“What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked as soon as he and Witherspoon were far enough away from the lodging house to avoid being overheard.
“Well, his excuse for lying to us does make sense. Admitting he was at the scene of the crime when the murder was committed paints him in a very bad light.” Witherspoon put on his bowler and glanced behind him. He smiled wryly as the curtain in the front window twitched. “I do believe Mr. Macklin was watching to ensure we actually left the premises. What’s more, I have a feeling his assertion that Mrs. Sorensen wouldn’t be home until late this evening was a ploy to get us out of her home and him back into her good graces.”
“Really, sir?” Barnes laughed as the two men headed for the main street. “Well, I suppose that, now that his rival is dead, he thinks he might have another chance to get his old room back and a wedding ring on the widow’s finger. But I was more concerned with whether or not you believed him.”
“I’m not certain what to believe,” Witherspoon replied. “The scenario we outlined when we questioned him is plausible, but it’s also the sort of situation that would take a great deal of organizing as well as substantial luck. Frankly, Harvey Macklin didn’t strike me as much of a planner. What’s more, we’ve no evidence he did know where Inspector Nivens lives or that Macklin could actually pick a lock.”
“I agree, sir. Even the way he described his relationship with Frida Sorensen sounded a bit haphazard. But if Nivens didn’t murder Santorini, then the person who did was either lucky, or they planned it down to the last detail.”
They came out onto the busy Mile End Road and stopped on the corner. “Constable Donner goes off duty soon,” Barnes reminded the inspector. “We were going to have a word with him about Inspector Nivens.”
“Let’s get a hansom, then. I’d like you to take care of speaking with Constable Donner. He might be more forthcoming speaking to you than me.” Witherspoon pulled his gloves out of his overcoat pocket and put one on. “I’d like to read the constable’s report from Baxter’s Restaurant again.”
Barnes spotted a cab dropping a fare in front of a fishmonger’s shop, going around an omnibus that had just pulled in to drop off passengers. He stepped out into the road far enough so the hansom driver could see him and waved his arms. “Was there something wrong with the report?” he asked as he rejoined the inspector.
“Not precisely wrong.” He put the other glove on. “But there was something about it that seemed a bit lacking.”
Smythe stared at the five hansoms lined up outside the cabmen’s shelter. The small, square green building was the closest one to where Santorini met his end. Nonetheless, it was over a mile away from Felix Mews. Smythe was cold, hungry, and thus far today, he’d not found out much. He’d had a brief stop at Blimpey’s pub, but the only thing he’d learned was that one of Blimpey’s people had seen a portly man wearing a dark overcoat and a bowler hat go into Felix Mews around the time that Santorini was murdered. Smythe knew that description fit Inspector Nivens, but it also fit thousands of other men in London. Still, it was better than nothing, and if his source among the cabdrivers didn’t have anything for him, he’d at least have something to report at the meeting this afternoon.
The damp air turned into a drizzle, and Smythe buttoned up his coat as he walked past the row of tethered cabs, looking for a driver named Jimmy Joyner. Yesterday, he’d paid Joyner to keep his ears open. He’d told the cabbie he was a private inquiry agent, because once he’d mentioned Felix Mews and Santorini’s name, it was stupid to think the fellow wouldn’t have figured out exactly why he wanted information.
He spotted Jimmy heading into the cab shelter and hurried after him. Stepping inside, he was relieved that there were only three men sitting at the long, narrow table and tucking into a plate of what smelled like stewed rabbit. Jimmy was at the counter getting a cup of tea. He was a tall, wiry, balding man with a reddish complexion, high cheekbones, and a bristly handlebar mustache. Turning, he spotted Smythe. “You want tea?”
Smythe shook his head. After leaving here, he’d be going to Upper Edmonton Gardens for their afternoon meeting. Jimmy took his tea and went to the end of the table, as far away from the other drivers as possible.
Slipping onto the stool next to him, Smythe asked, “You found out anything?”
“Not a lot—there’s fewer cabs in this part of London,” Jimmy explained. “Most of our fares come from Whitechapel or Liverpool Street Station or the High Streets. I asked around, just like ya told me, but no one remembers pickin’ up a fare to or from the Felix Mews on Monday night.”
“Did anyone take a fare anywhere near that neighborhood on that night?”
Joyner gave a negative shake of his head.
“That’s not surprisin’,” Smythe muttered. “I didn’t think you’d find out anythin’.”
“I didn’t say that. Ya told me to report anything peculiar that I ’eard. One of the blokes picked up a fare on Saturday night and took her to Belgravia.”
“Saturday night?” Smythe frowned. “But that was two days before Santorini’s murder. What’s odd about that?”
“He picked up a woman on the Commercial Road and took her to an address in Belgravia, and then later that night, the same woman waved him down and he brought her back ’ere, that’s what’s peculiar about it. What’s more, it was only an hour or so between the time he dropped her off and the time she waved him down.”
“Did you ask what she looked like?”
“Course I did.” Jimmy took a quick sip from his mug. “But it didn’t do no good. Harry said he couldn’t see her face. She was wearin’ one of them widow’s veils—you know what I mean—the old-fashioned kind.”
“I don’t suppose he remembered the exact address?” Smythe asked.
“Nah, only that it was in Belgravia.”
“What time of night was it?”
“Late. The pubs had all closed, and that was another thing that was strange. There aren’t too many women out on their own after dark unless they’re workin’ girls, if you get me meaning. When he picked her up, he was annoyed because Harry lives just off Bethnal Green, and he was sure that at that time of night, he wouldn’t be able to find a fare back to Whitechapel. But he hung about the neighborhood a bit, looking for a fare, and he was right surprised when the same woman suddenly waved him down and told him to take her back to Whitechapel.”
“Did he pick her up at the same spot where he dropped her?”
“I didn’t think to ask.” Joyner shrugged. “You never said I ’ad to find out every little thing.”
“He was certain she was the same person?”
“I’m not so sure about that. Harry thinks it probably was—those were his words, not mine. But he said it was dark and her face was covered.”
“In other words, it might or might not have been anyone to do with the Santorini case. It could just as easily ’ave been a workin’ girl. There’s a brothel in Whitechapel that sends them out to the West End if the customer puts enough cash about.”
“Yeah. I’ve taken a couple of ’em myself to the fancy parts of town.”
Smythe sighed heavily and got to his feet. He pulled a shilling out of his coat pocket and put it down next to Joyner’s half-full mug. “Ta. This is for your trouble.”
He nodded his thanks as he picked up the coin. “Should I keep on askin’ about?”
Smythe considered the question. “Nah, don’t bother.”
Constable Clyde Donner was a skinny rabbit of a man with wispy blond hair slicked back with pomade, buck teeth, and a slightly receding chin. He and Constable Barnes were sitting at a table in the small interview room. The door was open and the hall filled with officers coming off or going on duty. From the looks tossed Donner’s way, it was obvious to Barnes that he wasn’t a popular officer.
“I don’t know what I can tell you.” Donner tugged at the top of his uniform. “I don’t know Inspector Nivens all that well.”
“But I was given to understand you were friends.”
“Oh no.” Donner ducked his head. “I’d hardly say we were friends. He’s a senior officer.”
Barnes nodded as if he agreed. “We’ve heard that you know him better than any of the other lads. You go drinking with him at the Crying Crows.”
Donner smiled awkwardly. “Not all that often, Constable. We sometimes have a pint together.”
“Did you have a pint with him last week?” Barnes asked.
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Thursday evening and then on Saturday as well,” he explained. “Generally I only drink on Saturday nights, but Inspector Nivens invited me out on the Thursday, and I didn’t like to refuse.”
“Thursday?” Barnes asked sharply. “Wasn’t that the day Inspector Nivens brought the dueling pistols into the station?”
“Yes.” Donner nodded eagerly. “He was very proud of those guns and showed them to everyone at the station. Actually, he showed them to everyone at the Crying Crows as well.”
“So he had them with him when the two of you were at the pub?” Barnes asked.
“Oh yes—we were sitting at the end of the bar, and he opened the case and held them up for people to see,” Donner explained.
Barnes pictured the pub in his mind. “Which end?”
“Which end of what?”
“Which end of the bar? The one by the snugs or the one at the other end?”
“Snugs?” Donner looked confused. “Oh, you mean the one by the private-like booths. It was that end. Usually Inspector Nivens likes a table, but we were late getting there and the place was crowded, so we grabbed the last two spots at the bar.”
“After he showed them off, where did he put the gun case?”
Donner’s thin face creased in thought. “He left them on the end of the counter.”
“At any time did he leave them unattended?”
“Of course not—they’re very valuable,” Donner replied. “Wait a minute, I tell a lie. There was a few moments when we weren’t paying attention. One of the customers had too much to drink and started a dustup with another fellow. Both Inspector Nivens and I as well as several of the other lads leapt up to put an end to it, but a customer showed the fellow the door.”
“So your attention was diverted, right?” Barnes clarified.
“Only for a moment or two,” Donner explained.
“Did you leave the bar?” Witherspoon asked.
“Well, yes, but it was only for a minute or two. Not long enough for anyone to have taken the gun.”
“Which was it, lad?” Barnes snapped. “A moment or a minute?”
“It was a minute, perhaps two.”
“Did Inspector Nivens check the case when you came back to your seats?” Barnes flipped to the next page in his notebook.
Donner bit his lip. “No, I don’t recall him opening the case. But he might have done so when he got them home.”
Barnes said, “You also had a drink with the inspector on Saturday night.”
“That’s right.” Donner cleared his throat. “We had a pint after we both got off duty.”
“What time did you get there?” Barnes asked.
“We got there around eight that evening, and we stayed until closing.”
“Were you both drinking beer?”
“I was. Inspector Nivens was drinking whisky.”
“How much did he drink?”
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t keeping count,” Donner stammered.
“Take a guess,” Barnes snapped.
“Maybe three, maybe four,” Donner replied. “Honestly, I don’t think it was more than that. He wasn’t drunk, if that’s what you’re asking. Inspector Nivens can hold his liquor.”
“How did Inspector Nivens seem?”
Donner stared at him with a blank expression. “How did he seem? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It’s quite simple, Constable Donner. Was he nervous or upset?”
“I don’t think you could describe him like that.”
“How would you describe him? Did he make any comments about the O’Dwyer trial or Bert Santorini?” There was an edge to Barnes’ voice now. “Ye gods, you were with the man for almost three hours—what did you talk about? What was his mood? It’s not a hard question.”
“To tell the truth, he was a bit cross.” Donner swallowed nervously. “Not at first, mind you, at first everything was just fine. But as the night wore on, he got more and more—” He broke off, his expression puzzled. “I’m not sure how to describe it.”
“Try using English.” Barnes wondered how this man had ever become a policeman. He seemed to have trouble understanding simple questions.
“Irritable,” Donner said. “The inspector got irritated. He was watching Mrs. Callahan—she’s the owner—and then he started in on how she looked so familiar and it was driving him insane. He couldn’t recall where he’d seen her before, and so I suggested that maybe she simply looked like someone he used to know. That comment didn’t go down well. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about and that he wasn’t a half-wit who’d be fooled by a resemblance. Then he spotted Dickie Stiles. He’s a local pickpocket—”
“I know who he is,” Barnes interrupted. “How did he react to seeing Stiles?”
“Dickie got lucky there—the inspector only spotted him as he was leaving. But when he first come inside, Dickie was standing right behind us, and if Inspector Nivens had seen him, he’d have tossed him out on his ear.”
“Had Inspector Nivens ever arrested Stiles?”
Donner shook his head. “No, but everyone at Leman Street knew who he was and that he was a pickpocket. Funny thing is, Stiles was one of Bert Santorini’s mates. That’s why it was so surprising seein’ him come into the Crying Crows. Santorini and his friends weren’t welcome there. But I think Dickie was looking for someone. He knows that Mrs. Callahan would have chucked him out as soon as look at him.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Smythe said as he slid into the chair next to Betsy. “But I was talkin’ with a source.”
“We’ve only just started.” Mrs. Jeffries poured his tea and passed the mug across to him. “Who would like to go first?”
“Mine won’t take long.” Mrs. Goodge put a plate of currant scones on the table and took her seat next to Wiggins. “I finally heard from one of my sources, but she didn’t have much to tell me.”
Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t heard anyone in the kitchen today. “Someone was here today?”
“Not in the flesh.” The cook pulled a letter out of her apron pocket and held it up. “It’s a note from my friend Ida Leahcock. You remember her—she’s the one who owns the tobacconist shops. One of them is in Whitechapel, and, as you might recall, Ida loves gossip more than she loves breathing. I sent her a message and asked if she’d see what she could learn from her Whitechapel shop.” She sighed. “It’s not much. She only had two bits to share. The first, and to my mind, the most interestin’, is that Frida Sorensen was seen walking down the Commercial Road, less than a quarter of a mile from Felix Mews at a quarter to six.”
“That’s close to the time of the murder,” Betsy pointed out.
“True,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed with a shake of her head. “But I don’t recall that the inspector asked her for her whereabouts when Santorini was killed. He’s only interviewed her once, and at that time, he’d no idea she had a personal relationship with the dead man. But now that he does, I know he hopes to talk to her again.” She glanced at the cook. “We must be sure and mention this to Constable Barnes tomorrow morning. What’s the other piece of information Ida sent you?”
“Just a bit of gossip—the woman who runs Ida’s Whitechapel shop says that Susan Callahan dyes her hair.” She shrugged. “Mind you, she wouldn’t be the only woman in London to do that, so it’s hardly important. That’s all I’ve found out. Sorry it’s not more.”
“Nonsense, you’ve told us a great deal,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “Who wants to go next?”
“I’ve not got much to report,” Phyllis said. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure it has anything to do with the murder, but as Mrs. Jeffries always says, we never know what will or won’t help solve the case. I had an interesting chat with the barmaid at the Crying Crows.” She told them about her encounter with Janice Everly. “The poor girl was terrified she was going to get the sack,” she finished. “It was only when I pointed out that it might be months before that storage room is opened again that she relaxed. Anyway, I know it isn’t much.”
“Actually, it does give us insight into Susan Callahan’s character,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Though I’m not sure that has anything to do with Santorini’s murder.”
“I wonder why the lady is so secretive,” Hatchet speculated.
Phyllis shook her head. “Janice thinks she’s like that because she’s a woman on her own. You know—she’s wary of letting people know anything about her personal life.”
Luty snorted. “Sounds to me like she’s got somethin’ to hide. Besides, everyone already knows she was practically livin’ with Bert Santorini. Maybe he knew somethin’ about her and that’s why she killed him.”
“But if that were the case, why would she wait six months to do it?” Betsy countered. “Crimes of passion happen in the heat of the moment, not six months after you’ve tossed a cheating man out of your life.”
“We don’t know that ’e cheated on ’er,” Smythe protested. “No one ’as proven that Santorini was courtin’ Alberta Miller at that time. All we’ve ’eard is a bit of gossip that he was sweet on the girl.”
“Don’t be daft,” she replied. “Of course he was cheating on her. You think Susan Callahan would have shown him the door if he hadn’t been? She liked him enough to make sure she kept a decent bottle of wine for him on hand, so it wasn’t just a passing fancy on her part.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “Too much speculating at this point can easily lead us astray. Now, who’d like to go next?”
“I will,” Smythe volunteered. He told them what he’d learned from Jimmy Joyner without, of course, mentioning that he’d paid Joyner. “Trouble is, my source wasn’t sure that the woman that the hansom driver took back to the East End was the same woman he took to Belgravia only an hour earlier. What’s more, even if she was, she might have been a . . . uh . . . well, I guess you’d call ’er a workin’ girl, if you get my meanin’.”
Betsy patted him on the arm. “We understand what you’re saying.” She knew her husband was slightly embarrassed to bring up the subject of prostitutes in front of Phyllis.
“I’ll go next.” Ruth glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “I’ve a meeting with my women’s group soon, and unfortunately, it’s at my house so I must be there.” She paused and took a breath. “It’s not very much, but I might as well share what little it is. I went to a charity luncheon today, and I happened to spot Conrad Bryson and his wife.”
“The man who owns Bryson’s Brewery?” Betsy asked.
Ruth nodded. “That’s him. It was a buffet, so when I got my lunch, I made a point of sitting at the same table as the Brysons. After we introduced ourselves, I asked him what I thought was a simple question about how pubs are financed. I thought that might lead him to saying something about the Crying Crows, which is apparently a very nice place and perhaps even that other pub, the Thistle and Thorn. I know it sounds silly, but I’ve not been able to contribute very much to this investigation, and as the victim seemed to have connections to both those pubs, I was hoping to find out something useful.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid all I did was bore every single person at the table. It was dreadful. Mr. Bryson went on and on about how his brewery takes great pains to make sure they only make loans to fine, upstanding citizens, and they have such strict rules about how their beer and whisky is brewed to ensure it’s of the best quality. Then he began talking about the loans Bryson’s called in because they found out some poor publican was accused of watering down their liquor or had been arrested in their past or didn’t pay their vendors promptly.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Honestly, Mr. Bryson talked for half an hour, and he only stopped because his wife reminded him to eat his lunch. I’m afraid the entire experience was a terrible waste of time.”
“You weren’t to know that,” Hatchet said. “And, as Mrs. Jeffries has mentioned many times, none of us knows what snippet of information will turn out to be important.”
“Anyone else have anything to report?” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Luty and Hatchet, both of whom gave a negative shake of their heads.
“I’m hopin’ tomorrow is a better day than today,” Luty complained. “I tell ya, you’d think findin’ out a few bits and pieces about this murder would be a darned sight easier.”
Baxter’s Restaurant was located on the ground floor of a busy corner on Oxford Street. Barnes pulled open the door, and he and Witherspoon stepped inside. They stopped in the elegant, wood-paneled foyer and hovered by the archway leading to the restaurant proper.
It was a large room with more than a dozen tables covered in white damask cloths. Crystal chandeliers hung from the cream-colored ceiling. Dark wood wainscoting went halfway up the yellow painted walls, and on the street side of the room, three long windows were draped in gold and green striped curtains beneath extravagant valances. White-shirted waiters with stiff peaked collars scurried about, carrying trays of folded serviettes and putting out silver-topped salt and pepper vessels. A lad pushing a cart topped with pitchers of water emerged from the kitchen and disappeared a moment later behind an intricately carved screen at the back of the room.
“This is a fancy place, sir,” Barnes murmured. “It’s only a few minutes past five, but only a couple of tables have customers. Which means that if Nivens was telling the truth when he claimed he was here for an early supper on Monday evening, someone on the staff should remember him.”
A waiter carrying a tray of water glasses spotted the two policemen. He stopped and put the tray down on the nearest table and hurried toward them. “May I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to the maître d’ or whoever was in charge this past Monday evening,” Barnes said.
“Just one moment and I’ll get Mr. Caladini.” He turned on his heel and rushed off, scooping up his tray as he moved between the tables and disappearing through the door on the far side of the room. A few moments later, a portly man with slicked-back black hair, a thin mustache, and dressed in a black coat, white shirt, and maroon cravat stepped into the dining room and hurried toward them. “Good evening.” He smiled broadly. “I am Auguste Caladini. I understand you wish to speak with me?”
“We do. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is Constable Barnes.”
Caladini glanced at the dining room. The customers at both tables were openly staring at them with curious expressions on their collective faces, but the maître d’ didn’t seem to mind the attention. He simply broadened his smile and gestured to his left. “Please, let’s go into the waiting area. It’s far more comfortable than standing here.” He ushered them inside the dining room and toward a recessed alcove fitted with an L-shaped built-in couch and upholstered in a deep forest green velvet.
“Please sit down.” Caladini gestured to the longest section while he plopped down on the short side. “Would you care for some coffee or tea? Or perhaps an aperitif?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Caladini. We’re fine,” Witherspoon replied.
Caladini crossed his legs and clasped his hands in front of him. “Now, how can I help you?”
Barnes reached into his pocket and pulled out his pencil and notebook. “Do you know Inspector Nigel Nivens?”
“But of course, he’s one of our best customers,” Caladini exclaimed. “He dines here twice, sometimes three times a week.”
“So both you and your staff would recognize him on sight,” Witherspoon clarified. He was surprised that the maître d’ was so forthcoming and friendly. Generally, businesspeople hated the police showing up at their premises.
“Indeed we would.” Caladini nodded. “As I said, he’s a very good customer.”
“Was Inspector Nivens here this past Monday evening?”
“He was. I served him myself, as the waiters were running a bit late in setting up the dining room for dinner.”
Barnes stopped writing and looked at the maître d’. “You served him?”
“Yes. He arrived very early on Monday. Actually, we weren’t really open, but, as I said, he’s such a good customer, I hated to turn him away.” He gestured toward the dining room. “We open at five, and, as you can see, even though it’s rather early for dinner, we’ve guests. Most of them are from North America.” He leaned closer. “Actually, that’s the reason we open at such an early hour—we want to accommodate our overseas visitors. Our restaurant has been prominently mentioned in a Cook’s and a Baedeker’s. Those are travel guides that I was surprised to find out were available in North America. To be perfectly honest, our colonial friends provide us with a substantial amount of revenue at a time when we’re generally not busy at all. The Americans, in particular, do like to dine early, and it’s quite easy as most of them have very simple tastes. Now, of course, sometimes we have a bit of a misunderstanding, which is odd considering we speak the same language.” He paused to take a breath and the inspector started to ask a question, but he wasn’t fast enough.
“Why, just yesterday,” Caladini continued, “I tried to recommend the sole meunière to a very nice gentleman from a place called Arkansas, but he kept asking if we had something called fried catfish fritters. Finally, he seemed to understand that not only did we not have the catfish, but the chef had no idea how to turn them into fritters. But as I said, he was a nice gentleman, and eventually he ordered steak and duchesse potatoes, which he enjoyed very much.”
“What time was Inspector Nivens here on Monday?” Witherspoon asked quickly. He was happy that the maître d’ was being so cooperative, but honestly, the fellow did go on a bit.
Caladini drew back. “But I’ve already told you. He arrived before we were open, and we don’t open until five p.m.”
The inspector tried again. “How much before opening did he arrive?”
“What time was it when Inspector Nivens got here?” Barnes added as the maître d’ continued to look confused.
“Oh yes, yes.” Caladini bobbed his head eagerly. “How silly of me—now I understand. Inspector Nivens arrived at a half past four.”
Witherspoon and Barnes looked at each other. “You’re certain of the time?” the inspector said.
“But of course.” Caladini gestured toward the dining room with both hands. “He arrived just as the waiters were putting out the silverware and that always happens at half past four. Inspector Nivens banged on the front door just as Lloyd—he’s the headwaiter—began setting up. Lloyd went to the door and looked out. Inspector Nivens was there, so Lloyd let him into the foyer. I happened to be passing by, and the inspector asked if it was possible to get something to eat. He said he had a very important appointment later, hadn’t had any lunch, and could he get a quick meal? I told him I’d need to check with the chef, as I wasn’t sure what he had ready in the kitchen.” Caladini paused to take another breath.
Barnes rushed a quick question. “You’re certain that Inspector Nivens said he ‘had an important appointment’?”
“But of course, Constable. That’s the reason I was willing to ask Bernard—he’s our chef—if he could accommodate the inspector. He said he could offer him a steak or a chop with a salad. I went back to the inspector, and he said he’d have the steak and salad. He also asked for a glass of the house cabernet sauvignon. We do a very fine cabernet here.”
“Did he speak to anyone while he waited for his food?” Barnes asked.
Caladini shook his head. “He read his newspaper.”
“What time did he leave?” Witherspoon asked.
“Five o’clock. He was going out just as I unlocked the front door.”
Witherspoon looked at the constable, who gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, indicating he had no further questions. He got to his feet, as did Barnes.
“Is that all?” Caladini asked. “Don’t you have more questions for me? This is the most exciting thing that’s happened to me in ages—it’s just like one of Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle’s wonderful stories. Though it is a pity that Mr. Sherlock Holmes does make poor Inspector Lestrade seem a bit of an idiot.”
“In real life we’re not quite that stupid,” Barnes murmured.
“But of course you’re not stupid,” Caladini exclaimed. “Are you sure you’ve no more questions?”
“I’m afraid not.” Witherspoon felt as if he should apologize. The poor man looked so very disappointed. “But you’ve been very helpful.”
The maître d’ sighed and rose to his feet. “Oh well, it’s back to work, I suppose. But if you think of anything else, I’m here all evening.”
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Witherspoon said as he handed Mrs. Jeffries his bowler. “But we’ve had a very busy day.”
“You look very tired, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries hung up the hat and then reached for his overcoat as he slipped it off his shoulders. “Do you want to eat right away, or do you fancy a sherry? Mrs. Goodge has made a lovely roast chicken. She’s just put it in the warming oven so you’ve time for a drink without it being ruined.”
“A sherry would be wonderful.” He hurried toward his study.
Mrs. Jeffries followed him and poured both of them a drink. “Here you are, sir.” She handed him his glass and took her seat. “Now, do tell me about your day.”
He took a quick sip before he spoke. “As I said, it was very busy. To begin with, when we arrived at Leman Street, Constable Barnes had a quick word with his old colleague Constable Rhodes while I went over the witness statements taken by the local constables.”
He took his time relating the events of the day. Witherspoon had discovered going over each and every event helped him clarify and put the information into perspective. He took care to recall every little detail. “Constable Rhodes was most helpful in that we now know that Dickie Stiles goes to the same pub, the Pig and Ale, every day at twelve forty-five.”
“Did you have a chance to interview him?” She took a sip from her own glass.
“No, we didn’t have time, but he is on our list for tomorrow.” He continued by telling her about their interview with Fiona O’Dwyer. “She is adamant that the police planted the evidence against her sons and that they’re innocent,” he concluded.
“What do you think, sir?”
“One hates to think of a fellow officer doing such a thing, but we know that Nivens is capable of bending the rules when it suits him. Nonetheless, I’m going to assume he’s innocent until there’s irrefutable proof he isn’t. After we interviewed Mrs. O’Dwyer, we tried to speak with Frida Sorensen again, but she either wasn’t home or was upstairs pretending not to be home.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean that I think Harvey Macklin is trying to get back into her good graces by pretending she wasn’t home. I noticed him watching us from the front window as we left, and I’m fairly certain it was so he could tell his ladylove the coast was clear.” Witherspoon chuckled. “We’ll have another chat with her tomorrow. But going to the lodging house did give us the opportunity to speak to Harvey. He and the victim hated each other, and what’s more, we caught the man in a lie.” He told her about the interview and about the fact that witnesses had seen Macklin in the crowd outside Felix Mews only moments after the murder.
“So he didn’t come home that evening along Lower Chapman Street as he claimed,” she murmured. “But nonetheless, sir, how would someone like Macklin even know that Nivens had those fancy dueling pistols, let alone figure out a way to get his hands on one of them?”
“Because Macklin was at the Crying Crows Pub on Thursday evening, the same evening Inspector Nivens was showing off his dueling pistols to everyone. Not only that, but there were a few moments when those very guns were unattended. Additionally, Macklin has worked at the locksmith’s shop, Stanton’s, for the past five years.” He frowned and tapped the edge of his glass with his finger. “But I must admit, Macklin didn’t strike me as the type of person to be very good at planning. If Inspector Nivens didn’t kill Santorini, then whoever did was either very lucky or planned every move down to the last detail.”
“That is a puzzle, sir, but I’m sure you’ll solve it,” she said. “What did you do then?”
“When I was going over the constable’s reports, I realized that no one had verified the exact time that Inspector Nivens had arrived at Baxter’s Restaurant, so on our way home, we stopped there and had a word with the maître d’ who was on duty Monday evening. It turns out that it was a good thing we pursued that line of inquiry. Inspector Nivens didn’t arrive at Baxter’s at five fifteen, as he implied in his statement; he was there at half past four.”
“He lied to you?”
“Well, he implied a timeline that was a good forty-five minutes later than what the maître d’ told us.”
“Could the maître d’ have been mistaken?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “No, he was absolutely sure because the restaurant wasn’t open when Nivens arrived there.” He repeated what Caladini had told them. “So you see, this is quite serious. Not only did Inspector Nivens deliberately obscure the time he arrived at the restaurant, he convinced them to fix him a quick meal because he claimed he had ‘an important appointment’ that evening.”
“You think that appointment might have been with Santorini?”
“I don’t know what to think, Mrs. Jeffries. But why else would Inspector Nivens have lied about it? Because that’s what he did. He lied about the time he arrived at the restaurant because he hoped it would give him an alibi for the time of the murder. But the truth is, he got there forty-five minutes earlier, giving him ample time to eat and get back to the East End to kill Santorini.”
The house was quiet as Mrs. Jeffries slipped down the back stairs to the kitchen. She put her old oil lamp on the table and sat down. It was almost eleven o’clock, and, though she’d tried, she couldn’t sleep.
She glanced at the cooker and debated about whether to make herself a cup of tea but then discarded that notion. The teakettle had developed a nasty rattling, and she didn’t want to wake up Mrs. Goodge. But she needed to think. Glancing at the pine sideboard, she got up and pulled open the bottom drawer. Reaching inside, she pulled out the bottle of whisky she kept on hand for medical or emotional emergencies. Grabbing a tumbler from the shelf, she went back to her seat and poured a half-inch shot into the glass.
This was most definitely an emergency.
She had no idea how this case was going to get solved.
She went back to her seat and took a tiny sip of whisky, wincing as it hit the back of her throat. It wasn’t her favorite beverage, but it would have to do, and if she was lucky, it might help her sleep. Her eyes unfocused as she stared across the room in a vain attempt to find the solution to this puzzle. But after a few moments, she realized she was being foolish, and it would be best to think logically about the matter. Now wasn’t the time to trust her intuition or her own “inner voice.” Now was the time to think.
There was no shortage of suspects; Santorini seemed to have thrived on making enemies. It wasn’t just the O’Dwyers and their friends who loathed the man. On a previous occasion, Santorini’s testimony had sent another person to prison. Philip Graves claimed that Santorini’s lies not only deprived him of his liberty but also forced him to sell his cart and pony, a good business for a workingman. But Graves was out of prison now, and it was possible that he wanted revenge against the man who he claimed set him up.
But there were a number of problems with Graves as the killer. As far as they knew, Graves wasn’t at the Crying Crows on the night Nivens was showing off the dueling pistols. So how would he have found out about them? In addition to that obstacle, there was no evidence that Graves had an opportunity to steal one of the weapons. If he wasn’t at the Crying Crows, he wouldn’t have heard Nivens complaining about having to stay at his mother’s house, thus realizing that Nivens’ own home would be empty. But the biggest problem with Graves as the killer was even simpler: Why would he go to the trouble of manipulating the evidence to suggest that Nigel Nivens had committed the crime? There was no evidence he and Inspector Nivens had ever had dealings with each other.
She caught herself as that thought took hold in her mind. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Graves did have a reason to hate Nivens.
She pulled out the sheet of stationery she’d brought down from her room, laid it on the table next to her glass, and then got up, yanked open the top drawer of the sideboard, and rummaged inside for a pencil. When she found one, she took her seat and made a note to ask Constable Barnes if Nivens had ever arrested Graves and if so, when.
She stared at the short sentence she’d just written and pursed her lips. It wasn’t that she was concerned she was going senile, but she had noticed that now her memory wasn’t as sharp as it once was. Well, that was something she’d just have to deal with. If she needed to write things down in order to recall them properly, so be it.
Susan Callahan had reason to hate Santorini, but, as far as they knew, had no reason to loathe Inspector Nivens. She obviously considered him a good customer and treated him decently or he wouldn’t have kept going to the Crying Crows. There was the matter of Nivens thinking she seemed familiar, but perhaps that was merely an occupational hazard from being a policeman for so many years.
Then there was Harvey Macklin. He certainly had a motive. Santorini had stolen the affections of the woman he’d been planning on marrying. But, like Susan Callahan and perhaps Philip Graves, there was no indication that Macklin had ever had any dealings with Inspector Nivens. So why would he have gone to such lengths to make it appear as if Nivens was the murderer? She took another sip of whisky. Additionally, just because Macklin worked at a locksmith’s shop didn’t mean he knew how to pick a lock.
Frida Sorensen was furious at Santorini as well. Enough so that she confronted him at the Thistle and Thorn, the very pub where he was supposedly sweet on the barmaid. Even after Santorini had pulled Frida outside, she was screaming so loudly that everyone in the pub heard her threaten to “make him sorry” if he didn’t keep his promises to her. Mrs. Jeffries was fairly sure one of those promises was to make her his wife. It was possible she decided to kill him when she realized he’d been lying to her.
Which brought up the barmaid. Perhaps that altercation between Santorini and Frida Sorensen had another unforeseen consequence. Maybe when Alberta overheard Frida’s claim that Santorini had made promises, she realized that her own position was vulnerable. Frida had far more to offer than the widow Miller. Frida owned a lodging house, and if she and Santorini married, it would become his as well.
And what about the money they’d found in Santorini’s room? Where had that come from? She picked up the pencil again and made another note, reminding herself to ask Constable Barnes if they’d made any headway in finding out why eighty-five pounds in cash and gold was in his locked box. Perhaps Mrs. O’Dwyer was right, and Nivens had bribed Santorini to lie in court. Mrs. Jeffries thought Nivens capable of bribery, but she wasn’t sure she thought him capable of murder. She made another note, this time to ask about the beer and whisky they found in Santorini’s box.
She put the pencil down and thought about everything the inspector had told her about the interview with Mrs. O’Dwyer and suddenly realized that she had the strongest reason to hate Bert Santorini, and she was also the only one of their suspects who had a reason for loathing Inspector Nivens as well.
Fiona O’Dwyer claimed that Nivens planted evidence in her home and that he’d paid Santorini to lie in court. But if she was going to kill Santorini herself and set the stage for Nivens to be arrested for the crime, why threaten the victim so publicly? Mrs. O’Dwyer tracked Santorini down at the Strand Hotel and, in front of witnesses, accused him of lying under oath, and then she went on to claim that she’d prove it. Why do that if you’ve already decided to commit murder?
Mrs. Jeffries ran her finger along the rim of her glass as another idea blossomed. Perhaps it was Santorini’s threats that sealed his fate. Mrs. O’Dwyer had originally decided to prove Santorini lied in court, but when he threatened her daughter, she decided he had to die.
But was she clever enough to come up with a way of not only ridding the world of Santorini but of discrediting the policeman she blamed for taking her other children away and locking them up? What’s more, even if she had come up with a plan for killing two birds with one stone, would she have had the resources to do it?
Mentally, Mrs. Jeffries began ticking off the obstacles, one by one. First, Fiona O’Dwyer would have needed to know that Nivens had a set of dueling pistols. But from what Constable Donner said, Nivens showed them off to everyone at the Crying Crows Pub, and, considering that Mrs. O’Dwyer was a local in the area, there’s a good chance someone might have mentioned it. Second, she’d have needed to know that Nivens’ own home was going to be empty on the nights prior to the murder. Again, she might have had someone watching both Nivens and Santorini in the hopes of finding evidence they had conspired against her sons. That someone might have overheard Nivens complaining about having to do his mum a favor. Third, she’d have had to know where Nivens lived. But she could have followed him. Mrs. Jeffries thought about what Smythe had reported at their meeting—one of the hansom drivers had taken a woman from the Commercial Road to Belgravia, where Nivens lived, and then thought he had taken that very same woman back to the East End. That woman could have been Mrs. O’Dwyer. Finally, she’d have to know how to get in and out of the Nivens house without getting caught. Nivens would have noticed a typical housebreaking, yet he claimed there was no sign of forced entry. But considering how her sons made their living, it was quite possible they learned their trade from their mother.
Perhaps Fiona O’Dwyer knew how to pick a lock.