“What’s wrong, Betsy?” Smythe asked anxiously. “You come barrelin’ out of there like the devil ’imself was on yer ’eels.”
When Betsy realized she was still clinging to his neck, she pulled away, her face turning red.
For a moment they stared at each other. The worried expression on his face sent a shaft of guilt straight through her. What could she tell him? The truth? But she didn’t know if he would understand. Betsy wasn’t sure whether she was ready to risk him finding out the worst about her.
“Betsy,” he prompted, giving her a light shake.
“I had a bit of a scare, that’s all,” she replied, glancing quickly over her shoulder to make sure those footsteps she’d heard had only been in her imagination.
Smythe followed her gaze. “Was someone chasin’ ya, then?” He pulled away from her and started toward the darkened passageway she’d just come out of. “Maybe they’d like to deal with the likes of me instead of a slip of a girl like you.”
She grabbed his arm. “No one was following me.”
“Then why were you running like that?”
She hesitated, undecided. In a split instant, she decided to tell him the truth—the whole truth. What was the point in trying to hide it? If Smythe didn’t know her by now, he never would. His opinion of her mattered, it mattered more than she’d ever thought possible. But she hadn’t done anything wrong. If he didn’t understand what she’d done and, more importantly, why she’d done it, he wasn’t worth as much to her as she’d hoped.
“I thought I saw Raymond Skegit’s carriage,” she said, watching his face. “So I nipped down that passageway thinkin’ I could get away from him. I’m scared of him, Smythe. Really scared. He’s an awful person, not one to forget a wrong done him.”
Smythe nodded slowly, taking care to keep his expression blank. “And Skegit thinks you wronged him.”
Betsy swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “That’s right. He…”
“Don’t tell me yet, Betsy,” Smythe gestured at the busy street corner just ahead. “Whatever you’ve got to say to me can wait until we’re alone and we can talk properly.”
“But…”
“Now don’t get het up, lass.” He took her by the elbow and started for the comer. “I’m not sayin’ I don’t want to ’ear. I do. But I don’t want to ’ave to be askin’ you to repeat yerself every other word ’cause the traffic’s so loud. What you’ve got to tell me is important, it’s to be treated with respect. We’ll talk tonight after the others ’ave gone to bed.”
“But…”
“Tonight, Betsy,” he ordered softly.
“All right,” she replied, thinking that maybe he was right. Saying what she had to say was going to be hard enough. She didn’t want to have to say it twice. She only hoped her nerve would hold up long enough. “Tonight it is. But where are we goin’ now?”
“To get you in a ’ansom.”
“A hansom? Have you lost your mind? I can take an omnibus home.” She tugged her arm free and came to a dead stop. “I’m not ready to go home yet. It’s still early. I haven’t found out much today and I want to keep at it.”
“Cor blimey, Betsy, you’ve just had the wind scared out of ya and ya don’t want to go ’ome?” Women, he would never understand them. He wanted her back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. He wanted her safe from the likes of Skegit, at least until he took care of the bastard.
“Well, I’m over it,” she snapped. “I’ll admit I was frightened. But I had sense enough to run. If I keep my eyes open, I can stay out of Skegit’s way.”
“You should be ’ome,” he said stubbornly. Blast a Spaniard, anyway. Why couldn’t the lass see he only wanted what was best for her?
She stuck her chin out, a sure sign that she was digging her heels in. “I can’t go home, I’ve found out nothing.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It bloomin’ well does. I don’t want to be sittin’ there tonight when all the rest of you are talkin’ about everything you’ve learned and all I’ve got to report is that Justin Vincent has more gloves than the prince of Wales.”
Smythe struggled to keep a grin off his face. “That might be a real valuable clue, Betsy.”
“Right.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Just like the fact that Rosalind Frampton overspends at her dressmaker’s and Nyles Hornsley likes to dance is important.” She gestured furiously with her hands. “You see, I’ve found out nothing important. Nothing at all.”
He stared at her thoughtfully, the urge to smile completely gone. Betsy’s eyes were haunted, desperate looking. He realized doing her fair share to help solve the inspector’s cases was very important to her. Smythe understood that. It was important to him, too. Not just because they all admired Inspector Witherspoon, though that was a big part of it. But because of the way it made them feel inside themselves when they’d done a good job. It made them feel like they were more than just servants, more than just the forgotten people at the bottom of the heap. But he didn’t want her roaming around the streets of London, even in the daytime. Not alone. Not until he’d taken care of Raymond Skegit. Bloomin’ Ada, he couldn’t order her back to Upper Edmonton Gardens.
Suddenly, he saw a solution. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, taking her arm again and starting toward the corner.
“What idea?” She stared at him suspiciously. “Where we goin? I’ve told you, I’m not through for the day.”
“We’re goin’ up to the corner to grab a ’ansom,” he replied quickly, as she was trying to jerk her elbow from his grip. “And I don’t want you to go home. I want you to come with me over to the City.”
“Why?” Her tone was still suspicious, but also interested as well.
“Cabbie,” he yelled, dropping her arm and waving a hand at a passing hansom. The cab stopped and he pulled the door open. “Get in,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it as we go.”
“Do you know how much a cab to the City is goin’ to cost?” she hissed, giving the driver a worried glance.
Her words reminded him he had a few shameful secrets of his own. He shrugged and looked over her shoulder, unwilling to meet her eyes. “Don’t fret over it, lass,” he lied, grabbing her elbow and practically shoving her inside. “I ’ad a good day at the racecourse last week, so we can ride in style today.”
“You ought to be savin’ your money,” she mumbled, but she got in the hansom anyway. Smythe climbed in after her.
“All right,” Betsy said as soon as they started off, “tell me about this idea of yours.”
“I thought we’d pool our resources,” he said casually, thinking as he spoke. “Mrs. Jeffries is convinced the murders had something to do with the firm, right?”
“That’s what she said this morning.”
“So I was thinkin’ why don’t you and I go over to Hornsley’s office and see if we can ’ave a nice little chat with someone on ’is staff.”
“You mean the clerks and such?”
“Not just the clerks,” he replied, “but maybe they have a tea lady or charwoman or someone like that.”
“I don’t know, Smythe.” She looked doubtful. “It’s the middle of the day. How are we going to get to them? They’ll all be working.”
“They’ve got to have a meal break, don’t they?”
Betsy wasn’t so sure that was true. “I don’t know, do they?”
“I’ve seen the clerks in the pubs and such when I’ve been ’round that part of town. So I think we ought to give it a try.”
“What were you doin’ over in the City?” she asked curiously.
He looked out the small, narrow window. “Uh, on the inspector’s cases and such. You know, when I’m out and about.” He could hardly admit that his odious banker was always pesterin’ him about his money.
Betsy seemed to accept that. “All right,” she said, giving him a bright smile, “let’s have a go at it, then. We’ll see what we can find out.”
Smythe sighed inwardly in relief. Short of tying the girl to his wrist he couldn’t think of a way to keep her safe. But at least the City of London was the last place that Skegit was likely to show up. And if Skegit did appear, Smythe wouldn’t be far from Betsy at all.
Luty stopped in front of the house and squinted at the brass number plate. Number twelve…or was that an eight instead of a two? Dang it, anyway, she hated gettin’ old. She hadn’t minded when her feet went a bit arthritic, and she didn’t mind all the aches and pains her stomach would give her when she ate that hot, spicy food her fancy French chef hated fixin’. But dang it, she hated losin’ her eyesight.
When she was a girl, she could spot an eagle on a tree branch half a mile away. Now she was lucky if she could make out a blasted house number. She started up the stairs. This had better be number twelve or she was goin’ to be mighty mad.
She banged the brass door knocker loudly against the painted black door. Even before she’d started tryin’ to read them piddly little house numbers, she’d been in a bad mood. Who would have guessed that her friend Myrtle would pick this case to start asking questions about? Dang Myrtle, anyway. Why’d she have to start gettin’ curious all of a sudden?
She’d gone to Myrtle’s this morning to pump her for some information. But the silly cow had a bad cold and her ears was plugged up. Luty had to repeat everything twice to make herself understood.
And Myrtle was in a bad mood, actin’ like a bear with a thorn in its paw. The minute Luty had started askin’ questions, Myrtle’s little pig eyes had narrowed and she’d asked why Luty only dropped by to ask her questions about people Luty didn’t even know? Well, it was danged obvious that Myrtle wasn’t goin to be cooperative, not with that cold. So Luty had told her she’d be back when Myrtle wasn’t feelin’ so poorly, and then she left.
Luty glared at the closed door. What was takin’ ’em so long? Irritably, she pounded the knocker again. Course she felt a little bad, since Myrtle was such a lonely soul. That’s why she was always gaddin’ about so much. And it wouldn’t hurt to drop by every now and again just to visit with the woman. Luty promised herself she’d go see Myrtle again as soon as this case was over and she had more free time.
The door flew open and a tall, bald-headed butler, lookin’ even stiffer than Hatchet on a bad day, was starin’ down his nose at her. “Yes, madam?” he said frostily. “May I help you?”
Luty lifted her chin, raised her sable muff a notch higher and stared him straight in the eye. “I wish to see Mr. Grady Whitelaw.”
“Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Whitelaw?”
“I don’t reckon that’s really any of your business. But I’ve already been to his office and they told me he’d come home. So, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you tellin’ him I’m here.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He started to close the door.
Luty wasn’t going to be beaten twice in one day. She slammed her hand flat against the door, shoved it as hard as she could and charged past the butler.
“Really, madam…” the butler sputtered.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d tell Mr. Whitelaw I’m here,” she repeated haughtily. Then she turned her back on him and started down the black-and-white tiled hallway. Most of these fancy houses were all alike; she’d find a place to sit while ol’ stiff-neck rustled up Whitelaw. “I’ll wait in the drawing room.”
“But, madam,” the butler yelped. But Luty had made good her escape and was turning in to the double doors leading to the drawing room. He charged after her.
Luty whirled about as she heard the servant’s running footsteps. “Are you deaf, man? I said I’d like to speak to Mr. Whitelaw and I ain’t goin’ to budge from this room till I see him. Now go git him.”
“Mr. Whitelaw isn’t here,” the butler yelled. He was totally frazzled. One simply did not pick up elegantly dressed old ladies and toss them out the front door, no matter how much one was tempted. Besides, this one looked as if she might object to the whole proceedings.
“Well, where in the dickens is he?”
“Paying a mourning visit. A dear friend has just died and he’s paying a condolence call on the family.” That ought to shame the woman.
“Nell’s bells. When’s he due back?”
He couldn’t believe his ears. This person obviously had no shame. “I really can’t say, madam.”
“Name’s Crookshank. Luty Belle Crookshank. What’s yours?”
The question so startled him he answered without thinking. “Payne, madam. Now, I’m afraid I must ask you to…”
“Maybe you can help me, Payne,” she said. “You see, I left my shawl in a hansom cab night before last. I dropped it on the floor as I was leavin’, you see.”
“I see…” Payne didn’t see anything.
“Well, my friend Myrtle told me she happened to see Mr. Whitelaw get in that very hansom right after I got out of it. Now, I’ve already checked with the driver and he claims there weren’t no shawl on the floor when he got back to the depot, so I figure Mr. Whitelaw must have brung it home with him. Can you run upstairs an’ git it for me?”
Run upstairs? Payne had never run up the stairs in his life. “Madam, I assure you, Mr. Whitelaw doesn’t have your shawl in his possession.”
“Now, I ain’t accusin’ him of stealin’ it,” Luty said quickly. “And normally I wouldn’t make a fuss over a pink lace shawl, but this one was real special. A friend of mine made it for me and she’s dead now. So you see, I’d like to have it back. You just go on upstairs and have a peek in Mr. Whitelaw’s drawers. I’ll bet he was meanin’ to try and find the owner.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs.…er…”
“Crookshank.”
“Mrs. Crookshank.” Payne’s head began to pound. “But I believe your friend must have made a mistake…”
“Oh no, Myrtle saw Mr. Whitelaw git into that cab. She was waitin’ on the door stoop when it dropped me off, and she knows who Mr. Whitelaw is, ya see, and he got in right behind me. The driver says it was his last run of the night, and he ain’t got my shawl, so Mr. Whitelaw has to have it.”
Payne shook his head. This woman was obviously of unsound mind. Perhaps he ought to be a bit gentler with her. “I’m sorry,” he said kindly, “but that’s impossible.”
“Are you callin’ me a liar?” Luty demanded.
“No, madam, but your friend must have made a mistake.” His good intentions disappeared.
“Myrtle don’t make mistakes like that. Not about my shawl. She knows how important it is to me, so you git yourself up those stairs and see if you can find it.”
“I tell you,” Payne’s voice began to rise, “your shawl isn’t here.”
“Yes, it is.”
They were both shouting now.
“It couldn’t be here,” Payne yelled.
“How do ya know?” Luty bellowed. “Ya ain’t even looked yet.”
“I know because Mr. Whitelaw wasn’t in a hansom at all. He walked to his destination. He’d forgotten his gloves, you see, and a gentleman doesn’t call upon his fiancée without gloves, so one of our footmen went after him. But he didn’t catch up with him. He lost sight of Mr. Whitelaw at Hyde Park Corner.”
Luty smiled in satisfaction. That was precisely what she needed to know.
“Thank you,” Constable Barnes said to Betsy. He reached for the cup of tea she’d poured. “I need this. Nivens was even worse today than usual. Drug us all over London and we didn’t learn a bloody thing.”
They were all gathered round the dining room table. Barnes had popped in for a late tea on his way home.
“I’m sure Inspector Nivens is doing the best he can,” Witherspoon said kindly.
“He may be,” Barnes shot back irritably. “But he doesn’t know how to conduct a proper murder investigation. We learned nothing today. On top of that, Nivens lost his temper when we were questioning Madeline Wynn and Nyles Hornsley. He got so rattled he told them his conspiracy theory. Well, he told ’em enough so that they figured it out.”
“Do you believe Inspector Nivens’s idea is correct?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Barnes sighed. “No. But whether it were a good theory or not, Nivens had no business lettin’ on to two of our main suspects that we was thinkin’ along those lines. It’s not much of an idea, but it’s all we’ve got so far.”
“What about the theory that the murders have something to do with the business and not the victims’ personal lives?” Witherspoon asked. “Have you found anything new along those lines?”
Again Barnes sighed. “Not a bloomin’ thing. I spent a few hours over in the City today, talking to clerks and bankers and the like, but I didn’t find out much. The firm isn’t highly thought of by its competitors, but it’s not much worse than some of the other insurance firms.”
“How about Mr. Hilliard?” Betsy asked timidly. “Is he still a suspect?”
“Near as I can tell, everyone’s a suspect. I haven’t learned anything about Hilliard that would clear him. We know he was lyin’ about bein’ in his office on the nights of the murders.”
Betsy glanced at Smythe, who nodded his head slightly.
“Constable Barnes,” she said. “I think you can scratch Damon Hilliard off your list of suspects.”
Barnes’s eyebrows shot up. “What have you found out?”
“We were over in the City today, seeing what we could find out. I happened to run into the charlady that does Hilliard’s office.” Betsy hadn’t run into the charlady; she’d tracked the woman down like a bloodhound. But Barnes didn’t need to know that. “And she told me something right interesting.”
“Go on, Betsy,” Witherspoon encouraged. Gracious, he’d never thought that the girl was so devoted to him. Imagine, going all the way over to the City. “Tell us what you’ve heard.”
Betsy blushed slightly. This was goin’ to be the hard part. “Mrs. Miller,” she began, “that’s the charlady, she’s quite a chatty kind, you see. She told me that Hilliard slips out of his office two or three times a week. He goes to a…” she broke off, searching for the right word.
“He goes to a brothel,” Smythe said quietly. He could see that Betsy was having a devil of a time speaking frankly. He wondered if it was because the inspector and Barnes were here. Usually the lass hadn’t a bit of trouble speakin’ her mind, no matter what the subject. He gave the maid an understanding smile. “Betsy told me about it when we was comin’ ’ome tonight.”
“Was he at the brothel,” Witherspoon felt his own cheeks flaming, “on the nights of the murders?”
Smythe nodded. “Yes. He were there last Friday night when Hornsley was done in and again on Monday night when Frampton got it.” He hoped the policemen wouldn’t ask him how he’d found out all the details about Hilliard’s activities. Not after the row he and Betsy had had about it this afternoon. Blimey, it wasn’t like he’d gone into that place for the fun of it! Besides, he’d made sure that Betsy was safely in the hansom while he was inside. Not that she appreciated his gesture. She’d pouted all the way home.
“Well, that lets Hilliard out, then.” Barnes took a sip of tea. “But I’ll have to confirm his alibi.” He smiled apologetically at Smythe. “Not that I’m doubtin’ you…”
“It’s all right,” Smythe said quickly. “We understand you can’t just take our word for it.” He glanced at Betsy. “Go on, tell ’em what else you found out.”
“What else?” she repeated in confusion. Then she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Oh yes, I found out that Justin Vincent has more gloves than the prince of Wales.”
“That’s odd,” Barnes murmured, “Vincent didn’t strike me as a particularly vain man.” He wasn’t sure exactly what this last piece of information could possibly have to do with the murder, but he didn’t want them to feel like he was taking their efforts lightly. The truth was, he was quite impressed by everything they had found out. “But guess you can’t really tell much about a person by just lookin’ at them. Anyway, did you learn anything else?” he asked the coachman.
“Not much,” Smythe shrugged. “Just picked up a bit more gossip about them break-ins the buildin’ ’ad the month or so before the first killin’. Seems right strange, but one of the clerks told me the only firm that got broken into was Hornsley, Frampton, and Whitelaw. And the only thing that was done was someone overturned the inkwells onto the desks and broke the pens into bits.” He grinned. “He said that Hornsley almost had a conniption fit when he come in and found ink all over his fancy rosewood desk.”
“That sounds like a schoolboy prank, not a proper break-in,” Mrs. Goodge said derisively.
“I don’t think it means anything,” Barnes said. “I spoke to the lads that were called there when it happened. According to the report, there wasn’t anything stolen. It was more a case of malicious mischief than anything else. But Police Constable Turgen told me that the incident shook the tenants up so badly that they hired that night watchman. Not that it did much good, though. Hornsley was still murdered right under the man’s nose. Oh well, perhaps we’ll make sense of it yet.” He smiled at the others. “But you’ve done well. Today hasn’t been wasted.”
“Of course it hasn’t, Barnes,” Witherspoon said quickly. “All information is useful in some way or other.” He beamed at his staff. “I must say, I’m amazed. You’ve all learned so very much. Why, it’s almost as if you’ve done this before.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She turned to Barnes. “What have you learned today, Constable?”
Barnes told them every little detail about his day with Inspector Nivens. He could barely keep the disgust out of his voice. When he’d finished, he looked around at the circle of disappointed faces. “Not much, is it?”
“A good day’s work, sir,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly. Honestly, they ought to make women detectives. They knew how to talk to people. “You’ve done your best, and that’s what counts. I’ve learned a bit myself today. It’s not much, mind you, but like I always say, you never know what’s goin’ to season the soup until it’s done good and proper. So here’s my bit. It seems that Grady Whitelaw wasn’t at home on the night of Hornsley’s murder.” She paused, waiting for the effect her words would have on the others. And she wasn’t disappointed by their avid attention. “Accordin’ to my sources, he wasn’t at home alone at all. He was out somewhere’s else. I know because my source told me she saw him comin’ home last Friday night quite late. She said saw Whitelaw slippin’ in through the side entrance to his own house instead of usin’ the front door.”
Barnes stared at her incredulously. “Would you mind tellin’ me who this source is?”
Mrs. Goodge shifted uneasily. Admitting she’d sent one of the street lads (whom she occasionally fed cakes and buns to) over to snoop about in Whitelaw’s neighborhood would never do. She didn’t want Barnes or Witherspoon to know about that. Why, they’d figure out in an instant that this wasn’t the first time they’d been snoopin’ about.
“Well, I found out through a bit of gossip,” she hedged. “A friend of mine knows the maid that lives next door to Grady Whitelaw.”
“And was it this maid who saw Mr. Whitelaw coming in late on the evening of March ninth?” Witherspoon asked.
“Right,” agreed Mrs. Goodge. She looked quickly at Mrs. Jeffries for guidance. The housekeeper nodded almost imperceptibly.
“It was a Friday night, you see,” Mrs. Goodge continued, “and her employers was out for the evening. The girl took advantage. She slipped out while they was gone to meet her sweetheart.”
“So we could call this girl to give evidence in a trial?” Barnes pressed.
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Goodge said slowly. “But I don’t think she’d like it much.”
“Do you know her name? I’d like to talk with her. This could be important evidence,” Barnes said.
Mrs. Goodge thought quickly. “Her name’s Margaret Turner. But I don’t think you ought to talk to her unless you really have to make an arrest. If her employers found out what she’d done, she’d lose her position.”
“Oh dear, we wouldn’t want that to happen,” Witherspoon agreed. “I say, Barnes, let’s not bother the girl unless we find additional evidence that Whitelaw had something to do with the murders. I don’t want anyone losing their positions.”
Luty and Hatchet arrived as soon as supper was finished. Mrs. Jeffries and the others told them everything they’d heard from Barnes.
“I didn’t get to tell the inspector and Constable Barnes what I’d learned today,” Wiggins complained as soon as the housekeeper had finished speaking. “And I found out all kinds of things.”
“All right, boy,” Luty said kindly, “you go ahead and tell us. My news can wait.”
“Yes, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “It was most unkind of us to ignore you during our meeting with the constable.”
Wiggins shifted uncomfortably. He wished he hadn’t raised such a fuss. He hadn’t learned all that much. “Well,” he said slowly, “tomorrow’s the Ides of March.”
Everyone stared at him. He felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. “I’m not tellin’ this right,” he cried. “What I meant to say was that I think them words pinned on the dead men’s chest might be Latin.”
“Since when do you know Latin?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“I don’t know it,” Wiggins said, “but I can read, and today while I was at Mudies I come across this quote. It caught my eye ’cause the letters was just like the ones in the notes.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a piece of string, a sweet covered in lint, and finally a scrap of paper.
“’Ere it is,” he said, smoothing the paper out on the table. “Veni, vidi, vici,” he read aloud. “VENI was the word written on Hornsley’s paper, VIDI was the one written on Frampton’s chest, so I figured it had to mean something.”
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Hatchet translated. “I do believe he’s right. Well done, Wiggins. How fortunate for us that you happened across a volume of Suetonius.”
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Luty repeated. “But what’s it mean?”
“Obviously, it means something to the killer,” Hatchet replied.
“But what that could possibly be is the difficult part,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “How on earth can we determine what it means? A quote, even a famous one, taken out of context is virtually meaningless unless one can determine what it means to the killer.”
“You mean this is useless?” Wiggins gestured helplessly at the scrap of paper. “But I spent hours pourin’ over them books, and they didn’t even have pretty plates or illustrations.”
“Of course it isn’t useless,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “It’s merely a matter of us using our eyes, ears, and brains to determine why the killer would put such a thing on his victims’ bodies.” She knew it wasn’t going to be easy. That kind of a quotation could mean just about anything.
“While we’re thinkin’ about it,” Luty said, “can I tell everyone what I found out?” She paused a moment, waiting for their approval and then plunged straight ahead, telling them about her encounter with Grady Whitelaw’s butler. “So I found out exactly what we needed to know. Not only does Whitelaw not have an alibi, but he was seen practically at the scene of the crime only minutes before Frampton was killed.”
“I’d say that just about proves ’e’s our killer,” Smythe said softly. He glanced at the clock and saw that time was getting on. He hoped this meeting wouldn’t last all night. He still had to talk to Betsy, and then he had to go out.
“The evidence certainly does seem to be pointing at Whitelaw,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. But something was wrong. That little voice in the back of her mind was telling her that something was definitely wrong about this case. Something so obvious that it was almost a case of not being able to see the forest for the trees.
“So what do we do now?” Luty asked.
“I think we should keep on digging,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Are we goin’ to tell the inspector and Constable Barnes about what they’ve”—she gestured at Luty, Wiggins and Hatchet—“found out?”
“Yes, but that can wait until tomorrow.”
Betsy waited until she heard Mrs. Jeffries’s door close and then she crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. The big room was in darkness save for a single candle in the center of the table.
“Come on in, lass,” Smythe said softly. “I’ve been waitin’ for ya.”
She was grateful for the dim light. It would help her, make it easier for her if she couldn’t see his face so clearly.
She took the chair opposite him. “I had to wait till I heard Mrs. Jeffries go up,” she explained, wanting to put off the truth as long as possible.
“I know,” he grinned. “I ’ad to wait till Wiggins fell asleep. He were snorin’ like a drunken lord when I left.” He stopped and his smile faded. “All right, lass, tell me about you and Skegit. But before ya say anything, I want ya to know I’ll not be sittin’ in judgment on ya. I’ve been poor too and I know we all do things we don’t like just so’s we can survive.”
Betsy blinked to hold back the tears that welled in her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied formally. “I appreciate your sayin’ that.” She took a deep breath. “Raymond Skegit is a…a…”
“I know what ’e is, Betsy.”
She nodded. “Anyways, I was livin’ over the East End, me and my mum and my two sisters. Mum worked as a barmaid, and my sisters and I did sewin’ and piecework. It weren’t much of a livin’ but it was enough to keep us in a room to ourselves and buy food and tea. We lived like this for a long time, leastways it seemed like a long time. My older sister got married and left,” she swallowed heavily, “and my younger sister died of fever. Mum lost her job at the pub because she’d stayed home and nursed my sister instead of goin’ to work. Things seemed to get worse after that. Mum couldn’t get work, the clothin’ factory that give me the piecework shut down, and we was turned out into the street. We stayed in doss houses for the most part, it weren’t too bad, ’cause it was summer. But I’d run into Skegit every now and again, and he’d always ask me to come work for him. He was always at me, tellin’ me how much money I could make, how much easier life would be if I worked for him. I wouldn’t. No matter how poor we was, I wasn’t doin’ that.” She looked down at the table.
“But then Mum got real sick. By this time it was winter and I was scared to death I was goin’ to lose her. So I went to Skegit and told him I’d become one of his girls.” She laughed bitterly. “Skegit give me five pounds, told me to use it to get Mum some medicine and a decent place to stay. I thought it was a fortune. I went back to the doss house where I’d left her…” Her voice broke. “And she was dead.”
“It’s all right, lass,” Smythe started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.
“No, let me tell you the rest.” She swiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Mum was gone and I was on my own. I used the money Skegit had give me to get her buried. It weren’t much, but at least she had a coffin. Then I went to Skegit and told him I wasn’t goin’ to work for him. He started screamin’ at me, callin’ me names and tellin’ me I owed him five pounds. I give him what little I had, but he didn’t want the money. He wanted me.” She sighed heavily, as though a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “I knew I couldn’t stay in the East End, not with him after me. So I took off. I lived on the streets for a while, doin’ what I could to survive, gettin’ day work and things like that. But my luck run out and I got pneumonia. In a way, it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I collapsed on Inspector Witherspoon’s doorstep.” She looked up at his face. “You know the rest. I’ve been here ever since. I never thought I’d lay eyes on Raymond Skegit again.”
Smythe got up and came around the table. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Betsy,” he promised, his own voice none too steady and he was glad of the dim light. His own eyes were wet from hearing of her pain and suffering. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. Raymond Skegit will never bother you again. I’ll see to that.”