Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (11 page)

Mick scratched his head. “I dunno, I reckon it would have been about five o’clock.”

“And how many people came in when you opened the doors?”

“About a dozen,” Mick said. “’Corse, most of them was here ’cause they’d been invited special.”

“Could you tell me what happened right before Mr. Dapeers was murdered?” Witherspoon asked. He generally encouraged people to ramble on; it was amazing how much information one could pick up that way. But gracious, if Mick didn’t get cracking with a few facts, he’d be here all day.

“I thought I was tellin’ you,” Mick replied.

“Yes, yes, of course you are, please go on.”

“Well, let me see. Right before the murder you say.” Mick scratched his head again, as though the event had taken place years ago. “Mr. Dapeers was talkin’ to that dirty little man at the bar and then Molly told him that we needed another keg of beer. So he yelled back that he’d get it—Mr. Dapeers was the only one with a key to the taproom, you see. Then he walked down the hall and went inside. ’Bout the time he did that, the ruckus started out on the street and we all went over to have us a look. Most of us was still gawkin’ at the fight when we heard Mrs. Joanne Dapeers screamin’ her head off.”

“How much time had passed between Mr. Dapeers going to the taproom and Mrs. Joanne Dapeers finding the body?” Witherspoon asked.

Mick shrugged. “I couldn’t say, a few minutes maybe. No more than that. The copper had just got here to break up the fight when Mrs. Joanne found him. And it were a good fight, too. Two or three minutes of insults and shoutin’ and then the fisticuffs started.”

“The dirty little man that Dapeers had been talking to at the bar,” Witherspoon asked. “Was he here during the fight?”

“I dunno. I think he’d left.”

“Did you see him leave?”

“Nah.” Mick wrinkled his nose. “But I wasn’t watchin’ the bloke, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you know who he was?” the inspector asked.

“No, but I’ve seen him here before. He come around a couple of times and talked to Mr. Dapeers. They was doin’ some kind of business together.”

“Really?” Good, the inspector thought. Now they were getting somewhere.

“’Corse they was,” Mick said importantly. “He certainly weren’t one of Mr. Dapeers’s friends.”

Smythe shifted his weight on the small, hard bench, trying to get comfortable. But it was a futile task. The Dirty Duck Pub was ancient, creaking and jammed up smack against the Thames. The place was dark, crowded and filled with the scent of unwashed bodies and stale beer. But the place had its advantages. Mainly, that it was Blimpey Groggins’s local.

Smythe ignored the bold smile of the young woman at the next table. She was a streetwalker, tired looking, desperate, and probably with just enough money for a cheap gin before the barman tossed her out onto the docks. He felt sorry for women like her; there were plenty of them in this part of London.

He kept his gaze on the door, hoping that Blimpey would show up soon. If he didn’t, Smythe’s backside might be permanently ruined from this ruddy bench.

He hadn’t told the others about Blimpey being in the Gilded Lily Pub on the night of the murder. Mainly because he hadn’t known for sure it was Blimpey until just a few hours ago.

The front door opened. Smythe grinned. His prey had arrived. Blimpey strolled to the bar like he owned the place, which Smythe thought wasn’t an impossibility, and ordered a beer. Then he turned to survey the room.

His eyes widened as he spotted the coachman. “What
you doin’ ’ere?” Blimpey asked as he sauntered over to where Smythe sat and plopped down on the opposite bench. “Waitin’ to see me?”

“I didn’t come ’ere for the beer,” Smythe grimaced. “That’s for sure. I want to ask you a few questions.” He’d used Blimpey Groggins a time or two himself in the past on some of the inspector’s other cases. Of course, Blimpey didn’t know he was “helping the police with their inquiries,” he was just doing what he always did, selling information for money. Luckily, Smythe had plenty of money.

“Questions? Me?” Blimpey chuckled. “Come on, mate. You know I don’t do much talkin’ unless me palm is crossed with silver.”

Smythe stared at him. “You do a job for a fellow named Dapeers?”

Blimpey lifted his hands and rubbed his fingers together. “You’re not playin’ fair, Smythe. I don’t see any lolly on the table.”

Smythe sighed, pulled a few coins out of his pocket and slapped them down next to his glass. “There, ’appy now? Answer the question.”

Blimpey’s eyes shone greedily. “Now, that’s more like it, mate. Yeah, I was doin’ a job for a fellow named Dapeers.” He snorted. “And it looks like I got paid just in time. Bloke got ’imself stabbed the other evening.”

“What kind of a job was you doin’?”

“Took a message or two to a bloke for ’im, that’s all.” Blimpey stared at him cautiously, as though he’d just remembered that someone had been murdered and that Smythe worked for a Scotland Yard police inspector. “I didn’t do all that much.”

“What’s the bloke’s name?”

Blimpey hesitated, his gaze on the few coins under Smythe’s fingertips. “Why are you so interested?”

“Never mind that. I’m payin’ for information, so give it over.”

“You’re not thinkin’ that I ’ad anything to do with killin’ Dapeers, are ya?”

“Don’t be daft,” Smythe said. He’d known Blimpey for years. “You’re not exactly as pure as snow, Blimpey, but you’re no killer. Come on now, just give me the fellow’s name.”

Relieved, Blimpey grinned. “Name’s McNally, James McNally.”

“And what kind of messages was you takin’ to this Mr. McNally?”

Blimpey took a long swallow of beer. “He owed Dapeers money. I was puttin’ a bit of pressure on ’im, that’s all.”

“What kinda pressure?” Smythe asked suspiciously.

“I wasn’t threatenin’ the bloke,” Blimpey protested. “I don’t do that kinda work. All I did was tell McNally that Haydon Dapeers was gettin’ tired of waitin’ for his money. That’s all.”

“Why did McNally owe Dapeers money?”

Blimpey sighed dramatically and jerked his chin at the coins. “Is that all there is?”

“Maybe.” Smythe grinned. “Why? You think your information is worth more than this?”

“Could be. Especially as Mr. McNally might be the kind of man who wouldn’t want the world to know what he was up to.”

Smythe silently debated. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. Peeling a fiver off, he put it on the table next to the coins.

Blimpey reached for it; Smythe slapped his hand over the cash. “Not so fast; you ’aven’t told me anything useful yet.”

Frowning, Blimpey drew back. “All right, all right, you know I’m good for it. Haydon Dapeers was playin’ the bookie for this McNally. McNally couldn’t cover a couple of big bets, so Dapeers covered ’em for ’im. McNally’s been slow payin’ Dapeers back, so he sent me round to tell ’im to pay up or ’e’d be sorry.”

“’Ow sorry?” Smythe asked. He wasn’t surprised. A number of publicans in London did bookmaking on the side. But considerin’ how the Gilded Lily looked, he wouldn’t have figured Dapeers for one of them.

Blimpey shrugged. “You know I never ask those kinda questions, Smythe. I just took the message along to the fellow’s office.” He laughed merrily. “Bloke just about ’ad a stroke when the likes of me come through his front door. Couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

“What kind of offices? Where’s it at?”

“Solicitor. Office is over on Curzon Street. Nice place, very posh, if you know what I mean.”

Smythe picked up his beer and took a quick swallow. “Did he agree to pay Dapeers what he owed?”

“He said he would, but I didn’t much believe ’im.” Blimpey shook his head. “Bloke was skint. You can always tell. Claimed ’e’d go round that evening and straighten things out with Dapeers.”

“Which evening?”

“The night of the murder, of course.” Blimpey tapped the side of his now empty glass. “Care for another round?”

Smythe shuddered and pushed his half-f tankard away. “You go ahead.”

“Another round over ’ere, guv,” Blimpey yelled at the barman. “Anyways, like I was sayin’, McNally said he’d go round that night to Dapeers’s new pub and pay up. That’s what I told Dapeers.”

“So Dapeers was expectin’ him to come by?”

“I think so. Mind you, we didn’t have much time to talk about it. Dapeers went into the taproom and never come out.”

“Did you see anything?”

“Nah.” He broke off as the barmaid slapped his drink in front of him. “Ta, luv,” he said, reaching for his beer. “I wasn’t goin’ to wait around for Dapeers. Didn’t much like that pub and I’d told him what I’d come to say. I left right after that.”

“’Ad the street fight started when you left?”

“I ’eard some shoutin’ as I was leavin’, but I was in a ’urry so I didn’t bother to stop and have a look-see.” Blimpey shrugged. In his world, street fights were as common as muck. It would practically take a riot to get him to stop and pay attention. “Besides, I went out the door of the saloon bar. That comes out on Bonham Road; the ruckus was round the corner. Mind you, I was a bit surprised when I left.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I saw McNally walking down Bonham Road as I was going out.”

Smythe sat up straighter. “McNally was there that night?”

“Well, I don’t know if ’e was in the Gilded Lily”—Blimpey wiped his mouth on the greasy cuff of his jacket—“but I saw ’im skitterin’ down Bonham Lane and then duckin’ into the mews behind the Gilded Lily. Can’t think why else some like ’im would be skulkin’ about unless’n ’e were plannin’ on payin’ a visit to Dapeers.”

“’Ave you told the police about this?” Smythe asked, and then immediately knew it was a stupid question.

Blimpey threw back his head and laughed. “Cor, guv, remember who you talkin’ to! The peelers and I have a
mutual understandin’. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me.”

Smythe studied Blimpey carefully. This was something the inspector should know about. Blast a Spaniard anyway, the only way Blimpey Groggins would ever walk into a police station and loosen his tongue would be if Smythe was holdin’ a pistol to his back. Either that, or he’d have to pay the little crook a pretty penny. But maybe there was another way to get the information to the inspector. Smythe thought about it for a split second. “I don’t suppose you’d be willin’ to tell the peelers about McNally?”

Blimpey’s expression sobered. “You suppose right. Look, Smythe, I make me livin’ doin’ jobs like this. Carryin’ messages and findin’ out things for people. People who trust me to keep me mouth shut. I go runnin’ to the peelers and runnin’ my trap about me tryin’ to collect for a bookie and my business’ll be ruined.” He shook his head vehemently. “You’re a decent bloke and all that, and if I could do you a favor, I would. But I ain’t goin’ to run tattlin’ to Scotland Yard about this. I’ve got me good name to consider, you know.”

Smythe stared at him for a long moment. The awful part was, he understood Blimpey’s problem. Despite what the good, moral, upstanding citizens of London might think about collecting for bookmakers and running petty-ante gambling games, which Blimpey excelled at, people like him didn’t have many choices in life. Poor, uneducated and usually hungry, they did what they had to do to survive. “All right, Blimpey, you’ve made your point. Where does this McNally live?”

Betsy’s conscience nagged her at her like a sore tooth. But she gamely pushed it aside. It wasn’t her fault this poor boy actually thought she was interested in him. So interested,
in fact, that he must have spent half the night talking to his sister about the Dapeers household. She’d been surprised when she’d arrived at the pub to find him there alone. But he’d explained that Sadie had come down with a sore throat and couldn’t come. Betsy didn’t believe that for a moment. She wasn’t conceited, but a two-year-old could work out that the poor lad wanted to be alone with her. Now she felt lower than a snake. Once she found out what she needed to know, she had no plans ever to see him again. Stop it, she told herself fiercely. A murder’s been committed. She had to do what she had to do. “Oh Hamilton,” she gushed. “I think it’s ever so clever of you to know so much about the Dapeers household. You must be very observant.”