Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (8 page)

“Joanne!” Tom glared at his wife. “It’s not decent to say such things.”

“It’s the truth.” She shrugged, totally unconcerned by her husband’s disapproval. “The old goat never could keep his hands to himself.”

Witherspoon sincerely hoped he wasn’t blushing. Gracious, this case was getting complicated. “Are you saying that Haydon Dapeers was trying to force his attentions on his own sister-in-law?”

Joanne Dapeers stared him directly in the eye, not in the least embarrassed to be speaking bluntly about such a delicate matter. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. He was a disgusting man, Haydon was, always after the young women. Only this time Michael wasn’t having it.”

“I take it Mr. Taggert, er…”

“He’s in love with Sarah Hewett,” Joanne finished. “And I expect now that Haydon’s dead, he’ll ask her to marry him.”

“Mrs. Hewett is a widow, isn’t she?” Barnes asked. “So why does Mr. Dapeers’s death have any bearing on whether or not she remarries?”

Joanne shrugged. “I don’t know. Sarah hated having to live with Haydon and Moira, not that she had anything against Moira. She’s a nice enough woman. A bit wrapped up in her charity work and the missionary society, but she was always kind to Sarah. It was Haydon Sarah couldn’t
stomach. I know for a fact that Michael Taggert’s been after Sarah to marry him and I know that Sarah loves Michael too. But for some strange reason, she kept putting him off.”

Tom frowned at his wife. “You shouldn’t be repeating gossip, Joanne.”

“Why not if it’s true?” she queried.

Confused, Witherspoon asked, “Excuse me, Mrs. Dapeers. But are you merely repeating what others have told you about Mr. Taggert and Mrs. Hewett’s relationship? Or do you have knowledge of your own about the matter?”

“Am I under oath, then?” she asked irritably. “Despite what my husband says, I’m not repeating gossip. I know bloody good and well that Michael Taggert wanted to marry Sarah, because he told me so himself. He also told me that she loved him but she kept putting him off and wouldn’t tell him why. He was sure it was because of some nastiness that Haydon was up to. Now, if you don’t believe me, you can ask him yourself.”

“When did Mr. Taggert tell you all this?” Witherspoon asked.

“Last week,” she replied. “He used to come in here after he’d finished working at the Gilded Lily. He’s a nice young man and we chatted quite a bit. He told me all about him and Sarah.”

“What time is the inspector due home?” Betsy asked as she laid the table for late-afternoon tea.

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “You know he keeps such irregular hours when he’s on a murder.”

“I hope he’s not expectin’ a big cooked dinner,” Mrs. Goodge grumbled. She put a plate of sliced brown bread on the table next to the teapot. “It’s too hot to do much cookin’ and I’ve been busy today. I’ve had to send word to all my sources and I’m not sure it’ll do much good.”

“Of course it will,” Mrs. Jeffries soothed. The cook was obviously still annoyed that their latest victim was only a mere publican. Mrs. Jeffries didn’t much blame her. Not that she felt a publican was any less important than a member of the aristocracy, it was just that it was so much easier to find out gossip about the upper classes. They were so much more visible and they had far larger households than the lower classes. For once, she felt very sympathetic to Mrs. Goodge’s plight. It was a bit like her own. Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t exactly found out much today either. She certainly hoped the rest of them would have something worthwhile to report.

“Has anyone heard from Luty or Hatchet?” Betsy asked. She pulled her chair out and sat down, grateful to be off her feet. Her head was sore from the beer she’d had at the pub and her stomach was upset. But she was delighted with what she’d found out. If she was very clever, she could find out ever so much information when she met with Hamilton tomorrow. His sister had worked for the Dapeerses, she was bound to know something.

“Smythe sent them a telegram early this morning,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I shouldn’t be surprised if they show up tomorrow.”

“But they’ll have only arrived!” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Surely they’ll not turn round and come straight back.”

“Would you like to bet on that?” Betsy asked. “I don’t think either of them really wanted to go in the first place.”

There was a loud noise as the back door slammed shut. Fred, hearing the sound of familiar footsteps, leapt up and took off in a dead run toward the back hall.

“Down, boy,” Wiggins cried. “You’ll knock me over if you’re not careful.”

“Wiggins is back,” Betsy muttered. She turned and saw
the footman stumbling toward the table. The dog was bouncing around his feet and it was all he could do to keep from tripping. “Are you all right?” she asked. The lad was pale as a sheet; he was breathing heavily and he was clutching his stomach.

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Mrs. Goodge asked crossly.

“Oh…” He moaned and launched himself toward the kitchen table. “I’ve got to sit down, I don’t feel well.”

“Gracious, Wiggins, are you ill?” Mrs. Jeffries asked in alarm.

He landed heavily in his seat. “I’m just a bit off-color,” he belched softly. The smell of beer wafted off him.

“Have you been drinking?” Betsy demanded.

He hiccuped. “Well, only a little…” He clutched his stomach again and tried to rise to his feet. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Jeffries, I don’t think I want any tea.”

“You’re drunk,” Mrs. Goodge snapped.

“And feeling the worse for it,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly.

Wiggins moaned. “It’s not my fault. The only way to get people in pubs to talk is to pour beer down their throat.”

“I think you’d better go have a lay-down,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“That’s a good idea.” He belched again, got to his feet and stumbled out of the kitchen.

“Well, I never,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “What would the inspector say!”

“I don’t really think that’s the sort of thing we ought to tell him,” Mrs. Jeffries said blandly. “Let the lad sleep it off. We’ll talk to him at dinner tonight and see what he’s learned.”

“So it’s just the three of us,” Betsy said cheerfully. She too had been in a pub, but unlike Wiggins, she’d been very
careful about how much ale she’d poured down her throat. She didn’t really like the taste of alcohol all that much. Besides, she was scared of liquor. She’d seen too many gin-soaked women when she was growing up in the East End.

“Perhaps Smythe will be along soon,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’ve no idea what he’s off doing.”

“I’ve been doin’ the same as you lot,” Smythe’s voice came from the kitchen door. “Investigatin’ this murder.”

Betsy turned her head sharply. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

“I came in the front door,” he admitted, grinning at the maid and sauntering over to take his seat.

Mrs. Goodge gave him a quick, disapproving glance. Household servants were not supposed to use the front door! But she held her tongue.

Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge took their places at the table. “I’m glad you’re back, we’ve quite a bit to talk about.”

“Where’s Wiggins?” Smythe asked. “Isn’t ’e back yet?”

Betsy giggled. “He’s upstairs having a sleep. He’s been drinking! Claims that’s the only way to get people to talk to him.”

“Load of rubbish, that is,” the cook grumbled. “You don’t see me pouring alcohol down people’s throats to get them to loosen their tongues.”

“You’ve found something out, then?” Smythe asked innocently. He was fairly certain that Mrs. Goodge hadn’t found out a ruddy thing. Otherwise she wouldn’t be so bloomin’ irritated.

“Have some tea, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. She didn’t want them to start bickering with one another. “And I’ll tell everyone what I learned from Dr. Bosworth.”

She poured the tea, passed the plate of bread and butter and told them about her meeting with Bosworth. “So you see, there really isn’t all that much to tell,” she concluded a few minutes later. “But according to the doctor, either the killer was lucky or he might have known something about human anatomy.”

“I reckon the killer was lucky,” Smythe said. “From what I found out today, there weren’t no one in that pub that knew a bloomin’ thing about anatomy.”

“You found out who all was there?” Betsy asked.

Smythe shook his head. “That’s what I’ve spent most of today doin’.” He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a crumpled sheet of paper. “Got their names written right here.”

“Goodness, Smythe, that was resourceful of you,” Mrs. Jeffries said eagerly. “Now we’ve at least got a complete list of suspects.”

Smythe didn’t bother to tell them that the list had cost him a pretty penny. “Not quite a complete list, Mrs. Jeffries. I had a word with Mick, the barman who was workin’ last night. There were a number of people left in the public bar when Dapeers was killed.” He frowned, trying to make out his own writing. “Mick didn’t know all their names, but I reckon the killer must ’ave been someone who was known to Dapeers, so I’m ’opin’ that the names that’s missin’ aren’t important.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Jeffries said doubtfully. “I suppose a partial list is better than none. Who is on it?”

Smythe squinted at the crinkled paper. “There was Mick and Molly, of course, they worked for Dapeers. Tom and Joanne Dapeers, that’s Haydon Dapeers’s younger brother and his wife. Sarah Hewett, that’s Dapeers’s sister-in-law, and Moira Dapeers, the victim’s wife. Two fellows from Bestal’s Brewery, Luther Pump and Edward Magil. John
Rowland, he owns the little hotel next door to the pub, he was there. Michael Taggert, he’s the artist that did all the fancy etching on the pub windows, and Horace Bell, he owns the livery down the road from the Gilded Lily.” Smythe paused for a breath and then continued reading the names.

“There was over twenty people in that pub when the murder took place,” Betsy exclaimed when he’d finished. “And no one saw a ruddy thing!”

“But that’s just it,” Smythe said patiently. “They weren’t
in
the pub. They was outside watching a brawl between a cabbie and a drayman. Musta been a good fight too; the copper from the corner had to come down and break it up.”

“I wonder if the people in the Gilded Lily were all personal friends of Dapeers,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Or were they just customers?”

“Both,” Smythe answered. “Mick told me that Dapeers had asked most of them to come around seein’ as ’ow it was ’is birthday, but a few of the people ’ad come in just to ’ave a look at the place too. Mick told me Dapeers was a bit worried when the crowd started comin’ in; there was some trouble with the beer. Seems there wasn’t enough on hand, the brewery hadn’t delivered enough.”

“I’ll bet that’s why the men from Bestal’s were there,” Betsy said.

“That certainly sounds logical,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “Did you learn anything else, Smythe?”

“Not really.” The coachman picked up his mug of tea. “’Ow did the rest of you do?”

“I’m meeting a woman who used to work for Dapeers tomorrow,” Betsy said proudly. “Hamilton promised he’d bring his sister along to the Six Gates after he got off work. But I didn’t find out all that much today. Hamilton couldn’t
really remember much of what his sister had told him about Dapeers. All he knew was that Dapeers was always onto his wife about her giving her money away to some missionary society.”

“You’ve done better than I have,” Mrs. Goodge said morosely. “I didn’t learn anything. No one’s heard of Haydon Dapeers. I’ve sent word to every source I’ve got and there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Michael Taggert lived in the ground-floor flat of a small, redbrick house in Chelsea. “I thought you’d be around soon,” he said as he opened the door wider and motioned for Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes to step inside.

The room was messy: clothes were strewn on the furniture, a half-finished painting stood on an easel next to the window and the linen on the daybed in the corner was tangled in a heap. “You’ll have to forgive the mess, gentlemen,” Taggert said, “but I’ve been working and I haven’t had time to tidy up.”

“You’re an artist, Mr. Taggert?” Witherspoon asked politely.

“Yes,” Taggert replied. He shoved a heap of newspapers off the settee. “At least I’m trying to be. Please sit down,” he invited. The two policemen sat down.