Chapter 8 #3
Harry thanked him and hung up the earpiece with a sigh. “Symond can’t have done it. He couldn’t have got home before Mrs. Jeffry after escorting Miss Newman back to the butcher shop.”
I agreed. Even though his lodgings and the butcher’s shop were both in Bloomsbury, they were at opposite ends. “What do we do now?” I asked as we left the chemist. “It’s not that late.”
“We don’t have any other leads,” Harry pointed out.
“I could return home and see if Flossy has learned anything from Ida Gainsborough’s biography. Or see if Mr. Arkwright will answer a few questions. You could check on Goliath. Or you probably have other work that requires your attention.”
Harry didn’t respond immediately. His pace slowed until he finally stopped. “Mrs. Jeffry’s house isn’t far from here. If Mr. Symond is still at his office, we could talk to her while no one else is around and see if she has anything more to add.”
It was a good idea, considering she was the main witness. Perhaps she’d seen something but didn’t realize its importance. If we could steer her away from thinking Goliath was guilty, it might open her mind and help her remember other key things.
* * *
Mrs. Jeffry invited us in for tea and cake. “I just have to take a pie out of the oven before it burns, or Mr. Symond’s dinner will be ruined.”
She bustled off and returned a few minutes later, this time without her apron.
Yet again I was struck by the lack of help.
She claimed a charwoman came a few times a week, but middle-class households usually had at least one permanent maid who lived in or came every day.
Cooking was one of their main duties. Was Mrs. Jeffry trying to save money by doing it all herself?
She set down the tray and poured the tea. She handed the first cup to Harry, along with a wedge of Victoria sponge on a plate.
“My favorite,” he said before taking a large bite. He murmured and nodded his approval.
Mrs. Jeffry puffed up at his praise. “It was Mr. Bradbury’s favorite, too. Poor man. Are you here to tell me the police have caught his killer?”
Harry had his mouth full of cake, so I answered. “Not yet. We wanted to ask you some more questions, Mrs. Jeffry.”
“I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you about the tall man.”
“Our questions aren’t about him. He may not be the murderer—”
“Of course he’s the murderer! I saw him!”
“No, Mrs. Jeffry, you didn’t see him stab Mr. Bradbury with the letter opener.
” I employed a gentle yet firm voice, which seemed to have the desired effect of ending her objections.
“You saw him leaving, not performing the dreadful act. The court will need definitive proof to convict a man of such a serious crime, so we’re going to keep looking for it. ”
“I see. You need evidence that proves he did it.”
“Or someone else did.”
Her gaze sharpened. It seemed she was finally accepting the possibility that the man she saw may not be the killer.
“The reason for the murder has to be the pirate treasure,” she said.
“Mr. Bradbury claimed to know where it was buried. Considering he kept a notebook with him at all times, it’s logical he wrote down the location in there.
If I were you, Miss Fox, I’d search people’s belongings.
Find the notebook and you find the killer. ”
“Very astute,” I said. “Since we don’t know the identity of the tall man, whose belongings do you suggest we search first?”
“Mrs. Corrin.”
I sighed. I should have realized that would be the first name to pass her lips. “Any reason in particular?”
“She’s a light-skirt. She can’t be trusted around men.
” She paused to sip her tea, her gaze darting between Harry and me, waiting for one of us to comment.
“She didn’t love Mr. Bradbury. If she did, she wouldn’t have carried on with Mr. Symond, would she?
She was only with Mr. Bradbury so she could get her hands on the pirate treasure. ”
Mrs. Jeffry had more in common with Miss Newman than she realized. Both disliked Mrs. Corrin and for the same reasons.
“You heard her when you were here last time,” Mrs. Jeffry went on. “She was desperate to find the notebook. Desperate!”
“She did mention the notebook quite a lot,” I said. “She claimed she wanted it as a keepsake to remind her of her beloved.”
Mrs. Jeffry snorted in derision.
“But if Mr. Bradbury was murdered for the notebook, the killer would now possess it.”
“Meaning Mrs. Corrin isn’t the murderer,” Harry finished.
“No, no,” Mrs. Jeffry said, her voice shrill.
“There is another possibility. She killed him before finding the notebook, thinking it would be on his desk, but discovered it wasn’t.
He hid it well because it was valuable to him, and perhaps because he realized she was after it.
Yes, that’s it! That’s what I think happened.
” She went to take another sip of her tea, only to lower the cup before it touched her lips.
“Or, that friend of Mr. Bradbury’s is the killer, and he took the notebook. ”
“Mr. Mathers?” Harry asked.
“That’s the one! He was pleasant at first, rather bookish looking, like Mr. Bradbury.
But when I told him Mr. Bradbury wasn’t at home, he became agitated.
The way he pressed his card into my hand was a little forceful.
And then when Mr. Bradbury returned and saw the card, well!
He didn’t want a bar of it! When he gave it back to me, he had this look on his face, as though he’d touched something unpleasant. ”
“Did you ask Mr. Bradbury anything about his connection to Mr. Mathers?” Harry asked.
“I did, but he simply said they went to university together. Then he went up to his room and that was that. Mr. Mathers wasn’t mentioned again. If you are looking for other suspects, you ought to find him.”
“We will,” I assured her. “Since we’re discussing other possibilities, tell us more about the visit from Ida Gainsborough.”
“The actress?”
“She was angry with Mr. Bradbury,” I prompted. “They argued.”
Mrs. Jeffry’s lips pinched. “I couldn’t hear anything, just their raised voices. I don’t know what was said.”
“Did she say anything to you when she left?”
“I can’t recall. I don’t think so. Anyway, I don’t think she’s the killer.
I just read somewhere that she is about to perform in a new play put on by a famous impresario.
Why would she jeopardize that by murdering the biographer who restored her to the public consciousness?
If you ask me, Mr. Bradbury’s book renewed interest in her and directly led her to getting the part.
Her career was all but dead, then the book was released and suddenly everyone was talking about her again. ”
“They were gossiping about some of the naughtier details, I believe,” I said. “That may have upset her.”
Mrs. Jeffry merely shrugged.
“Have you read the biography, Mrs. Jeffry?”
“I don’t have time for reading. More cake, Mr. Armitage?”
Harry declined. “We’ve taken up enough of your day. Thank you for speaking with us. And thank you for the cake. It really was delicious.”
She beamed. “I’m so glad you think so. My sponges are always popular with my lodgers.
” She rose and followed us to the front door.
“If you want my opinion, the tall man is the murderer. It makes the most sense. Besides, I could tell just by the look of him. A big brute he was. Men like that are built for violence. It’s in their nature. ”
Harry gave her a tight, strained smile. I didn’t even bother with that.
As we walked off, I pointed out the sign in the window advertising for a new gentleman lodger of good character. “She didn’t waste time.”
“She may need the money,” Harry said.
“I suppose so. She doesn’t have any help except for the charwoman, so I suspect she isn’t well-off.” While the house would fetch a good sum if she sold it, that didn’t mean Mrs. Jeffry was flush. Her only income could be the rent from her lodgers.
The visit felt like a waste of time. We’d learned nothing new, and I’d left feeling both deflated and annoyed that she continued to judge Goliath harshly. Perhaps I was being unfair about that, too. Most people made judgments based on a person’s looks, and he had fled the scene of the murder.
The late afternoon cast a gloom over the city that matched my mood.
Goliath’s situation wasn’t looking good.
We had some viable suspects, but no real clues.
We needed a thread, something that when tugged, unraveled the mystery to reveal the truth.
At the moment, our threads were so short we couldn’t grasp any, and without purchase, we couldn’t tug.
Harry took my hand and placed it on his arm, covering it with his hand. “We’ll work it out, Cleo. Don’t despair.”
“I’ll try not to.”
We continued on like that, our steps synchronized, our bodies so close I could feel his warmth. I didn’t want it to end, so I suggested we walk rather than catch an omnibus.
Harry’s thumb caressed the back of my hand. “That suits me, too.”
“So we can spend more time together?”
“That, and so I can do this.” He directed me to a recessed doorway set back from the street then kissed me.
I reached up, circling my arms around his neck, and enjoyed the way he captured me so tightly against him, as if he didn’t want to let me go.
It turned out that it was fortunate he was holding me, when the door behind me suddenly opened. If Harry hadn’t been my anchor, I would have fallen back. A woman’s shocked gasp was quickly followed by her shrill admonishment at our ‘vulgar behavior’.
Harry grabbed my hand and we ran off, laughing.
With my mood lifted, we parted ways on Piccadilly. I returned to the hotel, where it wasn’t long before my mood lifted further. Finally, some new information gave me fresh ideas about the case.
But first, Floyd and I had a discussion about courtesans.