Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice Page 2

  Poole stood up and charged out of the mews, blowing his police whistle as he ran. Several members of the crowd surged forward, but he held out his arms. “No one goes inside here,” he yelled. “You”—he nodded toward a street lad who was petting the pony—“run to the Leman Street Police Station and tell them we need help here. Hurry.” The lad raced off.

  “What happened? Why can’t we go in the mews?” an elderly woman asked. Several others echoed her questions. They were a pushy bunch here in the East End. But Constable Poole ignored them and blew his whistle again and again.

  Relief flooded through him as he saw two constables coming around the corner. For once, Constable Poole was glad that Whitechapel was such a high crime area that there were always constables on patrol.

  * * *

  * * *

  “We’re lucky that pony bolted,” Inspector Vincent Havers muttered as he stared down at the body. “Otherwise he might have lain here all night.” The inspector was a tall, burly man with curly black hair sprinkled with gray at the temples and an elegantly shaped mustache. “Does anyone know who he is?”

  “Bert Santorini, sir. He’s an iceman who mainly works in the West End, but he supplies some of the nicer pubs around ’ere with ice,” Constable Farrow, one of the men holding a lamp, replied. He’d been born and raised in Whitechapel and knew all the locals.

  “Does anyone know where he lives?” Havers asked.

  “He lodges at Frida Sorensen’s,” another constable said.

  “We’ll start there then,” Havers muttered. “Hold the lamps higher,” he ordered as he knelt down, looking for the weapon Poole had said was next to the body. It was lying next to Santorini’s head. Havers moved the weapon carefully, making sure it wasn’t pointing at anyone before picking it up. “No doubt, this is the murder weapon.” He raised the barrel to his nose and took a whiff. “I can smell the powder; it’s been fired.”

  “You mean the killer left it here?” Constable Farrow said. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it, sir? Guns are expensive.”

  Havers frowned slightly as he held the firearm closer to the lamp. “Indeed, it doesn’t, especially when the weapon in question looks to be quite valuable.” He drew back. “This is a dueling pistol. It’s got fancy carvings on the handle, and it looks as if this filigree is made of gold. Good gracious, the inlay looks like mother-of-pearl.”

  “May I have a look, sir?” Poole asked. “It might be one that we saw at the station recently.”

  Havers looked up sharply. “At the station? Good Lord, man, if it belonged to a prisoner and was used in a crime, why didn’t you confiscate it and take it into evidence?” He handed the weapon, handle first, to the constable.

  Poole took the firearm. He said nothing for a few moments as he stared at the gun in his hand. He’d paid no attention to the details when he’d seen it lying next to the body, but now he knew he’d seen it before, and very recently at that. “Well, sir, we didn’t confiscate it because it didn’t belong to a prisoner.”

  “Who does it belong to?” Havers demanded.

  “Inspector Nigel Nivens, sir. He brought it into the station because he was getting one of the guns repaired. You’re right, sir, it is a dueling pistol. It’s part of a set that Inspector Nivens said had been in his family for generations. According to Inspector Nivens, it’s very old, something called a single-shot flintlock, which only fires one bullet and then has to be reloaded.”

  Havers said nothing for a moment. Poole shifted nervously. He wasn’t sure what to do now. He knew that Inspector Havers had no great liking or admiration for Inspector Nivens, but he also knew that when it came right down to it, those at the top always stuck together. “Are you certain of this, Constable Poole?”

  But despite his trepidation, Poole was an honest man, raised in the best traditions of his late mother’s Presbyterian church; he’d not lie just because the truth might cause him a bit of trouble. Besides, he wasn’t the only constable who’d seen Nivens’ guns. “I’m very certain of it, sir.” He handed the weapon back to Havers. “Inspector Nivens brought the guns into the station last Thursday, sir. He laid the gun box on the sergeant’s desk and opened the lid. The two guns were inside. Several of us saw them, sir. Inspector Nivens held one up and told us the filigree design on the handles was an intricate working of his mother’s maiden initials, so he had to be careful who he let repair the one that wasn’t working. Apparently, there aren’t many gunsmiths in London who Inspector Nivens trusted with his family heirloom. He didn’t want the gold filigree or mother-of-pearl destroyed.”

  In truth, Inspector Nivens had used the opportunity to brag about his mother’s family wealth, claiming the guns had been a gift to her grandfather by a maharajah of India. No one knew whether what he said was true or not; for that matter, no one cared. Every constable that had the misfortune of working under Nivens hated him.

  “And you’re absolutely certain this gun was part of Nivens’ set?” Havers loathed Nivens as well, but before he questioned the fellow, he had to be absolutely sure of his facts. Nivens had been sent to the East End because he’d been accused of deliberately withholding evidence in a murder investigation, conduct that would normally have gotten a detective sacked. But Nivens’ family had intervened, so instead of the man getting chucked out, the Leman Street Station was stuck with him. Furthermore, Nivens had recently solved a series of burglaries and sent the Irish brothers who’d committed the crimes off to prison, so his star was on the rise. Havers was no fool: Nivens’ family was powerful, and it wouldn’t do to start hurling accusations based on very few facts.

  Poole stared at the weapon for a few moments and then met his inspector’s gaze. “It looks the same to me, sir, and when the inspector was talking about the pistols, he claimed they were the only ones ever made with a gold filigree handle and mother-of-pearl inlays. But Constable Farrow and Constable Blackstone were standing there when Inspector Nivens showed us the pistols. You might want to double-check with one of them, sir.”

  “It’s the same weapon, sir,” Constable Farrow said quickly.

  “Did Inspector Nivens leave the pistols lying on the sergeant’s desk?” Havers asked.

  “No, sir. He took them into the duty inspector’s office, and later that day I saw him carrying the case when he left.”

  “Did he say anything as he left with the case?” Havers asked.

  “Not that I can recall, sir,” Poole replied.

  “I overheard him say he was stopping at the pub, sir,” Farrow added.

  “Do you know which one?”

  “He didn’t say, sir, but he generally goes to the Crying Crows.”

  Havers nodded. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation as to why a weapon that resembles the ones Inspector Nivens brought into the station would be here. We’ll see what he has to say about the matter. In the meantime, keep constables posted at each end of the mews and when daybreak comes, make certain the entire area is thoroughly searched.”

  “There’s already crowds at each end of the mews.” Constable Farrow jerked his chin to his left, then to his right. “Should we try and send them off, sir?”

  “No, leave them be. Trying to disperse them will just cause a fuss,” Havers ordered. He knew they had far too few constables present to be effective in clearing the area. East Enders didn’t like getting pushed about by the police, and he’d just as soon not have a scuffle on his hands that ended up in tomorrow’s newspapers. “Pubs are open now, so most of them will move along on their own.”

  “The police surgeon is here, sir,” one of the constables guarding the entrance to the mews called.

  Inspector Havers handed the pistol to Constable Poole. “Right, then, take this into evidence, and we’ll see what the doctor has to say about this.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Charlie Bowman s
ighed in relief as the heavy door of the Sentinel actually opened. He hurried inside and then skidded to a halt as he faced several rows of huge machines, several of which had grumpy- looking men standing behind them. “What ya want, lad?” the man nearest him called out.

  “I’ve got a note for one of your reporters,” he yelled. “There’s been a murder in Whitechapel.”

  “So, there’s always a murder down that way. But if you’re lookin’ for a reporter, go up to the second floor—the stairs are over there.” He jerked his thumb to his right.

  Charlie nodded his thanks and dashed off. He climbed the stairs and came out into a big room filled with desks, typewriters, and cabinets. But not many people.

  “Bloody ’ell,” he muttered. “This place is empty.”

  “What do ya need, lad?” A man wearing spectacles wandered out of an open office door at the far end of the room.

  “There’s been a murder in Whitechapel,” Charlie cried as he hurried toward what he hoped was a reporter. “Bert Santorini—he’s the iceman—he’s been shot. ’Ere.” He thrust the note into the man’s hand. “Someone give me this to bring to ya. They give me a whole shillin’ to get ’ere before you closed up shop.”

  “We’re a newspaper, we never close,” the man muttered as he opened the folded sheet of paper and read the three lines that were written.

  The police are already trying to cover up a crime by one of their own.

  The gun used to murder Bert Santorini belongs to Inspector Nigel Nivens.

  Don’t let them get away with killing someone.

  The man fixed Charlie with a hard glare. “Where’d ya get this?”

  “Outside the Felix Mews.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “I don’t know—there was a big crowd of us watching the coppers, and all of a sudden someone shoved this note into my hand and give me a shillin’. I just told ya that.” Charlie wanted to get going. It was a long way home, and his mam didn’t like him staying out too late. Mind you, she’d be a bit nicer about it when he gave her the money.

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “Don’t know—it coulda been either. It was pitch-dark and bloomin’ cold—everyone was bundled up so I couldn’t see nuthin’. Someone shoved the note in me hand, give me the coin, and told me to get ’ere quick.”

  “Don’t be daft, lad. What did the voice sound like? A man or a woman?”

  “They had a low voice, but it coulda been either. Mrs. Cayley at the butcher’s has a voice like that, and she’s a woman. That’s all I know, and I’ve got to go. Me mam don’t like me bein’ out late.”

  The man watched the lad leave. By this time another man, a reporter named Jerome Corey stood in the open doorway. “Should I go have a look?”

  “Someone spent a shilling to send the lad here, and in that part of London, that’s a lot of coin. It might not be a hoax.” He handed Corey the note. “If this is true, it’ll make a good headline for tomorrow’s edition. But you’ll need to get there and back here with a story by nine o’clock. That’s the latest we can hold off in time for tomorrow’s edition.”

  * * *

  * * *

  At Scotland Yard the next morning, Chief Superintendent Barrows entered his third-floor office, stopped by the door, and hung up his gray overcoat on the coat tree. He yawned as he went to his desk and took his chair. The chief superintendent was a tall, balding man with tortoiseshell spectacles and a luxurious mustache.

  There was a short knock on the door and then Constable Dingle stepped inside. He carried a stack of mail in one hand and a file box in the other. “These are for you, sir. It’s the daily reports as well as the post.”

  “Of course. Put them on the desk,” Barrows instructed. “What time did you come on duty?”

  “Midnight, sir.” He put the post on top of the box and laid the stack on the side of the desk within the chief’s reach.

  “Was it quiet last night?” Barrows asked.

  “For the most part, sir. There was a murder in Whitechapel,” he began, only to be interrupted.

  “Whitechapel? Ye gods, it wasn’t a woman, was it?” Barrows asked quickly.

  “No, sir.” Dingle tried not to smile. Everyone at Scotland Yard knew that Chief Superintendent Barrows was one of the officers who’d investigated the Ripper killings and, even though that had been years earlier, he was still very nervous about killings in the East End. The Ripper murders had never been solved, and a number of the older officers at Scotland Yard were very skittish whenever there was a murder in that part of London. “It was a man, sir. An ice seller.”

  “You read the report?”

  Dingle shook his head. “No, sir. Constable Blackstone told me when he came on duty this morning. His brother works at the Leman Street Station. Said a bloke named Santorini was found shot in Felix Mews.”

  “Shot? With a gun?”

  “That’s what he told me, sir.”

  “Ye gods, how do these criminals get their hands on so many firearms? I tell you, it’s a disgrace, an absolute disgrace. Most unfair—we don’t carry guns, yet half the blackguards and knaves in London seem to be armed to the teeth.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dingle edged toward the door. The chief superintendent’s views on guns were widely known at the Yard, and he didn’t want to get stuck listening to him go on about it now. His shift was almost over; he was tired, bored, and wanted to go home and have a nice cup of tea. “Uh, that’s really all I know. If that’s all, sir, I’ll be off.”

  “Yes, yes.” Barrows waved him away. “I’m sure all the grisly details will be in the reports.” He reached for the stack, put the post aside to open later, and flipped open the file box containing the daily reports. The reports were divided into districts, with one central station in the district reporting the arrests, incidents, accidents, and civilian inquiries made each day.

  Barrows went through the pages diligently, noting it was the usual litany of stolen goods, lost purses, petty thefts, burglaries, two accidental traffic deaths, a drowning off the East India Dock, and a raid on a house of prostitution in Bethnal Green. But when he got to the report from the Leman Street Station, he was so stunned he read it again. Barrows sat back in his chair and stared at the door. He shook his head in disbelief. Ye gods, why on earth was a police inspector’s gun found at a murder scene, and why did it have to be the one police inspector who had done nothing but cause them trouble?

  * * *

  * * *

  Across town in the kitchen of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon’s home on Upper Edmonton Gardens, Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, came down the back stairs, her brown bombazine dress rustling as she entered the kitchen. She dumped the huge green book on the table and sat down. “I’ve put this off as long as possible, but if I don’t get the housekeeping ledger caught up, we’ll have no idea what we’ve spent or where we’ve spent it.” She was a plump woman of late middle age with dark auburn hair streaked with gray, light colored freckles over her nose, brown eyes, and a ready smile.

  Mrs. Goodge, a portly woman with snow-white hair under her floppy cook’s cap and wire-framed spectacles said, “I’m glad you’re in charge of that and not me. I’ve always found numbers confusing.”

  They heard the back door open and a few moments later, Phyllis, the housemaid, rushed into the kitchen. She unfastened her coat as she headed for the coat tree. She was a pretty lass with dark blonde hair, sapphire-colored eyes, and a porcelain complexion that now had very red cheeks from being outside in the wind. “You’ll never guess who died.”

  “Who?” The cook, who’d just bent down to pull her big brown bowl out from beneath her worktable, straightened up and turned to look at the maid.

  Phyllis hung her coat on the peg. “Mr. Soames, that’s who.” She hurried to the table, her attention on Mrs. Jeffries. “But before I forget, Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Morgenstern t
old me to thank you for the tea you sent over last week. She said it really soothed her throat and that it broke her fever. She was ever so grateful for the batch you sent today.”

  “Is she finally getting better?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “She was up and well enough to wave me down from the kitchen door. She stood there chatting for five minutes with the door wide-open. Honestly, it’s so cold out, I was afraid she was going to catch a chill. From the way she was going on, you’d think that ginger tea of yours was a magic potion.”

  “Compared to that awful stuff you get from the chemists, it probably is.” The cook put her hands on her hips. “Now come on—we’re all glad Mrs. Morgenstern is on the mend, but don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us about Mr. Soames.”

  Phyllis pulled out a chair and sat down. “As I was leaving the Morgenstern home, Hannah Sebold, the housemaid for the Soameses came outside. When she spotted me, she came running over. You know how Hannah is—she loves to talk. She told me that Mr. Soames got out of bed in the middle of the night and plummeted down the back stairs. He bounced and banged around so much he woke up the whole place. By the time anyone got to him, he was unconscious but still breathing. They sent for the doctor right away, but apparently the fall must have caused a concussion or some sort of brain injury because he died early this morning.”