Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (14 page)

Smythe tried not to think about that. She tugged him down a narrow hall and into a large room. The windows were covered with heavy red velvet, the floor with a gaudy Persian rug and the walls were covered with paintings, most of them voluptous nudes. People, some of them well-dressed businessmen with their collars undone and no jackets, were sprawled on various settees and chairs. Women, many of them wearing nothing more than diaphanous
wraps, were entertaining their customers. Smythe was torn between pity and revulsion. The women probably had no choice. Hunger and poverty could drive a body to do just about anything to survive. So he refused to sit in judgment on these poor girls, but the men were a different matter altogether. They sickened him. Bloated, wealthy and thinking solely of their own pleasures, they sprawled about the room like little kings. But he tried to keep his feelings from showing on his face. No point in making anyone suspicious.

“See anything you like?” the madam asked. She swept her arm in a great arc. “Have a wander around and take a good look. There’s more girls in the other room.”

He started to tell her he didn’t want a girl, caught himself, nodded and started towards the inner room, the one where he could hear the piano. Women, some of them no more than girls, smiled and preened as he walked past. He made a show of studying the “merchandise” as he went, but he was actually looking for something quite different from womanly charms. He spotted a pale-haired young woman sitting slumped in the corner, almost as though she were trying to hide. Something in her posture and the wary look in her eyes convinced him she hadn’t been on the game long.

The madam, who was coming right behind him, saw where he was looking. “That’s Janet. She’s new here.”

“She’ll do.” He turned to the madam and took care of the business end of things. A few minutes later, another girl, this one a maid, led him up a wide staircase and showed him into a bedroom. “Janet’ll be right up,” the girl said as she lit the lamp. “You want anything else? There’s gin, ale or champagne; I can bring some up.”

“Maybe later,” he said. If cold hard cash wouldn’t
loosen Janet’s tongue, maybe gin would. But he’d try money first.

He sat down on the bed, wincing as the bed springs creaked dangerously under his weight. The maid went out and Janet, her eyes wide and frightened, came in. “Hello.” She forced a smile, put her hands on her pain-fully thin hips and started towards him.

Blast, Smythe thought, up close she couldn’t be more than sixteen. “What’s your name?” he asked gently, even though he already knew.

“Janet.” She stopped in front of him and her fingers went to the buttons on the top of her pink robe. “And I’m to do whatever you want.”

“How old are you?”

She looked surprised by the question. “Nineteen.” She undid the top button.

Smythe leapt to his feet and clasped his hands over her fingers. “You don’t have to do this,” he explained.

“You want me to keep my clothes on?”

“No. I mean, yes,” he stuttered. “I mean, I just want to talk to you, lass.”

Puzzled, she said, “You just want to chat?”

“Come on, lass, sit down.” He eased her down on the bed and sat down beside her. “How long ’ave you been at this?”

She looked down at the floor. “I know what I’m doin’, if that’s what’s worryin’ ya.”

Smythe sighed. “Look, I’m not worried about your…er…uh, whatever. I’d just like to talk, that’s all.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “About what?”

Smythe wondered how best to put it. “Well, I need some information.”

“You’re not a copper, are ya?”

“No, I promise. I’m willing to pay fer my information,”
he said quickly. “Pay ya directly, I will. You’ve no need to be tellin’ anyone else.”

She thought about if for a moment. “What do ya want to know?” she asked, glancing at the closed door.

“Was ya workin’ on Saturday evenin’?”

“I work every evenin’,” she sighed. “It’s the only way to make a livin’.”

“Around seven o’clock, did ya see a man come in?”

She laughed. “Lots of men come in ’ere.”

“I mean a well-dressed man, small like and done up in evening clothes,” Smythe explained. “He didn’t stay long; my guess is ’e ’ad a word or two with the madam and then left.”

She frowned slightly. “He’s the one that come in for Rupert.” She broke off and blushed. “Rupert only does the special one’s like. I mean, he’s a…”

Smythe stopped her by raising his hand. “I think I know what ’e does. Anyways. This man who come, did ’e make arrangements for Rupert to come to ’is ’ouse later that night?”

“That’s what Rupert said,” Janet shrugged. “Mind you, he were right upset when he found out the whole thing ’ad been called off and ’e weren’t to go. He’d been there before, you see, and knew this bloke were a big tipper. Some of the men like to give little presents on the side.” She glanced quickly at the closed door again. “I mean, what she don’t know won’t ’urt ’er, will it? It’s not like they pays us all that much.”

“So Rupert was told he didn’t have to go?” Smythe prodded. “How was ’e told? Did the man come back ’ere?”

“Here, what are you askin’ all these questions for?”

Smythe pulled out his roll of notes, thanking his lucky stars he had more money than he’d ever spend. “I said
I’m willin’ to pay for information,” he said, waving the roll under the girl’s nose. “And I’m not a copper, so you don’t ’ave to watch what ya say.”

“How much you willin’ to pay?” she asked. She seemed more curious than greedy.

He pulled off three five-pound notes and handed them to her. Her eyes got as big as Mrs. Goodge’s scones. It was probably more money than she made in a month. “Here, you tell me what I need to know and I’ll double this.”

Janet stared at the bills for a moment, almost as though she were afraid to touch them. “All this?”

“Take it, lass,” Smythe encouraged. “I know you need it.”

Janet grabbed the money, rolled it tightly and stuck it up her sleeve. Then she looked at Smythe and blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to act like such a greedy cow, but things ’as been ’ard lately. Me brother’s been sick…”

“It’s all right, lass,” he said softly. “I know what it’s like to be poor.” He wondered if Luty could use another housemaid. “Now go on, answer my question. How did Rupert know that ’e wasn’t to go to the man’s house?”

“A lad came round with a note,” Janet said. “Rupert almost had a go at him. Poncy little fella all tarted up in velvet and silk. Mind you, some of the others was laughin’, thinkin’ that Rupert ’ad lost out to a street boy, but this weren’t no street boy that come ’ere with the note. He was too well fed for that. Not that ’e was fat or anythin’. But he ’ad a nice rounded backside and carried himself all nice like. Made Rupert right angry, it did.”

“What time did the lad show up?”

“Right before Rupert was goin’ to leave himself, around eleven forty-five. If the boy had been five minutes later, Rupert would ’ave already been gone.”

Betsy glared at the clock. What was taking him so long? He’d been gone for hours now and if he didn’t come walking through that back door soon, she’d ruddy well go out after him.

She got to her feet and started to pace, thankful that Mrs. Goodge and Mrs. Jeffries had gone to bed, sparing her the need to come up with some feeble excuse as to why she was sitting here in the blooming kitchen in the middle of the night.

She stopped dead as she heard the familiar sound of the back door opening. A second later, heavy footsteps moved in the hallway and a relieved smile curved her lips.

Betsy dashed toward the back stairs. Now that she knew he was home safe, she could go to bed and get some sleep. Worrying about someone certainly was hard on the nerves, she thought as she skipped quietly up the stairs. The only thing worse would be him finding out she’d worried and waited.

“The inspector’s just gone,” Mrs. Jeffries announced as she dashed into the kitchen the next morning. “He’s going to interview Theodora Vaughan, Trevor Remington and Willard Swinton again this morning.”

“What about Delaney?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She picked the empty pot off the table. “Seems to me after what that Mr. Parks said, this Delaney fellow needs a bit more looking into.”

“I agree,” the housekeeper said as she picked up the last of the dirty breakfast plates. “But there really wasn’t time to drop any hints in that direction, so we’ll have to look into Delaney on our own.”

“I’ll get my sources working on him,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I’ve got a few of them dropping by this morning.”

Betsy, stifling a yawn, trudged into the kitchen. “I’ve finished up the dry larder,” she said.

“Gracious, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “Are you all right? You don’t look like you slept well.”

“I’m fine.” Betsy yawned again. “Just a bit tired is all. It was too warm to sleep much last night.”

As Mrs. Jeffries knew perfectly well that Betsy had sat up waiting for Smythe until well after two
A.M.
, she decided not to press the subject. “Try and take a rest this afternoon if you can,” she advised. “Smythe and Wiggins ought to be here any moment, and then we’ll have a brief meeting.”

“Aren’t we going to wait for Luty and Hatchet?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“Luty was planning on ambushing one of her legal sources this morning. She’s bound and determined to find out who Hinchley left his money to,” Mrs. Jeffries explained, “so she wants us to go ahead without her.”

“And no doubt Hatchet is so worried she’ll get more
information than him, he’s probably out snooping too,” Betsy said with a grin.

Smythe came into the kitchen, followed by Wiggins. “Mornin’ all,” he said cheerfully. “Sorry we missed breakfast, but we ’ad to take a quick run over to the stables.”

“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“We ’ad us some buns from the bake shop,” Wiggins replied, “but I could do with a cuppa.”

“So could I.” Smythe dropped into his seat. He still didn’t quite have the nerve to look Betsy in the eye, even though he knew he’d not done a ruddy thing to feel guilty about. Cor, it wasn’t as if he’d
wanted
to go to that place.

Mrs. Goodge put a fresh pot on the table. “Come on, then,” she said, “let’s get cracking. My sources’ll be here any minute and I want this kitchen to myself.”

Wiggins, who’d been trying to teach Fred to roll over, hurried to the table. Mrs. Jeffries quickly took her seat, and Betsy, without so much as a glance in the coachman’s direction, sat down in her place.

“Why don’t you tell us what you learned,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Smythe. She wanted him to give his report quickly and matter-of-factly. Betsy’s nose was already out of joint and it wouldn’t do to torment the poor girl need-lessly.

Smythe, keeping his voice casual, quickly told them what he’d learned at the brothel. “So you see,” he finished, “we’re no better off than we were before. We’ll probably never find the lad that brung the note around.”

“Did you get a look at it?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

Smythe shook his head. “Janet said she’d seen the madam toss it in the stove. No reason for anyone to keep it, was there?”

“But we do know that the, er…person who was supposed
to go to Hinchley’s never went,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Which once again leads us right back to the Hayden Theatre.”

“Maybe the lad that brung the note did the killing,” Wiggins suggested.

“Don’t be daft, boy,” Mrs. Goodge said impatiently. “Why would some lad want to kill Hinchley? It’s got to be someone from the Hayden. Seems like we’ve got plenty of people right there to worry about without bringing anyone else into it.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “We do have a sufficient number of suspects and more important, Hinchley had only returned from overseas. Whatever other enemies he may have had wouldn’t have had time to know he was back, let alone plan his murder. But we should try to find the boy.”

“Why?” Betsy asked. “All he did was bring a note.”

“Because,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly, “I don’t think that note was from Hinchley.”

“Then who sent it?” Wiggins asked.

“The murderer.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded as she spoke. She was sure of this; she could feel it in her bones. “It was from the murderer.”