Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time (13 page)

“A constable.” Joseph looked at Lionel.

“It wasn’t me,” Lionel said quickly. “I wasn’t even here that night.”

Witherspoon grimaced. It was probably some very new officers who’d been given the task of taking the statements. “That is our error, Mr. Humphreys. Now, can you tell me what time you arrived here the day you took up residency?”

“I got here around ten o’clock that morning.”

“Forgive me for being redundant—perhaps you’ve already been asked this question—but when you did get here, did you notice anything unusual?”

“No.” He seemed surprised by the question. “But in all honesty, I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings, either.”

“Why not?” Lionel asked sharply. “I should think when one is moving to a new neighborhood, one would be very keen to learn all one could about their new surroundings.”

Witherspoon gave him a quick glare, but the constable seemed not to notice.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Joseph said calmly. “Frankly, I couldn’t care less about my surroundings. Besides, it wasn’t my first time at this house. Despite our political differences, I was family and Uncle Francis had invited me here many times.”

“Political differences,” Lionel snapped. “What political differences? Did you fight about them? Are you one of those awful radicals?”

“I’m a member of Socialist League.” Humphreys sat up straighter in his chair. “Not that it’s any business of the Metropolitan Police Force.”

“It most certainly is our business,” Lionel argued. “You radicals are going to ruin the country. If I had my way, we’d round the whole lot of you up and—”

“Constable Gates, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,” Witherspoon ordered. “This is a free country and Mr. Humphreys is entitled to whatever political affiliation he chooses as long as he doesn’t break the law.” Lionel gaped at him for a moment and then slumped back in his chair. The inspector looked at Joseph. “I’m sorry, sir. Now, how did you get here that day? By train?”

“I came in a four-wheeler,” Joseph replied. “My uncle sent one for me. He knew all of my luggage wouldn’t fit in a hansom. There were several cases and a rather large trunk.”

“You’d planned on staying here for quite a while, then?”

“No, just until I was able to find another position. But I had to bring everything I owned as I had no place to store it.”

“You’d made prior arrangements with your uncle about moving into this house?” Witherspoon glanced at Lionel. He was scribbling away in the notebook.

“Of course, Inspector. I didn’t just show up on the man’s doorstep. I’d been here the day before and discussed the arrangement with him.”

“Where had you lived previously?” Lionel asked. Apparently, being admonished by a superior officer didn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

“I had rooms in a house in Marylebone, on Berwick Street.” He brushed a piece of lint off the arm of his gray jacket.

Witherspoon nodded. “What is your profession, sir?”

“I’m currently between positions.” He colored a bit as he spoke. “But I’ve had positions in insurance and in banking.”

“And your reason for moving into your uncle’s house?” Witherspoon pressed.

Joseph’s mouth flattened into a thin, disapproving line. He looked away for a moment and then back at the inspector. “Why does anyone move into a house with an elderly relative?”

“I’d prefer you tell me rather than have me engage in speculation,” Witherspoon said. He glanced at Gates again and saw that the constable was glaring at Humphreys as though he’d decided the man was guilty as sin.

“I couldn’t pay my rent,” Joseph admitted reluctantly. “I lost my position at the insurance company in January and I had no money. Unlike some in the family, I have to work for my living. My landlady turned me out.”

“She evicted you?” Lionel asked excitedly.

“That’s what being turned out usually means.” Joseph stared at the constable. “She had my luggage stacked out in the hallway and had locked the doors to my rooms. If Uncle Francis hadn’t taken me in, I’d have been living on the streets. I’m unemployed and I don’t have a penny to my name. Add to that, I’m in debt up to my arse because it’s been difficult to find work and you’ll no doubt decide I’m your best suspect. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Mr. Humphreys, what I’d really like to know is whether or not you own a gun,” Witherspoon said calmly.

Joseph took a deep breath. “Yes, I do. I own a revolver. As a matter of fact, Uncle Francis was the one who gave it to me.”

Witherspoon thought for a moment. “May we see the weapon?”

Joseph’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise. “Why? Surely you don’t think I shot my uncle. I was in the drawing room with the others when it happened.”

“I understand that, sir, but it’s my duty to conduct a thorough investigation. Your uncle was murdered and it would be irresponsible of me not to account for all the weapons that may have been on the premises.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, if you must. I’ll go get the wretched thing.” He got up and stalked to the door. “Wait here. It’s upstairs in the wardrobe in my room.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d like the constable to fetch it,” Witherspoon said. “Mrs. Eames can go with him.”

“Yes sir.” Lionel leapt up.

Joseph stopped and glared at the inspector. He said nothing as Lionel charged past him. Then he stuck his head out the door and called, “It’s in a heavy brown case on the top shelf.” He turned back to Witherspoon. “I’m not the only one in this family that has a firearm. Uncle Francis didn’t play favorites. He gave all the men guns.” He smiled slightly. “He gave us Enfields, just like the one he bought for himself.”

Smythe hadn’t wanted to do it this way, but after two days of struggling about on his own and getting nowhere, he’d decided to put his pride to one side and do what he had to do. He pushed through the door of the Dirty Duck pub and stopped just inside, hoping his contact would be on the premises and available to see him.

The room was crowded with dock workers, day laborers, street vendors, and all manner of people who made their living off or on the river. He craned his neck over the crowd to see if Blimpey Groggins was at his usual table. He was but he wasn’t alone. Two men, both of them wearing the sort of formal clothing that identified them as toffs from the financial district, or as it was better known, from the City, were with him.

Smythe would have to wait his turn. He pushed his way to the bar and squeezed into a spot where he could keep an eye on Blimpey and, more importantly, where Blimpey could see him. Knowing he had a customer waiting might make him hurry.

Blimpey Groggins had started out in life as a thief. Breaking and entering had been his specialty, but after a couple of very near misses with the long arm of the law and the realization that a stretch in one of Her Majesty’s incarceration institutions wouldn’t be to his liking, he’d taken a good hard look at himself and decided to change professions. His strongest suit had been his memory. Once he learned something, he never forgot it. That ability soon convinced him he could make far more money buying and selling information than he ever had as a thief. After all, as he’d once explained to Smythe, London was full of thieves, petty and otherwise, but there were very few people who could recall the owner of a building that had burned to the ground ten years ago and the insurance company that had gotten stuck paying out the damages. But Blimpey could. Insurance companies were among his best customers. But he didn’t just rely on his own recollections. He actively solicited information from all over England. He had sources at the Old Bailey, the magistrate courts, the financial centers in the City, the steamship lines, all the insurance companies, and even the Ecclesiastical Courts. He also had an excellent relationship with every thief, con artist, and crook in southern England.

But Blimpey had standards. He wouldn’t trade in information that caused physical harm to a woman or a child. Smythe had used him lots of times. He was both discreet and reliable.

“What’ll you have?” the barman asked, jolting Smythe’s attention away from Blimpey.

“A pint, please,” he replied. When he looked back in the direction of the fireplace, the two men were gathering up their silk black top hats, nodding their bald heads (both of them), and heading for the door.

“Can you send my pint to Blimpey’s table?” Smythe asked as he moved away from the bar.

“Meg’ll bring it over,” the barman replied.

Smythe pushed through the throng. “Do you ’ave a bit of time for a payin’ customer?” he said as he slipped onto the stool.

“I wondered how long it would be before you showed yer homely face in here.” Blimpey laughed heartily. “Must say you surprised me, it’s been two days since the murder. What were you doin’, trying to suss out a few bits on yer own?”

Blimpey was a short, burly man with orangish-red, thinning hair, a ruddy complexion, and a wide face. He was dressed in his usual outfit of a brown-checked suit that had seen better days and a white shirt. A long, red scarf was twined about his neck and on his head was a dirty, porkpie hat. He wasn’t a poor man—he could afford the very best of everything—nor was he a miser. Smythe knew for a fact that Blimpey was a generous man, but he didn’t believe in wasting good coin on something as frivolous as a suit or shirt.

“So you’ve heard about it, then,” Smythe muttered. “And yes, you’re right, I did try a bit of snoopin’ on my own but all I learned was that one of the dead man’s relatives ’as an attic full of mechanical bits and pieces.”

“You mean Pamela Bowden Humphreys.” Blimpey grinned. “Her husband liked to tinker. He used to show his little inventions at all the exhibitions, but he never made any money out of any of his gadgets. Mind you, he had enough wits about him to patent most of his contraptions.”

Smythe shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve not even hired you yet and you already know more than I do.”

Blimpey’s smile faded. “What makes you think I’m workin’ for you on this one?”

Smythe’s jaw dropped. It had never occurred to him that someone else would get here first. That someone else might have an interest in this case.

“Cor blimey, you should see your face.” Blimpey burst out laughing. “Forgive me, Smythe, but this was priceless.”

“Very funny.”

“Don’t be sore, you’re one of my few customers that actually has a sense of humor.” Blimpey broke off as the barmaid brought two pints to the table. “Thanks, luv.” He waited till she’d moved out of earshot and then said, “Right, then, you’re wantin’ to know about Francis Humphreys?”

“Of course, even though the man didn’t live in the inspector’s district, he caught the case. What I need to know most of all is who might have wanted him dead.”

“Usually with a rich man like that, there’s lots that’d ’ave a reason for wantin’ him to meet his maker,” Blimpey said. “You got more names for me?”

“You mean other than Pamela Humphreys?”

Blimpey grinned. “I bet you’re wonderin’ how I know about her. I was tellin’ the truth, her name come up in another one of my inquiries.”

“What inquiry?”

“It’s nothin’ criminal.” Blimpey waved him off. “It concerns one of the late husband’s inventions. I’ve got a client, a confectionary maker of all things, who has just designed another device to make his sweets. He was concerned that the widow might be able to sue him. The apparatuses are very similar to one another.”

“What did you tell him?” Smythe took a sip.

“That his problem was a legal matter and he’d best ask his solicitor,” Blimpey replied. “Now, just to show you I’ve been actin’ in good faith, I do know a bit about the Humphreys’ matter.”

“You mean you expected me to come along and hire you,” Smythe corrected. Though it stung his pride that he was so predictable, he didn’t take umbrage at Blimpey’s comment. The man was only telling the truth. “Tell me what do you know.”

He’d done business with Blimpey for so long that they didn’t need to discuss rates or payment schedules. They trusted each other. Besides, Smythe had helped Blimpey court and marry his wife. That had to count for something.

“First of all, Francis Humphreys had very little money of his own,” Blimpey began. “He was from one of them ancient families with lots of breeding but not many brains. His grandfather owned a lot of property in Lancashire but managed to gamble it away by the time his sons came of age.”

“So there’s a gamblin’ streak in the family,” Smythe said. “I wonder if Francis had it?”

“From what I hear, he only gambled on railroads. The fellow is mad about them. Word in the City is that before his death, Humphreys was tryin’ to raise a lot of cash to buy stock in a railway in South America.”

“And I take it that wouldn’t ’ave been a good investment?”

Blimpey shrugged. “Who’s to say what is or isn’t a good investment? Besides, people in South America are just like the rest of us, they need to get from one place to another, so why wouldn’t a railway be a good idea? But you’re not payin’ me for my ability to understand the marketplace. So what names have you got for me?”

Smythe rattled off names of everyone who’d been in the drawing room at Humphreys House. When he’d finished, he said, “These are most of his relatives and friends. They were all together when they heard the gunshot, so they’ve got alibis. But as they’re the ones most likely to benefit from his death, we thought we’d start with them.”

“You thinkin’ conspiracy?” Blimpey asked.

Smythe shrugged. “Could be. Stranger things ’ave happened. It’s been our experience that when someone is murdered in his own home, it’s usually done by someone who was close to the victim one way or another.”

“Right.”

“There’s another matter I need some help with.” He took a deep breath. He’d thought long and hard about this course of action and finally decided it was the only choice he had. Betsy was a very private person and she wouldn’t appreciate anyone nosing into her past, but if he was going to get her sister here in time, he had to act quickly.