Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (11 page)

“What was Mr. McCourt doing at this point?” Witherspoon asked.

“He was upset,” Leon said, “but trying hard not to let it show.”

“And that’s when everyone left?” Barnes pressed.

“As I’ve already said, we were the first to leave, so I can’t say when the others might have gone.”

“Arthur Brunel and Mr. Saxon were right behind us.” Glenda gave her husband a sharp look. “We heard them talking.”

“Yes, but we didn’t actually see them leave,” he argued. “Unless, of course, you looked back. Did you?”

“Why would I?” she said irritably. “But we did hear them.”

“Did you summon a hansom or walk home?” Witherspoon asked.

“We went to the corner and got a cab. I put my wife in it and presumably”—he gave her a quick, assessing look—“she came straight home.”

Witherspoon glanced at the constable. “You didn’t return home with Mrs. Brunel?”

“No, I had an errand of my own to run,” Leon said. “I’d planned on doing it this morning, but as our social engagement ended so abruptly, I decided to take care of the matter immediately.”

“Where did you go, sir?” Witherspoon asked. He noticed that Mrs. Brunel was watching her husband closely.

“I went to see my solicitor, Inspector.” He broke off and smiled at his wife. “I had some rather urgent business.”

Glenda Brunel stared solemnly back at her husband.

Witherspoon wasn’t an expert on marital relationships, but he sensed that something wasn’t right between these two. But that wasn’t his concern. He turned his attention to Leon. “You do understand we’ll need to know the name of your solicitor and the time you arrived home last night.”

“He got home at eight o’clock, just in time for dinner,” Glenda said. “And the solicitor’s name is Jonathan Harwood. He has offices at number six Warwick Way in Pimlico.” Even though she was answering the inspector, her eyes never left her husband’s face.

 

Smythe entered the Dirty Duck Pub and stopped inside the door. It was just past opening time, and the place wasn’t crowded yet. He scanned the room and spotted his quarry sitting alone at a table near the fireplace. He headed toward him.

Blimpey Groggins glanced up and grinned broadly as he saw Smythe. Blimpey was a short, portly fellow with ginger-colored hair, red cheeks, and a round face. “Hello, hello! It’s always nice to see one of my favorite customers. Are ya here for business or are ya just stoppin’ in to wish me a Merry Christmas?”

Smythe raised an eyebrow as he yanked out the stool and sat. “Come on now, Blimpey, pull the other one. You know good and well why I’m ’ere.”

“’Course I do, but that don’t mean we can’t be civil and wish each other the best of the holiday season.” Groggins held up two fingers toward the barman. “You’ll ’ave a pint. So, yer guv caught the McCourt case.”

“’E did. Seems like every Christmas ’e gets a real tangled one to sort out.” Smythe wasn’t surprised that Blimpey already knew why he’d come. It was Blimpey’s job to know everything that went on in London. He was an information dealer, and Smythe was one of his best customers.

Groggins had once been a thief, with second-story work as his specialty. But after an unfortunate fall from an upper-floor balcony that resulted in a painful dog bite to his backside, he’d decided to find another way to make a living. Blessed with a phenomenal memory, Blimpey realized that with a bit of thought and effort on his part, he could put his ability to good use and make a handsome livelihood. He had sources in all the police stations, the courts, the financial district, the different commercial districts, the banks, the docks, and even the newspaper offices. His clients ranged from insurance companies looking to make sure a fire had been an accident to thieves wanting to know whether their latest fence was trustworthy. Blimpey treated all of his clients with both discretion and respect while charging them an arm and a leg. Smythe wasn’t lazy, and he did do a fair bit of investigating himself, but his philosophy was that it would be foolish not to avail himself of an expert when he could well afford to do so.

As a much younger man, Smythe had been the coachman for Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s late aunt. He’d saved his wages and, with the blessings of his employer, gone to Australia to try his luck at prospecting and his luck had been very good. He’d come back to London with more money than he’d ever dreamed of and stopped in to pay his respects to his former employer. He’d found Euphemia Witherspoon lying in a sickbed. By her side was a very young footman named Wiggins, the only one of her many servants trying to take care of her. Smythe sent him for a doctor, but not before the lad had told him that the other servants had been stealing from their mistress and selling the goods. Smythe had used the threat of the law to send them packing. The doctor did his best, but despite his professional care, the woman was dying. Before she passed away, she’d made Smythe promise to stay on in the house and ensure that her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, wasn’t taken advantage of as she’d been. Smythe had honored that promise, and in doing so, he’d ended up richer in family and friends than he’d ever thought possible.

The barman put their pints on the table, and Smythe nodded his thanks. He waited till the barman was out of earshot before he continued speaking. “I’ve got a list of names for you,” he began.

“You mean the guests that ’ad come for tea.” Blimpey picked up his beer and took a sip.

“Cor blimey, you are good.” He laughed. “But you knew I’d be comin’ round, didn’t you?”

“As soon as I got the word yer inspector ’ad been called to the murder house, I ’ad my people on it. But you’ll be wantin’ to know what I know about the victim, Daniel McCourt.”

Smythe nodded.

“Before he married his missus, he was a solicitor at Cochran and Stevens. He wasn’t a very good one, either. Then about fifteen years ago, he up and married Elena Herron. Her family ’ad money and settled a pretty penny on them when they wed. He quit the firm right before the weddin’ and ’asn’t done a day’s work since.” He took another quick sip of his drink. “Spends his time collectin’ Oriental art and antiques. That’s all I know, but like I said, I’ve already got my people workin’ on findin’ out more. Now, what are these names you’ve got for me?”

“You mean you don’t know who was there?” Smythe grinned and took another swallow from his glass.

“I know that Nicholas Saxon was one of the guests, but my source wasn’t able to get the rest of the names. I did find out somethin’ interestin’ about Saxon. You’ll never guess who he was engaged to before she up and married someone else.”

He put his beer down. “Elena McCourt?”

“Nah, she’s a bit too old for him. Saxon was fixin’ to marry one of London’s real beauties, a Miss Glenda Norris. But he made the mistake of introducin’ said Miss Norris to Leon Brunel at an exhibition of Chinese art, and before ya could say dance a jig and play a tune, she’d broken off with Saxon and her engagement to Brunel was announced.”

“’Ard luck for Saxon. Did ’e make a fuss about it?”

Blimpey shrugged. “My source didn’t know that, but even if ’e did, it weren’t Leon Brunel that were murdered; it was Daniel McCourt. But I know ’ow you and yer lot like to know every little detail, so I thought I’d give ya this one for free. Now, tell me who else was at the tea party?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Leon Brunel, Arthur Brunel, Charles Cochran, and Jerome Raleigh,” Smythe replied.

“Raleigh?” Blimpey laughed. “God, I’ve not ’eard that name in donkey’s years.”

“You know ’im?”

Blimpey nodded. “Oh yes, I know all about Jerome Raleigh.’E used to be an appraiser at Goodison and Bright. But they sacked ’im for takin’ a bribe. It seems that for the right price, Raleigh would underestimate the value of a piece, thus allowin’ John Q. Public, or to put it another way, the person that ’ad given ’im the lolly, to pick up said piece for a pittance of its real worth.”

“Are you jokin’? He’s a ruddy crook?”

“I’d not trust the bloke farther than I could toss ’im. If a man can take a bribe once, ’e can do it twice.”

Smythe raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Blimpey gasped. “Don’t look at me like that! I’ll ’ave ya know I was a damned sight more honorable than Jerome Raleigh. I was a thief,” he insisted. “And bein’ a thief is different than takin’ bribes. It’s a matter of trust.”

“Blimpey, don’t take me so seriously. I didn’t mean to offend—”

“But I do take it seriously,” he interrupted. “Once you’ire me to find out somethin’ for ya, I wouldn’t take any money, no matter ’ow much I was offered, to give ya false information.”

Smythe held up his hand. “Come on, Blimpey. You know I’d trust you with my life. Everyone knows that once you give your word, it’s set in stone.”

Blimpey’s expression softened. “Ta, I’m a bit raw about my past. My Nell tells me that ’alf the ones in the House of Lords ’ave their seat ’cause their ancestors robbed, raped, and murdered the poor, but as long as they were doin’ it in the name of the King, that was supposed to make it right.”

“Your Nell’s a smart lady,” Smythe said quickly. Blimpey waved his hand impatiently. “I know, I know, that’s why I married ’er. But what the toffs once did doesn’t make me feel any better about what I once ’ad to do.”

“We all ’ave a few bits in our past that we feel bad about,” Smythe murmured. “But we do what we got to do to survive in this old world. Now, back to business. How come the auction house didn’t ’ave Raleigh arrested?”

Blimpey laughed. “Cor blimey, for a man of the world you’re an innocent. They kept it real quiet; made ’im leave London and promise to keep ’is mouth shut about the incident. If people found out the auction house ’ad been usin’ appraisers that weren’t honest, their business would dry up in a heartbeat. Goodison and Bright is one of the oldest auction houses in England, and they value their reputation.”

“I see what you mean.” Smythe frowned. “But if they made him promise to leave London, what’s ’e doin’ back here?”

“Well, this ’appened ten years ago, so maybe he thought the statute of limitations would protect ’im. ’E was never stood in the dock, so the crown weren’t involved, and there were never any formal charges filed,” Blimpey explained. “But this is all speculation. I’ll find out what I can about ’im and what ’e’s been up to lately.”

Smythe drained his glass and stood up. “I’ll check back in a couple of days.”

“I’ll ’ave somethin’ for ya,” Blimpey said. “You can count on it.”

 

Nicholas Saxon lived in a five-story row house on a small street off the Edgware Road. He’d obviously been anticipating their visit, as the door opened only seconds after Barnes banged the knocker.

“Do come in, gentlemen.” He stepped back, opening the door wide. He was a tall man in his late thirties with wavy brown hair, brown eyes, and full lips. His nose was straight and his gaze steady.

“Are you Mr. Nicholas Saxon?” Witherspoon asked.

“I am, and you’re the police. Please come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

Witherspoon introduced himself and the constable as they stepped inside the house.

The foyer was a good ten feet by ten feet with a patterned parquet floor covered by a huge, brightly colored Persian carpet. Against the wall was a long, low table with ornately carved legs. Three vases were arranged along the top. Perfectly balanced in shape, pattern, and color, the display caught the gaze of both policemen.

Saxon smiled proudly. “That’s celadon pottery from the Joseon dynasty. Exquisite, isn’t it?”

“They’re very beautiful,” Witherspoon said.

“They are three of the best pieces from my collection.” Saxon stepped around the policemen and moved down the hall past the wide staircase to a set of double doors. “The drawing room is through here. We’ll be more comfortable there.”

The drawing room was as beautiful as the foyer; again, a huge, multicolored exotic carpet covered the parquet floor, the walls were painted a pale gold, and brilliant red curtains hung at the three long windows. Two tall matching vases in red and yellow stood sentry by the fireplace, and between them was a bronze-colored fire screen with a copper-colored dragon etched on the surface of the metal. But as they moved toward the settee, Witherspoon noticed the faint outline of empty spots on the wall that hinted of paintings and portraits coming down and being sold off. Exotic Oriental statues, ceramics, cabinets, and chests were placed decoratively about the room. A brilliant blue and white tea set graced the top shelf of a three-rung cabinet, but he noticed that the bottom shelf was bare and the middle shelf held only a tiny brass figure of a sitting Buddha.

Saxon sat down in a chair opposite them. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” Witherspoon replied. “We’re sorry to disturb you, but as I’m sure you’re aware, Daniel McCourt was murdered yesterday.”

Saxon smiled faintly. “I’m aware of it, Inspector. But I don’t know what I can tell you about the man’s death. He was alive when I left.”

“How long have you known Mr. McCourt?” Barnes asked.

“I met him at an exhibit of Oriental art and furnishings at the British Museum about five years ago.”

“You’ve been friends since then?” Witherspoon asked.

Saxon smiled faintly. “We were never friends, Inspector. My relationship with McCourt is, or I should say was, one of business.”

Barnes looked up from his notebook. “What kind of business, sir?”

Saxon sighed heavily. “Oriental art and artifacts. He buys them; I sell them.”

“You’re a dealer, then?” Barnes was fairly sure the man wasn’t, but he wanted to get the fellow talking a bit more freely.

“No, I’m not. What I am is broke.” He laughed harshly. “My family has been in the Far East import/export business for years, and we’d done very well for ourselves. But times being what they are, for a number of reasons, some of them our fault, some of them no one’s fault, the business began to fail. But you’re not here to learn about my family history. What is important is that my uncle collected Oriental art and artifacts. My family hasn’t been blessed with many members of my generation, so when he died, I inherited everything of his. But by then, the business was bankrupt, and all I had left was this house and his collection.” He smiled sardonically. “I’ve been selling it off for the past five years. That’s how I came to be acquainted with McCourt. He bought a number of items from me.”