CHAPTER 2
“Blast a Spaniard,” Smythe muttered to himself as he saw another police constable enter number seven. “What’s goin’ on in there?” Something important was happening at the cottage, and he knew he shouldn’t leave until he found out what it was. On the other hand, he knew he should get back to Upper Edmonton Gardens by teatime. The others would be waiting for his report, and more importantly, Betsy would be worried if he was late.
He wrinkled his nose as the scent of creosote filled the air. Must be from the factory, he thought idly. The smell was strong but it did bring a bit of relief, considering that he was hiding behind an old privy with a very distinctive odor of its own. The privy was behind cottage number six. He’d changed hiding places when he’d seen Constable Barnes come charging out of number seven and race up the road. He’d known something odd was happening and had decided the risk of getting close enough to see what was going on was worth taking. If any of the policemen came out this way, he thought he could nip over the back fence without too much trouble.
He peeked out around the corner and took another look at the cottage. From here, he could see down the narrow passage between the two houses, and that gave him a view of who was going in or out of number seven. He’d now seen three additional constables go inside. He made up his mind. Betsy would just have to understand. This was too important, he had to find out what was going on in there.
He pulled his coat tighter as another blast of wind whipped the air around him. Hunkering down, he crept out of his hiding place and moved quietly toward the back window of number seven. He pressed his face against the dirty glass and found he could see inside a bit. The door leading to the sitting room was open at such an angle that he had a partial view. There were policemen bunched in a group around the small fireplace. One of the men shifted position, and Smythe could see that a constable was actually hunkered in the tiny opening, looking straight up into the chimney. Inspector Witherspoon was standing to one side, gesturing with his hands.
“Blast a Spaniard,” he muttered, “this doesn’t make any sense.” He stepped back and shook his head. There must be something up in the chimney, he decided. Cor blimey, if it was some sort of evidence, something that had been tossed down the chimney or burned in the grate, he might be here all day before they got it out.
He pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time again. It was gone three o’clock. If he hurried, he could make it back for the meeting. Smythe ducked down and slipped back to his hiding place, took a quick look about to make sure no one had nipped out to have a snoop and then continued along through the small gardens at the backs of the cottages. He reached the last house, turned and headed for the street just in time to see an ambulance coming from around the corner. What’s all this about, then? he thought. He crossed the road and slipped behind a postbox. Peeking out, he saw the ambulance pulling up in front of number seven.
No one had been hurt or wounded in the cottage; Smythe was sure of that. So that meant the presence of the ambulance could only mean one thing. There was another body.
He leaned against the postbox and watched. A few minutes later, he saw three constables come outside. Two of them used their hands as footholds and helped the third one up onto the roof. Then one of them handed him what looked like an old broom. The one with the broom made his way to the chimney, peeked inside and then began poking the handle down it. Smythe shook his head in amazement and stopped worrying about being late to the meeting. The others, including Betsy, would kill him if he didn’t stay here till the end and see exactly what was going on.
Betsy cast another glance toward the windows over the kitchen sink. Though it was only four-thirty, the afternoon was darkening with a coming rain. She wished Smythe would get here.
“Stop frettin’.” Luty Belle Crookshank reached over and patted the girl on the arm. “He’ll be here soon.”
Luty Belle was a small, elderly American woman with white hair, sharp black eyes and a Colt .45 in the deep pocket of her cloak. She was rich, opinionated and loved helping the staff of Upper Edmonton Gardens solve the inspector’s murders. Widowed, she and her late husband had made a fortune in the silver mines of Colorado and then come back to her husband’s native land and settled in London. She knew everyone in London and had wonderful connections in the legal and financial communities.
“I do hope he has something useful to report,” Hatchet, Luty’s butler, said. He was a tall, robust man with a full head of thick, white hair. He’d been in her service for years but didn’t let that stop him from arguing with her about anything and everything. “But I suppose I ought to be grateful for small favors. At least this time we weren’t out of the country.”
“Quit cryin’ over spilt milk,” Luty replied. She plucked at the white lace on the sleeve of her burgundy day dress. “That last one wasn’t anyone’s fault. We were gone when it happened.”
Hatchet sniffed.
“Speaking of which, we really must send Wiggins a telegram tomorrow,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected.
“Too bad no one thought to send us a telegram when the last one happened,” Hatchet muttered darkly.
“We were twenty-five-hundred miles away,” Luty shot back. “Wiggins is only in Colchester. He can get here by tomorrow evenin’. It would have taken us two weeks!”
“What if it turns out to be nothin’?” Mrs. Goodge said calmly. “Even with a dead body, these things aren’t always murder. I don’t think we ought to be draggin’ the lad back until we know for sure one way or another.”
“But we do know for sure,” Betsy pointed out. “Constable Barnes told the inspector it was murder. I don’t think he’d be mistaken about that.” She looked toward the hallway, her attention drawn by the sound of the back door opening.
“That must be Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said conversationally. “Betsy, pour him some tea.”
But Betsy was already filling his mug and heaping slices of rich brown bread on his plate.
“Hello, everyone,” Smythe said as he came into the warm kitchen. “Sorry I’m a bit late, but I’ve got a lot to tell.” He slipped into the chair next to Betsy and gave her a quick smile. Under the table, he grabbed her hand.
“We thought you’d be back earlier than this,” Betsy said as she clasped his fingers tightly. “I was starting to worry. It looks like it’s going to rain.”
“But we assumed you were detained because something important came up,” the housekeeper added.
“What happened?” Luty asked bluntly. “Did they find out who the dead man is?”
“Not yet.” Smythe took a quick sip of tea. Having had neither food nor drink since breakfast, he was thirsty and hungry. “But he’s not the only one we’ve got to worry about. There’s another body.”
“What?” Betsy exclaimed.
“You mean there’s two murders?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Good,” Hatchet said. “That’ll make up for us missing one.”
“Nell’s bells, two at once, that’s got to take the prize,” Luty said eagerly. “Where do we start?”
“We really must send that telegram,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “Smythe, do tell us everything.”
Smythe swallowed the bite of bread and butter he’d just popped into his mouth. “I don’t have much to go on,” he began, “and I think it would make more sense if I tell it from the start.”
“Go ahead,” she encouraged.
He gave them all the details starting with his arriving at St. Paul’s on Dock Street. “I was sure the inspector would hang about askin’ questions and managing the house-to-house, but he didn’t. The minute they loaded the vicar’s body into the ambulance, he and Barnes were off like a shot. I figured they must have found out somethin’ important and that maybe it’d be best if I scarpered along and saw where they were goin’.”
“That was good thinking on your part,” Mrs. Goodge interjected. “It’s always best to find out as much as possible at the beginning of the investigation. It saves a lot of time and grief later.”
“And where were they going?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed. She rather agreed with the cook, but she didn’t wish to interrupt the coachman’s narrative.
“To a house . . . well, it’s not really a house, more like a cottage—it’s in Bermondsey. Number seven Dorland Place. It’s right across the road from a paint factory and down the end of a lane of abandoned houses. It seemed I had to ’ide for ages before anythin’ ’appened, and I’d just about decided to come along home when all of a sudden, Barnes comes out of the house and scurries off up the road. I didn’t know whether to follow ’im or not, so I stayed put, and a few minutes later, he was back with a couple of police constables. I got right up to the back window and I could see in a little, but I couldn’t really tell too much from where I was standin’. I didn’t want to be too bold and risk getting caught.”
“Did you see anything?” Luty asked impatiently.
“Not much,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “But I noticed that everyone seemed to be doin’ something with the fireplace.”
“Doing what?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She’d learned long ago that every detail was important, including the ones that might be unusual.
“Mainly, stickin’ their head up it.”
“It sounds like something may have been hidden up there,” Hatchet mused.
“That’s what I thought,” Smythe replied. “But then the ambulance showed up and I knew it wasn’t something hidden up there, but someone.”
“You mean there was a body?” Betsy made a face. “Up in the fireplace?”
“Good God, was they smokin’ it like it was a Virginia ham?” Luty tried hard to keep a straight face.
“Really, Madam.” Hatchet sniffed disapprovingly.
“Well, that’s how we smoke hams where I come from—stick ’em up over an open fire and let ’em smoke. Why else would someone stick a body in a fireplace?”
“You said the cottages are abandoned,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Smythe. “I’m wondering if the body was placed there to hide it.”
“That’s more likely,” Luty agreed. “No point in smokin’ a body. It’s not like they’s any cannibals around here.”
“It’s still disgusting,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Imagine, putting a body in a fireplace.”
“Seems as good a place to hide a body as any,” Smythe murmured. “Especially if the place was empty and there weren’t any neighbors about to see you do it.”
“Wouldn’t it smell?” Betsy asked.
“Probably, but if all the other houses around it are abandoned, and the closest neighbor is a factory, who’d be around to complain?” Smythe leaned back in his chair. “I think we’re dealin’ with a very clever killer.”
“Don’t you mean two killers?” Mrs. Goodge reached for the plate of buttered bread and helped herself to a slice.
“Two killers?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. “I’m not sure we can make that assumption. We’d best wait until the inspector gets home tonight and I can find out what’s what.”
“I didn’t tell you the best bit,” Smythe said. “The police surgeon on the first body is Dr. Bosworth. I saw him.”
“That’s a bit of luck.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded approvingly. Dr. Bosworth had helped them on several of their previous cases. He’d been very helpful and, more importantly, very discreet.
“What else did you see?” Hatchet inquired. “At the first murder. Any idea who the victim might be? Any clues for us to go on?”
“Only that he’s a vicar,” the coachman replied. “Leastways he was dressed like one.”
“You must have gotten quite close to the body to see that,” Betsy smiled at him.
“Not really,” he grinned. “I just overhead some talkin’ from people who did see the corpse.”
“What do you want us to do?” Luty asked the housekeeper.
Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t certain. “I suppose you could find out if there’s any missing clergymen in the area.”
“Maybe he was Roman Catholic?” Mrs. Goodge ventured. “Priests tend to dress alike, don’t they?”
No one knew the answer to that.
“They both wear collars,” Betsy finally said.
“Not to worry,” Hatchet said cheerfully. “Roman Catholic or C of E, we’ll find out soon enough if anyone’s gone missing.” He turned to Luty. “I believe the bishop was a close friend of your late husband’s.”
Luty snorted. “Close friend, my foot. Every time the man came around he had his hand out for some building fund or missionary trust. Considerin’ how much I’ve funneled that way over the years, the man owes me some information.”
“Good,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She looked at the cook. “What about Wiggins? It’s definitely a murder. I think we ought to send for him.”
“I wanted him to have a chance to meet his grandfather,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But you’re right, we did promise him.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded in understanding. “I’ll go along to the telegraph office straightaway and send off the message.” She turned her attention to Luty and Hatchet. “Can you be back here early tomorrow morning? I’m going to see what I can get out of the inspector when he comes home tonight. We ought to have some decent information for you by then, at least enough details to get us started.”
“We’ll be here,” Luty said. She grinned wickedly. “And tonight, I’ll pay that bishop a visit.”
“Madam, one doesn’t just drop by to see the bishop,” Hatchet warned her. “We must make an appointment.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Luty’s bright dress rustled as she rose to her feet. “As long as I’m dangling my chequebook in my hand, he’ll see me. You mark my words.”
Witherspoon was exhausted by the time he climbed the steps to his home. Mrs. Jeffries waited for him by the door. “Good evening, sir.” She reached for his bowler and hung it on the coat tree.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries.” He shrugged out of his heavy winter overcoat and handed it to her. “I do hope dinner isn’t on the table. I’d so like a sherry before I eat.”
Mrs. Jeffries hung the coat next to the hat. “Dinner can wait, sir. Let’s go into the drawing room. You look like you could use a rest.”
A few minutes later he was settled in his favorite armchair with a glass of Harvey’s in his hand. As was their custom, Mrs. Jeffries had poured one for herself and sat down on the settee.
“It’s been a rather odd day,” he began. “As you know, the day started off with a murder, and then strangely enough, we stumbled onto another body. Mind you, until the doctor does the postmortem on the second one, we don’t know if that’s murder or death by misadventure.”
“And you’re certain the first victim was deliberately murdered?” She wanted to make sure she got all the facts in this case absolutely correct. They already had two bodies to deal with; it wouldn’t do to get muddled this early in the game.
“Absolutely. Poor fellow had a hole straight through the middle of his forehead.” He took a sip of sherry and sighed in pleasure.
“That rules out suicide, then,” she murmured. “Most people who shoot themselves put the gun in their mouth or at their temple. Where did you find your second body, sir?” She had to ask; they couldn’t let on that they already had any information.
Witherspoon leaned forward as though he was sharing a secret. “In a very unusual place, Mrs. Jeffries. It was in a chimney, of all things. We’d not have found it at all if Barnes hadn’t pushed against the mantel. He was trying to show me how dilapidated and unsafe the building was. Well, imagine my surprise when a foot dropped out onto the grate.”
“I expect you were quite stunned, sir. It’s certainly not what one would expect to happen.” She quickly dropped her gaze to hide her amusement. She knew it really wasn’t a topic for levity, but the idea was quite funny.
“And, of course, where there’s a foot, there’s generally the rest of the body.” He took another sip. “Sure enough, once we got some more men there, we found the rest of the corpse. It took three police constables to get the poor wretch out as well.”
“Exactly how did they get it out?”
Witherspoon visibly winced. “Well, we had no choice, really. It was either remove half the chimney, which didn’t seem very safe, or poke at the poor thing with a stick. So that’s what we did. We sent a PC up to the roof with a broom handle, and he shoved from the top while we pulled from the bottom. That’s the only way we could get the thing down.” He shook himself. “I’m being terrible. It wasn’t a thing, it was the body of a woman.”
“You could tell that much about it?”
“Oh yes, it was quite dreadful, really just a skeleton, but Dr. Bosworth is sure it was a woman’s bones we found.”
“Dr. Bosworth.” Mrs. Jeffries was surprised. Smythe hadn’t mentioned Bosworth being present. “He was there?”
“We sent for him after the foot fell out. I’m no expert on corpses, Mrs. Jeffries, but I certainly didn’t want to destroy any evidence. So I sent along for the doctor. He arrived with the ambulance lads.”
That explained why Smythe hadn’t mentioned him, she thought. He’d probably nipped in with the lads and Smythe hadn’t noticed him.
“He was very helpful, too, held the lantern and directed the lads on getting the corpse out without too much damage. Mind you, he’s got some very advanced ideas on what one can learn from the dead.” Witherspoon paused thoughtfully. “He was certain it was a woman almost from the moment he saw the foot.”
“How did you come to go to this house, sir?”
“The first victim sent us there,” he said. “The address was written on a bit of paper. He was holding onto it. We went there hoping to find someone who could identify him for us, but, well, you know what we found.”
“So you have no idea who this poor man might be?” she pressed.
“No, all we know is that he was dressed in clerical attire and had nothing on him except this bit of paper. The local priest didn’t know who he was, and as of late this afternoon, the local bishop didn’t know of any missing priests either.”
“Was he Church of England, sir?”
“We think so, but we’re checking with the Roman Catholic archdiocese as well. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, how can priests just end up dead practically on a church doorstep and no one has any idea who they might be?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough, sir. You always do.” She could tell he was having one of his periodic bouts of self-doubt. “What did the locals have to say about the situation?” She knew his methods well enough to guess that he’d sent police constables on a door-to-door search for information.
He sighed heavily. “Not very much. No one can recall seeing the poor fellow. But Dr. Bosworth thinks he might have been there all night. It’s a commercial area, so there wouldn’t be many people about once the warehouses and shipping offices closed for the day.”
“The doctor has an estimate of the time of death?”
“Not really, it was only a guess on his part. He’ll have more for us by tomorrow. He’s doing the postmortems tonight.”
“On both bodies?” She felt a bit sorry for the poor doctor. He wasn’t going to get any rest this night.
“He hoped to complete them both. Mind you, I don’t know what he can hope to find out from those bones. But he seemed confident he could learn something.”
“Well, he was able to tell you the victim was a woman,” she said thoughtfully. Mrs. Jeffries’s mind worked furiously. There were a dozen different ways to approach this investigation, and she wanted to have as much information as possible before they all went off half-cocked. “Inspector, I’m sure you’ve already done this, but have you found out who owned the cottage where the body was found?”
Witherspoon tossed back the last of his sherry. “Indeed I did. Unfortunately, all the cottages in that row belong to the factory across the street. But no one’s lived in them for ten years.”
Wiggins was torn between pity and compassion. He wanted to stay really angry at this old man, but it was getting harder and harder to do that as the day wore on. Jonathan Edward Wiggins lay in the center of a huge four-poster bed and stared at him piteously. His eyes were shrunken into his sockets, his face was pale as the sheets and his skin had a waxy sheen to it that didn’t look good.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re tryin’ to tell me,” Wiggins finally said. Through the window next to the bed, he could see the open fields of the farm. The sky was darkening with the fall of evening, and Wiggins wished he were anyplace but here.
“I’m tryin’ to explain why I was so harsh,” Jonathan Wiggins whispered. “It were wrong of me. . . .” He broke off as a wracking series of coughs shook his whole body.
“Grandfather, don’t strain yourself.” The voice came from the other side of the room, from a lad about Wiggins’s age who was his cousin. Albert Wiggins shot Wiggins a malevolent glance. Like his cousin, he had brown hair, round apple cheeks and blue eyes. But there the resemblance to Wiggins ended, for Albert’s mouth was a thin, disapproving line, and his chin was almost nonexistent. “You’re upsetting him. Why don’t you go back where you came from and leave us in peace.”
“No,” the old man ordered, and even in his disabled state, his voice was authoritative. “He stays. He’s family.”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Wiggins replied. Cor blimey, he didn’t want to be in the middle of a family quarrel, even if it was his own family.
“Sit down, boy,” Jonathan Wiggins instructed his grandson. “Sit down and hear me out.”
Wiggins wished he had the meanness or the courage to tell the old man to sod off, but he didn’t. He felt sorry for the old fellow. He’d arrived that day and been met at the station by his cousin, the sullen Albert. During the ride from Colchester to the farm, Albert had said very little. When he’d arrived, he’d met his Aunt Alice and Uncle Peter, who were almost as sullen as their son. But they’d shown him his room and then taken him right up to his grandfather’s room. The old man had talked to him for a while . . . well, he’d rambled on about how much Wiggins reminded him of his eldest son, Wiggins’s father, Douglas. Then he’d fallen asleep and Wiggins had gone to his room.
This was his second meeting today with his grandfather, and he hoped it would be his last. He eased down into the straight-backed chair next to his grandfather’s bed. “All right, I’m sittin’. What do you want to say to me?”
Jonathan Wiggins coughed again. “I shouldn’t have run your mother off,” he muttered. “But I was so angry, I blamed her for your father’s death.”
“But my father died of pneumonia. How could she have been at fault?” Wiggins replied. He heard his cousin mutter something under his breath, so he turned his head and shot him a fast glare. Albert stepped back and then looked away. Like many others, he’d mistaken Wiggins’s good nature for weakness.
“She weren’t to blame at all,” Jonathan said softly. “But I hadn’t wanted him to marry her, and he’d defied me and done it anyway. When she come along looking for help after his death, I wanted someone to blame, and she were the one in front of me. I bitterly regret it.” Another series of coughs racked him.
Wiggins got to his feet. “Don’t fret, please. You’ll harm yourself. I understand. It’s all in the past. It’s all over.”
Tears filled the old man’s eyes. “Do you forgive me?”
Wiggins didn’t think he could ever really forgive the old man. But right now, he’d say anything to stop the fellow from suffering so much. “Yes, yes, please, stop cryin’, you’ll upset yourself.”
“You’re not just sayin’ it, are you? You truly forgive me?”
He hesitated, not wanting to lie twice in a row. But he was scared his grandfather was going to die on him if he didn’t calm down. “I’m not just sayin’ it. Truly, it’s over and done with.”
“Will you stay for a while?” Jonathan pressed.
Wiggins paused. He didn’t want to make a promise he couldn’t keep. “I might have to go back to London. . . .”
“Surely your employer will understand,” Jonathan pleaded. “I’m an old man, I’m dying. You’re my grandson and I need to make my peace with you.”
“Well, I’ll stay for as long as I can,” he finally replied. Truth was, he didn’t want to miss a murder.
“Promise,” Jonathan asked weakly.
“I promise.”
There was a soft knock on the door, and a moment later, a tall, rawboned middle-aged woman stepped inside the sickroom. It was his Aunt Alice. She handed Wiggins a yellow envelope. “This come for you.”
“What is it?” Jonathan demanded. He struggled to sit up.
“It’s a telegram,” Albert said smugly. “They probably want him to come back.”
“But you said you’d stay,” Jonathan cried. His eyes filled with tears again. “You promised. Take pity on an old man. Take pity. You promised you’d stay.”
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Wiggins soothed. He knew what was in the telegram. “If I can, I’ll stay.” He tore open the thin flap and read the words. It was short and to the point.
“We’ve got one, come quickly.”
Wiggins sighed. He wanted to go back to London more than anything. He didn’t want to miss this murder, but then he looked at the old man in the bed and knew he couldn’t do it.
“Do you have to leave?” Aunt Alice asked eagerly.
“No, I can stay for a bit.”
They met as soon as the inspector had retired for the evening. Mrs. Jeffries told them everything she’d learned, and then she sat back in her chair, her expression thoughtful.
“This is an odd kettle of fish.” Mrs. Goodge shook her head. “It’ll be difficult to investigate anything. We don’t even have any names?”
“Cor blimey, this isn’t goin’ to be easy. Where do we even start?” Smythe added.
Mrs. Jeffries rather agreed with them, but she didn’t wish to sound defeated before they’d even begun. Besides, she’d given the matter some thought, and they did have several avenues that might be worth pursuing. “This may indeed be a difficult case, but I think we’ve got enough to start looking about.”
“We do?” Betsy asked.
“Certainly.” She held up her hand and spread her fingers. “To begin with, the first victim was found at the docks, and no one appears to know who he was. Now, to my knowledge neither the Church of England nor the Roman Catholic Church actually lose their priests. Yet neither of them reported anyone missing or lost. So, that might mean there is a good possibility our clerically garbed victim only arrived in town yesterday, the day he was probably murdered.”
“Which means someone at a shipping company will know who he might be.” Betsy nodded eagerly. “I see what you’re getting at. One of us should check the shipping lines and see what came in yesterday or the day before.”
“That was my thought exactly.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded approvingly.
“And one of us should nip around to the neighborhood where the second body was found and see who lived in that cottage years ago,” Smythe added.
“I thought those cottages were owned by that factory,” Betsy said.
“They are, but someone had to have lived in them at one time or another,” Mrs. Jeffries pointed out. “Someone who knew the place and, more importantly, knew they were going to be abandoned for years. I highly doubt that some stranger came along and shoved a woman’s corpse down the chimney.” She frowned. “Which is odd when you think about it. Why put a body in a chimney in the first place?”
“What do you mean?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She was a bit disappointed that they’d no names as yet. It was difficult for her to do her bits and pieces without names. But she didn’t want the others to think she was sulking.
“I mean, why a chimney? Why not just bury the body?” She turned to Smythe. “Were there any places behind the cottage for a burial?”
He thought for a moment. “Actually, there is. All them cottages have back gardens. They’re small, but there’s room for someone to bury a body. But I don’t see what you’re gettin’ at.”
She wasn’t sure herself. “It seems to me that putting a body in a chimney involves a great deal of work. Corpses are dead weight. So, whoever put her there had to either stuff her up the chimney, which seems very difficult unless one had enormous strength, or they had to stuff her down the chimney, which means they would have had to have carried the body onto the roof. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It probably wasn’t easy, but I expect the killer didn’t have any choice. There aren’t any fences between the cottages. So if you did try to bury her and someone came outside from one of the other houses, you’d have been seen,” Smythe said.
“And even if they had a place to put her, maybe they couldn’t bury her,” Mrs. Goodge suggested.
“Seems to me digging a hole is a lot easier than hauling a body up onto the roof,” Betsy said.
“Not if the ground is frozen,” the cook replied. “And if you’ll recall, we had some rather nasty winters a few years back.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “If the murder was done during bad weather, either the ground being frozen . . .”
“Or soaked,” Mrs. Goodge put in. “If there’d been days of hard rain, you couldn’t bury a body.”
“Then that would explain why someone would use a chimney. Especially if they knew the cottages were going to be abandoned.”
“Or they already were abandoned,” Smythe suggested. “We don’t know when the murder was done.”
“Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves?” Betsy said. “We don’t know for certain the second body was murder.”
“Course we do,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “People who die from natural causes don’t usually end up in the chimney.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” The maid frowned, annoyed with herself for not seeing the obvious. “Maybe I ought to nip over there tomorrow and learn what I can about that cottage.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “Any information you can get us will be helpful. Smythe, do you think you can go along to the docks and see if you can learn anything concerning our dead clergyman?”
“What if he came in on a ship that docked at Tilbury?” Smythe mused. “That’s where most of the big ships come in at these days.”
“But plenty of ships still come in on the London docks,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “And it was close to there where the fellow was murdered.” She was a tad annoyed. In her view, he at least had something to do. The best she could hope for was picking up a few bits and pieces about the murder in general. It was difficult for her to do her investigations without the victim’s name. “Besides, most of the shipping lines still have offices at the London docks.”
“Right, then,” he nodded. “I’ll try the offices first, and if I don’t ’ave any luck, I’ll ’ave a go at the pubs and seamen’s haunts. Not everyone who comes in by ship ’as ’is name on a manifest.”
“What about Luty and Hatchet?” Betsy asked. “What can they do?”
Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “We did ask Luty to speak to the bishop about whether there are any missing clergy.”
“She’ll have done that by tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Goodge warned. “You’d best have something else at the ready for her and Hatchet.”
“Oh, dear, we’ve so little information to go on,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I suppose they could do some general nosing about—especially in the area where the clergyman’s body was found. With Wiggins being gone, we need at least one of them asking questions around the neighborhood.”
“It’d better be Hatchet doin’ the askin’,” Smythe grinned. “Luty tends to charge in like a bull in china shop.”
“She’s direct,” Betsy defended her friend. “But she can be as bland as butter when it’s necessary.”
“You’d better come up with something for her to do,” Mrs. Goodge warned, “or she’ll be doggin’ everyone’s heels and gettin’ in the way.” Translated, this meant that Mrs. Goodge didn’t want Luty hanging around her kitchen—not when she was trying to do her own investigating.
“I’ll think of something by tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Jeffries sighed.
“Are you going to have a word with Dr. Bosworth?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I think I’ll go along to the hospital tonight.”
“All on your own?” Betsy yelped.
“That’s not a good idea,” Mrs. Goodge said. “The streets aren’t safe for a woman alone at night.”
“Why do you want to go tonight?” Smythe asked.
“Because he’s doing the postmortems on both the victims, and if I’m very lucky, I’ll be able to speak with him before he goes home. He may have some valuable information for us. But I wasn’t planning on going alone. I was hoping Smythe would be good enough to accompany me.”
“Course I will, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled in relief. “We couldn’t let you go off on your own in the middle of the night. What time do you want to leave?”
She thought for a moment. She had no idea how long it would take to do two postmortems, but knowing how thorough Dr. Bosworth was, she suspected he would take his time. “Why don’t we leave here about four. There’s no traffic at that time, so we’d get to St. Thomas’s Hospital by half past. I should think he’d be finished by then.”
“Are you sure he’ll be doing the postmortems at St. Thomas’s?” Betsy asked. “That’s a long way from Bermondsey and Dock Street. Wouldn’t he use a closer hospital?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Not all hospitals have the facilities for postmortems.”
“We’ll not be able to get a hansom at that hour of the morning,” Smythe said, “so I’d best nip over to Howards and get the coach.”
“Won’t Howards be locked?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
Howards was the stable where the inspector’s horses and carriage were kept.
“They will, but I’ve a key.” He grinned again. “I told ’em I needed one. What with the inspector bein’ a policeman, there’s no tellin’ when I might have to get the coach and horses in the middle of the night.”
“Why, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries smiled approvingly. “That was most farsighted of you.”