Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (23 page)

He stared at her thoughtfully. “Who was it addressed to?”

“A law firm in Sydney. It was in reply to their letter to Mr. Dearman.”

“Do you recall what it was about?”

“Of course I do,” she said proudly. “He thanked them for their quick response to his inquiry and asked if it were possible to obtain the papers from the late Mr. Grimshaw’s estate. He said he’d be willing to incur all expenses related to granting his request. If it was possible, could they please assess a monetary value to the remainder of the estate, the papers left in their possession, and
he’d obtain a letter of credit for any bank they nominated in Sydney.”

Witherspoon had no idea what this might mean for the investigation, but he sensed it might be important. “Do you have any idea who the late Mr. Grimshaw might be?”

She shook her head. “No, sir, I’d never heard the name before.”

“Could it be one of the firm’s customers or a supplier?” he pressed.

“It’s possible, I suppose.” She shrugged. “But I don’t think so. When I mentioned the name to Mr. Anson, he’d never heard of them, either.”

“You told Mr. Anson what happened?”

“I most certainly did,” she replied. “I’d stayed late and done the man a favor, and two days later, he tried to let me go. The moment I walked out of Mr. Dearman’s office, I went straight to Mr. Anson. He wasn’t in his office. He’d gone to the plant.” She smiled triumphantly. “Mr. Dearman wasn’t expecting me to go there, but I did. I told Mr. Anson everything, that Mr. Dearman had bullied me into doing a letter for him and now he was trying to sack me.”

“So Mr. Anson saw to it you kept your position,” Witherspoon said. “When did this incident occur?”

“Three weeks ago,” she replied.

“Do you remember anything else about this incident?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so … wait a moment, I tell a lie. There was something else. It was the address on the envelope. It was to Mr. Dearman, but it wasn’t a London address, it was a village in Essex.”

After leaving the tearoom, Mrs. Jeffries walked in a roundabout fashion toward the river, trying to sort out her feelings. The London streets were crowded with women shopping, street vendors hawking wares, delivery men pushing hand carts stacked high with boxes, and street lads transporting messages. But she was oblivious to it all as she meandered along the roads, deep in thought and paying only enough attention to her surroundings to avoid doing herself or anyone else harm.

Fiona’s revelations had disturbed her greatly, and to make matters worse, now her conscience was starting to bother her. Did she have a duty to tell the inspector about Fiona’s admission that she had access to a gun? Or was it best to let the police find out for themselves? What did she really believe? Was her sister-in-law really innocent? Was she, by withholding information, helping a murderer walk free? Was Fiona or John capable of murder? That was the real question that was gnawing at her.

Don’t be absurd, she chided herself silently. You’ve no idea who committed this murder, and nothing you’ve learned points the finger of guilt at any one particular person; none of the clues have formed a pattern as yet. There is no coherent, logical progression that ties any of the facts together in any way that can identify the killer.

She stopped in front of a church and dragged a long, deep breath into her lungs. This wouldn’t do, it wouldn’t do at all. She wasn’t going to give in to maudlin fits of guilt just because nothing made sense. There’s still plenty of time, she told herself. You’ll sort it out. You always do.

Overhead, the church bells chimed the hour as a hansom pulled up and a vicar, staring at his pocket watch and muttering to himself, leapt out, paid the driver, and raced into the church. She realized if she was going to have time to take care of her next task before their afternoon meeting, she’d better grab this cab. “Take me to Bridge Road, please. It’s near the West India dock.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, she stepped into the Dirty Duck Pub. Blimpey spotted her and waved her over. “Come take a seat,” he invited as she drew close.

“Thank you.” She slipped onto the stool. “Sorry to come so unexpectedly, but I was hoping you’d have some information for me.”

“You mean because yer guv ’as the case now.” Blimpey laughed. “As it ’appens, I do ’ave somethin’ you might find interestin’. I was goin’ to send a lad over with a note askin’ you to drop in, but you’ve saved me the trouble. But first, would you like somethin’ to drink? How about a nice glass of Harvey’s? We also do a very superior gin ’ere, none of that rotgut stuff you find in most waterside pubs, or perhaps you’d rather ’ave a pint. We can even do you a cup of tea if you like. Gemma keeps a kettle on the boil in the back.”

“Nothing for me, thank you. But how did you know that Inspector Witherspoon had the case now? It wasn’t …” She trailed off as she realized how foolish she sounded. “Oh dear, how silly of me. Of course, it’s your business to know such things.”

“It is indeed. I know that Inspector Nivens ’as a broken ankle and a sprained wrist.” His smile vanished and he leaned closer to her. “And a word of warnin’ ’ere. My
sources tell me your guv’s goin’ to have the ’Ome Office on his back if he don’t make an arrest soon.”

“That is generally what happens with the inspector’s cases,” she said. “They are always after him to hurry the investigation.”

“This time it’s different,” he warned. “What they’re really scared about is that Nivens might ’ave already mucked things up so badly, your inspector won’t be able to sort it out. At that point, they’ll pressure him to arrest any Tom, Dick, or Harry that looks half guilty.”

“Inspector Witherspoon would never do such a thing,” she protested. She clenched her hands into fists as a sudden shaft of fear climbed her spine.

Blimpey nodded sympathetically. “Yer worried about your sister-in-law?”

She forced herself to relax. “Of course. We’re not close, we never have been, but she is still in some way family. For my late husband’s sake, I have to try and help her.”

“The evidence against her is startin’ to mount up,” he said softly. “And when you ’ear what I’ve found out, it’s goin’ to look even worse. Are you sure you don’t want that drink?”

“I’ll have a sherry.”

Blimpey got the barmaid’s attention and held up his index finger, then turned and gave Mrs. Jeffries an encouraging smile. “Don’t look so worried. You and yer lot will figure it out.”

“I’m flattered by your faith in us,” she replied. “But I’m still concerned. If what you say is true, they may not give the inspector enough time to find the culprit.”

“Look, yer guv’s rich, so you know he won’t be
knucklin’ under to the toffs at the HO.” He leaned back as their drinks arrived. “Thanks, Gemma.” He waited till they were alone again. “Alright, we might as well get on with it. There’s two items for you, and they may help sort this out. The first, and to my mind the most important, is that yer victim wasn’t pure as driven snow. Ronald Dearman was a blackmailer.”

“Are you certain?”

“Don’t insult me, Mrs. Jeffries.” Blimpey pursed his lips. “Or course I’m sure. My sources know what they’re about. Now, I’m not sayin’ that the reason Dearman was murdered was because he was blackmailin’ someone, but I am sayin’ there’s a bloomin’ good chance yer killer was one of his victims and he or she got fed up with payin’ the bloke.”

“I meant no offense.” She tapped her finger against the stem of her glass. “We’d already suspected he was blackmailing people. It’s good to have it confirmed.”

“Did you suspect he dealt in volume?”

She frowned. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“It does.” He nodded vigorously. “He ’ad lots of victims goin’. From what my sources found out, Dearman sort of stumbled into bein’ a blackmailer because he was always stickin’ ’is nose into other people’s business and he was smart enough not to bleed ’em to death. He never asked for a fortune; he made ’em pay every month. Dearman called it a fee.”

“How many victims does he have?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She wondered how much he’d demanded from Fiona.

“My sources weren’t sure of the exact number he ’ad when he was murdered, but they did find out that he’s been doin’ it for over fifteen years.”

“So he was doing it even before he came to London.”

“That’s what it looks like.” Blimpey took a sip of his beer.

“Do you know who else he might have been blackmailing? Did your sources have any names?”

“No, my source only found out because one of Dearman’s victims was in his cups and talkin’ a blue streak, but all the fellow would say was what I’ve already told ya: He’d been doin’ it for years and he was smart enough to do the collectin’ himself and not to bleed his victims too much.” Blimpey nodded appreciatively. “He weren’t stupid, that’s for certain. He ran it like a business. Keep your fees low enough so that you can keep on collectin’.”

“Nonetheless,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out, “he may have been good at running a blackmail business, but at some point, he must have picked the wrong victim. He did end up murdered.”

“That’s true,” Blimpey agreed. “Right then, I’d best tell you the rest.” He cleared his throat. “This bit may be shockin’ for you, considerin’ there’s family involved ’ere.”

“What is it?” She stared at him curiously, noting that a rosy hue was creeping up his cheeks. “Are you blushing?”

“’Course not,” he said quickly. “It’s just—alright, I might as well spit it out. It’s about Henry Anson. He’s John Sutcliffe’s illegitimate son. Apparently, he was carryin’ on with Anson’s mother before he married your sister-in-law. Anson’s thirty-two.”

She said nothing; then she lifted her sherry and drained the glass. “John has a son,” she murmured. “I had no idea.”

“Do you think your sister-in-law does?”

“It’s impossible to tell,” she replied. She had no love for Fiona, but she didn’t rejoice in this news. “But she’s the kind of woman who would rather die than have a scandal in the family. Oh dear, I see what you meant earlier. This doesn’t look good for her.”

“If Dearman found out the truth and threatened her with it, she’d ’ave a good motive for shuttin’ ’im up permanently.”

“But why target Fiona and not John?” she muttered.

“Because of what you just said,” Blimpey shrugged. “She’d rather die than face a scandal. Women like that, women who’ve married up, will do whatever it takes to ’ang on to their position in society.”

Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t argue with that; she’d already come to the same conclusion. “Did your source know if Anson knew Sutcliffe was his father?” she asked.

Blimpey shook his head. “He didn’t know if Anson knew the situation, but John Sutcliffe knew the truth. That’s the real reason that he gave Anson the job.”

“We can’t wait for him any longer,” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the clock. The meeting was supposed to start at half past four and it was already a quarter to five. “We must get on with it. But it’s not like Wiggins to be so late.”

“I’m sure he’s got a reason,” the cook muttered. “The lad knows we worry when people don’t show up at the proper time.”

“Maybe he’s following someone,” Phyllis suggested.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a quick smile to the cook. “He’ll probably be here any moment now. Why don’t you start.” She wanted to distract Mrs. Goodge from worrying about their errant footman.

“I’d like to, but I’ve not got anythin’ to report,” Mrs. Goodge said glumly. “I’ve had half a dozen people through this kitchen today, and not one of them had even heard of the murder. Honestly, you’d think people would take more of an interest in the world, wouldn’t you.”

“Don’t feel bad, Mrs. Goodge. It happens to all of us.” Ruth smiled sympathetically.

“I heard a little bit.” Luty helped herself to a slice of buttered brown bread. “I ran into a friend at Lady Barraclough’s luncheon, and she told me that she was there at the village fete on the day that John Sutcliffe announced his engagement to your sister-in-law.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “She said how everyone there was shocked and surprised because they was expectin’ him to marry Antonia Meadows, or Antonia Whitley as she was known then.”

“Madam, we’ve already heard this information,” Hatchet reminded her.

Luty waved her hand impatiently. “I know that, but what we didn’t know is the other interestin’ bits that Alice told me. Seems like that very afternoon, the local people found a dead man in a pony trap by the side of the road. He was well dressed and had come all the way from Sydney, Australia. He’d only arrived in England the day before and had just come from the train station. He was on his way to the Sutcliffe house, but he never got there. When they questioned John Sutcliffe, he claimed he’d never heard of the man and had no idea why his name and address would be in the fellow’s pocket. His name was Eldon Grimshaw. He was an engineer.”

“How did he die?” Hatchet asked.

“The doctor said it was a heart attack.” Turning back
to Mrs. Jeffries, Luty asked, “Has your sister-in-law ever mentioned this?”

“No, not at all, but I’ll ask her about it.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “But I don’t see how this incident could have anything to do with Dearman’s murder. Eldon Grimshaw was on his way to visit John, not the murder victim.” Something nudged the back of her mind, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.