Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (21 page)

Flattered, Witherspoon’s chest puffed out a bit. “I’m hardly famous, Mrs. Jeffries. But please, do go on and tell me what Mrs. Goodge’s friend said.”

Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath and plunged right in. In the course of the conversation she not only told him everything Mrs. Goodge had gotten out of Mollie Dubay, but she also managed to mention the rumor that Edmund Delaney was Hinchley’s heir.

Spellbound, Witherspoon listened. From the expression on his face, Mrs. Jeffries could see that he was taking in every single word.

Mrs. Jeffries sat staring out at the London night. A wispy fog drifted in off the river, softening the glow of the gas
lamp across the road. She liked sitting in the dark when she was trying to think.

Sitting back, she let her mind drift for a moment. Sometimes, putting the puzzle together began with nothing more than letting the bits and pieces float about aimlessly until, all of a sudden, a piece or two would fit together.

The inspector was fairly certain that Hinchley had been murdered soon after the play ended. That piece might be important. Mrs. Jeffries was inclined to agree with Witherspoon’s reasoning. Whoever did it wouldn’t have wanted to be found roaming the streets at three or four in the morning. With the police out in full force all over London, the killer wouldn’t have risked being stopped by a constable.

Then there was the argument the inspector had overheard. She frowned because it really didn’t make sense. If Swinton thought Delaney’s play was that bad, why had he agreed to produce it in the first place? Even with Theodora Vaughan as a draw, it was obvious that the owner had realized that wouldn’t keep the show open long if the play was awful. Yet he’d not only produced the play; he’d invested his own money in it as well. Why? Then she remembered the inspector telling her that the theatre was in a bad way, that they hadn’t had a success there in years. She nodded to herself. Perhaps Swinton hadn’t had a choice. Perhaps even producing a bad play with a big star was better than letting the theatre sit empty.

For a long time, she sat in the darkened room, her mind going over and over all the pieces of information. Had Hinchley come back early from America for a reason? Could he have come back for the express purpose of destroying Delaney’s play with a bad review? Where was the review? The police hadn’t found it when they searched
his house; Mrs. Jeffries had asked the inspector that this morning at breakfast. She thought not finding it might be important. If what they’d heard of the victim’s habits were true, then that meant the killer must have either destroyed it (she made another mental note to ask Witherspoon if there’d been a fire in the grate) or taken the review with him.

Finally, unable to come to any conclusion except that she needed more facts and information, Mrs. Jeffries got up and went to bed.

The next morning at breakfast, Mrs. Jeffries managed to feed the inspector the remainder of the information. It was hard work; she couldn’t use Mollie Dubay this time. In the end, she couched everything in terms of “possible” and “maybe” and “didn’t the Inspector think.” By the time Witherspoon left with Constable Barnes, Mrs. Jeffries felt she’d spent the morning walking on egg shells.

As soon as the door closed behind the two policemen, she hurried upstairs and put on her hat. The others had already gone out. Pausing only to tell Mrs. Goodge that she would be back before lunch, she dashed out the front door and down to the end of the road. Going out to Ux-bridge Road she debated a moment, wondering if it would be faster to take an omnibus or a hansom to St. John’s Wood. But her mind was made up when a hansom pulled up just then. She smiled at the elderly woman alighting from the cab, waited till the fare was paid and then hopped in herself. “Avenue Road, St. John’s Wood, please,” she called to the driver.

She had the hansom drop her at the North Gate of Regents Park. The day had dimmed, and a layer of yellowish fog had crept in to cover the sun. Mrs. Jeffries glanced across the intersection of Avenue Road. Time enough to
get a good look at the victim’s house later. She turned and walked slowly into the park, towards the canal. Towards Macclesfield Bridge.

When she got to the edge of the bridge, she took a moment to study her surroundings. Down the path to her left was the entrance to the Zoological Gardens. The water in the canal was a dark wine color. Cool looking and deep, it reeked slightly of damp and rotting vegetation. Stepping onto the bridge, she walked until she came to the middle and then peeked over the side.

The drop wasn’t very far. Only a few feet. Leaning further, Mrs. Jeffries craned her neck until she could see under the bridge. But all she saw was the dark water lapping against the sides of the supports. The carriage wheel that the body had landed on was gone. Taken away, probably, by the police.

Mrs. Jeffries turned and walked back the way she’d come. Crossing Albert Road to Avenue Road, she found herself in front of Hinchley’s house. His was the last one at this end of the street. She edged closer to the house, her eyes darting from the front door to the side. A cob-blestone walkway veered off from the walkway and led round the side of the tall building. It took only a second to realize that the killer must have used the side door, which was flat against the pavement, or been as strong as an ox. There were six steps leading up to the front door. Carrying a body down them wouldn’t have been easy. She studied the side of the house for a few more minutes, trying in her mind’s eye to imagine what the area would have been like in the dark of the night. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted that on the corner there was a gas lamp. Across the intersection, just outside the North Gate entrance, was another one. The were small gaslamps, not like the huge ones on Oxford Street or the Strand, but
they would have been lighted. The killer could have avoided the lamp on the corner by veering out into the darkened street. But he would have had to pass the one by the park entrance.

Then she turned and slowly began to measure just how far it was to the bridge. She pretended she was carrying a dead weight over her shoulder and slowed her steps accordingly.

Then she did it again.

And again.

Each time, she mentally ticked off the passing seconds in her head. By her estimation, the killer must have been visible, out where people could see him, for at least a minute and a half.

“’Ow much you willin’ to pay, mate?” Blimpey lifted the pint of beer Smythe had just paid for and took a long, greedy sip.

“That’s what I like about you, Blimpey,” Smythe replied, taking a sip from his own glass, “you don’t waste time askin’ a lot of questions.”

“Just takin’ care of business, mate. No offense meant. After all, snoopin’ about in a murder could be dangerous.”

“All you’ve got to do is ask a few questions, Blimpey. You’re not riskin’ life or limb. Besides, don’t I always pay a good price?” Smythe replied. “You can trust me on that.”

Blimpey wiped his mouth with the cuff of his dirty, checkered sleeve. He grinned and slapped the glass on the counter. “Yer good fer it, mate. Just tryin’ to rattle ya a bit. Now, what’s them names again?”

They were standing at the bar of the Baying Hound Pub on Wapping High Street. The place was old and dark
and smelled of rotting wood, stale beer and unwashed bodies. It was Blimpey’s favorite pub and the one place he could ususally be found during the daylight hours. During the night hours he worked. His job was an odd one, and Smythe had found it useful on several occasions.

Blimpey bought and sold information. He also did other things. Things that occasionally skirted the law a fraction, but as long as Smythe didn’t know the details, he didn’t ask questions. But for all Blimpey’s criminal associations, and Smythe knew he had plenty, he was a good sort. Once you paid him, he got what you needed and then kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t one to sell out a friend, either. Not for any amount of money.

“You want me to write ’em down for ya?” Smythe asked.

Blimpey shook his head. “What’d be the point? Can’t read now, can I?” He laughed heartily at his own wit. “Is there anythin’ in particular you want me to find out?”

Smythe thought about it for a moment. He didn’t doubt that Blimpey could find out most anything. But he wasn’t sure himself just what it was that he was looking for. Blast a Spaniard, he felt a bit of a fool, not even able to say what it was he wanted to know. “No, just general stuff. Anythin’ about the night of the killin’ and anythin’ about them names I give ya.”

Blimpey’s eyebrows rose so far they almost disappeared under the brim of his filthy pork pie hat. “What da ya mean, general stuff? Come on now, mate, I’m good, but I can’t get blood out of a bleedin’ turnip. These people ain’t crooks. It’s not like I’m goin’ to be able to tap my usual sources.”

Irritated with himself more than Blimpey, Smythe answered harshly. “Look, I’ve given you the bloomin’ names. Just find out if any of ’em ’as come into a bit of
money or is plannin’ on leavin’ town or…or…”

“Or anythin’ else,” Blimpey finished. He took another swallow of beer. “This is gonna cost you. Thems a lot of names, I’ll ’ave to spread the lolly about a bit to cover ’em all.”

“Spread as much as ya ’ave to,” Smythe retorted, then caught himself and quickly picked up his own beer. Bloomin’ Ada, he’d forgotten for a moment that Blimpey only thought of him as a coachman. When he glanced at the other man over the rim of his tankard, Blimpey was staring at him with a long, speculative gleam in his eye. “What are you lookin’ at?”

Blimpey smiled slowly. “Nuthin’. Just wonderin’ where a coachman gets that kind of lolly.”

“I told ya before, I play the ’orses.”

“Then we’ll ’ave to go to the races together sometime,” Blimpey said amiably. “The way you spread the stuff about, you must be bloomin’ good at pickin’ winners.”

“So what if I am?”

“You was out in Australia a while back, wasn’t ya?”

Smythe blinked, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “Yeah, what of it?”

“Nuthin’, just chattin’.” Blimpey pointedly looked down at his now-empty glass. “I could use another.”

Smythe nodded at the barman, who hustled over with another glass of beer and slapped it down in front of Blimpey.

“Seems to me, even if ya play the ponies a bit, you’re always ready with the cash,” Blimpey said softly. “Not that I’m askin’ any questions, mind ya. Just curious like.”

“Good, ’cause I’m not answerin’.” Smythe wondered if Blimpey was going to raise his price now.

“The price is the same,” Blimpey said, as though he
could read the coachman’s mind. “But ya know, if I ’ad the kind of money I think you ’ave, I wouldn’t be ’angin’ about drivin’ someone else’s ’orses. I’d be buyin’ my own.”

“You’re talkin’ daft, man,” Smythe retorted. But he knew then that Blimpey knew the truth. Cor blimey, he’d been a fool to think the likes of Blimpey Groggins wouldn’t get curious about him. Especially considering the kind of money he’d tossed Blimpey’s way for information—and in one case for a little more than information.

He’d no doubt that Blimpey knew to the penny exactly how much money Smythe had.

“I’m daft?” Blimpey laughed. “Look, Smythe, you’re a good sort and I owe you one. So don’t think I’m goin’ to be spreadin’ any stories about you. If someone as rich as you wants to go on livin’ in a policeman’s ’ouse and drivin’ a team of ruddy ’orses, that’s yer business.”