Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (26 page)

That was an exaggeration, but Witherspoon was far too polite to contradict a lady. “My apologies, madam. I didn’t mean to keep any of you waiting. Unfortunately, I was unavoidably detained at the Yard.”

“What’s this all about?” Tom Dapeers asked. “We’ve got a business to run, you know. Can’t hang about here all night.”

“And I’ve got a missionary society meeting,” Moira Dapeers
added. “I don’t like to be late. It upsets the reverend dreadfully.”

“Anyone want a beer?” Molly interrupted. When no one answered her, she shrugged and helped herself.

Michael Taggert said nothing.

Witherspoon walked into the center of the room. Barnes moved to the far side of the bar and whipped out his notebook.

“First of all, I’d like to thank all of you for coming,” he began.

“We didn’t have much choice,” Molly muttered loudly enough for the whole room to hear.

The inspector ignored her. “I know you’ve all been dreadfully inconvenienced, but I assure you, your presence tonight is most important. Most important, indeed.”

“Wiggins,” Hatchet whispered urgently, “will you kindly get your elbow out of my ribs? It’s rather painful.”

“Sorry,” Wiggins hissed. “But it’s hard to see through all these ruddy lines on the glass.”

“They’re called etchings,” Hatchet corrected. “And we really must take care not to be seen. Besides, you’re supposed to be keeping a lookout. It wouldn’t do for a police constable to spot us and ask what we’re doing.”

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’ but lookin’ in the window of a public ’ouse,” Wiggins replied. He wondered why he always got stuck doing the borin’ bits like keepin’ watch.

“A closed public house,” Hatchet pointed out. “And we did promise Mrs. Jeffries we’d make sure the inspector didn’t see us.” As Hatchet and Wiggins had had to argue for a good hour even to get the others to agree that their coming along to the Gilded Lily to keep an eye on things might be a good idea, Hatchet was determined not to get caught in any embarrassing situations. He wouldn’t have
liked to explain to Inspector Witherspoon what he and Wiggins were doing out here.

“Oh, all right,” Wiggins muttered reluctantly. “I’ll keep watch.” He dragged his gaze away from the window and dutifully glanced up and down the street. “But I don’t see why. No one’s goin’ to be botherin’ us; we’re just standin’ ’ere. There’s no one about. Least not any police that I can see.”

Hatchet was worried about the police they couldn’t see. But he didn’t want to excite the lad.

“Any sign of Smythe in there?” Wiggins poked Hatchet in the ribs.

“Ouch. Will you kindly cease and desist prodding at my person whenever you speak to me?” he snapped softly. “I’m going to be covered in bruises by the time I get home.”

“Sorry. But I wanted to get yer attention,” Wiggins apologized. “Do ya see him?”

“Who?”

“Smythe. Is he in there?”

“No, I don’t see him.” Hatchet craned his neck over the etching of a lily. “At least if he is, he’s well out of sight.”

“I don’t think he’s in there,” Wiggins said. He squinted as he saw a figure turn the corner and head down Minyard Street in the direction of the pub. “We’da seen the carriage if he was. What’s goin’ on in there now?”

“Very little,” Hatchet replied. “The inspector is standing in the center of the room, talking. The others are just sitting there, watching him.”

“What’s he sayin’?” Wiggins asked eagerly, taking his eyes off the approaching figure for just a moment and glancing toward the window. “Anythin’ excitin’?”

“I can’t hear what he’s saying with you chattering in my ear, can I?” Hatchet cocked his ear toward the glass. He
could hear the inspector’s voice, but he couldn’t quite make out the words.

Wiggins tugged on Hatchet’s sleeve again, taking care not to poke his person anywhere. “Uh, Hatchet, I think we’d best get a move on.”

“Shh.” Hatchet silenced him. “I think I can hear what he’s saying.”

Wiggins saw that the figure was definitely a man, a man wearing a police helmet. “Uh, Hatchet.” He poked him directly in the ribs again. “Get away from that window.”

“Will you please be quiet?” the butler snapped. “I’m trying to hear what the inspector’s saying…”

“Hatchet,” Wiggins hissed frantically, “listen to me. There’s a copper coming and he’s headed right this way.”

“As you are all aware, Mr. Haydon Dapeers was recently murdered in this very pub,” Witherspoon said. “He walked through that hallway”—he pointed to the hall beyond the bar—“into the taproom at the end and never came back.”

“Yes, Inspector,” Moira Dapeers said dryly, “we do know that. But what’s that got to do with us being here tonight?”

Witherspoon smiled politely. He could feel beads of sweat running down his neck. He hoped they weren’t too noticeable. “Actually, madam, it has quite a bite to do with your all being asked to come here tonight. This investigation has been most difficult, most difficult, indeed. The back door of the pub was probably locked that night and there was a street brawl going on just outside on the street. Most of you claim you were outside watching that brawl when Mr. Dapeers was killed. So what I thought I’d have you do—” He broke off as the front door opened and Constable Griffith rushed inside.

“Sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Griffith said respectfully. “But we’ve got a bit of a situation.”

Annoyed, the inspector frowned. “I’m rather busy here, Constable,” he complained. “Can’t it wait?”

Griffith shook his head. “No, sir, it can’t. We’ve had a bit of a break on that stabbin’ victim we pulled out of the Thames yesterday.”

“Someone’s confessed?” Witherspoon asked eagerly.

“No, sir.” Griffith grinned. “But we’ve got us a witness. An eyewitness who saw the whole thing.”

“For goodness’ sakes, why didn’t he come forward before this?” Witherspoon cried impatiently. “That poor woman’s been dead for several days.”

Griffith shrugged. “He’s a petty crook, sir. Doesn’t much like the police. He sent us a note, sir. Seems he’s had dealings with you before and you’re the only one he trusts.”

Witherspoon sighed dramatically. “I suppose you want me to go along to the Yard now and take this fellow’s statement.”

“No, sir,” Griffith said quickly. “He won’t set foot in a police station. He wants to meet you at the spot where we found the body. He claims that’s where the killin’ took place. I reckon it’s worth our while, sir. He says he saw the whole thing.”

“Do you have a name for this person, Constable?”

“No, sir. But he knows you, sir. Wants you to be there at ten o’clock.”

“Ten o’clock?” Witherspoon pulled out his watch and checked the time. “Gracious, I can’t possibly do that. It’s going to take at least that long to finish here and then I wanted to stop and have a bite to eat. I haven’t had anything all day and I’m rather hungry.”

“We won’t have time to finish here, sir,” Barnes interjected. “I reckon we’d best just call it a night, sir. I’m not sure this was goin’ to work anyway.”

“Inspector Witherspoon.” Joanne Dapeers rose to her feet. “My husband and I have a business to run. Obviously, you’re going to be busy this evening. I’ve no idea why you dragged us down here and I’ve no idea what you hoped to accomplish, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave.”

“I would too,” Moira Dapeers echoed. “Coming here has been most inconvenient.”

“In that case, madam,” Witherspoon said, “you can leave. As a matter of fact, you can all go. I’m so sorry to have troubled you. I’ll contact everyone tomorrow.”

“Now, just a minute,” Michael Taggert yelled. “You didn’t even tell us what you wanted. Why you had us come here.”

“Sorry, Mr. Taggert, I’ll explain everything tomorrow.” He nodded at Barnes and started for the front door. “Come along, Barnes. If we hurry, we can have a bite to eat before we meet this witness.”

“I knew we should have gone with them,” Luty Belle cried. “It’s almost ten o’clock and they ain’t back yet.”

“Now, Luty, calm yourself,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “I’m sure Hatchet and Wiggins are just fine.”

Betsy snorted. “Of course they’re fine, they’re out and about and in the thick of it. We’re stuck here in this ruddy house.” As she’d wanted to go with the men, she was most put out to be sitting in the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens watching the clock.

“I hate waiting,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Makes me all nervous like. I wonder what’s happening tonight? Do you think the inspector has caught the killer?”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think the inspector had caught anything except a bad case of ruining his career, but she didn’t want to infect the others with her dismal view of the situation. She sighed inwardly. By tomorrow, it
would all be over. The inspector’s career would be in shreds and years of boredom loomed in front of her. Witherspoon would be back in the records room and the household would be doing nothing but polishing, cleaning and cooking. There wouldn’t be any more interesting murders to solve, no more dashing about London searching for clues and following suspects. No more adventures.

“Buck up, Hepzibah,” Luty ordered. “It ain’t over yet. The inspector might know exactly what he’s doin’. He might surprise us all and actually catch this killer.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled glumly but said nothing. There was no use in trying to keep everyone’s spirits up, she wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping her own up.

“Without our help?” Betsy laughed harshly. “Not likely. He don’t know half of what we know about this case. He doesn’t know about McNally, he doesn’t know about Moira Dapeers carryin’ on with that reverend—”

“And I don’t think he knows about Dapeers havin’ that disease, either,” Mrs. Goodge put in.

“Maybe he knows something we don’t know,” Luty argued. “Maybe we ain’t as smart as we think we are.”

“Oh Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We’re not saying the inspector isn’t intelligent. He is a perfectly capable policeman. We’re only saying there’s too much about this murder that he doesn’t know.”

“And I’m sayin’ we don’t know what he knows!” Luty cried passionately. “Has it occurred to any of you that the inspector may have important clues that we don’t? Just because we think we know more than he does don’t make it true. He ain’t been sittin’ around here twiddlin’ his thumbs for the past few days. He’s been out investigatin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at her for a long moment and then smiled slowly. “You know, Luty, I stand corrected. You’re absolutely right. We don’t know what he knows. Perhaps
Inspector Witherspoon will solve this murder.”

“Well,” Betsy said, “much as I’d hate to think he could do it without our help, at least if he does catch the killer, it’ll keep him out of the records room.”

“And it’ll keep us doin’ our own detecting,” Mrs. Goodge added brightly.