Witherspoon stared at the front of the Crying Crows Pub as he waited for Barnes to pay the hansom driver. The building was just off the Whitechapel High Street on a short road that dead-ended at the back of a derelict flour mill. It was a two-story brown brick structure with a huge, brilliantly painted sign showing two crows, their mouths wide-open and their wings spread in flight, mounted over the double doorway. The pub was separated from the other buildings on the road by a narrow passageway filled with cast-off broken junk on one side and a larger, paved walkway leading to a side door on the other. Along the very top of the building was a crimson sign with gold lettering that read Bryson’s Ales and Stouts, one of the largest breweries in southern England.
He and the constable had debated whether to start here or at the Thistle and Thorn. They’d settled on this pub because it was connected to both Nivens and Santorini. It also had the advantage of being the closest one to the Leman Street Station.
Barnes joined the inspector, yanked open the door, and they stepped inside. “No wonder the lads like coming here. It’s not just decent, sir—it could give a pub in Mayfair or Belgravia a run for their money.” He shook his head. “It didn’t look like this twenty-five years ago.”
In the center of the room hung a five-branch brass chandelier with pale pink globes covering the gas burners. The floors were polished oak and the walls covered in a red and gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper. The pub was shaped like an L, with the bar facing the door and a row of private booths enclosed in wood partitions and topped with delicately etched glass running along one side. Tables with curved wooden chairs, potted plants on brass stands, and several padded love seats were strategically placed to maximize the number of people that could be served.
“You’ve been here before?” Witherspoon asked.
Barnes nodded. “Yes. Back then, the walls were whitewashed, the floors just plain old planks, and there wasn’t a fancy mirror behind the bar. But as they say, times change.”
It was only a few minutes past eleven o’clock, opening time, so the place wasn’t full. A dark-haired young man dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black waistcoat stood behind the bar, polishing glasses. He glanced at them as they crossed the floor. “What’ll it be, sir?” He directed his question to Witherspoon.
“We’d like to speak with Mrs. Callahan,” the inspector said.
He put the glass down on the counter tray. “She’s in her office, but she’ll not thank me for interrupting her.”
“This is police business, lad.” Barnes gave him a hard stare. “And we’ll not thank you if you waste our time. Please tell Mrs. Callahan we’re here and that it’s important.”
The barman blinked in surprise. “Alright, alright, there’s no need for threats. I’m just tryin’ to ’ang on to my job here. There’s many of your lot that comes in ’ere and we always treat ’em right. Keep your shirt on and I’ll get ’er.” He tossed his towel on top of the polished glasses and disappeared through a door at the far end of the bar.
Barnes turned to the inspector. “In this part of London, sir, you’ve got to show ’em that we’re not to be trifled with. Take my word for it, most of the people here would just as soon spit on a constable’s shoes rather than tell him anything.”
“I quite understand, Constable.” Witherspoon knew Barnes wasn’t one to use his position to intimidate or bully others. Furthermore, his knowledge of the East End far surpassed Witherspoon’s own. “The barman appeared to be more frightened of his employer than of us.”
“He probably is—jobs in this part of the city are hard to come by. I expect this one pays pretty well.”
The door opened and a middle-aged woman with dark red hair and thick spectacles emerged. She wore a cream-colored blouse with a high collar and puffy, leg-of-mutton sleeves. A blue and cream striped skirt topped with a wide blue sash circled her thick waist, and a ladies’ timepiece dangled from a gold chain around her neck.
“I’m Susan Callahan,” she announced. “My barman claims you want to speak to me.”
“We do, Mrs. Callahan. I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes,” he replied. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
She crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “What’s this about, then?”
“Bert Santorini,” Barnes said.
“Oh, him.” She looked at the barman. “We’ll be in the snug, Alex. Call Janice to give you a hand when we start filling up. We’ll start getting busy when the lunch hour comes ’round,” she explained as she lifted the wooden top of the counter and stepped through. “And half our customers will be your lot. It’s this way.” She led them around the bar to the row of private booths and into the first one. She slid onto the leather seat and nodded toward the opposite side. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
They took their places and Witherspoon waited till Barnes pulled out his notebook before he spoke. “Mrs. Callahan, as Constable Barnes said, we’re here to ask you a few questions about Bert Santorini.”
“He was murdered night before last, but what’s that got to do with me? I didn’t kill him.”
“We’re not accusing you of murder, Mrs. Callahan. We’re merely trying to learn what we can about the victim. Now, may I ask you how long you’ve known the deceased?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s been around five or six years.”
“He was a customer here?”
She nodded. “Yes—that’s when I first met him. He came in most evenings and had a drink or two, but in the last few years, he delivered ice when I needed it. We don’t use it often, just when the weather gets hot.”
“You became acquainted with him as both a customer and a supplier?” Witherspoon wanted to make sure he understood the relationship the victim had with members of the local community.
“A customer first—it was only later that he started making deliveries. Santorini got the ice cart and horse about three years ago. Before that, he did odd jobs and, if he could get it, day labor at the docks. He also did a bit of translating for some of the local tradespeople, especially the importers. Italian was his mother tongue.”
“He must have done quite well to be able to afford to buy the cart and horse. That’s a good business,” Barnes commented.
“He was always a hard worker,” she replied. “But he was a lucky sod as well. Santorini bought the ice cart and the pony on the cheap. The owner was arrested for stealing and had to sell fast.”
Barnes glanced at Witherspoon before he spoke again. “What was the name of the man Santorini bought it from?”
“Philip Graves. He got sent to Pentonville but he’s out now”—she smiled wryly—“and from what I hear, he’s been looking for Santorini.”
“Do you know where we can find Graves?” Barnes asked.
“I don’t know his address, but I’ve heard he’s got a bed at Tilson’s over on Clouston Road. He shouldn’t be hard to find—your lads have their eyes on him. They helped me toss him into the street when he showed up here last week.”
“What do you mean?” Witherspoon asked.
“He walked in just after evening opening and swaggered up to the bar like he owned the place. Started bothering poor Alex about where I was and where Santorini was, and when Alex told him it wasn’t any of his business where either of us might be, he got rough. That’s when a couple of your lads told him to get out.”
“You mean police officers,” Witherspoon clarified. When she nodded, he continued. “I understand why Graves might threaten Santorini, but why did he make threats against you?”
She smiled slightly. “Because I’m the one that had him arrested.”
Wiggins walked past Frida Sorensen’s lodging house for the third time and hoped that no one had noticed him. The people in this part of London were a sharp-eyed lot; they had to be if they wanted to survive.
His steps slowed as he reached the corner. Stopping, he wondered if he ought to try finding someone at the Thistle and Thorn. That was the pub Santorini frequented before he was killed. Wiggins’ luck here was downright miserable, his feet were cold, and he was afraid of being spotted. But just as he made up his mind to move on, the front door of the lodging house opened, and a clean-shaven tall, lanky man with thinning brown hair stepped outside. He came down the short walkway, turned, and set off at a brisk pace. Wiggins waited a few moments and then followed in pursuit.
The man moved quickly, dodging past two grim-faced women carrying shopping baskets and a cluster of skinny children squabbling over a ball. When his quarry reached the crowded pavements of the Commercial Road, Wiggins moved closer. He followed him for a good five minutes until the man turned a corner and stepped inside a building.
It was a pub called the Pig and Ale. Wiggins hesitated; at their meeting this morning, no one had mentioned this pub and he might be wasting his time. But he’d not learned anything today, and this fellow had come out of the lodging house. There might be a chance he knew something useful. Wiggins yanked open the door and went inside.
The place was small. There were two tables in front of the benches along the wall next to the door; a short, old-fashioned curved bar; and a couple of rickety-looking chairs in front of the empty fireplace at the far end. He inhaled sharply to catch his breath and then wished he hadn’t, as the sour scent of spilled gin, stale beer, and greasy mutton hit his nostrils.
The man he’d been following stood at the bar. Wiggins slid into a spot next to him just as the barman said, “You’re here earlier than usual, Harvey. You get sacked?”
“Mr. Stanton’s closed the shop for the day so he can go to a funeral. His wife’s sister passed away and she’s bein’ buried today. You know my guv—if he’s not there, he’ll not open up, so I lose a day’s pay. But what can you do? I need to work, especially now.”
“You want your usual?” the barman asked.
Harvey nodded.
The barman glanced at Wiggins. “What’ll you have?”
“A pint of bitter.”
It took a few moments for both of them to get served. While he waited, Wiggins glanced at Harvey, who was staring morosely at the wooden counter. The man’s shirt was fraying at the collar, his shoes were scruffed, and there was a hole in the sleeve of his coat. But then again, that wasn’t surprising. Almost everyone in this part of London was poor, even the ones that had work.
As soon as they’d both been served, the barman said, “Hey, Harvey, give us a shout if anyone else comes in. I’ve got to go to the back and count out the kegs.” He stopped long enough to see Harvey nod and then he disappeared through a narrow doorway at the end of the bar.
Wiggins took a sip, sighed, and then smiled. “I’m hopin’ this’ll make up for a misery of a day.”
“It’d take more than one pint to end my misery.” Harvey took a sip from his beer, put it down, and continued to stare at the wood as if it held the secret to life.
“It sounds like you’ve had a right awful day as well.” Wiggins grinned. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdroppin’, but I couldn’t ’elp overhearin’. Losin’ a day’s pay is ’ard.”
“Tell me about it.” Harvey shook his head. “Seems like nothin’ is going right for me these days.”
“I know that feelin’.” Wiggins hoped the misery-loves-company ploy would keep the man talking or, even better, get the fellow drinking more. The more beer that went down a throat, the looser the tongue. “I was supposed to do another run out to the docks, but when I got to the warehouse, the bloomin’ goods had already been moved. I’m out of half a load and it’s too late to pick up another one.” He was making it up as he went along and hoping he sounded believable.
Harvey nodded in a gesture of understanding. “Life’s hard, in’ it. Mind you, mine’s been a bloody mess for months now, and before you know it, the police’ll be ’round pesterin’ me with stupid questions.”
“The police?” Wiggins stared at Harvey with an expression of what he hoped was surprise. “Why’ll they be questioning you?”
“Because of Bert Santorini.”
“Who?”
“Don’t you read the papers? He’s the bloke that was murdered just down the road from here.” Harvey took another gulp. “And he lived at my lodgin’ house. They’ve already been there talkin’ to Frida—she’s the owner—and I know she told ’em there was bad blood between me and him.”
“Cor blimey—you and the dead feller didn’t get along?”
“We hated each other.” He snorted. “Santorini got tossed out of the Crying Crows when the woman who owns it found out he was playin’ about with one of the barmaids from the Thistle and Thorn, so what does the blighter do? He moves into Frida’s and starts workin’ on her.”
“Workin’ on ’er?” Wiggins repeated. “What does that mean?”
“You know—sweet-talkin’ her and complimentin’ her cookin’ and tellin’ her how pretty she looks.” He lifted his glass and took a gulp of his beer.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything’s wrong with it,” he exclaimed. “You don’t do that to another fellow, and I made it real clear when he first started flirtin’ with her that Frida and I had an understandin’. We was together. But Santorini was a smooth-talkin’ bastard, and he had the sort of looks that women likes—leastways, Frida liked them well enough. Before I knew it, I was out in the cold, and he had the best room in the house.” He took another swig of beer, put his glass down, and closed his eyes. “And despite what one of the newspapers said about the gun that killed Santorini belongin’ to a copper, that’ll not do me any good. The police stick together, and they’ll have me in their sights quick enough.”
“But just because you didn’t like the man doesn’t mean they’ll think you killed him. I mean, why would they?” Wiggins picked up his beer and took a sip.
“Because a few nights before Santorini was killed, I had a right old shoutin’ match with him. We was at the Thistle and Thorn, and I’d had too much to drink. I don’t usually drink there—I generally go to the Crying Crows—but part of me was just itchin’ for a set-to with Santorini. I’d ’eard gossip that he was playin’ about with the barmaid there. Sure enough, the bastard swaggered in and started chattin’ her up like she was the ruddy Queen. But then he saw me, and he knew why I’d come—he knew I was goin’ to go back to Frida’s and tell her what I’d seen. He started in on me, tellin’ me to mind my mouth and keep my nose out of his business. But this time I didn’t back down; this time, I was ready for ’im. I let my temper loose and told ’im that I was goin’ to tell Frida everything and that I’d get her to believe me.” He closed his mouth and looked away.
But Wiggins wasn’t going to let him stop there. “What happened then?”
“He started laughing. He said she’d never believe me.” Harvey smirked. “Odd thing was, she believed me right off when I told her. She wasn’t surprised, so I think she’d already suspected he was playing her for a fool. Still, that’s small comfort. I’m in a world of trouble; I know the coppers will think I did it.”
“You didn’t come to blows, and you’d ’ad one too many; that ’appens all the time. The police know that,” Wiggins commented.
“But that’s not all I said. I threatened him, ya see. In front of a dozen witnesses, I told him I’d kill him.”
“You had Philip Graves arrested?” Witherspoon hoped he understood her correctly.
“He took ten pounds out of my cash drawer, so I set the law on him. There’s nothing wrong with that. I won’t let anyone steal from me,” Susan replied. “Life’s tough enough without one of your suppliers turning on you to line his own pockets.”
“What were the circumstances of this theft?” Barnes asked.
The inspector noticed the constable was staring at her intensely.
“As I told you earlier, I didn’t often need ice, but it was a hot day and I’d asked Graves for a bushel of ice. Some Russians had started coming in, and they’d complained that the vodka was too warm. It was hard to keep it cold, given the heat we’d had, so Graves got me the ice. I paid him and asked him to carry it into the back room for me. Then he came back out front here. Now, I’d gone with him so that I could get the bottles into the ice, and when I came out here, Graves was gone. A few minutes later, I opened the cash drawer and saw that I was short ten quid.”
“You counted out your drawer right then?”
“Yes, we were getting ready to close for the afternoon. I always took the cash to the bank before we open for the evening licensing hours.”
“Was the pub empty when Graves was out here alone?” Witherspoon asked.
“No, Bert Santorini was here. He’s the one who saw Graves taking the money out of the till.”
Barnes raised an eyebrow and glanced at the inspector. He could see that Witherspoon was also surprised. “Was Santorini the only one who witnessed the theft?” he asked.
“The room was empty—that’s why Graves felt like he could help himself,” she explained. “Bert walked in just as he was slamming the drawer shut and shoving the money in his coat pocket. What’s more, Graves ran out of here like the devil himself was after him.”
“I see,” Witherspoon murmured. “Can you think of anyone else, other than Philip Graves, who might have wanted Mr. Santorini dead?”
She shrugged. “He wasn’t a popular man, Inspector. He considered himself quite charming, but he had a knack for making enemies.”
“Can you give us the names of these enemies?” Barnes cocked his head and studied her.
She laughed. “Well, me for one, but I certainly didn’t kill him.” She paused, her expression puzzled as she looked at the constable. “Is there something on my nose, Constable? You’re staring at me in a very rude manner.”
“My apologies, Mrs. Callahan.” He smiled ruefully. “I didn’t intend offense, but you look familiar to me. I worked around these parts years ago—it was my first assignment as a constable. I’m wondering if we have met before?”
“I doubt it,” she replied. “I’ve only been in the area for six years. Before that, I lived in Leeds.”
“Back to Mr. Santorini,” Witherspoon said quickly. “Why did you dislike him?”
She gave Barnes one more glance before turning her attention to the inspector. “As I said before, Santorini could be very charming. I was so grateful to him for catching Graves when he tried to steal from me that we became friendly. Santorini started coming in regularly, and sometimes he’d even bring a bouquet for the bar. Occasionally, one of the hotel dining rooms he supplied with ice and flowers wouldn’t need everything he’d put on the cart. He’d bring the extra flowers here.”
“For your bar?” Barnes clarified.
She shrugged. “Or me—as I said, we were friendly at that time, and I thought he was just being nice. I’ve prided myself on making my customers, even the local police lads, feel welcome here, and he was no exception. But I realized he wasn’t to be trusted when I let him stay in a room at the back.”
“You gave him free lodging?” Witherspoon asked.
“Don’t be daft,” she retorted. “I made him work for his keep.” She raised her arm and gestured at the surroundings. “I’ve spent a fortune on this place, fixing it up right and proper, and I was worried about someone breaking in. At that time, several businesses in the neighborhood had been broken into at night and burgled. I was a widow and alone. I live upstairs. I wanted to make sure that I was safe and that my premises were watched properly. Bert Santorini offered to stay here at night to keep an eye on out.”
“How long did he stay?” Witherspoon asked.
“More than a year.” She smiled wryly. “He was a bit of a sweet talker, was our Bert, and for a long time, I didn’t keep a close watch on him. But then one of my customers complained about the beer.”
“Complained in what way?” Witherspoon asked.
“That the beer didn’t taste right. That it tasted watered. So I started watching him and realized he was drinking my stock.” She jabbed a finger toward the bar. “Helping himself to my beer and whisky. I wouldn’t have minded him taking a nip every now and again, but he did something far worse. The bastard was drinking so much of my stock that he was adding water to both the beer and the whisky to keep me from knowing how much of it was going down his throat. Do you know what would happen to me if the brewery caught wind of that? They don’t take kindly to their alcohol being watered down. It could have cost me everything. They hold the loan on this place. I told Santorini he had to go. He wasn’t happy about it, and we had a terrible argument.”
“Is that when he moved into Frida Sorensen’s lodging house?” Barnes looked at her.
“That’s what I heard.” She shrugged. “And as far as I was concerned, good riddance.”
Witherspoon realized time was getting on, and they needed to move along. “Who else disliked Santorini?”
“Fiona O’Dwyer—she’s the mother of the lads Santorini testified against—but, then again, she would hate him, wouldn’t she?” Behind her spectacles, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “And I’ve heard that one of the other tenants at Frida’s place had words with him a few nights before he was killed.”
“Do you know his name?” Barnes pressed.
“No, but if you stop by the Thistle and Thorn, someone there ought to know who he is. Supposedly the two of them got into a shouting match a night or so before Bert was murdered.”
“What time do you open for the evening?” The constable looked up from his notebook.
“Half six, that’s what my license allows.”
Barnes nodded. All the pubs in the area were licensed for evening opening at that time. “Were you here all afternoon on the day Santorini was killed?”
She opened her mouth to speak just as a loud crash banged against the building. Startled, she jerked, as did the two policemen. Barnes and Witherspoon both scrambled out of the snug and raced to the front of the pub. Susan Callahan was right behind them.
The three of them reached the front just as Alex pulled the door open and charged outside. He reappeared a moment later, holding a stone the size of a bulldog’s head. “At least this time they didn’t break the windows.” He held the door open. “But it looks like it made a right nasty dent in the wood.”
“Did you see who it was?” Susan demanded.
“Sorry, Mrs. Callahan, but they’d scarpered by the time I got around the bar and opened the door.”
“Bloody hooligans.” Susan Callahan grabbed the stone out of Alex’s hand and glared at it. “I’ll have their guts for garters when I get my hands on whoever did this.” She pointed to her damaged door. “This is the second time in six months the blighters have done this.”
“This has happened before?” Barnes examined the wound in the wood.
“Once before, only then it was the window.”
Barnes leaned closer to the door and studied the gash in the wood. “This is a bad one. It’s going to take more than a bit of sanding down to fix it properly.”
“Did you report the previous incident to the police?” Witherspoon asked her.
“There was no need to. There was half a dozen of your lot in here when it happened, and even then, the bastard who did it was able to get clean away.”
“When was that?” Barnes stood up straight.
“Three, four months ago.” Susan shrugged. “I don’t recall the exact date.”
“It was in the middle of December.” Alex went back behind the bar. “The same day that the fellow from the brewery come by to see you.”
“That’s right. Mr. Morland was here the same day it happened. Luckily, he’d gone before the stone come flying in.”
“Do you know why you’re being harassed in this manner?” Witherspoon was a tad embarrassed that a roomful of policemen hadn’t been able to apprehend one stone thrower.
“Isn’t it blooming obvious?” She waved her arm in a circle. “I’ve made this pub into a showplace, something to be proud of and not just a gin hole for the local scum that used to drink here when my husband owned the place. But when he died and it became mine, I wanted it to be bigger and better than any pub in Whitechapel. Despite having to take a loan from the brewery, I’ve succeeded. But there’s some ’round here that resent anyone who wants to make themselves or the neighborhood better.”
“Have you had to raise your prices?” Barnes asked.
“Of course.” She snorted faintly. “But I’ve attracted a much better class of clientele. Not everyone around here is a pauper. There’s plenty of businessmen from the tea trade and shipping companies as well as the local police that want to drink in a clean, decent pub, and that’s what I’ve given them.”
“And it appears it’s causing you a bit of worry,” the constable remarked. “Well, as Santorini was still alive when the first incident happened, today’s incident doesn’t appear to have anything to do with his murder.”
“Let’s hope so, Constable,” Witherspoon agreed. He turned to Susan Callahan. “I’m sorry for your door getting hit, Mrs. Callahan, and very glad that no one was harmed. That’s quite a large stone. If you’d like, we can report this incident when we get back to Leman Street.”
She shook her head. “Don’t bother. Whoever did it is long gone, and the street ruffians ’round here won’t turn in one of their own.”
Witherspoon nodded in understanding.
“I’ll just nip back and get my notebook and pencil.” Barnes hurried back toward the snug.
As soon as he returned, Witherspoon turned to the publican and said, “We’ll be back if we have any other questions.”
They said nothing until they were outside the pub with the door closed. “What do you think, sir?”
“I think the attacks on the place are exactly what Mrs. Callahan said: locals who resent what she’s done to the pub.”
“That’s probably right,” Barnes said. “And it seems as if her relationship with Santorini ended six months ago. Where to now, sir?”
“Let’s go to the Thistle and Thorn. I’d like to find out more about the confrontation that occurred there the night before the victim was killed.”
Betsy had calmed down by the time she walked into the kitchen for their afternoon meeting. Everyone, save for Ruth Cannonberry, was already there. Mrs. Goodge was putting a plate of scones on the table, Phyllis was pouring boiling water into the teapot, Mrs. Jeffries was putting the butter and jam next to the scones, and Hatchet was pulling out Luty’s chair.
Betsy gave her husband a tremulous smile as she took her seat next to him.
Under the table, Smythe grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. Leaning close, he whispered, “I’m sorry, love.”
“Me, too. I know you were only trying to protect me, and I should have listened to you.” She kept her voice low, hoping there was enough background noise to mask her words.
He gave her a sharp look. “Did something ’appen?”
“Nothing bad. I’ll tell you when we get home,” she said. But she wasn’t sure she would tell him the whole of it. After she’d stomped out of Mattie’s miserable shop, she’d given up on finding out anything more about the case. Instead, she’d walked the streets of Whitechapel, going past the ugly tenement where she and her family had lived before death and indifference had split them apart; past the now-closed church where she’d once been part of a stone throwing mob that broke the windows of that particularly heartless institution; past the boarded-up house where a local pimp had tried to force her into the game and she’d barely escaped with her life and her virtue. She walked until she was finally so exhausted, she waved down a hansom cab and headed here, to the West End, to her home.
Mrs. Jeffries took her seat. “Are we ready to start?”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Ruth?” Wiggins asked.
“She sent Everton over with a message,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “She told us to go ahead and get started. Apparently, she’s on the hunt, so to speak, and she’ll get here when she can.” She paused a second and when no one objected, continued speaking. “Now, who would like to go first?”
“Let me. Mine won’t take more than two seconds,” Luty said. “Accordin’ to Brockton Bellingham, Bert Santorini had a bit of money and lots of enemies.”
Hatchet snorted. “Fingers crossed the man was telling the truth.”
“He wouldn’t lie to me,” Luty retorted.
“He’d lie to the Almighty himself if he thought it would give him an advantage,” Hatchet replied. “He’s a confidence man, and I, for one, do not believe he’s reformed. He’s simply old and a bit more tired now. But you mark my words, he’s still in the game.”
“Enemies?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated. She didn’t want the meeting delayed by these two having one of their never-ending arguments. “You mean other than the family and friends of the O’Dwyers?”
Luty nodded. “Brock claims that Santorini had a habit of usin’ people and then tossin’ them aside when he couldn’t git anything else out of them. But Brock wouldn’t give me any names when I pressed him. Just said that everyone knew to watch their backs if they was around Santorini.”
“I heard something like that as well,” Betsy added. She smiled apologetically at the elderly American. “Sorry, Luty. I didn’t mean to steal your thunder. I’ll wait my turn.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Luty said. “I only heard one more tidbit and that’s that Santorini had taken up with a pickpocket named Dickie Stiles.”
Again, Hatchet snorted.
Luty frowned at him. “Don’t be mean, Hatchet. Brockton’s changed and you know it. People can change—you know that as well as I do. I don’t know why you’re so set against the fellow.”
“I’m not set against him,” Hatchet replied. “I’m simply reserving judgment as to this supposed ‘change’ in his character.”
“Humph. I think you’re just jealous,” Luty declared. “You don’t like havin’ to play second fiddle to someone you think is beneath you.”
“That’s absurd,” Hatchet argued, but before he could say any more, Mrs. Jeffries interrupted him.
“Did your source know why Santorini had taken up with this pickpocket?” she asked.
“No, he just said that he was standing right next to Santorini at the Thistle and Thorn Pub on Saturday evening and that he’d seen Santorini give Stiles a note.” Luty reached for her teacup.
“I’ll have a go at finding out,” Smythe offered. “I’ve a source that might be able to ’elp with that information.”
“Good. That might be very useful. Did you find out anything today?” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the coachman.
“Not too much, but I found out a bit about the O’Dwyers.” Smythe repeated everything he’d heard from Blimpey Groggins. When he’d finished, the others were silent.
Wiggins frowned in confusion. “Let me make sure I understand. Mrs. O’Dwyer is ’irin’ your source to ’elp her prove that Santorini lied in court? Is that what you’re sayin’?”
Smythe wished he’d kept that specific bit to himself. He didn’t want to call attention to the fact that his source was someone who could be hired for cold, hard cash. That might lead to some very uncomfortable questions. “Yeah. It’s ’ard to explain, but my source ’as a lot of connections in London. Mrs. O’Dwyer knew this and that’s why she went to him for ’elp.”
“If what your source says is true,” Betsy murmured, “then she knows her boys are innocent. Watching your children go to prison for a crime they didn’t commit must be dreadful.”
“We don’t know that they are innocent,” Hatchet pointed out.
“But it makes sense,” Phyllis argued. “That’s probably why Santorini was killed. He lied under oath and three people were sent to prison. Why else would someone kill him?”
“But there could be another reason he was killed. According to my source, Santorini was good at making enemies,” Betsy said. “Oh, sorry.” She gave her husband a rueful smile. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Jumped in instead of letting you finish.”
“No, go ahead—I’m done.” Smythe squeezed her hand again. “It sounds like you found out a few bits today.”
“Just a few.” Betsy told them about her encounter with Mattie Mitchell. She left out the part where she paid for information and also where she’d given in to her memories, lost her temper, and then stormed out. “As you can tell, there were a lot of people who hated Santorini,” she concluded.
“One of them is right scared ’e’s goin’ to be blamed for Santorini’s murder,” Wiggins put in. “Oh, blimey, now I’m doin’ it. Sorry, Betsy. Finish your bit.”
“That’s it, I’m afraid. I only managed to speak to one person today and that’s all I was able to get out of her.”
“You’ve found out more than I did,” Phyllis muttered glumly. She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “I don’t think talking to the local shopkeepers is going to be very useful. None of the people I spoke to today knew anything about the man except that he’d been murdered.”
Just then, Fred stood up, and a moment later, they heard a knock on the back door.
“I’ll get it,” Phyllis offered. “Perhaps it’s Lady Cannonberry.” She hurried out of the kitchen and disappeared down the hall. “Oh, Ruth, we’ve been waiting for you . . . Good gracious, you’ve brought a visitor.”
“Please don’t be annoyed with Lady Cannonberry. I stopped her in the communal garden and insisted she hear me out,” a loud, male voice said.
“Cor blimey.” Wiggins half rose from his chair. “That voice sounds right familiar. Is that . . .”
But by that time, everyone knew who’d come calling with Ruth Cannonberry as she and her guest came into view, followed by a confused-looking Phyllis.
Nigel Nivens bowed toward the group gathered around the table. “I know I’m not particularly welcome here, but please, listen to me.”
“Please, everyone. Inspector Nivens claims he’s the victim of a dreadful miscarriage of justice,” Ruth explained. “I think we should hear what he’s got to tell us.”
“Inspector Nivens?” Shocked, Phyllis gaped at him.
There was a moment of silence as they all stared at Nigel Nivens. Finally, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Inspector Nivens, what are you doing here?”
“Do forgive me for barging in like this. But Lady Cannonberry took pity on me when I said I had to see you.” He gave Ruth a quick, grateful smile. “It’s quite literally a matter of life or death.” He darted a quick look at the empty chair next to Hatchet.
“Would you care to sit down?” Mrs. Jeffries offered. “We’ve tea as well. You’re most welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He moved quickly to the empty spot, almost as if scared she’d rescind the invitation.
Ruth took her usual seat. Phyllis gave herself a small shake and got another teacup and a plate from the sideboard. The room was eerily quiet as she poured a cup of tea and placed it and the plate in front of Nivens.
Mrs. Goodge pushed the scones toward their unwanted visitor. “Help yourself,” she muttered.
Nivens nodded politely and took one of the pastries. “Thank you. You’re all being very kind to me. I know you’re well aware of the fact that there has been some tension between myself and Inspector Witherspoon.”
“Not really.” Mrs. Jeffries gave him a polite but cool smile. “Our inspector doesn’t comment on police business nor on his assessment of his colleagues.” That, of course, was a bold-faced lie, but she knew Nivens couldn’t prove her words one way or another. Besides, she was rather annoyed at having to be civil to the man. “Now, Inspector Nivens, if you’ll be so good as to tell us why you’ve come here.”
“And what’s all this about something being a ‘matter of life or death,’” Mrs. Goodge scoffed. “That sounds like something out of one of Mr. Conan Doyle’s stories.”
Nivens, who’d shoved a huge bite of scone in his mouth, chewed rapidly and swallowed. “But it is a matter of life and death. Mine. I’m in terrible trouble, and if I can’t find assistance, I’m going to hang for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Mrs. Jeffries knew good and well what he referred to, but it was essential to keep up the pretense. She was pleased that Mrs. Goodge had seemed to get what she was trying to do, and she only hoped the others would either keep silent or, if they spoke, not give the game away. “Why would you hang for a murder you didn’t commit?”
“I’m being framed for the murder of Bert Santorini.”
“Isn’t that the murder our inspector is investigating now?” Phyllis looked at Mrs. Jeffries, her expression innocent.
“I believe that’s the name I overheard him and Constable Barnes discussing,” she replied before turning her attention back to Nivens. “But what’s that got to do with us?”
Nivens looked down at his plate and then lifted his chin. “I’ve heard rumors that you and the household assist the inspector in his inquiries,” he murmured. “And I’m hoping you’ll help me.”
Mrs. Jeffries said nothing for a moment. She merely stared at him with what she hoped was an expression of shock on her face. “You’ve heard rumors about us? Inspector Nivens, I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about how you and the others”—he waved his arm around, indicating all of them—“help Inspector Witherspoon. It’s no secret, Mrs. Jeffries. Everyone on the force knows he has assistance.”
“Blast a Spaniard, what’s ’e on about?” Smythe exclaimed.
“Have you gone daft?” Mrs. Goodge added. “Help our inspector? Well, I never heard of such nonsense. I’m a cook, not a policeman.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head, again with what she hoped was an expression of stunned disbelief. “I don’t know what to say to such a statement, Inspector Nivens. What you’re suggesting is absurd. We’re merely servants in the inspector’s household. I’ve no idea how or why such rumors might have started, but I assure you, it simply isn’t true.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” Nivens looked skeptical. “You honestly expect me to believe that Gerald Witherspoon has solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force?”
“Whether you believe it or not, it happens to be true,” she replied calmly.
“Please. Not that many years ago he was just a jumped-up clerk in the records room, and then all of a sudden, he’s the great hero who solved those horrible Kensington High Street Murders.” Nivens’ eyes narrowed speculatively. “That was just about the time you came to work for him, wasn’t it, Mrs. Jeffries?”
“It was.”
“And from what I recall, your late husband was a policeman, wasn’t he?”
“He was, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything. My husband was a village constable, which is hardly comparable to what Inspector Witherspoon does.”
“Nonetheless, I’m sure you learned something about police procedures before you came to London. It’s hardly surprising that, given Inspector Witherspoon’s remarkable rise from clerk to homicide detective, I’d think he had help.”
“He wasn’t a clerk,” Ruth interjected. “He was in charge of the records room and a fully-fledged police inspector. How dare you imply that he isn’t capable of solving murders on his own.”
Nivens seemed to realize he wasn’t making any friends with this approach. “I’m sorry. Please, I meant no disrespect—it’s just that I’m desperate. If I don’t get help, I’m going to hang for a murder I didn’t commit.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Jeffries scoffed. “You should have more faith in your colleagues. The Metropolitan Police will do a thorough investigation and catch the person responsible for Mr. Santorini’s murder.”
He stared at her with a frightened, disbelieving expression. “You don’t understand, Mrs. Jeffries. They all hate me. No one is going to go out of their way to see that justice is done.”
“Are you saying that everyone on the force will deliberately seek evidence that you’re the culprit and ignore evidence that proves your innocence?”
Nivens felt the blood drain out of his face as her words hit home. For a moment, he couldn’t respond, but finally, he managed to speak. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll admit that I’ve never sought friendships within the force, and I’ll admit that I’m driven by ambition and not personal relationships. That, perhaps, was a foolish choice on my part, but nonetheless, it shouldn’t condemn me to hang.”
“But the newspaper said the gun that killed that poor fellow was yours,” Phyllis blurted. She wanted to hear what he had to say, wanted to find out as many details as possible before they went back on the hunt.
He looked at her. “That’s true, and I’ve no idea how the killer got the weapon; but, just so you know, my house was empty the night before the murder as well as the night of the murder.”
“Was there any evidence of a break-in?” Hatchet realized what Phyllis was up to and decided to help.
“No, but picking locks isn’t an unknown skill in the East End. That’s probably how the killer got inside my home.”
“Then I suggest you give the police a chance to prove that very thing,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “They’re not fools, you know.”
“No, they’re not fools, but I’ve a feeling you know as well as I do, that once the police have made up their minds that someone is guilty, they stop looking at anyone else. Take my word for it— they’ve already made up their collective minds that I’m guilty. But despite what anyone thinks, despite the false evidence laid against me, I’m not a murderer. You must believe me. Please, I’m begging you. I need your help. You’re my last hope.”
For a brief moment, Mrs. Jeffries felt sorry for him, but then she pushed that feeling aside. This was the man that had twice betrayed Inspector Witherspoon for his own self-interest. “It’s not that we don’t believe you, Inspector. It’s that we’re powerless to assist you.” She waved her hand at the people seated around the table. “For some strange reason, you have it in your head that those of us here have helped Inspector Witherspoon. But I assure you, that simply isn’t true. We’re only his servants and Lady Cannonberry is his friend. She’s merely come by to gain our assistance in planning a surprise for Inspector Witherspoon’s birthday. I don’t know what you want us to do, but I certainly don’t think we’d be of any help to you whatsoever.”
Nivens knew when he was beaten. He got up from the table. “I’m sorry to have intruded upon you. Thank you for listening.”