Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (10 page)

“Goodness,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed, “how on earth did you get here so fast?”

“Don’t ask.” Luty rolled her eyes at her butler. “Once Hatchet got that telegram, he had me bundled up, packed and headin’ for London faster than an avalanche in the Colorado Rockies. We got out of Lord Lovan’s so quickly, I don’t think the man will ever speak to me again.”

“Nonsense, madam,” Hatchet said briskly; he pulled a chair out for his employer. “Lord Lovan won’t even notice
we’re gone. It was a house party, you see,” he explained to the others. “Even if he does notice our absence, I don’t think he’ll take umbrage at our hasty departure.”

“Hasty departure,” Luty snorted. “You didn’t even let me finish my breakfast yesterday morning before you had me on the move.” She plopped down in the chair and grinned. “But enough about that. Tell us who’s been murdered.”

“Pour yourselves some tea first,” Mrs. Goodge said briskly. “And I’ll get some more bread and butter. If you’ve been traveling, you’ll be hungry.”

“I’ll get it,” Betsy said, rising to her feet.

Mrs. Jeffries waited until the new arrivals had their refreshments before she began telling them about their latest case.

Luty and Hatchet listened carefully. When Mrs. Jeffries had finished, Luty put down her teacup and shook her head. “Not much to go on, is there?”

“Really, madam,” Hatchet said quickly. “I think the household has done a rather good job of it so far. But I am confused as to why the inspector is being so close-mouthed.”

“’E’s listenin’ to his inner voice,” Wiggins said. “Whatever that means.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t really want to take the time to explain what it meant. She felt just a bit foolish. After all, she was the one who’d told the inspector on more than one occasion to listen to his instincts, his inner voice and his guiding force. But goodness, she’d only said those things to keep the inspector’s spirits up when he was feeling inadequate to the task at hand. She hadn’t meant for him to take her literally. “Let’s not worry about the inspector’s reticence right now,” she said briskly. “We’ve quite enough information to start with.”

“Would you like me to have a word with these here fellows from Bestal’s Brewery?” Luty asked. “I know a few people in the business; I reckon I can get something out of them.”

“Madam,” Hatchet said, “you own rather a lot of shares in some breweries, but I don’t think that means you can go waltzing into this Mr. Pump or Mr. Magil’s office and demand to know what they were doing at the Gilded Lily Pub.”

“Don’t be a pumpkinhead, Hatchet,” Luty said irritably. “I can be subtle. And I can find out plenty too.”

“I think you ought to ’ave a go at it,” Smythe said, giving the elderly woman a cheeky grin. “We ain’t been ’aving much luck ourselves.”

“Thank you,” Luty said graciously. “It’s nice to know that someone around here thinks I know how to behave myself.”

“Mrs. Jeffries,” Hatchet said thoughtfully, “what would you like me to do?”

Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure. “Why don’t you see if you can find out anything about Tom and Joanne Dapeers. But it might be difficult for you, they don’t have a lot of servants—”

“But they’ve got a lot of workers,” Smythe interrupted. “They do own three pubs. I’ve only had a chance to work the Black Horse. Hatchet could dig around at the other two and see what he can find out.” He looked at the butler. “The Dapeerses own the Horse and Trumpet over on Curzon Street and the White Boar just off Charing Cross Road.”

Hatchet smiled gratefully. “Good, I’ll go round today and see what I can dig up.”

“I thought I’d have a go at finding out a bit more about Sarah Hewett,” Betsy said casually. She didn’t remind
them that she was also planning to meet Hamilton and his sister at a pub later this afternoon. She wasn’t sure that anyone, especially Smythe, would approve. He hadn’t said a word yesterday when she’d mentioned Hamilton’s name, but she’d seen the quick frown that crossed his face. Only a few months ago she wouldn’t have cared whether or not something she did annoyed the coachman, but things had changed between the two of them. Betsy didn’t want Smythe fretting.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “What are you going to be doing today, Smythe?” she asked, turning to the coachman.

“I thought I’d have another word with Molly and Mick; they was tendin’ the bar that night at the Gilded Lily. They must know something. After that, I thought I’d try trackin’ down the cabbie and the drayman that ’ad the dustup out in the street.”

“Why do you want to talk to them?” Betsy asked curiously. “If they was fightin’, neither of them could have seen anything.”

“Maybe,” Smythe admitted slowly, “and maybe not.” He didn’t want to tell them what he was really going to be up to today. It was too humiliating. Besides, he couldn’t think of anything else to do. Thanks to Inspector Witherspoon shuttin’ up tighter than the bloomin’ Bank of England on Christmas Day, Smythe didn’t have any idea of where this case was goin’ or even who the real suspects were. He thought the others felt exactly the same way; they was just runnin’ around in circles but they were too proud to admit it.

“That sounds very interesting, Smythe. I’m sure you’ll find out all sorts of things.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled cheerfully, delighted that the staff wasn’t losing its enthusiasm.

Wiggins sighed. “I reckon you want me to ’ead back
over to the Gilded Lily and see what I can find out from the locals.”

Mrs. Jeffries gazed at the footman sympathetically. “Do you feel up to it?”

He felt like crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over his head, but he’d never admit it in front of the others. “’Corse I do. I wasn’t drunk, you know. Just a bit off-color—”

“Drunk!” Luty exclaimed. “Good Lord, Wiggins, have you taken to drinking yer troubles away?”

“It weren’t my fault,” the footman cried. “The only way I could get anyone to talk to me was to buy ’em beer. Cost me a pretty penny, it did.”

“Gracious, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said earnestly. “No one expects you to do that.”

He was immediately ashamed of his outburst. He hadn’t spent all that much yesterday. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve got a bit tucked away. It’s not like I have all that much to spend me coins on anyway.”

“Mind you don’t overindulge yourself today,” Mrs. Goodge said sharply. “You don’t have the constitution for it.”

Mrs. Jeffries silently debated whether or not to continue cautioning Wiggins about his money, but one look at his face convinced her that anything else said on the subject would just embarrass the lad. He, like everyone else in the household, was devoted to the inspector. She turned to the cook and asked, “And what will you be doing today?”

“I’ve got some sources coming by,” she replied. “And I ought to pick up something. I put a few more queries out yesterday, so if I’m lucky, I’ll hear a tidbit or two. But I must say, it’s not easy picking up gossip about a publican.”

The inspector stood in the public bar of the Gilded Lily Pub and slowly turned in a circle. The pub was closed, of course, and likely to remain so for some time. Witherspoon thought it rather a shame. The place certainly was lovely.

“What are you doing, sir?” Constable Barnes asked.

“I’m trying to get a feel for the place,” Witherspoon replied. Drat, his inner voice seemed to have gone to sleep. It wasn’t telling him a thing. “Sometimes, one picks up all sorts of information just by being very observant,” he said hastily, when he realized his constable was staring at him. “Er, is the barman here yet?”

“He’s in the taproom. Mrs. Dapeers has instructed him to make an accounting of all the stock they have on hand.”

“Really?” Witherspoon was surprised. “Is she going to open it up again?”

“I don’t think so, sir. I believe she’s probably going to sell out to her brother-in-law.”

Witherspoon blinked in surprise. “How did you find that out?”

Barnes smiled slowly. “From Mrs. Tom Dapeers. She didn’t tell me herself, sir. But I’ve worked with you long enough to pick up a few of your methods.” He chuckled. “Excellent, they are, sir. You could give instruction to some of our other inspectors, that’s what I say.”

“Thank you, Constable.” Witherspoon beamed proudly, though he hadn’t a clue as to which of his “methods” the constable was referring to. “That’s most kind of you. Do go on, tell me how you found out.”

“Well, sir, Tessie Gainway—she’s the barmaid at the Black Horse—she cornered me yesterday to tell me that one of the other barmaids, a woman named Ellen Hoxton, hadn’t been around the neighborhood in a few days and her friends was gettin’ worried.”

“You mean someone’s gone missing?”

“Oh no, sir.” Barnes waved his hand in the air. “After I talked to Tessie for a few minutes, it become obvious the missing woman wasn’t really missing at all. She’d been sacked from the Black Horse. She’d probably taken off to another part of London to look for work. It’s quite a common occurrence. She wouldn’t get another position around here if she’d been sacked, would she? But anyway, the important thing is that while Tessie and I were chattin’ she happened to mention she’d overheard Mrs. Tom telling her husband that Moira Dapeers was going to sell out to them.”

“Hmmm.” Witherspoon still couldn’t see which of his methods the constable had used, but he wasn’t going to ask. “That’s rather important information, Constable. I wonder if it means that Mrs. Tom has already spoken to Mrs. Dapeers about the property?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Barnes admitted. “But I think it’s worth pursuing, don’t you?”

“Indeed I do.”

“You wanted to see me, Inspector,” Mick called from the doorway. He wiped his big hands on the apron tied around his waist and came to stand behind the bar.

Witherspoon walked over to the bar. “Yes. Would you tell us what happened on the night of the murder?”

“What do ya mean?” Mick looked puzzled. “Mr. Dapeers walked into the taproom and someone shoved a knife in his back.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” Witherspoon said patiently. “What I really meant to ask was, could you tell us everything that happened from the time you came on duty until the murder.”

Mick shoved a lock of dark hair off his broad forehead. “Well, I come in that mornin’ about ten. Mr. Dapeers wanted us ’ere early because there was so much to do to
get the place ready. The workmen were finishin’ up in the back—”

“Workmen? What workmen?” No one told Witherspoon there had been workmen at the pub that day.

“The carpenters,” Mick explained. “They was ’ere to fix that back door. It wouldn’t close right. Mr. Dapeers was fit to be tied too. Kept on at ’em about how ’e’d paid a ruddy fortune to the builders and they’d damned well better have that back door fixed properly by openin’ time.” He broke off and laughed. “’Corse they didn’t pay ’im any mind. Just planed off the side of the door and stuck a bolt on the inside. But they had it fixed right by opening. I checked it myself. It locked, all right, but the hole for the bolt was big as yer fist and a two-year-old could probably toggle it open, if you know what I mean.”

“And then what happened?” Witherspoon asked. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked Mick to tell him about the entire day. At this rate, he’d be standing here for hours.

“Then I went about my business, cleaning up, getting the bar stocked, you know, things like that.”

The inspector nodded. “Was Mr. Dapeers here the entire day?”

“Most of it,” Mick replied.

“Did anyone out of the ordinary come by?”

“Nah.” Mick paused, his broad face creased in a puzzled frown. “Well, there was something, but it weren’t so odd.…”

“What was it?”

“Ellen Hoxton, she was the barmaid at the Black Horse, she come round and wanted to see Mr. Dapeers.”

“Did she see him?” Barnes asked.

“No, he’d stepped out for a minute, gone over to the bank, I think, so Ellen left Mr. Dapeers a note. I think she give it to Moll’.”

“As I said, sir,” Barnes said softly, “she was probably asking to see him to see if there was a position open here. Surprising, though. I’d have thought she’d have gone elsewhere in London to look for work.”

“I expect she came here because she knew there was bad feeling between the Dapeers brothers,” Witherspoon replied. “Possibly she thought that Haydon Dapeers would be sympathetic to someone who’d been sacked by his brother.”

“Ellen were sacked by Mrs. Joanne,” Mick put in quickly. “She’s got a mouth on ’er, does Ellen. Sassed Mrs. Joanne once too often.”

Too bad that Haydon Dapeers hadn’t sacked the woman, Witherspoon thought. A disgruntled employee was often a good murder suspect. Then he was immediately ashamed of himself for making assumptions that weren’t based on fact. Gracious, if every sacked employee in London killed someone, the streets would be littered with corpses. “Is Molly here this morning?”

Mick shook his head. “No. Since the murder, there’s been no reason for her to come. There’s nothing for her to do.”

Witherspoon turned to Barnes. “Could you nip out and have one of the uniformed lads go get Molly. I think it’s important that we speak with her.” He also made a mental note to talk to Joanne Dapeers again.

“What time did you start letting people in the pub?” he asked Mick as soon as the constable had gone.