Bert Santorini hoped this wouldn’t take long. He didn’t have all night and despite it being almost springtime, it was still bloomin’ cold. Princess, the old pony, swished her tail and gave a soft whinny. He climbed down from the seat of his ice cart and straightened the bouquet he’d saved to give to a certain lady who was annoyed with him at the moment. He put his hand on Princess’ back, hoping to soothe her. “Don’t fret, my lovey—we’ll be home soon. Just got to take care of this bit of business.”
He glared down the dark mews and tried to keep a lid on his temper. It was past time for the meeting and he was tired; Mondays were always a tough day. He told himself he should just leave, that he wasn’t going to be dancing to a fancy toff’s tune, but there was too much at stake. This was business, and there was more than a little money to be made, maybe a lot more if he kept his head and held his tongue.
Wind gusted down the mews, and Princess snorted faintly, as if telling him they should be moving on. “It’s alright, love—it’ll not be much longer.” He glanced at the far end of the mews, squinting in the dim light. He and Princess were only a few feet off the Commercial Road; but the radiance from the streetlamps didn’t reach this far, and the only illumination was from the two kerosene lights on his cart. It was enough to see by, but just barely.
He glanced up at the four-story brown brick office building on his left before turning and examining the two-story warehouse on the right. Both places were dark and closed for the night. Good— the last thing he needed was prying eyes. Satisfied, he turned toward the Commercial Road. Traffic was heavy at this time of evening, but nothing turned into the mews. Where was the blighter? Money or not, he wasn’t going to wait much longer.
He whirled around as he heard footsteps coming from the opposite end of the mews. He had a story ready if it was a copper on patrol, but it wasn’t a copper, it was the one he expected. Dragging in a deep breath, he readied himself for what might turn into a nasty row. As he exhaled, he realized there was something funny going on here. His eyes narrowed as the figure came closer. It was him, of course, and he’d not seen him since before the trial, but from the way his overcoat hung, he’d put on a good half stone or more of weight. “Guess ’e can afford to stuff his face anytime he wants,” he muttered. Princess snorted.
“It’s about time you got ’ere.” Bert tried and failed to hold his tongue. But his visitor said nothing; he simply shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and kept moving.
“What’s wrong with ya? Cat got yer tongue?”
Again, the advancing figure said nothing.
Princess whinnied again and tossed her head, jangling her harness. Bert was suddenly uneasy; something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He told himself there was nothing to worry about—he’d taken precautions. What they’d done had been much more dangerous for the toff than for him. He’d made bloomin’ sure the toff knew better than to try to squirm out of their deal. He’d taken a big risk for this one, and he’d made it crystal clear that if anything happened to him, there was a friend who’d point the police his way.
“Come on, come on, pick up your feet and get your arse over ’ere. It’s cold and you’re late. I want to get Princess home. I’ve got plans for tonight.”
But instead of moving faster, the blighter stuck his left hand inside his overcoat. Bert’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw a pillow appear.
“Have you gone mad? Why are you carryin’ around a pillow?”
But instead of answering, he suddenly increased his speed while shoving his hand into his other coat pocket.
Alarmed, Bert stumbled backward. He’d survived the crime-ridden streets of the East End by trusting his instincts, and right now they were screaming at him to run.
But it was too late.
The figure raced toward Bert, pulling a gun out of his coat pocket as he narrowed the distance between the two of them. Bert turned and ran toward the end of the mews. His only chance was to make it to the Commercial Road. But the cobblestones were damp, and before he could go more than a few feet, he slipped and fell hard onto the ground. He landed next to Princess, scaring her enough so that she danced away from him. He grabbed at her harness, his fingers closing around the soft leather straps as he tried to get up. But the animal tore away from his grasp, confused, and bolted toward the busy road.
The killer stood above him with the gun pointed straight at his forehead. Bert’s eyes widened as he saw who held the weapon. “You. What in the name of all that’s holy are you doin’ ’ere?”
“My God, you always did ask stupid questions.” In one quick movement, the murderer shoved the pillow into Bert’s face, rammed the gun against the fabric, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot was muffled by the traffic noise.
Bert slumped to the ground. It took only a moment to make sure he was dead. The assailant saw that the pony, frightened even more by the unfamiliar noises, had now reached the end of the mews and, with the cart lurching drunkenly behind it, ran out onto the busy street. That was good—part of the plan, actually. At this time of day, the street would be crowded with both pedestrian and road traffic. By now, someone would have spotted the animal and realized where it had come from and, more important, that something might be wrong. No one let a valuable horse and cart go running off on its own, not in this part of the city. Within minutes, someone would be here to see what happened and that was just fine.
The faster the police arrived, the better.
The killer carefully placed the gun next to the body, turned around, and walked calmly back the way they’d come.
Constable Poole spotted the pony and cart rushing into the heavy traffic of the Commercial Road. He raced toward it, dodging coopers’ vans, hansoms, four-wheelers, and two omnibuses before he managed to grasp the animal’s bridle. He’d been raised in the country, so he knew better than to try to stop the runaway. He ran alongside the pony, gradually slowing it down.
Poole petted the pony’s head and spoke in a low, soothing voice as they slackened their pace and moved toward the edge of the pavement. Both of them were panting and out of breath as they finally came to a stop. “Not to worry, my pretty one, you’re safe now. But where’s your owner? Where’d you come from?”
By this time quite a crowd had gathered. “He come out of the end of Felix Mews.” A flat-capped young lad pointed. “He come out like he was bein’ chased by the devil hisself.”
“Can someone hold on to him?” Poole called. He wanted to have a look in the mews. The owner should be close by; perhaps he’d been making deliveries or had stopped to give the beast a rest. But if that was the case, where was he? Whatever the reason, Poole needed to find out what was happening.
“I’ll hold him,” a middle-aged man volunteered.
Poole nodded and hurried to the mews. He stepped inside and realized how little light came from the street. For a brief moment, he wished he had his hand lantern, but he’d been on fixed-point duty and all he had was a truncheon and a whistle. He moved farther inside the mews and then came to a full stop. Even in the darkness, there was enough light for him to see a body splayed out on the cobblestones. Poole hurried over to where the man lay, knelt down, and shoved his fingers against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He prayed he was doing it right. But after several minutes of Poole prodding the poor fellow’s neck and wrist, he was fairly certain the man was dead. The bullet hole in his forehead was a clue, but he’d been on the force long enough to know that people could survive all sorts of wounds, including bullets to their head. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and leaned back on his heels. That was when he spotted the gun lying next to the body.
Poole stood up and charged out of the mews, blowing his police whistle as he ran. Several members of the crowd surged forward, but he held out his arms. “No one goes inside here,” he yelled. “You”—he nodded toward a street lad who was petting the pony—“run to the Leman Street Police Station and tell them we need help here. Hurry.” The lad raced off.
“What happened? Why can’t we go in the mews?” an elderly woman asked. Several others echoed her questions. They were a pushy bunch here in the East End. But Constable Poole ignored them and blew his whistle again and again.
Relief flooded through him as he saw two constables coming around the corner. For once, Constable Poole was glad that Whitechapel was such a high crime area that there were always constables on patrol.
“We’re lucky that pony bolted,” Inspector Vincent Havers muttered as he stared down at the body. “Otherwise he might have lain here all night.” The inspector was a tall, burly man with curly black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples and an elegantly shaped mustache. “Does anyone know who he is?”
“Bert Santorini, sir. He’s an iceman who mainly works in the West End, but he supplies some of the nicer pubs around ’ere with ice,” Constable Farrow, one of the men holding a lamp, replied. He’d been born and raised in Whitechapel and knew all the locals.
“Does anyone know where he lives?” Havers asked.
“He lodges at Frida Sorensen’s,” another constable said.
“We’ll start there then,” Havers muttered. “Hold the lamps higher,” he ordered as he knelt down, looking for the weapon Poole had said was next to the body. It was lying next to Santorini’s head. Havers moved the weapon carefully, making sure it wasn’t pointing at anyone before picking it up. “No doubt, this is the murder weapon.” He raised the barrel to his nose and took a whiff. “I can smell the powder; it’s been fired.”
“You mean the killer left it here?” Constable Farrow said. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it, sir? Guns are expensive.”
Havers frowned slightly as he held the firearm closer to the lamp. “Indeed, it doesn’t, especially when the weapon in question looks to be quite valuable.” He drew back. “This is a dueling pistol. It’s got fancy carvings on the handle, and it looks as if this filigree is made of gold. Good gracious, the inlay looks like mother-of-pearl.”
“May I have a look, sir?” Poole asked. “It might be one that we saw at the station recently.”
Havers looked up sharply. “At the station? Good Lord, man, if it belonged to a prisoner and was used in a crime, why didn’t you confiscate it and take it into evidence?” He handed the weapon, handle first, to the constable.
Poole took the firearm. He said nothing for a few moments as he stared at the gun in his hand. He’d paid no attention to the details when he’d seen it lying next to the body, but now he knew he’d seen it before, and very recently at that. “Well, sir, we didn’t confiscate it because it didn’t belong to a prisoner.”
“Who does it belong to?” Havers demanded.
“Inspector Nigel Nivens, sir. He brought it into the station because he was getting one of the guns repaired. You’re right, sir, it is a dueling pistol. It’s part of a set that Inspector Nivens said had been in his family for generations. According to Inspector Nivens, it’s very old, something called a single-shot flintlock, which only fires one bullet and then has to be reloaded.”
Havers said nothing for a moment. Poole shifted nervously. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He knew that Inspector Havers had no great liking or admiration for Inspector Nivens, but he also knew that when it came right down to it, those at the top always stuck together. “Are you certain of this, Constable Poole?”
But despite his trepidation, Poole was an honest man, raised in the best traditions of his late mother’s Presbyterian church; he’d not lie just because the truth might cause him a bit of trouble. Besides, he wasn’t the only constable who’d seen Nivens’ guns. “I’m very certain of it, sir.” He handed the weapon back to Havers. “Inspector Nivens brought the guns into the station last Thursday, sir. He laid the gun box on the sergeant’s desk and opened the lid. The two guns were inside. Several of us saw them, sir. Inspector Nivens held one up and told us the filigree design on the handles was an intricate working of his mother’s maiden initials, so he had to be careful who he let repair the one that wasn’t working. Apparently, there aren’t many gunsmiths in London who Inspector Nivens trusted with his family heirloom. He didn’t want the gold filigree or mother-of-pearl destroyed.”
In truth, Inspector Nivens had used the opportunity to brag about his mother’s family wealth, claiming the guns had been a gift to her grandfather by a maharajah of India. No one knew whether what he said was true or not; for that matter, no one cared. Every constable that had the misfortune of working under Nivens hated him.
“And you’re absolutely certain this gun was part of Nivens’ set?” Havers loathed Nivens as well, but before he questioned the fellow, he had to be absolutely sure of his facts. Nivens had been sent to the East End because he’d been accused of deliberately withholding evidence in a murder investigation, conduct that would normally have gotten a detective sacked. But Nivens’ family had intervened, so instead of the man getting chucked out, the Leman Street Station was stuck with him. Furthermore, Nivens had recently solved a series of burglaries and sent the Irish brothers who’d committed the crimes off to prison, so his star was on the rise. Havers was no fool: Nivens’ family was powerful, and it wouldn’t do to start hurling accusations based on very few facts.
Poole stared at the weapon for a few moments and then met his inspector’s gaze. “It looks the same to me, sir, and when the inspector was talking about the pistols, he claimed they were the only ones ever made with a gold filigree handle and mother-of-pearl inlays. But Constable Farrow and Constable Blackstone were standing there when Inspector Nivens showed us the pistols. You might want to double-check with one of them, sir.”
“It’s the same weapon, sir,” Constable Farrow said quickly.
“Did Inspector Nivens leave the pistols lying on the sergeant’s desk?” Havers asked.
“No, sir. He took them into the duty inspector’s office, and later that day I saw him carrying the case when he left.”
“Did he say anything as he left with the case?” Havers asked.
“Not that I can recall, sir,” Poole replied.
“I overheard him say he was stopping at the pub, sir,” Farrow added.
“Do you know which one?”
“He didn’t say, sir, but he generally goes to the Crying Crows.”
Havers nodded. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation as to why a weapon that resembles the ones Inspector Nivens brought into the station would be here. We’ll see what he has to say about the matter. In the meantime, keep constables posted at each end of the mews and when daybreak comes, make certain the entire area is thoroughly searched.”
“There’s already crowds at each end of the mews.” Constable Farrow jerked his chin to his left, then to his right. “Should we try and send them off, sir?”
“No, leave them be. Trying to disperse them will just cause a fuss,” Havers ordered. He knew they had far too few constables present to be effective in clearing the area. East Enders didn’t like getting pushed about by the police, and he’d just as soon not have a scuffle on his hands that ended up in tomorrow’s newspapers. “Pubs are open now, so most of them will move along on their own.”
“The police surgeon is here, sir,” one of the constables guarding the entrance to the mews called.
Inspector Havers handed the pistol to Constable Poole. “Right, then, take this into evidence, and we’ll see what the doctor has to say about this.”
Charlie Bowman sighed in relief as the heavy door of the Sentinel actually opened. He hurried inside and then skidded to a halt as he faced several rows of huge machines, several of which had grumpy- looking men standing behind them. “What ya want, lad?” the man nearest him called out.
“I’ve got a note for one of your reporters,” he yelled. “There’s been a murder in Whitechapel.”
“So, there’s always a murder down that way. But if you’re lookin’ for a reporter, go up to the second floor—the stairs are over there.” He jerked his thumb to his right.
Charlie nodded his thanks and dashed off. He climbed the stairs and came out into a big room filled with desks, typewriters, and cabinets. But not many people.
“Bloody ’ell,” he muttered. “This place is empty.”
“What do ya need, lad?” A man wearing spectacles wandered out of an open office door at the far end of the room.
“There’s been a murder in Whitechapel,” Charlie cried as he hurried toward what he hoped was a reporter. “Bert Santorini—he’s the iceman—he’s been shot. ’Ere.” He thrust the note into the man’s hand. “Someone give me this to bring to ya. They give me a whole shillin’ to get ’ere before you closed up shop.”
“We’re a newspaper, we never close,” the man muttered as he opened the folded sheet of paper and read the three lines that were written.
The police are already trying to cover up a crime by one of their own.
The gun used to murder Bert Santorini belongs to Inspector Nigel Nivens.
Don’t let them get away with killing someone.
The man fixed Charlie with a hard glare. “Where’d ya get this?”
“Outside the Felix Mews.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“I don’t know—there was a big crowd of us watching the coppers, and all of a sudden someone shoved this note into my hand and give me a shillin’. I just told ya that.” Charlie wanted to get going. It was a long way home, and his mam didn’t like him staying out too late. Mind you, she’d be a bit nicer about it when he gave her the money.
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“Don’t know—it coulda been either. It was pitch-dark and bloomin’ cold—everyone was bundled up so I couldn’t see nuthin’. Someone shoved the note in me hand, give me the coin, and told me to get ’ere quick.”
“Don’t be daft, lad. What did the voice sound like? A man or a woman?”
“They had a low voice, but it coulda been either. Mrs. Cayley at the butcher’s has a voice like that, and she’s a woman. That’s all I know, and I’ve got to go. Me mam don’t like me bein’ out late.”
The man watched the lad leave. By this time another man, a reporter named Jerome Corey stood in the open doorway. “Should I go have a look?”
“Someone spent a shilling to send the lad here, and in that part of London, that’s a lot of coin. It might not be a hoax.” He handed Corey the note. “If this is true, it’ll make a good headline for tomorrow’s edition. But you’ll need to get there and back here with a story by nine o’clock. That’s the latest we can hold off in time for tomorrow’s edition.”
At Scotland Yard the next morning, Chief Superintendent Barrows entered his third-floor office, stopped by the door, and hung up his gray overcoat on the coat tree. He yawned as he went to his desk and took his chair. The chief superintendent was a tall, balding man with tortoiseshell spectacles and a luxurious mustache.
There was a short knock on the door and then Constable Dingle stepped inside. He carried a stack of mail in one hand and a file box in the other. “These are for you, sir. It’s the daily reports as well as the post.”
“Of course. Put them on the desk,” Barrows instructed. “What time did you come on duty?”
“Midnight, sir.” He put the post on top of the box and laid the stack on the side of the desk within the chief’s reach.
“Was it quiet last night?” Barrows asked.
“For the most part, sir. There was a murder in Whitechapel,” he began, only to be interrupted.
“Whitechapel? Ye gods, it wasn’t a woman, was it?” Barrows asked quickly.
“No, sir.” Dingle tried not to smile. Everyone at Scotland Yard knew that Chief Superintendent Barrows was one of the officers who’d investigated the Ripper killings and, even though that had been years earlier, he was still very nervous about killings in the East End. The Ripper murders had never been solved, and a number of the older officers at Scotland Yard were very skittish whenever there was a murder in that part of London. “It was a man, sir. An ice seller.”
“You read the report?”
Dingle shook his head. “No, sir. Constable Blackstone told me when he came on duty this morning. His brother works at the Leman Street Station. Said a bloke named Santorini was found shot in Felix Mews.”
“Shot? With a gun?”
“That’s what he told me, sir.”
“Ye gods, how do these criminals get their hands on so many firearms? I tell you, it’s a disgrace, an absolute disgrace. Most unfair—we don’t carry guns, yet half the blackguards and knaves in London seem to be armed to the teeth.”
“Yes, sir.” Dingle edged toward the door. The chief superintendent’s views on guns were widely known at the Yard, and he didn’t want to get stuck listening to him go on about it now. His shift was almost over; he was tired, bored, and wanted to go home and have a nice cup of tea. “Uh, that’s really all I know. If that’s all, sir, I’ll be off.”
“Yes, yes.” Barrows waved him away. “I’m sure all the grisly details will be in the reports.” He reached for the stack, put the post aside to open later, and flipped open the file box containing the daily reports. The reports were divided into districts, with one central station in the district reporting the arrests, incidents, accidents, and civilian inquiries made each day.
Barrows went through the pages diligently, noting it was the usual litany of stolen goods, lost purses, petty thefts, burglaries, two accidental traffic deaths, a drowning off the East India Dock, and a raid on a house of prostitution in Bethnal Green. But when he got to the report from the Leman Street Station, he was so stunned he read it again. Barrows sat back in his chair and stared at the door. He shook his head in disbelief. Ye gods, why on earth was a police inspector’s gun found at a murder scene, and why did it have to be the one police inspector who had done nothing but cause them trouble?
Across town in the kitchen of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon’s home on Upper Edmonton Gardens, Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, came down the back stairs, her brown bombazine dress rustling as she entered the kitchen. She dumped the huge green book on the table and sat down. “I’ve put this off as long as possible, but if I don’t get the housekeeping ledger caught up, we’ll have no idea what we’ve spent or where we’ve spent it.” She was a plump woman of late middle age with dark auburn hair streaked with gray, light colored freckles over her nose, brown eyes, and a ready smile.
Mrs. Goodge, a portly woman with snow-white hair under her floppy cook’s cap and wire-framed spectacles said, “I’m glad you’re in charge of that and not me. I’ve always found numbers confusing.”
They heard the back door open and a few moments later, Phyllis, the housemaid, rushed into the kitchen. She unfastened her coat as she headed for the coat tree. She was a pretty lass with dark blonde hair, sapphire-colored eyes, and a porcelain complexion that now had very red cheeks from being outside in the wind. “You’ll never guess who died.”
“Who?” The cook, who’d just bent down to pull her big brown bowl out from beneath her worktable, straightened up and turned to look at the maid.
Phyllis hung her coat on the peg. “Mr. Soames, that’s who.” She hurried to the table, her attention on Mrs. Jeffries. “But before I forget, Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Morgenstern told me to thank you for the tea you sent over last week. She said it really soothed her throat and that it broke her fever. She was ever so grateful for the batch you sent today.”
“Is she finally getting better?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“She was up and well enough to wave me down from the kitchen door. She stood there chatting for five minutes with the door wide-open. Honestly, it’s so cold out, I was afraid she was going to catch a chill. From the way she was going on, you’d think that ginger tea of yours was a magic potion.”
“Compared to that awful stuff you get from the chemists, it probably is.” The cook put her hands on her hips. “Now come on—we’re all glad Mrs. Morgenstern is on the mend, but don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us about Mr. Soames.”
Phyllis pulled out a chair and sat down. “As I was leaving the Morgenstern home, Hannah Sebold, the housemaid for the Soameses came outside. When she spotted me, she came running over. You know how Hannah is—she loves to talk. She told me that Mr. Soames got out of bed in the middle of the night and plummeted down the back stairs. He bounced and banged around so much he woke up the whole place. By the time anyone got to him, he was unconscious but still breathing. They sent for the doctor right away, but apparently the fall must have caused a concussion or some sort of brain injury because he died early this morning.”
“Was he alone when he tumbled down the stairs?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. It wasn’t an idle question. Mrs. Jeffries and the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens knew more about foul play than the average domestic servants. They worked for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, and they’d helped their dear inspector solve more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police. Not that he had any idea that they assisted him, and they were determined to keep it that way.
“He was and he wasn’t. Mrs. Perrin—she’s the Soameses’ housekeeper—saw the whole thing. According to Hannah, Mrs. Perrin said that Mr. Soames made such a racket when he left his room that she heard him. Her quarters are at the back of the house on the third floor. She got up because she thought someone was trying to break into the house, and she spotted him just as he reached the back stairs,” Phyllis explained. Like everyone else in the Witherspoon household, she understood the importance of details, and she’d questioned Hannah quite thoroughly.
“Why on earth was the master of the house using the back stairs?” the cook exclaimed. “Especially an old snob like Soames?”
“Hannah said she overheard Mrs. Perrin tell their cook that Mr. Soames was drunk, that she’d seen him take a bottle of whisky up to his room.”
“He does drink a fair bit,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “He was so drunk at Christmas that he wandered out into the communal garden and thought Mrs. Enright’s bulldog was a pig. He tried to catch the poor animal for his Christmas dinner. The Enrights were not amused by the incident.”
“I shouldn’t laugh, either.” Phyllis giggled. “But it was funny, especially when Mrs. Enright started smacking him with a tree branch. Anyway, Mrs. Perrin went after him to see if there was something wrong and then saw him trip over his own feet and go flying down the back stairs.”
“At least now that he’s dead, poor Mrs. Soames will have a moment’s peace.” The cook leaned down again and grabbed the bread bowl.
Mrs. Jeffries looked at the cook, her expression shocked. “Mrs. Goodge, what a thing to say.”
“Now don’t get on your high horse, Hepzibah,” the cook said, using the housekeeper’s Christian name, which she generally only said when the two of them were alone or when she wanted to make a point. “You couldn’t stand him, either. I’m just being honest. He was a dreadful man. I’m amazed that his wife hadn’t pushed him down the ruddy stairs ages ago.” She reached for her tin of flour and pried open the lid. “Besides, he threw rocks at Samson and would have kicked poor Fred’s head in if Wiggins hadn’t stopped him.” Samson was the cook’s bad-tempered tomcat, and Fred was the household dog. Upon hearing his name, Fred looked up from his rug by the cooker and thumped his tail.
“Mrs. Goodge is right,” Phyllis said. “He’s a horrid tyrant, Hannah said he constantly criticized poor Mrs. Soames, was always late paying their quarterly wages, disinherited his own daughter because she married a man he didn’t like, and worst of all, turfed out that young housemaid last year just because she chipped his teacup.”
“That may all be true—he was a nasty human being,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted. “But still, a death is never to be celebrated.”
“If I was Mrs. Soames, I’d be celebrating.” Wiggins knelt down as Fred leapt up and trotted over to him. He’d just come inside after helping the laundry boy carry the big wicker basket of linens out to the wagon. He was a tall, brown-haired young man in his twenties with fair skin and a handsome face. Though technically a footman, Wiggins did everything and anything that needed to be done in the household. “And I think everyone at the Soames home will be breathin’ a bit easier now that the old man is gone,” he continued. “Fred wasn’t doin’ anything except tryin’ to find a spot to do his business. He was only walkin’ past when Mr. Soames started kickin’ at him, and he’d have killed him if I’d not heard the poor dog screamin’. Anyone who kicks a dog just for the fun of it is downright evil.” He gave the animal one last, loving stroke and stood up. Fred went back to his rug, curled up, and went back to sleep.
Mrs. Jeffries knew when she was beaten. “I’ve no doubt you’re right. Still, it seems wrong to make light of the man’s death.”
“God works in mysterious ways,” the cook murmured. “Perhaps the Almighty got tired of watching that wretched man bullying and browbeating everyone. Strange, isn’t it, that death means freedom for some, while for most others, it’s a heartbreaking moment.”
“It means things will change in the Soames household.” Phyllis got up and went to the cupboard next to the pine sideboard. Opening the bottom cabinet, she pulled out her feather duster and a bundle of clean rags. “Now Mrs. Soames can help her daughter; she’s goin’ to have a child.”
“Death always means change,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “If it wasn’t for a death, none of us would be here.”
“What do you mean?” Phyllis tucked the duster under her arm.
“Well, if the inspector’s Aunt Euphemia hadn’t died when Smythe returned from Australia, none of us would be here, and we certainly wouldn’t be helping him solve murders.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Wiggins mused. “But you’re right. None of us would be here if it hadn’t been for Miss Witherspoon’s death. She took me in when I was just a lad, and she was a nice mistress. She didn’t put on airs, and she treated us decently. It was right awful what ’appened. When Smythe come in and took over, I was ever so happy. He did everything he could to save ’er, but the poor lady died anyway.”
“What happened?” Phyllis looked at the footman curiously. Compared to the others, she was relatively new to the household. She’d heard of Euphemia Witherspoon, and she knew some, but not all of the details of how they’d all come together.
“She got ill with bronchitis and sent me for the doctor,” Wiggins explained. “Mind you, I don’t think he was much good at doctoring—he just said for her to put a smelly poultice on her chest and keep to her bed. But she got worse and worse. She was so ill, she couldn’t get out of bed. That’s when the other servants started pinchin’ her stuff.”
“They started stealing?” Phyllis exclaimed. “That’s terrible, especially as she treated them well.”
“That doesn’t matter to some people.” Wiggins shrugged. “But all of a sudden, some of her jewels went missing from her room, and some of the nice things from the house started to disappear. When I complained and said they oughtn’t to do it, the butler cuffed me so hard on the ’ead I saw stars. I remember goin’ back upstairs and tryin’ to take care of her, but I was just a young lad, and I didn’t know what to do.”
“Couldn’t you go to the neighbors?” Phyllis sat back down and put the feather duster and the rags on the chair next to her.
He shook his head. “No, for some reason they didn’t seem to like the mistress—not that she minded, she had lots of other friends. I’d decided I was goin’ to go and find Mr. Brooker—he was her special friend and very wealthy. Trouble was, I didn’t know where he lived. But then that mornin’, she roused enough to tell me where to find ’im. I was puttin’ on my coat to go get ’im, but then I saw the housekeeper and the butler huddled together in the front hall, you know, like they was plottin’ somethin’ bad. I wasn’t scared of them, but I wasn’t goin’ to leave her on her own.” His handsome young face clouded as he remembered those awful days. “By this time, all the other servants were doin’ whatever they liked. Eatin’ everythin’ in sight, drinkin’ her liquor, and that awful housekeeper, Mrs. Gowdy, was even wearin’ her pearls. I didn’t know what to do.
“Then Smythe turned up. It was like a miracle. He used to work for the mistress; he’d been her coachman before he’d gone to Australia, and when he’d come back to England, he stopped in to pay his respects. Well, he took one look at what was goin’ on and took matters in hand, he did.” Wiggins smiled at the memory. “He sent me for a proper doctor and turfed out the rest of ’em. Mr. Cuccinelli—he was the butler—tried to bluff ’im out, but Smythe just twisted his arm around his back and showed him the door. That whole bunch got out of here right quick, I tell ya.” His expression darkened. “But it was too late for the mistress. She died two days later.”
Mrs. Jeffries patted his arm. “Wiggins, I’m sure that you helped make Miss Witherspoon’s last days bearable. If you hadn’t been there for her, she’d have had no one to take care of her.”
“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled gratefully. “She were a nice mistress, and she’d have approved of what we’ve been doin’. You know, ’elpin’ our inspector with ’is murder cases.”
“She sounds like a really good person,” Phyllis said.
“She was,” he continued. “I was there when she made Smythe promise to stay on here and make certain our inspector wasn’t taken advantage of by anyone. Smythe might ’ave been just a coachman, but he made sure that you”—he looked at the housekeeper, then at the cook—“Mrs. Goodge, and even Betsy were decent people before he let you in the ’ouse.”
“He told the inspector who he could and couldn’t hire?” Mrs. Goodge laughed as she dumped a cup of flour into her bowl. “Gracious, I didn’t know that.”
“Not directly, but by the time our inspector moved in, he relied on Smythe and me to ’elp ’im out a bit. He’d never lived in a big, fancy house like this before. He and his mum hadn’t had servants. He became a policeman because he needed to earn a living to take care of the both of them. When he inherited his aunt’s fortune, it made it hard for him, and our inspector saw that Smythe knew what ’e was doin’. He’s a good judge of character, is our Smythe.”
“The inspector’s mother had died by the time he inherited all this?” Phyllis waved a hand around the huge, well-equipped kitchen.
“She died a few months before Miss Witherspoon.”
“It must have been a sad time for our inspector.” The cook dusted the flour off her hands. “Losing his mother and his aunt. He barely knew Miss Witherspoon, but it’s never nice to be alone in the world. Mind you, some good came of the situation. It brought all of us together. If I’d not got this position, I don’t know what I’d have done.”
“Surely you’d have found another position, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis said. “You’re a wonderful cook.”
“Ta, Phyllis. That’s nice of you to say. But most households wouldn’t have wanted to hire someone my age. The only reason the clerk at the domestic employment agency sent me here was because no other qualified cooks wanted to work for a policeman and, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t either.”
Phyllis gasped in shock. She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. The cook had never struck her as someone who placed any importance on the status of her employer.
Mrs. Goodge looked at her. “Don’t be so surprised. You’ve been in service long enough to know there’s as much snobbery belowstairs as there is above. I was no better than most other servants of my generation. Our position, the way we were treated by our family and the neighborhood, was determined by the standing of the master of the household where we worked. Even if the wages were awful, most people would rather have worked for a stingy baronet than a generous butcher. I’d worked for lords and ladies, country gentry, and members of Parliament; it was quite a comedown to take a position with a mere policeman, no matter how wealthy he might be.”
“It’s true,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “When she first arrived, she did look down her nose at us a bit.”
The cook chuckled. “But that didn’t last long. Before I knew it, Mrs. Jeffries had everyone out asking questions about those horrible Kensington High Street murders, and, despite myself, I realized I wanted to help. What’s more, being here has given me a real purpose in life. Our investigations are the most important thing I’ve ever done.”
Wiggins nodded in agreement. “They’re the most important thing any of us has ever done.”
“I know I don’t contribute as much as the rest of you do.” Mrs. Goodge stepped away from her worktable, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “But I’m happy to do what little I can.”
“You do your share, Mrs. Goodge,” Phyllis protested.
“Of course you do,” the housekeeper echoed. “Why would you think you do less than the rest of us?”
“Because I don’t leave the kitchen. The rest of you get out and about, talking to people and gatherin’ clues, but all I do is stay in my kitchen and listen to gossip.”
“Gossip that often turns out to be very important,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted. “There are a number of cases we’d never have solved if it hadn’t been for information you have passed along.”
“Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, you’ve worked in some of the finest houses all over the country, and you stay in touch with all your old friends. The sort of gossip and information you’ve found out is right important. You’ve done as much as any of us.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” The cook smiled as she glanced at their faces. “I just wish I could do more. Fighting for justice is so important.”
“As you and Wiggins have said, it’s the most important thing any of us have done and you do your fair share,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “We all do. Each and every one of us.”
“I wish we had another one to work on,” Phyllis muttered, then she realized what she’d said. “Oh dear, I don’t mean that the way it sounded. Murder is never right, even when the victim is a dreadful human being. But let’s be honest here—life is so much more exciting when we’re on the hunt.”
Mrs. Jeffries ducked her head to hide a smile. When Phyllis had first arrived at the Witherspoon household, she’d been a shy, frightened girl so terrified of losing her position she wouldn’t even consider helping them with the inspector’s cases. But now she was a vibrant, confident young woman who was saving her money to open her own detective agency! Life was simply full of surprises.
“She’s right, Mrs. Jeffries.” Wiggins gave the maid a broad smile. “None of us like to admit it, but life is excitin’ when we’re out and about and doin’ our best to make sure innocent people don’t face the ’angman’s noose. But it’s done somethin’ else for me—it’s made me realize that one of these days, I can be more than what I am now. Don’t get me wrong, I love livin’ ’ere and bein’ with all of you, but one of these days, I’m goin’ to take what I’ve learned and start my own business.”
“What kind of business?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“A private inquiry agency.”
“You’re going to open a detective agency?” Phyllis yelped. “But you know that’s what I was planning to do.”
“I can do it, too,” he countered. “Cor blimey, if anyone should do it, it’s me. I’ve been at this longer than you.”
“But that’s not fair,” she argued. “I had the idea first.”
“So what difference does that make? Besides, I might go abroad and open mine. I’ve always wanted to go to Canada or America. They need detectives there as well.”
“Now you two quit squabbling,” the cook interjected. “There’s room for more than one detective agency in this world.” She cocked her head, her expression speculative as she looked at the maid. “Are you absolutely sure that Mrs. Perrin didn’t give Mr. Soames a shove down those kitchen stairs?”