Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away (19 page)

“But we're neither, sir.” The inspector took off his bowler.

“Yes, yes, I know that, but our friends on Fleet Street like to sell newspapers, and dredging up our old failures helps them in that endeavor. We've worked diligently to improve our standing and regain the public's confidence, and to some extent, we've succeeded. But when the press got wind of the Durant murder and, more important, that she was a suspect we let get away, they've been merciless.” He sighed. “That's why we've been hoping you'd make an arrest quickly and this whole matter would go away.”

“We're making progress sir,” Witherspoon assured him.

“But you've no real suspects, right?”

“I wouldn't put it quite like that, sir,” Witherspoon said. “There are several people who had recent disputes with the victim. We're looking at them more closely.”

“Do you have any idea why Durant was at the cemetery?”

“According to a witness who saw her only moments before the murder, she was going in to speak to a builder. She told the witness her family had a crypt there.”

“They don't,” Barrows said. “I sent a constable to the business office to check when I got your first report, and no one by the name of Durant, Riley, or Claypool has a crypt or tomb or even so much as a headstone in the place. So unless Durant has family under another name—and believe me, with that woman it's certainly possible—she didn't go to the cemetery to meet anyone but her killer.”

*   *   *

The porter, an older man wearing a misshapen blue suit that hung limply on his skinny frame, pointed to the first door down the corridor. “Yes, sir, that's Mr. Teasdale's office.”

Hatchet had been delighted when Mrs. Jeffries had asked him to take a closer look at two of Edith Durant's lodgers. Thus far, despite his bluffs that he had his sources checking on any number of things, he'd found out nothing. He was loathe to let Luty know that particular fact. The woman was ridiculously competitive. What's more, his usual sources were sadly lacking at the moment so he was more than happy to take on this task.

Hatchet smiled gratefully. “Excellent. Then I'm at the right place.”

Norman Teasdale's place of business was on the ground floor of a three-story older brown brick building on Baker Street. At their meeting this morning, Mrs. Jeffries had pointed out that they really knew very little about the individuals who lived in Edith Durant's house. He'd been given the task of finding out what he could about Norman Teasdale and Andrew Morecomb. She'd supplied him with the addresses of the two men's offices, and he'd gone to Morecomb's place of business first only to find that even though the building existed, no one there had ever heard of him nor were any of the offices let to someone selling safes and vaults. That information had cost him a bit of coin, but it was well worth the money. Besides, he could easily afford it.

“He's not here now,” the porter continued helpfully. “He usually only comes in later in the afternoon.” He broke off, nodding at a businessman in a black overcoat and bowler hat who hurried past them.

“Surely he has a clerk I can speak with.” Hatchet watched the businessman disappear up the stairs, noticing that the fellow carried a briefcase.

“He doesn't.” The porter shook his head as he spoke. “Mr. Teasdale spends most of his time out and about, sir. His business is sellin' fancy wines and cheeses . . .”

“Yes, I know, that's why I wanted to meet with him,” Hatchet lied.

“He usually comes back to his office around three o'clock, sir. He has to record his orders, sir, and then he gives me the tally sheet for the lad to take to the telegraph office.”

“That won't do me any good. I need to see him now.” This was looking more and more like Teasdale was a legitimate businessman. After finding out about Morecomb, Hatchet wanted to make sure about Teasdale before the afternoon meeting at Upper Edmonton Gardens. He wasn't certain what was going on with Edith Durant's tenants, but his instincts told him he was onto something. “I'll be on a train to Birmingham.”

The porter scratched his stubbly chin. “This time of day Mr. Teasdale is either at the customs house clearing his shipments or at the train station making sure they're shipped out properly to his customers. He's got customers everywhere—Manchester, Newcastle, Leeds. He works hard, does Mr. Teasdale, and takes his responsibilities seriously. He always wants to be certain his clients get their wines and cheeses right on time. Like he says, when you're bringing bits in from other countries, you've got to make sure the paperwork is in order and make sure the shipments go out on the proper train. He's a good gent, is Mr. Teasdale.”

“You sound as if you like him.”

“I do, sir.” He shot a malevolent glance toward the staircase. “He's not like some that work here. There's them that won't give you the time of day let alone a ‘good morning, Jim.'” He snorted. “But the rules here says I've got to greet everyone properly when they walk through the front door whether they're decent to me or not. Mr. Teasdale isn't like that. He always has a nice ‘hello' and asks if my arthritis is bothering me. He's very generous, too. Last year one of his shipments was returned so he give me a nice bottle of wine, a salami, and two different cheeses. Mind you, I didn't much care for the cheese, and if truth be told, the salami upset my stomach, but the wine was lovely, real posh stuff it was. The missus and I enjoyed it.”

“I'm sorry I'm going to miss seeing him,” Hatchet said truthfully. “He sounds a perfect fellow to do business with.”

“You might meet him at the customs house.” The porter jerked his head toward the right. “It's not far from here. I can give you directions.”

“But you're not absolutely sure he'll be there, are you?” Hatchet said.

“No, sir, I'm not. Would you like to leave your card, sir? I'll make sure he gets it.”

“That won't be necessary.” Hatchet reached into his pocket, pulled out a shilling, and handed it to the porter. “Thank you for your assistance. When Mr. Teasdale returns, please tell him I'll be in town next week and I'll try to stop by and see him then. My name is Mr. Hawkins and I represent several hotels in the midlands that are interested in procuring his goods.”

“Thank you, sir,” the porter said, grinning broadly as he took the money.

“By the way, I need to send a telegram. Which lad does that for you?” Hatchet asked casually.

“Young Willie Bates is reliable. He's a blond lad who hangs about on the corner, sir. Tell him that Jonesy sent you and he'll not rob you blind.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Jeffries tiptoed down the back hall and stepped outside. She closed the door quietly, not wanting to disturb Mrs. Goodge, who was hosting one of her old colleagues with tea and treats. The wind was raw and high so she fastened her cloak and strode briskly toward the path on the other side of the small, brick terrace.

The walkway was a large oval separating the houses from the foliage, trees, flower beds, bushes, and shrubbery of the garden proper. Her feet crunched against the gravel as she started walking. She'd come out to have a good think and she sincerely hoped the cold, windy day would keep the neighbors safely inside their warm houses. There was so much she had to consider about this case, and frankly, she wasn't sure what to do next. She wanted to see the ledger but knew that might be difficult. Constable Barnes had said he'd try to make sure the inspector brought it home with him this evening, but he wasn't certain he could make that happen.

She'd done her best at their morning meeting—she'd given all of them tasks that would hopefully point them in the right direction—but she couldn't be sure their inquiries would yield results that were useful at all. As another gust of wind slammed into her, her eyes watered, so she reached into her pocket, pulled out her handkerchief, and gave them a quick wipe. From the far side of the garden a dog barked and she winced, hoping it wasn't Mrs. Betts and her spaniel out for a morning walk. Mrs. Betts dearly loved a nice chat, and this morning, she needed to think.

What, if anything, did the red cord mean? Where had it come from? Had the killer picked it deliberately or was it just a weapon of convenience? She came around the far side of the garden and was relieved to still be alone. Yesterday evening, the inspector had reported that none of the servants at the lodging house had ever seen the cord, so perhaps it hadn't come from there. In which case, did that mean the killer wasn't someone from Durant's immediate circle, but was instead an old enemy from the past? But even if none of the servants had seen a red cord, that didn't necessarily mean that someone at the lodging house wasn't the killer.

Her shoulders sagged and her footsteps slowed as she realized this was the most difficult case they'd ever had. She couldn't make sense of any of it. Perhaps the others would find out something useful today, but she rather doubted it. Her instructions this morning had been born more of bravado and desperation than logical deduction. To begin with, they'd have very little chance of finding out very much. She winced guiltily and she wished she'd not sent poor Phyllis off to “find out anything there was to know about the victim.” Yee gods, that was an impossible task. Edith Durant hadn't mixed with her neighbors and had very few servants, nor had she been the subject of local gossip, so what could Phyllis possibly learn? She stopped as she realized that wasn't true. Durant had had a screaming match with one neighbor, was carrying on an affair with one of her tenants, and had an argument with someone in her room the night before she was killed. She was also sociable enough to have tea with Lavinia Swanson. The inspector had smiled as he'd told her about Mrs. Swanson's reaction to learning Alice Robinson's true identity. She was horrified to realize she'd served her tea and let this suspected murderess pet her cat. No, she told herself, there was plenty to learn about both the victim and her tenants. To begin with, why did supposedly smart businessmen pay double the going weekly rate for lodgings to live in what the inspector had described as a “slightly run-down lodging house”?

She saw that the benches under the oak tree were empty so she wandered off the path, stepping gingerly over the spots in the soggy ground and finding to her delight that the seats were dry. There were so many things she ought to have already found out: Did the fact that the murder took place at Highgate Cemetery have any significance, and if not, why was Edith there? Did she have someone buried there? If not, how had Edith been lured to that particular place? Why had the killer tucked the clipping into the dead woman's hand? Was it only to insure that Witherspoon was called to the scene or had there been another purpose?

She sat for a long time, going over every little detail they had learned thus far in a logical and, she hoped, analytical fashion. Then she gave in to the urge to let her mind do its own sorting; closing her eyes, she let her thoughts come as they would. Ideas, images, and bits of conversation drifted in and out of her consciousness as she sat on the bench.

She was jerked out of her reverie by the barking of a dog. She turned and saw Mrs. Betts and her spaniel, Sugar, as they hurried toward her.

*   *   *

Experience had taught Betsy a bit of liquor could often loosen a reluctant tongue. She smiled at the woman pouring out two glasses of gin and hoped that was the case in this instance.

“Here you are, ma'am.” The barmaid put Betsy's glass in front of her and then lifted the one she'd poured for herself. “This is decent of you, ma'am. Usually the ladies that come in here don't have enough coin to spare for buying me one.” The barmaid was a tall, buxom woman with brown hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck and a curly fringe at the front.

“My newspaper is paying for it.” Betsy took off her navy blue leather gloves. After leaving their morning meeting, she had nipped back to her flat and changed into one of her best outfits, a fitted blue suit with navy piping on the sleeves and cuffs and a high-necked white blouse. She hoped the ensemble would convince the barmaid that she was a journalist out for a story.

As she sipped her drink, she surveyed the saloon bar of the White Hart, the pub she hoped was the one Edith Durant's servants popped into when their work was done each day. If it wasn't, she'd wasted both her time and money. It was a good working-class pub with a public bar on one side and the saloon bar on this side. The stools here were padded in red leather, there was a large mirror on the wall behind the counter, and the tables had proper chairs and not stools. Still, it wasn't a posh place. The black wooden floors were scuffed with age, the pink and red patterned wallpaper had faded in spots, and the ties on the old-fashioned drapes framing the front window were missing most of their fringe.

“What paper did you say you worked for?” The barmaid took a sip and leaned on the bar.

“Does it matter?” Betsy asked. “I'm willing to pay for information. My name is Jane Grant. What's yours?”

“Minnie McNab.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the wall that served as a partition between the public bar and the saloon bar. “The guv wouldn't like me talking about his customers, so you've got to make it worth my while.”

“Let's not tell the guv, then,” Betsy replied. “And I will make it worthwhile for you.”

“It's about that murder in Highgate Cemetery, right?”

“That's right. The woman who was strangled was wanted for murder so my editor thought that she must be a pretty colorful sort of person,” Betsy explained. She was making it up as she went. “Did she come in here?”

Minnie shook her head. “Wish I could say she did, but that would be a lie. But some of her servants did and they still do. Leastways the cook comes in, and when she's in her cups, she does like to talk.”