Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen (9 page)

“Good day to you,” Blimpey said as Smythe sat down on the stool opposite him. “I was expecting you.”

“So you've 'eard,” Smythe commented. It wasn't a question. Blimpey made his living by knowing everything that went on in London and, if truth be told, there were times when he thought the fellow knew everything that went on in the whole of England.

Blimpey Groggins had once been a thief. He'd been an accomplished second-story man but a nasty fall from a bedroom window accompanied by a painful bite from an enraged mastiff had convinced him to find another source of employment. Being a smart fellow, he'd realized the only skill he had that didn't involve substantial risk to life and limb was his exceptional memory. So he'd put it to good use and become a buyer and seller of information. Blimpey had sources working for him at the newspapers, police stations, insurance firms, shipping companies, the Old Bailey, the Inns of Court, and every major hospital. He also had a network of low-level men who kept him informed about the activities of London's less-than-honest citizens. But Blimpey had standards and would not deal in information that harmed women or children.

“Don't be insultin', of course I 'eard,” Blimpey said. He tapped the cup of coffee in front of him. “You want something? Tea, coffee, or a pint?”

“Nothin', thanks.”

“Right then, we'll get down to business. Like I said, I was expectin' you'd be by this morning and I've already got a few bits and pieces.”

“That's why I always give ya my business.” Smythe did much of his investigating through Blimpey. “Even though ya charge an arm and a leg.”

“You can afford me.”

Smythe chuckled. “True.” Years earlier, he'd been a coachman for the inspector's late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. He'd saved his wages and gone to Australia, where he'd made a fortune. When he'd come back to England, he'd stopped in to pay his respects to his former employer and found her dying and surrounded by thieving servants. A very young Wiggins had valiantly been trying to nurse the ailing woman. Smythe had sent for a doctor, tossed all the servants but Wiggins out on their ear, and prayed for a miracle. But Euphemia Witherspoon was too far gone to save and her last request of him was that he stay on at Upper Edmonton Gardens and make sure her nephew, Inspector Witherspoon, was settled at the house with a staff he could trust. But by the time the household was established with people Smythe felt were honest and reliable, they'd started solving murders and he'd fallen in love with Betsy. He'd never told the others about his wealth but, as the years passed, he found himself in a very awkward position. Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out on her own and he'd told Betsy before they'd married, but he'd never told Wiggins or Mrs. Goodge. Now he worried that if they found out, they'd feel he'd deliberately deceived them, and that wasn't the case at all. But he'd worry about that problem some other time. Right now he had to do his part to get this murder solved. “What 'ave you got for me?”

“First of all, your victim, Orlando Edison, he's made a lot of money the past few years in the City.” Blimpey took a sip of his coffee. “No one seems to know where he comes from but he's done so well for himself and his clients, I don't think the money men much care.”

“Clients?” Smythe repeated.

“Well, he styles himself a stockbroker, but my sources tell me he's more of a promoter, leastways he was until the last couple of years. Then he started doin' serious investin'. He even got the Merry Gentlemen to sit on the board of his last venture, not that it's doin' them any good, considering the mine is now in bankruptcy court. But I don't want to mention too much about his business—I'm not all that certain my source knew what he was goin' on about,” Blimpey admitted. “Give me a couple of days and I'll have reliable information. Now, you got any other names for me?”

“Yancy Kimball,” Smythe said. “He's Edison's cousin and the only known family of the dear departed.” He gave him the details Mrs. Jeffries had learned from the inspector.

Blimpey nodded. “Right, anyone else?”

“Them ‘Merry Gentlemen' might 'ave a part in it. Two of 'em might 'ave been arguin' with the dead man in the days before the murder.”

“Ezra Amberly's been in a sickbed for months now, so if he was involved, he'd have had to hire it done,” Blimpey told him promptly, “and the Merry Gentlemen aren't the only ones with a motive for sending Mr. Edison to meet his Maker. I've got another source that's sayin' Edison was a bit of a ladies' man.”

“You're thinkin' it was a woman that coshed him over the head.” Smythe looked doubtful. “That'd take a bit of strength.”

“There's plenty of strong women out there.” Blimpey grinned. “But I was thinkin' it would be more like the lady's husband. My source also said Edison liked to fool about with married women.”

* * *

Constable Griffiths rapped on the drawing room door and then stepped inside. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, Constable,” Witherspoon said. He was standing by the fireplace. Constable Barnes was sitting on the sofa, rubbing his knee. “I've finished speaking to Mr. Ralston and Constable Barnes told me you'd finished interviewing Mr. Bagshot. What did he have to say?”

Griffiths took his notebook, a twin to the one Barnes carried, out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Mr. Bagshot was upset, sir, but I couldn't tell whether that was because he was just nervous about knowing someone who'd been murdered or whether he was trying to hide something. He answered my questions readily enough, but he kept his replies very short.”

“Yes, I'm afraid that's often the case. Most people aren't used to dealing with the police, especially about homicide. Does Bagshot have an alibi for the time of the murder?” Witherspoon asked.

“Not really, sir. He said he was at the stock exchange until half past four and after that, he took a hansom to Oxford Street to do a bit of shopping. He doesn't recall seeing anyone he knew.”

“It was the same thing with Downing,” Barnes said. “He claims he was on his way home as well but that he got out of his hansom at Marble Arch because he wanted some fresh air so he walked across Hyde Park home.” He grinned at Griffiths. “Strange, isn't it, how much alike their alibis are.”

Witherspoon sighed. “If they are telling the truth, it's not surprising. Both men worked during the day and then went to buy presents.” He glanced at Griffiths. “What did Mr. Bagshot say when you asked him about the quarrel he had with the deceased the day before the murder?”

“At first he tried to make light of it—he said whoever had overheard the supposed argument must have misunderstood the situation—but when I pressed him, he admitted their discussion had gotten heated and that it was about the Granger Mine bankruptcy hearing. He admitted he lost his temper and blamed Edison for the whole mess. But he claims that before he left, he apologized for losing control and that they'd parted on good terms. That's about it, sir.” He shut the notebook and put it back in his pocket. “Shall I carry on with reinterviewing the servants?”

“Please do and when you go downstairs ask Mrs. Clarridge to come up here.”

“Yes, sir.” Griffiths nodded smartly and hurried off.

As soon as he'd gone, Barnes said to Witherspoon, “Charles Downing had a personal reason to dislike Orlando Edison.” He gave Witherspoon a quick report on his interview. “And as I've already said, Downing's alibi is essentially the same as Bagshot's. He was on his way home. If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd like to go and have a word with the vicar at St. John's Church. Constable Sanderson reported that when they were doing the house-to-house looking for witnesses, one of the housemaids said that the carolers who were here last night always finished up at the church.”

“That's certainly good news,” Witherspoon said. “Perhaps we'll get lucky for once and one of them will have seen the murderer.”

“Let's not get our hopes up, sir.” Barnes smiled ruefully as he got to his feet and headed for the door. He reached for the handle but just then it opened and Mrs. Clarridge stepped into the room.

Barnes nodded respectfully and closed the door softly behind him.

“I take it you're ready for me now, sir?” Her eyes were red from weeping and she held a handkerchief to her nose. “Sorry.” She tried a weak smile as she came toward him. “It's just so sad planning his funeral reception.”

“Mrs. Clarridge, please sit down and have a rest. This must be very stressful for you and the rest of the staff,” Witherspoon said sympathetically.

She held up her hand. “No, sir, I'm alright. I must carry on, there's much to be done. Now, sir, what else do you want to know?”

“When you overheard the argument between Mr. Downing and Mr. Edison, was it your impression they were quarreling over business or something else?”

She hesitated and then said, “I thought it must be about business. I very clearly heard Mr. Downing shouting that Mr. Edison better be careful, that people wouldn't take kindly to losing their money. But that one comment is the only thing I heard, sir. I went upstairs to fetch a clean tablecloth from the linen cupboard.”

“I see,” Witherspoon said. “When Mr. Ralston stopped by yesterday afternoon, he wasn't expected, is that correct?”

“That's right. I answered the door and had him wait in the foyer while I announced him. Even though he'd finished work for the day, I knew Mr. Edison was busy. Right after luncheon, he said he had an important letter to write and that he'd need Kitty to post it for him as soon as it was finished.”

“What time did Mr. Ralston arrive?”

“It was half past one,” she replied. “I remember because I'd just noted the time and I was wondering if I ought to pop in and ask Mr. Edison if he was ready for Kitty to post his letter. He'd had an early lunch, you see, and he'd been in the study for almost an hour, which seemed to me plenty of time to write a simple letter. Generally, I'd not have interrupted him, but as we were going out that evening, there were a number of household tasks that needed to be done before we left.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Frankly, when Kitty goes out with the post, she takes her time coming back. But you're not interested in our domestic problems. I went into the study and told Mr. Edison Mr. Ralston had stopped in. He said to send him in.”

“How long was Mr. Ralston here?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “But I don't think it was too long because when I came back fifteen minutes later, he was gone.”

“So he stopped in, spent a few minutes with Mr. Edison, and then left rather quickly,” Witherspoon asked. Her statement was very much the same as what Ralston had already told him, but it never hurt to double-check.

“I'm not sure of the exact time he left, but I can ask Kitty or Mary. They said he suddenly appeared downstairs and asked them to get him a headache powder and a glass of water.”

* * *

Mrs. Goodge grabbed her shears out of the drawer and snipped the string wrapped around her package. She slipped her fingers under the stiff brown paper and pulled it open. She gasped in pleasure as she saw what lay before her. Unable to believe her eyes, she blinked, but when she looked again, she saw she'd not been mistaken. Someone had sent her a copy of the famous American cookbook
Mrs. Lincoln's Boston Cook Book.
She laughed in delight, picked it up, and ran her fingers over the gold gilt lettering on the spine. Opening the cover, she saw a folded piece of notepaper. She put the book down on the table and flipped open the note.

Dear Mrs. Goodge,

I do hope you are well and still living at Upper Edmonton Gardens.

This cookbook came into my possession recently and I thought I'd pass it along to you. You once did me a great service and I've always wanted to say thank you. I'll always remember your kindness to me when I arrived unexpectedly on your doorstep. I'd just been sacked and you took the time and trouble not only to listen but to give me some excellent advice about my future endeavors. Currently, I have two very genteel ladies lodging with me and because all of us prefer simple English fare a foreign cookbook will do me absolutely no good. I hope you'll accept this small gift in the spirit in which it is meant and make good use of it.

Your friend,

Mollie Dubay

Surprised, because she'd not heard from Mollie in two years, Mrs. Goodge sat down and dug deeper into her treasure. Within minutes, she was so deeply engrossed in reading recipes that she forgot about the notes she'd intended to send to three of her old colleagues inviting them to tea, old workmates who might know something about Orlando Edison and who might have wanted him dead. Her only interruption was Mr. Sears when he delivered the laundry but she soon got rid of him, forgetting that he was generally one of her better sources when it came to neighborhood gossip.

Her concentration was broken when Samson butted his head against her shins. Startled, she glanced down at the fat, orange-colored tabby cat. “Oh dear, sweetness, you want your sardines, don't you.” Samson loved his afternoon treat. Yawning, she glanced at the clock. “Good Lord,” she exclaimed. “It's almost four o'clock. The others will be here any minute and I've not even started dinner.” Samson butted her again, but she ignored him, grabbed her book, and tucked it into the top drawer of the pine sideboard.

* * *

“Good day, ma'am. I'm so glad you're home.” Lena, Ruth's maid, opened the door wider. “Mr. Everton's gone out to the wine merchant's, and the minute he left, a lady showed up and said she has to speak to you. She won't leave, ma'am.”

Ruth slipped off her coat as she stepped inside and crossed to the coat tree. “Oh dear, I don't have time for a social call now, Lena. I only came home to change my shoes and then I've got to go.”