Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (6 page)

Dr. Bosworth’s dark brown eyes regarded Mrs. Jeffries steadily as they sat across from one another at Lyons Tea Shop in Oxford Circus. “Actually, it was a fairly simple killing,” he said. “There’s nothing in the least mysterious about the death itself. The poor chap was stabbed from the back. The knife went straight into the heart. He died almost instantly.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She’d sent Dr. Bosworth a note early this morning asking him to meet her here. “There was no sign of a struggle or anything like that?”

“No,” Bosworth replied slowly. “Not really. He had been hit on the head before he was stabbed, but the postmortem revealed that the blow didn’t do any real damage. It only stunned him for a moment or two. I don’t think he knew what was happening until it was too late. Whoever killed him crept up from behind, banged him on the head and shoved the knife straight in. The blade pierced the heart; death would have been very swift.”

“Were you able to determine what the killer used to hit him with?”

“No,” Bosworth admitted honestly. “The wound only barely broke the skin; there wasn’t any particular shape to it and no indentation at all on the skull. But I saw nothing lying about the room where the body was found that had blood on it. I know, because I had a good look round when the inspector and the constable stepped out of the room.”

“I see.” She fingered the white linen serviette in her lap. So far, she hadn’t learned anything from the good doctor that she hadn’t already heard from the inspector. Drat. “Was there anything special about the knife?” she asked.

“Not that I could see.” Bosworth picked up his tea and took a huge gulp. “It appeared to be a standard kitchen
knife; the blade was a good ten inches long. It was very sharp.”

“I wonder if the murderer brought it with him?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. She made a mental note to try to find out. If the knife was already on the premises, then it could mean that the killer simply acted on the spur of the moment. But if the knife wasn’t already in the pub, that meant the killer brought it with him, presumably with the intention of using it.

“Difficult to say.” Bosworth yawned. “Oh sorry, but I’ve been up most of the night doing the postmortem on this one. Actually, as I said, it appears to be a very simple killing. But I will say that whoever murdered Dapeers was very lucky.”

“Lucky? How?”

“With his aim. The knife could just as easily have gone into the victim’s back and not hit the heart, in which case, the man might not have died so quickly.”

She wondered if that was important. “But surely, stabbing someone in the back guarantees certain death.”

“Not necessarily,” Bosworth said enthusiastically. “When I was in America, I once treated a miner who’d been in a brawl on the Barbary Coast. Fellow had walked about half the night with a knife sticking out of him, didn’t bother to come see me till the next morning. He actually survived. The human body is a lot stronger than most people realize.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew he wasn’t exaggerating. Dr. Bosworth had worked and studied in the United States; specifically, in San Francisco. The knowledge he’d garnered in that turbulent city gave him a depth of experience with violent death that was unsurpassed by any police surgeon in London. As Bosworth had once told her, “There’s no shortage of murder and corpses in America.”

“Are you saying that the killer might have known precisely where to stab the victim?” she asked eagerly. Finally, she was getting to something important.

He shrugged. “It’s certainly possible. There’s quite a number of stabbings here in our own fair city that don’t result in death. It could well be that the killer knows something about human anatomy. That knife entered the victim’s back directly behind the heart. It could have been sheer luck on the killer’s part, or he or she could have known exactly what they were doing.”

“Gracious, if that were true,” she replied, “then the killer would probably be someone who has studied medicine.”

Bosworth laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far—your killer could just as easily be a butcher or was just plain lucky. But it’s something to think about. The knife virtually pierced the heart at the very center. Good aim, I’d say.”

Disappointed, Mrs. Jeffries sighed. For once, they had Dr. Bosworth actually doing the postmortem instead of that idiot Dr. Potter, and the cause of death was so clear-cut and simple that it didn’t make any difference. For all the good it did them, they might as well have had old Potter bumbling about with the body. “Is there anything else you think might be important?”

Bosworth hesitated and a slow flush crept up his pale cheeks. “Well,” he said slowly, “there is something else, but it’s most indelicate of me to mention it to a lady.”

As his face was now as red as his hair, Mrs. Jeffries knew she was onto something. Eagerly, she leaned forward. “Now don’t be silly, Doctor. There isn’t much in this world that shocks me. Please, tell me.”

He looked about him to ensure the patrons at the nearby tables weren’t likely to overhear. “I don’t know if this has anything to do with Dapeers’s murder, but I did find something
else when I was examining the body.”

“What was it?”

Bosworth dropped his gaze and stared at his half-full teacup. “When I got inside the fellow, there were certain peculiarities—deterioration of tissue and that sort of thing.”

“You mean he was diseased.”

“Not just diseased.” Bosworth finally looked up. “He was dying.”

“Dying? Of what?”

Bosworth blushed again. “It’s not very nice.”

“No disease that I’ve ever heard of is ‘nice,’” she said, trying hard to keep her impatience in check. “What was it? More importantly, do you think Dapeers knew he was dying?”

“He knew he had it all right,” Bosworth said bluntly. “The disease was advanced enough that he must have known it.”

“For goodness’ sakes, what was his illness? Tuberculosis?” A pub owner wouldn’t want people to know if he had TB, she thought.

“No, that isn’t it.” Bosworth took another quick glance around the room and then leaned toward Mrs. Jeffries. “Haydon Dapeers had syphilis.”

“I’m Sarah Hewett,” the lovely young woman announced as she came into the drawing room. “Moira said you wanted to speak to me.”

Sarah Hewett hadn’t bothered to wear black. Her dress was pale lavender broadcloth, rather worn from one washing too many.

“Yes, I did.” The inspector introduced Constable Barnes. “I’m so sorry to intrude, but we must ask you some questions.”

“I understand.” Sarah sat down in the chair her sister-in-law had just vacated. “I don’t think I can be of much help, though. I didn’t see anything.”

Witherspoon smiled kindly at her. “How long have you lived here?” He thought getting a bit of background information might be helpful.

“Just a few months,” Sarah replied. She clamped her hands together in her lap. “I was married to Moira’s brother, Charles. He died last year. Haydon and Moira insisted my daughter and I come and live with them.”

“How old is your daughter?” Witherspoon didn’t think that had anything to do with the murder, but getting this young woman to relax might help her to talk more freely.

Sarah smiled widely. “She’s two and a half.”

“I understand you were at the Gilded Lily Pub last night when the murder occurred.”

She nodded. “As were a number of other people. But as I told you, I didn’t see anything. We were all watching the brawl on the street when Haydon went into the taproom. No one even noticed he was missing until Joanne tried to find him to say good night.”

“I see.” Witherspoon thought hard about what to ask next. “Er, were you standing with Mrs. Dapeers while you were watching the altercation?”

She hesitated briefly. “Well, no. Actually, as soon as I saw all that blood, I went back to the bar to get another glass of ale. It was quite warm, you see. I was thirsty.”

“And did the barman serve you?”

“No, he’d come out from behind the bar and gone to stand at the front door.” She smiled slightly. “I guess he was curious as to what was going on outside too.”

“Did you see anyone going down the hall or into the taproom while you were at the bar?” Witherspoon asked.

“I wasn’t paying any attention.” She shrugged. “Besides,
I didn’t go to the bar right away. I went to the front door with everyone else when we heard the shouting start, but I got pushed outside in the crush. As soon as I saw that drayman smash the cabbie’s nose and all that blood started running down his face, I couldn’t stand it, so I went back inside. But I had to push my way in; it took quite a few minutes.”

“Did anyone else come inside with you?” he pressed.

“A couple of other people drifted in, but I don’t remember who they were. As I told you, I wasn’t paying any attention. It was hot and I was tired. Frankly, Inspector, I wanted nothing more than to find something to drink and go home. I wasn’t there to have a good time, I was there because Haydon insisted I come.”

“Did you talk to anyone during this time?”

“During what time?” she asked irritably.

“While you were at the bar,” he explained patiently. “Did you speak to anyone?”

“No.”

“What about Mr. Taggert?”

“He was still outside,” she said quickly. “I remember that.”

“What makes you so certain?” Witherspoon asked curiously.

She said nothing for a moment and the inspector had the distinct impression she was trying to think of what to say. Finally, she said, “I remember because I had to brush past him as I came back inside. He stepped aside to let me pass.”

“I see. Mrs. Hewett, were you present when Mr. Taggert had words with your brother-in-law?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Inspector. What kind of ‘words’?”

“Specifically, did you hear Mr. Taggert threaten Mr. Dapeers
because Mr. Dapeers hadn’t paid him for his work?”

“He didn’t threaten Haydon,” she cried. “At least not with murder.”

“So you were present,” Witherspoon pressed.

Sarah Hewett looked down at her lap. “All right, I’ll admit I was there. But all Michael said was that if Haydon didn’t pay him, he’d have him in court. He didn’t threaten him with violence.”

“Did Mr. Dapeers threaten Mr. Taggert with violence?” Barnes interjected.

“No, he just asked Michael to leave. But Moira came over just then and she likes Michael. Haydon couldn’t keep making a fuss in front of her, so Michael stayed.”

“And were the two of you together until the fight broke out on the street?” the inspector asked. He found it significant that she referred to him as “Michael” and not “Mr. Taggert.”

“Yes,” Sarah replied firmly. “That’s why I know he couldn’t have had anything to do with Haydon’s murder. He was with me the whole time until I came back into the pub. And he didn’t come in after me, either. I would have noticed him.”

Witherspoon studied Sarah Hewett carefully. Her chin was lifted defiantly, her gaze steady and direct. Though he wasn’t terribly experienced at matters of the heart, recent events in his own personal life had made him more sensitive to certain situations. This young woman was bound and determined not to say a word to incriminate Michael Taggert. He decided to try a different tactic. “Did your brother-in-law have enemies?”

Surprised by the question, she drew back slightly. “Enemies?” she repeated.

“Yes, people who didn’t much like him,” the inspector explained.

“I know what the word means, Inspector,” Sarah replied. “I was merely surprised at your bluntness. But yes, Haydon did have enemies.”

“Who? Can you give us any names?”

“That would take too long, Inspector.” She smiled slightly. “But I think I can safely say that just about everyone who knew Haydon disliked him intensely. Apparently, someone disliked him enough to kill him.”

“You can get a decent pint at one of Haydon Dapeers’s pubs,” said Dick, a street lad who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He nodded knowingly. “Not like the swill they serve at the Black Horse. Stuff’s not fit to drink, tastes like cat’s piss.”

Wiggins nodded in agreement, as though he knew what the boy was talking about, which he didn’t. He didn’t think Dick knew all that much about it, either. But at least he’d found someone to talk to, someone who’d been hanging about the streets when the murder took place and seemed to know the victim. “So Haydon Dapeers was a nice gent, then?”