Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings (11 page)

“They had come out of the office by then and were in the hallway just below. That’s why I was able to hear them so clearly.”

“How long was the man here?”

She tapped her finger against her chin. “Not long. Certainly not more than ten or fifteen minutes. They were in the office talking quietly for a good part of that time and then she started screaming at him. By the sound of it, he got out of here as fast as possible.” She laughed. “I think he was making a run for it, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you happen to hear any sort of a response from the man? Did he say anything when Miss Moran raised her voice?”

“Not too much,” she replied. “But when he reached the front door, he said something like—” She broke off with a frown. “I want to make sure I repeat what he said correctly.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” Witherspoon gave her another encouraging smile.

“He said, ‘You’ve no right to ask such a thing of me. The years haven’t been kind to me, either, and now that I’ve a real chance at happiness, I’m not going to risk it for someone I don’t even know.’ Then he opened the front door and left. He must have not closed it properly, because I heard her run down the hallway, and a second later, she slammed the door shut.” Her eyes grew troubled and she looked away. “I think she was crying by then. No, I tell a lie. I know she was. I could hear her sobbing.” She sighed. “I felt really awful for her, but I knew she wouldn’t appreciate any words of comfort. She wasn’t one to show her feelings. That’s what was so surprising about the whole incident. Agatha Moran has been my landlady for years, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard her raise her voice. It was frightening, Inspector, very frightening.”

Witherspoon reached over and patted her hand. “I’m sure it was, Miss Bannister. Something had upset Miss Moran dreadfully, and I suspect that whatever trouble the poor woman had found had much to do with her murder. But you must take comfort in the fact that we’ll do our very best to find the person who took her life. Are you certain you didn’t catch a glimpse of the man? It would be useful if we had some sort of description of him.” He knew that Barnes would be able to get a description from Ellen Crowe, but it never hurt to have more than one.

She shook her head. “I tried to move farther down the stairs to get a peek at him, but I wasn’t fast enough to see his face. All I saw was a tall, dark blur as he left. These eyes of mine are old. I’m sorry, Inspector. I wish I could help you.”

“That’s quite alright, ma’am,” he said quickly. “Your statement is very useful, and I’m sure it’ll help us in our inquiries.”

“Good. I liked Agatha Moran. She was decent to me and to everyone else in this house.”

 

Smythe put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins together as he stepped out of the small shed used by the hansom cab drivers for having a quick cup of tea and taking a break. He’d been all over North London, and so far he’d not found out a blooming thing. He’d questioned all the drivers, but none of them had picked up a woman matching Agatha Moran’s description. But as there was also an omnibus stop two streets over from her house, it was likely she might have used the omnibus and not a cab.

He pulled his coat tighter against the chill wind and started across the road. As he dodged past a cooper’s van, he spotted a pub and decided to try his luck. There was always gossip to be had in a pub.

He pushed through the door of the Angels Arms Pub, paused just inside, and surveyed the area. It was a good, working-class establishment: plain whitewashed walls, wood floors scratched and scarred with age, and wooden benches along the walls. A small fire burned in the fireplace on the far side of the room, and people crowded up against the bar as all the tables and benches were full. He worked his way through the crowd to the bar and wedged himself between a lad in a porkpie hat and an elderly woman.

The pub was busy, so it took a few minutes to get the barman’s attention, but he was in no hurry. He leaned slightly to his left trying to hear what the young man next to him was saying to his companion, a young woman wearing an overcoat and a maid’s cap.

Their voices were so low, he couldn’t hear a word.

He leaned to his right, trying to hear what a white-haired old dear on that side was talking about, and as Luty would say, he hit pay dirt.

“Eddie Butcher claims that she was being followed. He was outside cleaning the Morrisons’ gutters yesterday afternoon when she came out her front door. It had stopped raining for a bit, and Eddie was trying to get the job done so he could be paid. Anyways, he said there was a man that ducked out of the stairwell at the Hogart place, that’s the empty building just next to hers, and he trailed after her,” the woman said to her companion, a younger dark- haired woman with a basket containing a few wilting flowers on the counter in front of her.

“Don’t be daft,” basket lady scoffed. “Half the roughs in Barnsbury have been dossing in that stairwell. Besides, you can’t believe a word he says. Eddie lies. He makes up tales as easy as water chucks down a drainpipe. Who would possibly want to follow Agatha Moran? The woman was an old stick if there ever was one. My Daisy goes in and cleans at the hotel every month or so when they do the heavy work, and she says the woman is so proper she wouldn’t raise her voice if the ruddy room was on fire. She got murdered because she just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. These days, crime is getting terrible.”

“What’ll you have, sir?” The barman’s voice pulled his attention away from the women.

“A pint of bitter,” he said quickly.

“I’d not be so sure of that,” the other woman shot back. “She was murdered in Bayswater, and that area has more constables than a dog has fleas. Posh areas always get better patrollin’ than the rest of us. Besides, the Moran woman might be a proper old stick now, but have you ever wondered where she got the money for that hotel?”

“She saved it up from her wages,” basket lady snapped impatiently. “She used to be a governess—”

“Rubbish. No governess makes enough money to buy a house that size and turn it into a moneymakin’ business,” the other woman retorted. “You didn’t live here when Agatha Moran come along, but I did. She bought that property freehold and then spent thousands of pounds makin’ the place habitable. Believe me, there was plenty of gossip about her then. The place is huge and it’s got a big garden in the back. A place like that doesn’t come cheap.”

“Maybe she inherited money from her family.” Basket lady picked up her glass and drained it.

“Agatha Moran didn’t have any family.” The elderly woman smiled maliciously. “I told you, my friend cleans for her neighbor every now and again. She said she heard Miss Moran herself say that the reason she opened the hotel was so women like her, women with no family to fall back on, could have a decent place to live.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t have family at one time,” basket lady insisted as she slapped her empty glass onto the counter. “And I liked her. She was always very pleasant when she came into the shop. She never got impatient when I was servin’ other customers and always treated me with courtesy. I’m sorry she’s dead.”

“Well I’m sorry she’s dead, too.” The white-haired woman sniffed disapprovingly. “But I think there was someone followin’ her that day. You’re not the only one who knows someone. My friend Mary Thompson works in the house next door and she told me that there’s been two men showin’ up at the hotel in the last week. Both of them were nicely dressed—”

Basket lady interrupted. “They were probably bankers or lawyers. Agatha Moran was a businesswoman.”

“And a proper businesswoman would have gone to the bank or a solicitor’s office,” the other woman argued. She suddenly stopped speaking and stared straight at Smythe. “What are you lookin’ at?”

Smythe started in surprise. Blast a Spaniard, he really had forgotten how to handle himself when he was on the hunt. He shouldn’t have been caught openly eavesdropping. But he recovered quickly. “Forgive me ma’am”—he doffed his cap politely—“but I wasn’t meanin’ to listen to your conversation, it’s just that when I ’eard you speakin’, I realized you were talkin’ about Miss Agatha Moran’s murder.”

“So what?” She stared at him suspiciously. “That’s no reason for you to be listenin’ to someone else’s private conversation. Are you a policeman? You don’t look like a policeman.”

“I’m not a policeman, ma’am.” He smiled apologetically. “But I do ’ave a special interest in that particular case. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t mean to be rude by eavesdroppin’ on a private conversation, but I’ve not had much luck findin’ out what I need to know, and if I don’t go back with somethin’ useful, my guv’ll ’ave my guts for garters. Please excuse my bad manners and let me make it up to you by buyin’ the both of you a drink.” He waved the barman over. “What’ll you ’ave?” he asked

He was hoping they’d be so distracted by the prospect of a free drink they wouldn’t think to ask what his “special interest” might be.

Basket lady grinned broadly and held up her empty glass to the barman. “Another of these, Alf.” She turned to Smythe. “Ta, that’s right gentlemanly of you, sir.”

“I’ll have the same,” the elderly lady said quickly before turning her attention to Smythe. “I’ve never seen you ’round here.”

“I don’t live in the neighborhood,” he replied honestly. “I’m here on business.”

“And your business concerns that poor woman who was stabbed to death?” She watched him as she spoke.

“Let’s just say I’ve been hired by an interested party to find out a bit of information about the late Miss Agatha Moran.”

“What kind of information?” she asked. She nodded her thanks as the publican put their drinks on the counter.

Smythe handed him a ten-shilling piece. “Keep the change.” He waited till the barman turned to serve other customers and then answered her question. “All I’m wantin’ is just a bit of information about Miss Moran.”

“Are you one of them private inquiry agents?” she asked.

“Don’t be daft, Stella,” basket lady scoffed. “Can’t you see how he’s dressed? He’s not a private inquiry agent. They always wear them checkered suits with the funny caps.”

Smythe had no idea what she was talking about, but he forced himself to laugh. “You’re a sharp one, ma’am. I’m not one of them; I’m just hired to do a bit of checkin’, that’s all.”

“Who hired you?” the elderly lady asked as she took a drink.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” He smiled to take the sting out of the words. “That’s confidential.”

“You must be workin’ for a newspaper, then,” she guessed. “But I’ve never ’eard of them payin’ anyone to find things out. Usually they just print what they like and not give a toss if they get it wrong.”

Smythe had no idea whether newspapers did or didn’t pay informants, so he just continued smiling at her. “As I said, ma’am, my employer is confidential. But I would appreciate knowin’ where I could meet this Eddie Butcher. I’d like to have a chat with him.”

Both women stared at him. Basket lady spoke first. “Well now, I’m not sure that Eddie would appreciate me tellin’ anyone where he lives. Likes his privacy, he does.”

Smythe could take a hint. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a half crown piece and waved it under her nose. “Would this buy me his address?” he asked softly.

“It’ll buy it from me.” The older woman shoved herself in front of basket lady and stuck out her hand.

“Here, that’s mine.” Basket lady elbowed her friend aside and snatched the coin out of Smythe’s hand. “Eddie dosses at number three Stone Lane. That’s in Islington. He’s got a bed there.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Smythe grinned widely. “Your ’elp is much appreciated.”

“Hey, what about me?” the elderly woman complained. “I’m the one that told you about ’im.”

Smythe reached back in his pocket and drew out another coin. Life had been good to him—he could afford to be a bit generous to an old woman. “Of course you did, ma’am,” he said as he handed her the coin. “And I appreciate your help.” He glanced at the other woman. “I’d also be obliged if both of you would keep this little visit of mine to yourselves.”

 

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Jeffries put the teapot down next to a plate of brown bread and stared at Betsy. “We didn’t expect you to come to the afternoon meeting. You’re supposed to be visiting with your sister.”

Betsy untied the ribbons of her hat, pulled it off, and hung it on a peg. “We visited for most of the morning, then I realized she was getting tired.” She began to unbutton her cloak. “So I decided to come home. I’ll see her early tomorrow morning—I’m going there for breakfast with her and Leo. Am I the first one back?”

“Not quite. Wiggins is here. He’s gone to wash his hands, Mrs. Goodge is getting another tin of tea out of the larder, and I think I just heard Luty and Hatchet’s rig go around the corner,” she explained as she unobtrusively took a good look at the maid. Betsy’s cheeks were overly bright and her smile a bit forced. But perhaps that was to be expected: A wedding, visiting relatives one hadn’t seen for years, and a murder were enough to put a strain on anyone’s nerves.

“I’ll give my hands a quick wash then as well.” Betsy crossed to the sink on the far side of the room. She was glad Smythe wasn’t home yet. He’d know in a heartbeat that she was a bit upset. Her time with Norah had been good, but still, after the first few hours, it had suddenly gotten just a little bit awkward between them.

Betsy pumped the handle and shoved her hands under the stream, wincing as it came out cold. She and Norah had been nattering away, asking each other questions, catching up on all the details of their respective lives when they’d suddenly seemed to run out of things to talk about. She shook the water off her hands and reached for the tea towel. But surely that was normal? They’d not seen each other in years. Surely it was natural to be just a little uncomfortable after the first round of questions were all answered. She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of footsteps coming from every direction. Mrs. Goodge shuffled out of the pantry, Wiggins thudded down the back stairs, and it sounded as if half a dozen people were coming along the hallway from the back door.