Mrs. Jeffries Defends Her Own (9 page)

Mrs. Sanger stuck her head into the room. “Mrs. Sutcliffe is free now.”

“What was keeping her?” he snapped as he hurried toward the door.

“You’ll need to ask her that yourself,” she replied as she led him out into the hallway.

Constable Morehead stared skeptically at Daniel Jones. They were sitting in Henry Anson’s office at Sutcliffe Manufacturing, and thus far, the constable had not found out anything that pointed to the killer. He’d better find out something worthwhile if he wanted to continue working closely with Inspector Nivens. The man was as ambitious as a Tudor courtier and wouldn’t tolerate failure. Morehead understood him completely because he was exactly like that himself. He knew that if Nivens failed to solve this murder, he’d be looking for a scapegoat, and Morehead was determined it wouldn’t be him. He’d do whatever it took to learn something, anything that might lead to an arrest.

“Are we done yet?” Daniel Jones asked. “I’ve told you everything I know, and I’d like to get back to work.”

Morehead tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Tell me again why you were the last person to leave the office Monday night.”

“But I’ve already told you.” Jones sighed. “How many times do we need to go over this?”

“As many times as I say,” Morehead snapped. “Now get on with it and tell me again.”

“Alright, then. Everyone else had begun packing up at a few minutes to the hour.”

“What hour?”

“Six, we finish at six. I’ve told you that half a dozen times now.”

“Don’t be impertinent. Just answer my question.”

“He’s already answered that question,” a man’s voice said.

Morehead looked up from his notes. A tall, slender man with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and high cheekbones stood in the open doorway. He wore a dark grey suit, white shirt, and black tie. “I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes, and I’ve distinctly heard Mr. Jones answer that question a number of times.” He nodded at the open notebook on the desktop. “Don’t you write things down in that book of yours?”

“Who might you be?” Morehead asked.

“I’m Henry Anson, and in Mr. Sutcliffe’s absence, I’m in charge here.” He came into the office proper. “And this is my office. Now, can you please explain why you’ve wasted a good ten minutes asking Mr. Jones the same questions? The constable outside said you wanted to speak to everyone on the staff. But if you keep repeating the same thing over and over, you’re going to be here a week.”

“It’s simple police procedure,” Morehead blurted. He’d sized up Anson immediately. He was youngish, probably early thirties, but he carried himself with an unmistakable air of authority. “We often ask witnesses the same question several times. We do it to ensure they’ve not gotten confused.”

“Mr. Jones didn’t sound in the least confused.”

“I wasn’t,” Daniel Jones said quickly.

“In that case, you can go,” Morehead said to the clerk. Jones got up, gave Anson a respectful nod, and bolted for the door.

“You’ll want to interview me, I assume,” Anson said.
He looked pointedly at his chair, which was now occupied by the constable.

“Yes I would. Sorry about commandeering your office, but I was told you were at the manufacturing site.” Morehead gathered up his notebook, rose to his feet, and stumbled around the desk before plopping into the hard straight-backed chair that Jones had just vacated.

Anson took his seat and leaned back. “I was, but I’m here now. Go ahead and ask your questions. There’s nothing pressing that needs my attention right at the moment, and frankly, the sooner you’ve finished taking statements, the sooner we can get back to work. This horrible business has upset the staff, and I’d like it over with as quickly as possible.”

Morehead opened his notebook, placed it on the edge of the desk, and had his pencil at the ready. “What time did you leave the office on Monday?”

“Five o’clock.”

“I thought the office worked until six.” He looked up from his scribbling.

“We do, but I had an errand to do, so I left an hour early.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the post office on Cannon Street. I mailed off a parcel.”

“That’s only a short walk from here,” Morehead said. “Why didn’t you come back to the office?”

Anson shrugged. “I was tired, so I went home to rest. I had a dinner engagement later that evening at my fiancée’s home.”

“What time did you leave the post office?”

“Probably about five fifteen,” he replied. “I was in no hurry.”

“Where are your rooms, sir?”

“On Hart Street off Bloomsbury Square. As I said, I was tired, so I took a hansom cab and I was home about half past five.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Anson shook his head. “I’ve a key to the front door, so I let myself in and went straight up to my quarters. My landlady wasn’t there.”

“How about the post office?” Morehead said. “Did anyone see you there?”

“Lots of people saw me, but I don’t know any of their names.” He smiled in amusement. “Constable, am I a suspect?”

“That’s not for me to say, sir. These are simply routine questions. But we have heard that you and the victim didn’t get along.” Morehead was guessing. But based on Daniel Jones’ account of Dearman’s reaction at the mere mention of Anson’s name, he was fairly sure he’d guessed correctly.

“Dearman didn’t get along with most of the people who knew him.” Anson’s amusement faded. “One hates to speak ill of the dead, but he was a disgusting man.”

“Disgusting in what way?” Morehead asked. He was finally getting somewhere; once you got suspects admitting how they really felt about the victim, you were half the way toward a conviction. At least, that’s what Inspector Nivens always said, and right now, he hoped it was true. He made a mental note to make certain this interview, with his name prominently displayed, was on the first
page of the report sent to the Yard. It never hurt to put your name in front of the chief inspector or the superintendent.

“In every way, Constable. He bullied the staff, was rude to the typewriter girl, and went through everyone’s desk. He was a brute and a snoop. The only reason he had a position here was because he married into the Sutcliffe family and John Sutcliffe didn’t want his sister to starve.”

“What do you mean by ‘snoop’?” Morehead asked. “Could you explain that a bit further?”

Anson grimaced. “What’s to explain? As I’ve said, he had a habit of going through people’s desks, and he was always trying to eavesdrop on personal conversations. It was almost as if the fellow liked to collect information on the off chance it might prove useful. I know he’s searched this office”—he waved his hand in an arc and then thumped the desktop—“and I know he’s gone through my desk. Just last week I caught him going through John’s desk. When I confronted him, he claimed he was looking for an invoice. But that was nonsense. All the invoices are kept in the accounts department.”

“Did you tell Mr. Sutcliffe about it?”

“I most certainly did,” Anson replied.

“And what was his reaction?” Morehead looked up from his notebook again.

Anson’s brow furrowed. “That was the odd thing. I expected he’d be furious, but he wasn’t. He just said he’d deal with it and for me not to worry about it.”

Wiggins stood across the road from the three-story office building and watched people as they went inside.
Clerks, typewriter girls, businessmen, and even well-dressed matrons passed through the double doors. So did a lot of police constables. He wasn’t worried that he’d run into any policemen that knew him by sight; these coppers were from Nivens’ station or the Yard, so it wasn’t likely they’d know he was a member of Inspector Witherspoon’s household, but still, it didn’t bode well. People tended to hold their tongues when there were police everywhere.

He crossed the road and entered the lobby. The porter’s desk was empty, so he hurried toward the corridor, passing the main staircase and heading for the rear of the building and what he hoped were a set of back stairs. He passed the offices of an insurance firm, a shipping company, and a freight line before he came to the end of the hallway. On one side was a service door leading to the mews, and on the other, the back stairs.

Moving quietly, he went up to the second floor. He peeked into the corridor and saw two constables standing at the far end. All the doors up and down the corridor were wide open, and he could hear the low murmur of voices, the clacking of typewriters, and the rustling of footsteps as people tried to go about their business.

He leaned back against the wall and tried to think of his next step. Going out into the hallway wouldn’t work—those coppers would be on him like a shot. Blast, he had to see who worked in the Sutcliffe office. This was a big building and if he just hung about downstairs or tried the local pub, he couldn’t be sure of finding an actual employee from Dearman’s firm.

So he waited, leaning up against the wall and keeping his ear cocked for footsteps heading his way. He could
always make a run for it if the police came near his hiding place. Every time he heard voices or feet in the corridor, he stuck his head out, but it was usually just a policeman coming or going. He did spot a couple of clerks, but they moved too quickly for him to get a decent look at their faces. After what seemed an eternity, he heard a nearby church bell chime the hour, and a moment later, footsteps pounded in the hallway as the office emptied for lunch.

He stuck his head in the hall and saw half a dozen neatly dressed clerks, including a typewriter girl, making their way toward the front stairs. One man, however, turned from the herd of people and came toward him.

Wiggins raced down the staircase, making it to the bottom just as the young man came barreling down. The clerk didn’t so much as glance his way, but charged the service door, flung it open, and stepped out. Wiggins waited a moment and then followed him.

As Wiggins stepped out, the clerk turned and glared at him. “Are you following me?”

“Don’t be daft.” Wiggins forced a laugh. Blast, he should have been more careful; there had just been a murder here, and everyone would be suspicious of strangers hanging about the place. “Why would I be followin’ you? It’s lunchtime and I’m goin’ to get somethin’ to eat.”

The clerked looked to be about his own age. He had a long, thin face, hazel eyes, and brown hair parted on one side and cut short. “I’ve never seen you in this building before,” he said. “Where do you work?”

Wiggins could easily have bluffed his way through the confrontation and said he worked for the insurance company or the freight lines, but he decided to play it a bit differently. “I work for a newspaper.” He shrugged.
“And you’re right. I was followin’ you. I know you work at the Sutcliffe offices upstairs, and I was hopin’ I could ’ave a word with you.”

“If it’s about the murder, you’d be wasting your time. I don’t know anything.”

“I’ll bet you know more than you think you do,” Wiggins said. “Come on, help me out ’ere. My editor will have my guts for garters if I come back empty-handed, and the coppers ’ave got that second floor pinched as tight as a bloomin’ corset. You’re my only hope.”

The clerk said nothing for a moment and then he laughed. “Will you buy me a pint? We’re not supposed to drink at lunch, but I reckon that with Dearman dead, no one else will much care.”

“I’ll buy you as many pints as you like,” Wiggins replied, delighted that his instincts had been correct. “Lead the way to the nearest pub.”

Phyllis stepped into the grocer’s shop and smiled politely at the young man behind the counter.

“May I help you, miss?” the clerk asked as she drew closer.

“I’d like a tin of Lyle’s Golden Syrup, please,” she said. The household actually needed the item as well.

“Yes, miss.” He turned and walked down the row of shelves behind the counter till he reached the end, where he stopped.

“And I was hoping you could help me,” she continued. “My mistress gave me a message for a household nearby, but I’m afraid I’ve lost the address.”

He pulled the tin off the shelf, came back, and set it
in front of her. “Do you recall the name of the household?” he inquired.

Phyllis pretended to think for a moment. “Uh, let’s see, yes, now I remember. The name was Dearman. Mr. and Mrs. Dearman.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’ve never heard of that family. Will there be anything else?”

“No, that’ll be all,” she replied.

An hour later, she was ready to give up. Apparently, the Dearman and the Sutcliffe households did their shopping elsewhere, because she’d been to every shop on both sides of the road and had learned nothing. Her feet hurt and she was cold. She stood in front of a tea shop debating whether to go in and have a cup to warm herself up, but she wasn’t certain she could. She’d only been in such an establishment a few times, and that had only been because she’d been carrying her mistress’s packages. But then she remembered what Betsy said.
You’ve as much right to a good life as anyone else,
the maid had told her.
And if you want something, you need to hold your head up and high and go after it.
Phyllis straightened her spine and went inside.

A dark-coated waiter hurried toward her. “Good day, miss. There’s any empty table over there by the window. Will that do you?”

Phyllis smiled serenely. She was glad she’d worn her best cloak and bonnet. “That will do nicely, thank you.” She followed him to the table, sat down, and ordered a pot of tea. When he’d gone, she tucked her shopping basket under her chair and sat back. The place was busy
and the tables crammed so close together that she could hear snatches of conversations from every direction. She took a deep breath, pleased with herself for having had the courage to come inside. She half listened to the murmurings from the other tables, enjoying the feeling of being part of the bustling life of the city. But then she heard something that caught her attention.

“I’m not surprised that someone murdered him,” a young woman said to her companion at the table next to hers.

Phyllis cast a furtive glance in their direction. Both girls wore plain, serviceable cloaks over their dresses, but she could tell by the lavender material of their skirts that the two of them were housemaids. They were probably on their afternoon out. She turned away as the one speaking noticed her looking at them. Luckily, the waiter was bringing her tea, so she smiled at him and nodded her thanks.