Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot (22 page)

“You’ll have to hurry,” the priest called over his shoulder as he reached the front gate. “Mrs. Vohinkle gets awfully annoyed if I’m late.”

“We’re not more than a quarter mile from your new home, are we?” Inspector Witherspoon said to Annabeth Gentry.

“It’s over a mile if you go by the roads,” she replied. “But if you use the footpath through there”—she pointed to her left, toward an empty field that opened up off a row of small houses—“it’s a ten-minute walk.”

They stood on the footpath that wound through open fields on the edge of Hammersmith. They were separated from the grim walls of Wormwood Scrubs Prison by a good half mile. In the distance, the whistle of a train chugging down the Great Western Railway Line shattered the silence.

Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, trying to read his expression. They were going to be stepping on some toes
here. Searching a crime site that should have already been searched by another officer wouldn’t make either of them popular with Inspector Nivens. If they found nothing, well, then perhaps Witherspoon would leave it out of his daily report. But he had a feeling they would find something.

He could have kicked himself for being so precipitous. But gracious, when he heard the site hadn’t been thoroughly searched, he hadn’t thought about the ramifications of dashing over here and doing the job properly. If Nivens got wind of it he wouldn’t like it at all. He’d think it made him look incompetent and he’d strike back any way he could.

Witherspoon wasn’t concerned for himself. But the constable didn’t have a fortune. He relied on his salary to support his wife. The inspector knew he was a bit slow when it came to the internal politics of Scotland Yard, but even he understood that Inspector Nivens had enough friends in high places to do a lot of damage to a policeman’s career. He would make a nasty enemy. “Er, Constable, if you’d like, Miss Gentry can show me the site and I can search it on my own …”

“Four eyes are better than two, sir,” Barnes said calmly. “And we may have to do some digging. But I appreciate the thought, sir, and if I may say, sir, I, too, have a few friends at Whitehall.”

Clearly confused, Miss Gentry glanced from one of them to another. But she was too polite to ask any questions. “It’s just over there.” She pointed at a spot up the footpath.

They followed her to a copse of trees and shrubs bordering the footpath. She and the dog led the way in amongst the trees. Once inside, tall brush grew up against the trees, making the area hidden and private. A perfect place to bury a body.

“It’s just here.” Miss Gentry stopped at the edge of a
circle of disturbed earth. There was still enough light to see the site clearly, and the actual spot where the body had been dug out was only partially filled in. They stared down at it.

Annabeth relaxed her hold on Miranda’s lead and the dog edged closer and shoved her nose onto the ground. Keeping her head down, she sniffed her way around the circle.

“It’s all right, girl.” Miss Gentry called the dog back to her side. “She must still smell the corpse,” she said.

Witherspoon was glad that his sense of smell wasn’t as keen as the bloodhound’s. He knelt down and studied the area. It looked like a hole filled with dirt.

Barnes walked to the other side and looked at Annabeth. “Exactly how was the body lying when you found him?”

She frowned slightly, as though she were trying to remember. “Well, let me see. I didn’t get that good a look at it. Once Miranda started digging and I realized what it was, I dashed off to find a policeman. But I believe the head was at this end.” She pointed to the closest edge of the hole. “Yes, that’s right, because I remember seeing the man’s hair. At first I thought it was some sort of animal, then I saw his hand.”

“Right, then.” Witherspoon took a deep breath and plunged his fingers into the damp soil. He began scooping earth out onto the perimeter.

“Exactly what is it you’re looking for?” Miss Gentry asked.

“We’re not sure,” Barnes replied. He, too, was digging in the soil on his side of the makeshift grave. “Anything the victim may have had on him could have dropped under the body. When he was killed or when he was buried. We’ll have to dig all this out.”

“Can I help?” Annabeth asked.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Witherspoon
replied. “But thank you very much all the same.”

Miranda watched them curiously. Suddenly she bounded over and began sniffing the dirt at the end of the grave where the feet would have been. She began pawing the spot.

“I think you ought to dig there,” Annabeth said. “She’s found something. Something that probably belonged to the dead man.”

“How on earth could she do that?” Witherspoon asked curiously.

“She’s a very smart dog,” Annabeth replied. “She’s still got the scent. There’s something buried there, mark my words.”

As the inspector’s back was starting to hurt, he was willing to take the chance that the dog might actually be onto something. He shifted to the far end. “Can I have a look?” He gently shoved Miranda out of his way and began digging where the dog’s nose had just been. For a few moments he found nothing, then his fingers brushed against metal. “I’ve got something.” He got a grip on the object, brushed away more dirt, and yanked it out of the earth.

Barnes, Miss Gentry, and Miranda crowded around him to have a look, effectively blocking his light. “What is it, sir?” the constable asked.

Witherspoon held up a small, dirt-encrusted change purse. “It’s a woman’s purse,” Miss Gentry exclaimed.

The inspector could see it was a purse, but that was all. “How can you tell it belongs to a woman?”

“Have a good look, sir.” She bent closer and pointed to a spot right beneath the clasp. “It’s made of blue velvet. I don’t think there are many men who would carry a blue velvet coin purse.”

“She’s right, sir.” Barnes squinted at the purse. “Why don’t you open it.”

“Good idea.” He popped open the clasp and looked
inside the small bag. “There’s nothing here but some coins …” He pulled out the biggest coin and stared at it. “It’s not English.” He held it up to get a better look. “It’s a Canadian nickel…gracious, how extraordinary.”

“What’s the other one, sir?” Barnes asked.

“A penny. Canadian as well. Now, how on earth did Porter end up with a woman’s purse and Canadian coins?”

“Looks to me like he was just doing his job. He was a pickpocket, sir”—Barnes rose to his feet and dusted off his knees—“and it looks like he picked a Canadian pocket right before he was killed.”

Smythe couldn’t believe his luck. She was going into a pub. He’d spotted the frizzy blond-haired woman when he was on his way down the Uxbridge Road. He’d recognized her as the woman who’d been sitting behind him at the White Hare Pub. She’d been talking about Stan McIntosh to her friend. He dodged around a fruit vendor pushing a handcart and across the narrow walkway to the pub.

It wasn’t the nicest pub he’d been in, but it wasn’t the worst either. There was sawdust on the floor, a sagging bar, and an empty fireplace. Most of the plain wooden tables were taken. The blonde was sitting hunched over a glass of gin by the one nearest the fireplace.

Smythe went to the bar and ordered a beer and a glass of gin. “Ta,” he said to the barmaid when she slid the glasses in front of him. Tossing her some coins, he picked up the gin and headed for the blonde. “Mind if I join ya?” he asked.

She stared at him for a second before her gaze shifted to the gin in his right hand. “Not unless that gin’s for me,” she replied.

“It’s for you.” He slid the drink in front of her and
sat down on the hard wooden stool. “I’d like to ask you a couple of questions if you don’t mind.”

She tossed back the gin. “You’re the bloke that was at the White Hare the other night. The one askin’ all them questions about Stan.”

“I didn’t ask all that many questions,” he countered. “You lot closed ranks on me before I got my curiosity satisfied.”

She laughed, revealing a set of yellowed, chipped teeth. “We weren’t closin’ ranks, man. Everyone was just scared, that’s all. Last time anyone was in the pub talkin’ about Stan McIntosh, he ended up dead.”

“And who would that be?” Smythe asked innocently.

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Oh, I think you know who I’m talkin’ about all right, don’t you, big fellow? Otherwise, you’d not be botherin’ to ask questions. You with the police or are you one of them private inquiry agents?”

“Neither,” he replied. He was getting a little confused. She seemed more than willing to talk and that made him uneasy. “I’m just a curious sort.” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a five-pound note. Her eyes widened. “If you answer my questions and tell me the truth, ya can ’ave this.”

“Ask away, big fellow. My name’s Emmy Flynt. What’s yours?”

“Smythe,” he replied. “Nice to meet ya, Emmy. Now, who was askin’ questions about McIntosh that ended up dead?” He asked the question even though he knew the answer.

“Little sod named Tim Porter,” she shot back, her gaze still on the note. “Pickpocket, he was. A little whiles back he come around askin’ questions about Stan McIntosh; the next thing we ’eard was that some woman had found Porter’s body over in them fields beyond Ellerelie
Road. Scared us it did. No one liked McIntosh. He was always a bit of a bad one.”

Smythe nodded. He could understand why they’d kept quiet. They might have heard McIntosh was dead, but that didn’t mean all his friends were, and to these people, crooks tended to run in packs “So you knew ’im, did ya?”

“I worked in the laundry over at the grammar school before it closed. I met him there. Didn’t like him much, no one did.”

“What did you mean about McIntosh having money?”

“Huh?” She stared at him in confusion. “Whaddaya mean?”

“You said that old Stan could come up with a bit of the ready when he wanted to,” he reminded her. “You said it to your friend that night at the White Hart. I ’eard ya.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t mean nuthin’, I was just talkin’.” She reached for the note.

Smythe snatched it out of reach. He knew she was lying. “Come on, now, what d’ya take me for? Tell me the truth and ya can ’ave the money.”

Emmy worried her lower lip with her teeth, as though she were waging some awful internal battle with herself. “Oh, all right, then. But you’re to keep what I tell ya to yourself. I’ve got a reputation in these parts and I aim to keep my name decent. Stan liked me. But I didn’t like him all that much, if you get my meaning. He weren’t overly fond of soap and water, you know. Puts a girl right off, that does. Anyway, the, uh…only way I’d have anything to do with him was if he paid me, you understand?” she finished belligerently. Then she looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

Smythe understood all right. She supplemented her income with a bit of prostitution. He didn’t look down on her for it. He felt sorry for Emmy. You did what you
had to do to survive. “I understand,” he said softly, “and I’ll keep my mouth shut. What else can you tell me about Stan McIntosh?”

“What do you want to know? I wasn’t with him that often. But I know he’s got plenty of money …”

“How do you know that?” Smythe asked. McIntosh flashing a bit of cash to pay for a woman was one thing, having a lot of money was a very different matter.

“Because he told me he did,” she retorted. “He liked to talk a bit, did Stan. Especially afterward. He told me once the school closed and the place were sold, he’d be off to a life of luxury. Said he’d never have to fetch or carry for anyone again.”

Smythe shook his head. “Was he just talkin’, do ya think?” He didn’t see how a few pounds in the bank made a fortune, and to anyone’s knowledge, that was all McIntosh had.

“Nah, he was tellin’ the truth. Stan was a talker but he wasn’t a liar.”

“Did ’e ever say where this money was?”

She shrugged. “Didn’t ask, did I. Frankly, I didn’t want to know too much about Stan McIntosh. Seemed healthier that way.”