Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (12 page)

“No.” He blushed to the roots of his curly hair. “I’m just a good listener. Most of what I know, my sister Sadie told me. Like I said, Sadie worked there for a few months. But then she got a chance for a better position in a milliner’s shop. It paid more and the hours is better, so she left the Dapeers house. She didn’t much like workin’ there anyway, it weren’t at all a nice place.”

“Did they do a lot of arguin’ and such?” Betsy asked. She leaned closer across the small table.

“Nah,” Hamilton replied. “It were mainly just the kind of feelin’ you get about a place that she didn’t care for. Said that Mr. Dapeers was always watchin’ Mrs. Hewett whenever he thought his wife wasn’t looking. And poor Mrs. Hewett went around with a long face and lookin’ miserable all the time. The only time she ever smiled was when she was with her daughter. She spent the rest of her time hiding from Mr. Dapeers.”

“How awful.”

“It was. Sadie overheard a dreadful row the night before she left.” He glanced at her empty glass.

“Between Mr. Dapeers and Mrs. Hewett?” Betsy pressed.

“Would you like another ale?”

“No, thank you.”

Hamilton picked up his beer and swallowed hastily. “It was between Mr. and Mrs. Dapeers. Seems that Mr. Dapeers didn’t like his wife givin’ so much time and money to Reverend Ballantine.”

“Reverend Ballantine? Who is he?”

“He runs some kind of missionary society,” Hamilton explained. “And Mr. Dapeers was right angry about Mrs. Dapeers giving him so much money.”

Disappointed, Betsy slumped back in her chair. “Oh. Well, I guess there’s lots of husbands who wouldn’t want their wives giving away the household money.”

Hamilton grinned and shook his head. “It weren’t the household money she was giving away.” He laughed. “Sadie said she heard Mrs. Dapeers shouting that it was her money she was using and she’d give it to whoever she liked.”

Betsy brightened. “Mrs. Dapeers had money?”

“Pots of it, accordin’ to Sadie,” Hamilton said. “Mind you, most of it is tied up in some kind of trust, that’s why Mr. Dapeers don’t have control of it. They argued about that lots of times. He was always wantin’ her to hire a solicitor and take some old relative of hers to court. But she refused to do it.”

“So she gives this Reverend Ballantine money and tells her husband to mind his own business,” Betsy murmured.

“If you ask me, Mr. Dapeers had a right to be angry,” Hamilton said quickly. “It’s not right, a wife having her own money.”

Betsy’s chin jerked up and she opened her mouth to tell him he was a ruddy fool. Women should have their own
money! Then she remembered that she needed this young man to keep feeding her information, so she clamped down the angry retort on the tip of her tongue and forced herself to say, “I think you’re absolutely right.” The words almost choked her; when she got home, she ought to wash her mouth out with soap.

Hamilton beamed at her, then he leaned forward and whispered, “And that’s not all Sadie heard, either. She heard Mr. Dapeers going on and on about how Mrs. Dapeers was making a fool of herself over this reverend.”

“You don’t mean…”

“Yes,” Hamilton whispered, “I do mean.” He glanced around the pub to make sure there were no ladies in earshot who might be offended by his next words. “According to Sadie, Mr. Dapeers accused Mrs. Dapeers of carryin’ on with the Reverend Ballantine. What’s worse, the man is young enough to be her son.”

Witherspoon was beginning to think his inner voice had gone mute. But no, he mustn’t doubt himself. As his housekeeper always said, “You never give yourself enough credit, Inspector.” He decided to be patient. Surely, this investigation would start making sense at some point.

He glanced at Barnes. The constable was staring out the window, his gaze fixed on the courtyard below. Barnes sniffed the air appreciatively, apparently enjoying the pervasive scent of beer. They were in the offices of Bestal’s Brewery.

“Did the clerk say he was going to go and get Mr. Pump?” Witherspoon inquired. “Seems we’ve been waiting an awful long time.”

Barnes reluctantly turned away from the window. “It’s only been a few minutes, sir.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,” a voice said from the open doorway.

Startled, Witherspoon whirled about and saw a rather
plump gentleman with a full black beard advancing toward him.

The man extended his hand as he approached. “I’m Luther Pump,” he said politely. “Mr. Magil will be along in a minute. He’s out in the yard.”

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon from Scotland Yard and this is Constable Barnes,” The inspector replied as they shook hands.

“I know who you are. We saw you the other night when we were at the Gilded Lily. Do sit down, gentlemen.” Pump waved at a couple of chairs in front of a huge desk. He went round behind the desk and sat down. “I know why you’re here, and I must say, I don’t think I can be of much help. Mr. Magil and I only met Mr. Dapeers that night. We were dreadfully shocked about what happened, of course. Dreadfully shocked.”

“Naturally.” Witherspoon smiled politely. “Murder is always very upsetting. Let me assure you, sir, we won’t take much of your time. We’ve only a few routine questions to ask you.”

“It may be routine to you, Inspector,” Pump said. “But it’s rather upsetting for me, I’ve never been involved in this sort of thing before. But do go on and make your inquiries.”

“First of all,” the inspector said slowly, “why were you at Mr. Dapeers’s pub that evening?”

“He’d invited us to come round,” Pump said. He hesitated. “Actually, he hadn’t so much invited us as, well, this is most awkward. Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more until Mr. Magil gets here. He’s better at explaining this sort of thing than I am.”

“I’m here now.” Edward Magil strode into the room, dusting his hands off as he walked. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said, pulling another chair up next to Pump’s
desk and quickly seating himself. “I’m Edward Magil.”

“Yes, we assumed as much,” Witherspoon replied. He glanced at Barnes to see if the constable had his notebook out. Barnes was already scribbling in it.

“I’ve just asked Mr. Pump why you were at the Gilded Lily on the night of the murder,” the inspector said. “He seems a bit unsure—”

“We were at the Gilded Lily because Haydon Dapeers had written us a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Yes,” Magil said firmly. “A letter about a matter of grave concern to us.”

Witherspoon straightened his spine. Now they were getting somewhere. Yes, indeed, he would finally start getting some answers. “Grave concern?” he echoed.

“Indeed,” Magil replied. “Inspector, how much do you know about the pub business?”

Witherspoon blinked. He knew as much as any policeman about the licensing laws and those sorts of matters. What else was there to know? “Well, I think I’m as well-informed as—”

Magil waved his hand impatiently. “I’m sure you are,” he interrupted, “but there are a few facts about our business that the general public doesn’t understand. Did you know that breweries loan money to people who want to go into the pub business?”

Witherspoon didn’t know that, but he was loath to admit it. “Er—”

“No, of course you don’t. But that’s what we do, you see. We loan money to people so they can go into the pub business, and in return, they have to sell our goods exclusively. We’re quite particular about who we lend our money to, as well. One couldn’t just hand out capital to
any person who came along and wanted to open a public house, could one?”

“No, I suppose one couldn’t,” Witherspoon replied politely.

“Bestal’s insists upon the very highest standards of integrity and character. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” The inspector was dreadfully confused. What did all this have to do with anything? But he schooled himself to be patient.

“It’s quite competitive, the beer business,” Luther Pump interjected. “Beer consumption has fallen dreadfully in the last ten years. Those awful temperance lobbies have seen to that. Thank God the Conservatives are back in power. It’s a wonder the Liberals didn’t drive us all to the poorhouse.”

“I’m sure the inspector isn’t interested in the political aspects of the brewery business, Luther,” Magil said irritably.

As Witherspoon didn’t have a clue what the Liberals or the Conservatives had to do with pubs and beer, he said nothing.

“But as I was saying,” Magil continued, “we loan money to people to finance their pubs and we have very, very strict rules about that.”

“And these rules are?”

Magil waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, most of them don’t really matter, at least they had nothing to do with our visit to Haydon Dapeers. What is important is that Dapeers had contacted us telling us that he had information of grave concern to us.”

Witherspoon sighed silently. His inner voice was silent, his head hurt and the smell of this place was making him ill. “And what would that be, sir?”

Magil leaned forward, his expression as somber as a
vicar conducting a funeral. “I trust you keep what I’m going to tell you completely confidential.”

“Er, I’m not sure I can give you that assurance, sir. This is a murder investigation, you know. Whatever you say to me can be used in evidence at a trial.”

Magil glanced at his colleague.

Pump nodded almost imperceptibly. “We’ve got to tell them,” he said. “It’s far better for the inspector to know the truth now than to risk us having to testify to it in open court.”

“But—” The inspector tried to tell them that even if they told him now, they might still have to testify in court.

But Magil wasn’t listening to him. “You’re right, of course,” he said to his colleague.

He turned to the two policemen and leaned closer. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Haydon Dapeers implied the most awful thing. He said he had evidence that one of our pubs was watering down the beer.”

Wiggins’s feet hurt, his shirt collar was too tight and his stomach still felt queasy. He wished he were home sitting in the cool of the kitchen rather than hanging about on Bonham Road trying to find someone who knew something about the murder.

“You look peaked, boy,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.

Wiggins whirled around and saw a woman with blue eyes and dark brown hair smiling at him. She was dressed in a pale lavender dress and had a rather tatty white feather in her hair. At first glance he thought she must be in her thirties, but upon closer inspection he realized she was young, probably not more than a few years older than himself. “It’s the sun,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks starting to flame as he realized exactly what this woman was.
“I expect I ought to get inside and sit down.”

Her smile turned coy. “I’ve got a room across the way.” She jerked her chin toward a small, run-down-looking house across the road. “If you’ve a mind to, you can rest a bit there.”

Wiggins didn’t know what to do. So he did what he always did and opened his mouth without thinking. “Look, I don’t ’ave any money.…”

She laughed. “I’m not drummin’ up trade, boy. Just offerin’ you a kindness. You’re as white as a sheet and you look like you’re about to faint.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, ashamed of himself and embarrassed to boot. Just because this woman was probably poor and made her living walking the streets didn’t mean she couldn’t be kind to a stranger. “But I thought you was…”

“I don’t work durin’ the daytime,” the woman replied. “Look, there’s a pub over there.”

Wiggins groaned.

“Or,” she continued cheerfully as she watched him clutch his stomach, “there’s a coffeehouse round the corner; we can go there and get us a bite to eat. You look like you could use somethin’ on yer stomach. And I do hate to eat alone.”

Wiggins smiled sheepishly. In between the rolls of nausea, he was hungry. And thanks to an unknown generous benefactor at Upper Edmonton Gardens, he did have extra money. Because this mysterious person frequently gifted everybody in the household with small, useful presents, he’d been able to save virtually all his wages for the last two quarters. Patting his pocket, he said, “That sounds a right good idea. But please, I’d like to buy you something to eat. You’ve been so kind.”