Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage (4 page)

“Take care the police don’t see you,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. Betsy would do as she always did when they were starting an investigation. She’d talk to all the trades-people and shopkeepers and learn as much as she could about the victim’s household.

“I’ll do the hansoms and the pubs,” Smythe said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and find out who came and went on Saturday night.”

“Excellent, Smythe.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded in satisfaction. They were falling back into their old routine very nicely.

“I’ll get round there and see if I can find a servant,” Wiggins said. “But I’ll be careful, Mrs. Jeffries. Fred and I’ll lie low until we sees that the inspector and the rest of the constables is gone.”

“I have no doubt you will, Wiggins.” She glanced down at the black and brown mongrel dog lying by the footman’s chair. “If you take Fred with you, make sure he doesn’t see the inspector.” Fred, hearing his name, raised his head and thumped his tail on the floor.

“The last thing we need is for the inspector to catch us,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. She glanced at the cook. “You know what to do.”

The cook nodded. She had a veritable army of people she called upon when they were investigating a murder. Without ever leaving her kitchen Mrs. Goodge used her very own, very sophisticated network of street boys, fruit vendors, chimney sweeps, delivery people and former acquaintances to suss out every morsel of gossip about the victim.

Gossip, Mrs. Jeffries had always found, was immensely useful in a murder investigation.

Inspector Witherspoon hated mortuaries. He hated looking at dead bodies too. But as it was an integral part of his job, he did it without complaint. He stared at the corpse lying beneath the gray sheet on the wooden table and braced himself. “Right, Dr. Bosworth. We might as well get on with it.”

Dr. Bosworth, a tall young man with red hair and an earnest, intelligent face, gazed at the inspector sympathetically. “He’s not as bad as many victims, Inspector. By my estimation, he’d only been in the canal a couple of days, not long enough for too much decomposition to have set in.”

Witherspoon smiled weakly, reminded himself of his duty and stepped closer to the table.

“Actually, the water in the canal was quite cold for this time of year,” Bosworth continued chattily. “Kept the fellow very well preserved, especially as he hadn’t sunk.”

The inspector made himself watch as Dr. Bosworth
pulled the sheet away. The body was fully dressed in formal evening clothes—white shirt, proper black tie, black and gray vest and black longcoat. But the face was ghastly white, the eyes open and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. They were hazel and bulging wide, as though the poor fellow was surprised to find himself lying on a mortuary slab. His hair was brown and thinning on top, his lips thin and his nose long and aquiline.

“Excuse me, Dr. Bosworth,” Witherspoon said hesitantly. “I’m not trying to tell you your business, but isn’t it usual to conduct a postmortem with the clothes off?”

“I left them on for a reason,” Bosworth said. “They could well be evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Yes. Have a good look at this, Inspector.” The doctor leaned over and pointed at the vest. “The buttons are fastened incorrectly. See, the top button goes into the second hole, not the first. But that’s not all.” He quickly undid the vest and pulled it apart, exposing the shirt. “Have a look at this.”

Witherspoon noticed the shirt hadn’t been buttoned right either. But he didn’t quite see what that had to do with anything. “It’s not done up properly either,” he said.

Bosworth nodded. “That’s what I noticed when the fellow was brought in. I asked the constable who pulled the body out of the canal if anyone had tampered with the victim’s clothes. They hadn’t. You do see what this means, Inspector.”

“It could mean the victim had been dressed after he was already dead,” the inspector guessed, hoping his reasoning was along the same path as the doctor’s.

“My thoughts exactly.” Bosworth leaned down and pointed at the man’s shoes. “And look here. Brown shoes. Day shoes. No one wears brown day shoes with evening
dress. It looked most odd to me. So I had a good look at the chap’s feet.”

Witherspoon gaped at Bosworth, who was busily working the victim’s right shoe and sock off.

“See.” The doctor pointed to a pronounced bluish im-print angled at the bottom of the man’s shinbone. The discolored flesh was approximately the size and shape of a withered sausage. “Look at this mark here.” He quickly grabbed the other leg and shoved the sock down. “And here, there’s another one. Equally pronounced and lying in almost the same position, only reversed.” Bosworth looked at him expectantly.

Baffled, Witherspoon could only mutter, “Yes, it’s most odd.”

“There’s more,” Bosworth said excitedly as he yanked the right foot up again and stuck it under Witherspoon’s nose. “See, there’s a bruise on this heel.”

The inspector stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet to get away from the hideous dead foot the doctor thrust at him. But he did see the bruise. “You’re right, Doctor,” he mumbled, “it’s…it’s very much a bruise.”

“Of course it is,” Bosworth agreed. “But there isn’t one on the other foot. I checked. Well, naturally, as soon as I saw this, I immediately notified the authorities that this might very well be a homicide rather than an accidental death.”

“I see.” Witherspoon didn’t really see at all. What on earth was Bosworth getting at? But he wouldn’t for the world admit that he couldn’t follow the man’s reasoning. His inner voice told him that Bosworth might be on to something. “Would you mind explaining how you came to that conclusion? Just so I have it clear in my own mind.”

“Not at all,” Bosworth said enthusiastically. “It’s quite
simple, really. From all indications, someone drowned this poor fellow in a bathtub, stuffed him back in his clothes and then dumped his body in the nearest body of water, which just happened to be the Regents Canal. Your killer, Inspector, was hoping to make it look like an accidental death.”

For a moment, the inspector couldn’t think of what to say. “Er, why do you think those marks on his ankle proved he was drowned in a bathtub?”

Bosworth looked surprised by the question. “I think it’s rather obvious, Inspector.”

“But wouldn’t the killer have just shoved his head under?” Barnes asked. “Shouldn’t there be marks around the neck, not the ankles?”

Witherspoon nodded gratefully at the constable, relieved that Barnes apparently didn’t get it either. “That’s right, if he was drowned in the tub, there should be some kind of bruises about the poor chap’s neck.”

Bosworth shook his head stubbornly. “Not necessarily, Inspector. If someone has his head shoved under, he might be thrown off balance for a second, but he could use his legs and arms to fight back against the hands holding him under. Unless, of course, he was in a such a huge tub his legs didn’t reach the end. And neither of the victim’s arms had any bruises or abrasions at all. If someone was holding the poor chap’s head under, unless the hands were tied, he’d have been flopping about and fighting back for all he was worth.” Bosworth suddenly scurried down to the end of the table and grabbed the dead man’s ankles. “However, if you walk up to someone in a bath, reach in and quickly jerk their ankles straight up”—to Witherspoon’s horror, he jerked the corpse’s legs straight into the air—“the entire upper torso and head gets pulled under quickly and the legs cannot be used defensively,”
Bosworth explained eagerly. “The arms are almost use-less because in most of the new baths, the sides are so high it would be hard to grab them to lever yourself up. Plus, if the killer acted quickly, the victim’s mouth and lungs would be filled with water so fast, they literally wouldn’t have time to react.” Bosworth put the poor chap’s limbs down.

Witherspoon sighed in relief. For a moment there, he’d been afraid that in his enthusiasm, the good doctor was going to yank the fellow off the slab. He glanced at Barnes, who was staring thoughtfully at the body.

“Too bad we don’t have a bathtub handy,” Barnes mumbled. “It could easily have happened like that.”

“That would be a rather interesting experiment,” Bosworth said cheerfully. “Perhaps I’ll try it at home.”

Scandalized, the inspector gasped. “You’re going to take the body home?”

“No, no.” Bosworth grinned. “I wouldn’t be that disrespectful, Inspector. However, I’m sure my landlady’s son will give me a hand with it. He’s helped me conduct some other experiments. Of course I will promise not to drown the lad.”

Witherspoon smiled weakly. He wasn’t sure this theory made sense but he made a mental note to have a good, hard look at the victim’s bathtub. “So you think the killer held him under by grabbing his ankles? Right?”

“Yes,” Bosworth said. “That would explain these bruises.” He leaned over and gripped the dead man’s ankles again. This time, he carefully placed his thumbs over the bruises at the bottom of the shins. They fit perfectly. “See. That could be what made these bruises. I’d have to hold tight to keep him under the water, but it could certainly be done.”

“What about the bruise on the heel?” Barnes asked.

“Probably from the top of the tub.” Bosworth stepped back. “Even under water, the victim would have had some fight left in him. I expect the killer had a bit of a hard time hanging on to him. With all the other evidence, I think it’s quite clear, don’t you?”

“Other evidence?” Witherspoon wasn’t sure he wanted to ask.

“The soap under his fingernails.” Bosworth lifted one of the lifeless hands. “Here.” He shoved the extremity toward Witherspoon’s nose. “Take a sniff, you can still smell it. lavender soap. Luckily, whoever dumped the body didn’t realize it landed on top of a carriage wheel someone had tossed in the canal. This hand wasn’t in the water at all and the soap didn’t get washed away. Believe me, Inspector. One doesn’t find much lavender soap in the Regents Canal. From the way the soap’s caked under the fingernails of the hand, I’m rather led to believe that the victim must have been washing when the killer grabbed him. Too bad he didn’t have a better defensive weapon at hand. You can’t do much damage with a bit of soap. More’s the pity.” Bosworth smiled sheepishly. “Mind you, Dr. Potter doesn’t necessarily agree with my analysis of the situation. But considering the evidence, I’d wager the family silver, if I had any, that you’ve a murder on your hands.”

Impressed, Witherspoon gazed at the young doctor. “Are you doing the postmortem?”

“Yes. Potter didn’t think it would be fitting for him to do it.” Bosworth grinned. “Slicing into an old friend, you know.”

“So, Dr. Potter
was
a friend of the victim,” Barnes said.

“Not really. More of an acquaintance, I’d say.” Bosworth pulled the sheet back up. Witherspoon smothered
another sigh of relief. “But it did give the poor fellow a shock when he came barging in here and saw who was lying on the table. That’s how we identified the victim so quickly. Well, what do you think, Inspector?”

Witherspoon wasn’t sure what to think, but he did have a great deal of respect for the doctor. “You’ve made a most compelling case. Most compelling, indeed. But isn’t it possible that the buttons got mangled from being in the canal? Currents, that sort of thing?”

Bosworth shook his head. “No. The buttons on the vest are extremely small and quite difficult to undo. The shirt buttons are even tinier. I had a good look at the size of the holes too. No current is strong enough to worry the material out of shape so much that buttons could slip out then slip themselves back in again in a different order.

“Besides, as I said, the body was actually caught on a carriage wheel some fool had tossed under the canal bridge. I should have loved to have had a go at the poor chap before they fished him out. I’ve a theory you can get an awful lot of information about the crime if you just take the time and trouble to look at the body before people start mucking about with it.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Actually, Witherspoon thought that was a rather silly notion. Dead was dead. Furthermore, most police surgeons did have a look at the corpse before it was moved. He didn’t see what good it would have done Dr. Bosworth to stare at this poor fellow while he was flopped over a wheel in a canal. But there was no point in being rude.

“There’s the shoes as well,” Barnes added. “I’d say that’s good evidence of a murder.”

Witherspoon glanced at the feet again. “True. One doesn’t usually wear brown shoes with full, formal evening dress.”

“And don’t forget the soap, sir,” Barnes persisted.

“Thank you for reminding me, Barnes,” Witherspoon said. He looked at the doctor. “How sure are you about the time of death?”

Bosworth looked doubtful. “Not as positive as I’d like to be. I should have a better idea once I cut him open.”

Witherspoon shuddered and glanced at the shrouded body. “Poor chap. I wonder where he’d been?”

“I know,” Dr. Bosworth announced proudly. “At least, Dr. Potter knew where he’d been on Saturday evening. He saw him, you see.”

“Saw him? Where?” Witherspoon hoped that didn’t mean that old Potter was going to end up being a suspect. He didn’t much like the doctor but he couldn’t quite see him as a murderer.