A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer (11 page)

Mrs. Jeffries cornered the inspector the moment he came through the front door. She helped him off with his coat and hat and ushered him into the drawing room where she had a glass of his favorite sherry already poured and waiting for him. “Do sit down, sir. You look very tired.”

Witherspoon sighed in satisfaction as he eased himself into his chair. “I have had a tiring day, Mrs. Jeffries, and I’m frozen to boot.”

“Frozen, sir?”

“Yes, the Cameron house was very chilly, very chilly, indeed. Of course, I suppose one can’t blame Mr. Cameron for not having seen to the fires; he has had a rather bad shock. But you’d think the butler would have taken care of it.”

“Perhaps he forgot, sir,” she ventured. There were a dozen good reasons why the house might have been cold and Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want to discuss any of them. She wanted to find out what the inspector knew. The meeting downstairs had been cut short due to Aunt Elberta’s arrival, and Mrs. Jeffries was annoyed about that. Goodness knows it was important that they share information. There were a dozen things she needed to know from the Inspector. “Why don’t you tell me about your day, sir? You know how I do love hearing about your methods.”

He gave her a brief smile. “I’m not sure my methods are going to work in this case. It’s a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid. Inspector Nivens still seems to think it was a burglary gone awry and not murder. It’s most awkward having him about while I try to question people. Most awkward, indeed.”

“I’m sure it is, sir. But knowing you as I do, I’m sure you discharged your duty perfectly. Furthermore, I’ve every confidence in your methods. They’ve never failed you before.”

Grateful for her confidence, he relaxed a bit and some of the tension left his face. “I did my best. But it’s an odd household, Mrs. Jeffries. Very odd, indeed.”

“In what way, sir?”

“In several ways. To begin with, no one seems
to be very grieved by Mrs. Cameron’s death. Even her own brother didn’t seem overly upset by her murder.” He leaned back, took a sip of sherry and unburdened himself to his housekeeper.

She was a wonderful audience. She listened carefully, asked questions in all the right places and made him feel ever so much better about his own abilities as a detective. By the time Betsy came in to announce that dinner was ready, he was feeling quite on top of things. There was something about discussing the case with his housekeeper that got his mind moving in the right direction. Yes, first thing tomorrow morning there were a number of inquiries he would make.

Smythe was in front of his bank the next morning before it even opened. He paced back and forth in front of the imposing building, his feet smacking hard against the pavement as he scanned the bustling street. He pulled a heavy gold watch out of his pocket and checked the time. Five minutes to nine. The blighter should be coming any minute now. Smythe leaned back against the gray stone building and crossed his arms over his massive chest and prepared to wait. He didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes, a tall, white haired man with his nose in the air walked briskly toward the bank. He wore a dark gray greatcoat and an old fashioned black top hat and carried a cane.

Smythe leapt away from the building as the man drew abreast of him. Startled, the fellow stepped back. “Goodness, you gave me quite a start,” he said, recovering quickly when he saw who it was who’d accosted him.

“I’m goin’ to be givin’ you more than that if you don’t stop sendin’ them fancy letters to me,” Smythe snapped. “I told ya never to do that.”

Mr. Bartholomew Pike, general manager of Breedlow and Bascombs Bank, wasn’t in the least intimidated. “Mr. Smythe,” he said calmly, “I realize I was acting against your explicit instructions. However, you left me no choice. As I’ve told you before, you’ve a number of important decisions to make. If you’ll recall, sir, we were scheduled to have a meeting two days ago. When you did not come and you sent no word, I was forced to communicate with you.” He took Smythe’s arm and started for the front door. “Now, sir, if you’ll come with me, we’ll take care of business immediately.”

Smythe shook him off and dug in his heels. “I don’t have time to meet with you now—” he began, but he was cut off by his banker.

“You always say that, sir,” Pike challenged, “and I simply must insist that you make time. We’ve serious business to discuss, sir. You’ve made another five thousand pounds on those American investments. You must make some decisions. You don’t seem to understand, sir. You can’t just leave your money sitting in a deposit account…”

“Isn’t that what bleedin’ banks is for?” Smythe yelped.

“Not when one has as much money as you do, sir,” Pike insisted. “We’re not simply your bankers, sir, we’re your financial advisors as well. In good conscience, I simply cannot allow you to…”

“Look, mate.” Smythe cut him off. He’d love to poke his banker in the nose, but the truth was,
he was ruddy good at his job. In the past year, Pike’s advice had fattened Smythe’s fortune substantially. “I don’t ’ave a lot of time just now. I only come to tell ya to stop sendin’ them bloomin’ letters…”

“Letters? I only sent one, Mr. Smythe,” Pike said indignantly.

“That’s one too many,” Smythe snapped. “You’ve caused me no end of bother.” It was more than just “bother.” Smythe couldn’t risk anyone else at the household finding out that he had money. At this point, they’d feel as if he’d been deliberately hiding the truth from them. Which, of course, he was.

“That certainly wasn’t my intention,” Pike countered. “But you must realize you have a responsibility. Money is serious business, sir…”

“It’s my bleedin’ money, is’n it?”

“That’s not the point, sir,” Pike insisted.

“It is the point,” Smythe fired back. “It’s for me to decide what to do with it and I’ll thank you to just sit on it awhile longer until I’ve a mind to take care of it.” With that, he turned and stalked down the street.

“I’ll expect to see you next week, sir,” Pike called after him. Smythe ignored him. “Bloomin’ fool can wait till ’ell freezes over,” he muttered as he stormed around the corner. “Blighter’s caused me no end of trouble. I’ve ’alf a mind to pull my money out of that ruddy bank and bury it in the back garden.” But he knew he wouldn’t. And even if he did take his money from the hallowed vaults of Breedlow and Bascombs, he knew he’d run into the same problem wherever else he put it. Bankers
just couldn’t stop themselves from giving advice. It was as if they were personally insulted to see great big heaps of cash sitting in a vault minding its own business. Oh no, they were always saying that money had to earn its keep. Well, his money had brought him nothing but grief. He’d never meant to hide his wealth from the others; it had just happened that way. Euphemia, may she rest in peace, had made him promise to stay on at Upper Edmonton Gardens and keep an eye on her naive nephew, Inspector Witherspoon. Before Smythe knew it, Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge had come and then Betsy and soon, they were solving murders and watching out for each other. He’d never told them about his money and now he couldn’t. It would change things, make him different from them. Not that
he
felt that way, but that’s the way they’d see it. They’d not like it. He couldn’t stand the idea of losing the very people who’d come to mean more to him than anyone. Especially one particular person. Betsy.

“What’s your ’urry, mate?” A familiar voice hailed him from behind.

Smythe whirled around. “As I live and breathe, Blimpey, what’s the likes of you doin’ in this neighborhood?”

Blimpey Groggins, a short, fat, red-haired man wearing a rust-colored porkpie hat, a dirty brown-and-white checkered waistcoat and a clean white shirt with a bright red scarf hanging around his neck, hurried toward him. A former petty thief and con man, Blimpey’d mended his ways when he’d discovered that his inordinant love of a good gossip and his phenomenal memory for detail could make
him a much fatter profit than lifting the occasional silver candlestick or picking a pocket. He was a professional purveyor of information. If you wanted to find out anything about anyone in London, Blimpey was your man. What he didn’t already know, he could find out in the blink of an eye. Smythe had used his services on more than one of the inspector’s cases.

“Been to the bank,” Blimpey wheezed. He lifted one end of the scarf and wiped his face. “Made a deposit.”

Smythe raised his eyebrows. “You? Trustin’ a bank?”

Blimpey shrugged. “Got to keep yer money somewheres, don’t ya? What you doin’ round ’ere?”

Smythe shrugged noncommittally. “A bit of this and that. You got time for a quick one?” He decided to spend a bit of his bloomin’ money. It was ten times quicker for Blimpey to get the goods on someone than for him to waste hours trying to find a cabbie or publican who knew anything about the murder. He’d gotten blooming lucky yesterday with that gardener; he didn’t think Lady Fortune would smile on him twice.

“You buyin?”

“Aren’t I always?” Smythe started across the road. “Come on, there’s a pub just over there.”

Blimpey kept up a stream of chatter until they were seated in the back of the saloon bar at the Horse and Hound. He raised his glass of beer, took a long sip and then sighed in satisfaction. “That’s good, mate. What’da ya need, Smythe? Same as always? Bit of information?”

“That’s right.”

Blimpey took another long swig of his bitter. “You’ve come to the right man fer it. What’s the particulars?”

“I need to know somethin’ about some people.” Smythe picked up his whiskey and took a sip. He didn’t usually drink spirits, especially in the daytime, but the confrontation with his banker had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Blimpey grinned. “That’s my specialty, is’n it? Just give me the names and before you can spin yer granny, I’ll find out what there is to know.”

“One’s a doctor by the name of Connor Reese. The other two are John Ripton and Brian Cameron.”

“Cameron?” Blimpey’s brows drew together as he concentrated. “He related to that woman that got herself knifed the other night?”

“Her husband,” Smythe admitted. He’d given up any pretense of keeping his activities secret from Blimpey. The man knew he worked for Inspector Witherspoon and knew that the inspector had built quite a reputation for solving homicides. Blimpey knew everything, including, he suspected, that Smythe had more money than half the toffs in Mayfair. But Blimpey had a code and he lived by it. He didn’t shoot off his mouth unless he was paid for his trouble.

“Papers said it were a burglary,” Blimpey said conversationally.

Smythe knew he was fishing. “The papers were wrong. It weren’t a burglary.” No harm in tellin’ him that much.

Satisfied, Blimpey nodded. “Didn’t think so. No
one’s takin’ credit for that toss. Besides, a pro wouldn’a a made such a muck up of it.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Anyone else, or just them three men?”

“Just the three names I gave ya.” Smythe noticed he didn’t ask for addresses or anything else. Blimpey didn’t need to. He had his own network of information. For a second, Smythe considered adding Fiona Hadleigh to the list and then decided against it. Betsy was tackling that one.

Right now wasn’t the time to go poachin’ on Betsy’s patch. Her nose was still out of joint over his ruddy letter. She hadn’t liked the fact that he’d ignored her hints for him to tell her who’d written to him.

“Anythin’ in particular ya want to know?” Blimpey asked casually.

Smythe thought about it for a moment. “Find out if any of ’ems ’ard up for money and then see what ya can dig up in general about ’em.”

“Want the gossip or just the facts?” Blimpey asked. He finished his drink and looked pointedly at his empty mug.

Smythe ignored the hint. He was going to be payin’ Blimpey plenty for the information; he didn’t intend to throw any more money down the man’s throat. “Get it all for me,” he said, tossing back the last of his whiskey and then getting to his feet. “I’ll meet ya at the Dirty Duck tonight. That give ya enough time?”

Blimpey looked affronted. “Does a dog ’ave fleas? ’Course it gives me enough time. I’ll be there at ten.”

“I might be a bit late,” Smythe said. The household
had agreed to have their meeting after Aunt Elberta was safely tucked up for the night.