the truth, sir. Were you aware that she was Edith Durant and not Alice Robinson?”

“I knew that Alice Robinson wasn't her real name, but I had no idea she was wanted for murder. I didn't find that out until after she was dead. You've got to understand, Inspector, we both knew our relationship was temporary and that's the way we wanted it. I didn't ask a lot of questions. She had her life and I had mine.”

“But surely you must have had some curiosity about her?” Witherspoon didn't understand people like Norman Teasdale. He'd been shy around women all his life and had thought he was destined to be alone forever, but then he'd found happiness with Ruth, and he wanted to know everything about her. “Are you saying you didn't care for her at all?”

“Of course I cared, Inspector, but she made it quite clear she didn't want to answer questions. The one time I asked her why she went to Edinburgh once a month she almost threw me out.”

“Edinburgh?” Witherspoon interrupted. “She went to Edinburgh?”

“That's what I just said, Inspector. She told the servants she was going there to see her niece, but I knew that wasn't true. One of the few things she did tell me was that she had no close relatives.” He smiled skeptically. “But when I asked her about it, she told me that if I wanted to continue living here, I'd mind my own business and not ask so many questions.”

“You've no idea why she made these trips?” Witherspoon wondered why neither the servants nor the other tenants had mentioned this particular fact.

“No, Inspector, and as I said, the one time I mentioned it, she made it perfectly clear it was none of my business.”

“Where did you go after breakfast on the day Mrs. Robinson was killed?”

Surprised by the change of subject, he blinked. “I went to work. I had appointments set up with three different clients that day.”

“What time did you leave the house?”

“Right after breakfast. I went up to get my order book and was at Upper Holloway Station by half past eight. Really, Inspector, surely you don't think I had anything to do with her murder.”

“I'm merely asking for an accounting of your movements, sir,” Witherspoon explained. “It's standard procedure, sir. Where did you go from the station?”

“To see my first customer.” He got up and began to pace the room.

But the inspector wasn't going to give up because the fellow was getting a tad annoyed. He wanted facts, verifiable facts. “Who was that, sir?”

He stopped in his tracks, his expression outraged. “You're not going to bother my customers, Inspector. I'll not have it. You'll ruin my business. I don't sell my wines or foodstuffs to the local corner shop, Inspector, I sell to expensive hotels and restaurants, not the sort of people that will appreciate the police barging in and asking a lot of foolish questions about me.”

“I'm afraid I must insist,” Witherspoon pressed. “You do understand, until we can verify your whereabouts at the time of the murder, we must consider you a suspect.”