Read Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own Online
Authors: Emily Brightwell
Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (2 page)
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
CHAPTER 1
“Your excuses are getting tiresome, Jones.” Ronald Dearman fixed his disapproving glare upon the hapless clerk standing on the far side of the wide mahogany desk. “If it happens again, you’ll get the sack. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” Daniel Jones said quickly. “I understand, and I’m grateful you’re giving me another chance. But my mum was so ill I had to take her to the doctor. She’s better now, so it shouldn’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t,” Dearman snapped. He glanced at the clock on the wall next to the door. “Are you the last one here?”
“Yes, sir,” Jones stuttered. “It’s past six o’clock, sir, and everyone else has gone.”
“Go ahead and leave, then. Just make sure the windows are closed and locked.”
“They are, sir.” Jones edged toward the door. “Mr. Anson ordered them closed before he left for the factory,
and I locked them then.” He broke off, wincing as he realized he’d said just the wrong thing.
Dearman’s eyes widened. “Mr. Anson ordered,” he repeated. “Mr. Anson isn’t in a position to be ordering anything around here. I’m in charge of the office, not Henry Anson. Do you hear me, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir.” Jones stumbled backward, desperate to get out of the office before Dearman decided to sack him. “I only meant—”
“I know what you meant,” Dearman shouted. “And I’m not having it. Neither you nor anyone else in this office is to take any notice of what that upstart says. Now get out of here before I change my mind and you find yourself unemployed.”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir.” He lunged for the handle, yanked the door open, and flew into the outer office. “Good night, sir,” he called over his shoulder.
Dearman didn’t bother to reply. He sat up, his body stiffening as an image of Anson’s face flashed into his mind. He wished he could sack that one. Anson strutted around like the cock of the walk, safe and secure as the favored one. At that thought, Dearman’s heart pounded and his chest tightened. He took a long, deep breath and expelled it slowly. His doctor had warned him about getting upset, said it wasn’t good for his blood pressure. Dearman shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure in his chest; he could hear a faint buzzing in his ears as well. He took another breath and deliberately relaxed the muscles in his shoulders and arms. He was determined to stay calm.
He’d not let Anson win by conveniently dropping dead of a stroke or heart failure; he intended to be here
for a good number of years yet. The little sod was going to have to wait a long time before he got this office. Dearman turned his head and focused his gaze on the lamp on his desk. As it was a cold, miserable gray day in March, it had been lighted since the middle of the afternoon. He smiled slightly. His heart had stopped pounding, and the buzzing in his ears was gone. He laughed softly as a gust of rain slammed against the window. Oh yes, he intended to be at Sutcliffe Manufacturing for a long, long time.
His good humor restored, he leaned back in his chair, satisfied that he had his world under control. Even better, he had Daniel Jones, the junior accounting assistant, completely cowed. The man had made the mistake of taking one too many days off. It didn’t matter to him that Jones was taking care of his ailing mother; he simply needed to ensure that Jones was completely intimidated. He was a bright lad, perhaps too bright, and that wouldn’t do at all. Junior accountants needed to know not to ask too many questions about matters that didn’t concern them.
Dearman yawned and stretched his arms toward the ceiling, enjoying the solitude of the quiet, empty office. Other than his annoyance at hearing Henry Anson’s name, it had been a good day, especially for a Monday. He’d successfully quelled a minor rebellion amongst the clerks over the time allowed for the midday meal break, bullied Jones into submission, and arranged for a new and less expensive reconciliation accounts clerk.
He frowned suddenly as he heard footsteps in the outer office. “Jones, is that you? I thought you’d left for the day,” he called. The footsteps paused and then continued on toward his door.
Dearman straightened his spine and stared at his closed office door. “Who’s there? Jones, is that you? Answer me. Who is there?”
But no one replied. Instead, he saw the knob turn, and a second later, the door eased open.
He slumped in relief. “Goodness, it’s you. Why didn’t you reply when I called out? What’s that you’re holding?” His voice trailed off as his visitor stepped farther into the room and aimed the gun directly at his forehead.
“No, no, you can’t do that.” Dearman shoved backward with all his might and tried to throw himself to one side. But he couldn’t move faster than a bullet.
The visitor squeezed the trigger, and as planned, the sound of the shot was drowned out by the blast of the horn from the six-fifteen ferry as it passed under the Southwark Bridge.
Ronald Dearman stared in stunned surprise for a brief moment and then flopped forward onto his desk. The murderer moved quickly across the small space, stopping by the body and checking to make sure that Dearman was truly dead before pulling a set of keys out of the deceased’s coat pocket. Satisfied that the victim wouldn’t live to tell any tales, the assailant blew out the lamp and left the premises, double-checking that both Dearman’s office door and the main door were locked tight.
Inspector Nigel Nivens struggled to keep from smiling as he stood over the corpse of Ronald Dearman, deputy manager of Sutcliffe Manufacturing. The inspector wasn’t happy the man had been killed, of course, but he was delighted that for once, he’d been assigned the murder.
“It’s about time you got one, sir,” Constable Morehead said to Nivens.
“Why wouldn’t I get it?” Nivens replied as he studied the position of the body. “It’s in my district, and apparently, a mere deputy manager wasn’t important enough for the Home Office to insist the case be given to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.”
He spoke freely in front of Morehead; they’d worked together on a number of cases, and Nivens knew that the young constable was ambitious and very much in awe of Nivens’ social and political connections. Besides, Morehead was the only constable who liked him enough to have a drink with him. When he stepped into any of the local policeman’s pubs near the station, he might as well have been invisible. None of the off-duty constables or detectives would so much as look in his direction. He wasn’t well liked and he knew it. He tried not to let it bother him, and for the most part, it didn’t. Power was far more useful to him than popularity.
“Well, it’s only right that you get it, sir,” Morehead agreed. “You’ve plenty of good collars on your record, and it isn’t fair that every important case be given to Inspector Witherspoon. The rest of us need a chance to prove ourselves.”
“And prove ourselves we will.” Nivens smiled briefly. “I intend to solve this case quickly, and that will lead to others.”
“You like solving murders?” Morehead asked.
“Of course not, but you’ve been around long enough to know that is the way to the top. Catching killers gets one’s name in the papers, and that, Constable Morehead,
makes the brass sit up and take notice. One of these days, I intend to have Bradford’s spot.”
“You want to be the commissioner?”
“Naturally, and once I’ve successfully concluded this investigation, I fully expect to be promoted. I’ve several reporters who owe me favors, and they’ll see to it that my name is prominently mentioned in all the newspaper accounts.”
“Inspector Witherspoon has solved dozens of murders and gets his name in the paper all the time, but he’s not been promoted.” Morehead moved to the far side of the desk so he could get a better look at the body.
“That’s because he’s a fool.” Nivens’ good humor vanished at the mention of Witherspoon’s name.
“I heard he’s been offered promotion many times, but he always turns it down,” Morehead continued. His attention was on the corpse, and he was oblivious to the fact that he was annoying his superior. “Supposedly, he doesn’t need the money and he’s happy with his current position. I know the lads all speak well of him.”
“I wonder if the lads would think so highly of him if they all knew he had more help than any of us get when he’s on a case.” Nivens lifted the victim’s head to take a closer look at the bullet hole in his forehead. “He’d not have such a high solve rate if it wasn’t for his servants. They help him, you know, especially that housekeeper of his, Mrs. Jeffries. She’s the sharp one behind his success. You wouldn’t think a woman would be able to put two and two together and come up with the correct answer, but she does. Witherspoon’s solution rate wouldn’t be any better than anyone else’s if he didn’t have her and
the rest of them snooping about on his behalf.” Nivens let go of the victim’s head and it thumped hard against the desk.
Morehead glanced at the office door and winced as he noticed it was slightly ajar. “Mrs. Sutcliffe is just outside, sir,” he whispered in an attempt to remind his superior to be a bit gentler when handling the victim.
Outside the dead man’s office, Fiona Sutcliffe stood frozen in shock. She couldn’t believe her ears. For a moment, she panicked, but then she brought herself under control. Stumbling just a bit, she moved to the nearest desk, yanked out a chair, and sat down. She had to think, she had to decide what to do. Just how capable was this Inspector Nivens? From what she’d overheard, he was more concerned with his own ambition than anything else, and that could cause her great difficulties. It wouldn’t take long before he found out. There had been too many witnesses, and she was under no illusions that her servants would hold their tongues. But which was the more dangerous course of action? Letting this investigation take its course or going to her for help?
She sat there thinking, going over every possible outcome, while all around her, constables searched the premises of Sutcliffe Manufacturing looking for evidence. She ignored the muffled voices and the shuffling feet as she concentrated on the problem at hand. She wasn’t superstitious, but on the other hand, she wasn’t one to ignore the hand of providence. Hearing that name after so many years surely meant something.
The door opened and the plainclothes officer stood on the threshold. He was a portly man with dull blond
hair, bulbous blue eyes, and a large mustache. He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to the office and said to the constable, “When the police surgeon has the body moved, do a thorough search of this office. I’ll start the interviews.”
She stared at him cooly as he came toward her, noting with surprise that his blue suit was exactly like one her husband owned, his shirt was pristine white, and his black shoes were shined to perfection. She didn’t think policemen earned the sort of money it took to get their clothes tailor made.
“Mrs. Sutcliffe.” He stopped in front of her chair and gave a small bow of his head. “I’m Inspector Nigel Nivens. I understand that you found the body.”
“You’ve been misinformed, Inspector,” she replied. “It was Mr. Dearman’s wife who found him.”
“But the first constable on the scene reported that you were here when he arrived,” he insisted.
“Of course I was. I accompanied Mrs. Dearman here this morning. We arrived before the office opened for business, and I used my position as the wife of the owner to have the porter unlock the doors. But it was Mrs. Dearman who found him.”
“It’s been a right miserable day out,” the cook, Mrs. Goodge, complained as she picked up the last of the lunch plates and handed them to the maid. “Even Fred hasn’t been pesterin’ anyone to take him walkies.”
Fred, the household’s mongrel dog, raised up from his spot by the cooker, gave a desultory wag of his long tail, and then curled back down to sleep. Outside, a chilly spring rain fell steadily against the windowpanes over
the sink, but the household of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon was warm and cozy.
“I don’t know, it’s not that bad,” Wiggins, the footman, commented. “It’s wet, but the streets aren’t floodin’.”
“Thank goodness for that,” the cook exclaimed. “It wouldn’t do for Betsy and Smythe’s train to be delayed, not if they want to get to their ship on time.”
“I wish they weren’t going. I’m going to miss them so much,” Phyllis muttered as she took the dishes to the sink. “Oh dear, I can’t believe I just said that. You’re all going to think I’m selfish.”
“We’d not think that,” Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, said. “We’re all going to miss them.”
Phyllis smiled broadly. She’d been here less than a year, but it was already home to her. Her face as round as a pie plate, she had dark blonde hair worn in a bun at the nape of her neck and lovely, porcelain skin. She was nineteen and plump as one of Mrs. Goodge’s roast chickens. “Don’t take any notice of me; I want them to go and have a wonderful time.”