Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up (21 page)

A barmaid opened the door, saw who it was, and then waved him inside. “Blimpey’s at ’is table ’avin’ a cup of tea. You want one?”

Smythe nodded and pulled off his cap and gloves. “That would be very welcome. It’s so cold outside it feels like my bones are freezin’.”

Blimpey waved him over. “Good mornin’. Come and sit yerself down. We’ve a nice warm fire burnin’.”

Smythe stopped and rubbed his hands together in front of the fireplace for a moment before pulling out the stool and settling down. By then, the barmaid was back with a steaming cup of tea. “Thank you,” he said. He waited till she’d gone back behind the bar before he began speaking. “I’ope you’ve got somethin’ good for me. We’re not makin’ much progress on this one, and it’s almost Christmas.”

“Don’t worry so much.” Blimpey laughed. “’Ave I ever disappointed ya? As it is, I’ve got plenty to tell ya. For starters, Glenda Brunel is ’avin’ a romance with her old friend Nicholas Saxon.”

“And if it were Leon Brunel that’d been murdered, that would be really ’elpful.” Smythe grinned broadly and took a sip from his mug.

“Don’t be daft. My point is this: Daniel McCourt knew about the affair.”

“’Ow the devil did you find that out?”

Blimpey raised his eyebrow. “I’ve got sources everywhere, and ya know I don’t divulge them. But let’s just say that in the weeks before the murder, street urchins ’ad eyes sharp enough to spot the likes of Daniel McCourt followin’ Glenda Brunel to Saxon’s house.”

Smythe considered it carefully. “Which could mean that either Glenda Brunel or Nicholas Saxon murdered McCourt to keep him from tellin’ her husband about the affair. But we’ve heard that Mrs. Brunel doesn’t care much what ’er husband thinks of ’er.”

“Don’t believe it,” Blimpey scoffed. “A woman may scrap with ’er husband and indulge in a bit of name-callin’, but she’d not want to be out in the streets. Saxon’s got a big house and part of ’is collection left to sell, but the house is encumbered with a mortgage, and once the word about the fake antiquities hits the market, no one will pay much for his collection even if it’s genuine.”

“What fake antiquities?”

Blimpey chuckled. “Jerome Raleigh ’adn’t just made a mistake with those Yuan vases. He’s been sellin’ fake bits and pieces to McCourt for some time now, and McCourt ’ad found out about it. He was goin’ to go public with it and’ave Raleigh prosecuted, which means that Saxon wouldn’t be able to sell diddly-squat to anyone for a decent amount of cash until the scandal died down.”

Mrs. Jeffries walked into St. Thomas’ Hospital and stopped at the porter’s station in the main hall. “Is Dr. Bosworth here today?”

The porter, a burly man with a ruddy complexion, gave her a quick, assessing glance and then opened the ledger on his desk. “Let me check for you, ma’am,” he said. She’d worn a gold and brown plaid day dress rather than her brown bombazine housekeeper’s attire under her good brown cloak; she had also put on her best hat and had taken the added precaution of wearing her amber and gold brooch to ensure the hospital staff cooperated readily with her inquiries. People were always far quicker to help when you were well dressed.

She waited while his pudgy fingers ran down a list of names. She’d been here many times before and could easily have gone to Dr. Bosworth’s office, but the truth was she didn’t want to walk down two flights of stairs unless she knew for a fact he was in the building.

“He’s here today, ma’am.” The porter stood up and started to come around the desk. “Let me show—”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted with a smile. “Thanks very much for your help.”

She was out of breath by the time she reached his office, so she slowed down to give herself a moment to recover. His door stood open, and he was seated behind his desk reading a file. Bosworth, a red-haired man with a pale complexion and deep-set hazel eyes, was so engrossed in his reading that he didn’t look up as she approached. She knocked lightly on the doorframe.

Annoyed at being interrupted, he frowned as he looked in her direction, but then his bony face broke into a broad smile. “Mrs. Jeffries, I’ve been expecting you. Come in and sit down. Shall I get us tea?”

“Not for me, Dr. Bosworth.” She saw that his office hadn’t changed very much since she’d last been here. His desk was covered with stacks of books and periodicals, the cabinet beside the door remained full of bottles, vials, and jars filled with various colored liquids, and the linoleum on the floor was still cracked.

He grabbed a stack of files from the chair in front of his desk. “I’m delighted you came by. If you hadn’t, I was going to drop by Upper Edmonton Gardens to see you.” She sat down on the spot he’d just cleared and watched him dump the files next to his desk.

“I’ve read the postmortem report on Daniel McCourt.” He gave her an inquiring look as he flopped back into his seat. “Inspector Witherspoon did get that one, didn’t he?”

Bosworth had helped them on several of their previous cases. He had spent several years in San Francisco, where he’d worked with an American physician. Together the two men had made a study of fatal wounds caused by various kinds of weapons, mainly guns. Apparently, there was no shortage of bullet-riddled corpses in California. Bosworth had also come to the conclusion that a thorough study of the body at the murder scene could yield very interesting and useful results. His ideas weren’t accepted universally, but he’d told Mrs. Jeffries that more and more police surgeons were coming to consult with him.

“He did,” she replied. “You’ve read the postmortem report?”

He laughed. “As soon as I heard the victim had been killed with a sword, I asked for a copy of it. It was very interesting. That sword must have been sharp as a razor to inflict the kind of damage it did. Now, I know you had a reason for coming. Do you have some specific questions?”

“I do, but I’m not certain you can answer them,” she said. “They are the sort of questions that perhaps no one can answer.”

“Now you’ve got me intrigued.” He tapped the top of the file on the side of the desk. “Ask whatever you like, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve found in the postmortem report.”

“Alright, according to what the inspector told me, the victim had both sides of his neck uh . . . sliced through.” She grimaced.

“That’s correct. Both his jugular vein and carotid artery were severed.”

“Does that mean he would have died quickly?”

Bosworth made a steeple with his hands under his chin and leaned back in his chair. “That depends on how you define ‘quickly.’ My estimate would be that he would have died within three or four minutes.”

“Would he have been capable of speech?” she asked. “He was alone in the house, but there were people nearby. I keep wondering why he didn’t scream for help.”

“I don’t think he would have been capable of speech. Both of the wounds were deep, and he probably went into shock as soon as the first blow was struck. Even if he’d tried to call for help, his vocal cords were stunned from the blow and he probably couldn’t have managed more than a squeak. Unless there was someone close by the poor fellow, he wouldn’t have had a chance.”

“Everyone else was outside,” she said. “Would there have been a lot of blood?”

“Oh yes.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Blood would have splattered, but if he’d collapsed immediately, the blood would have then pooled around the body.”

“Then shouldn’t the killer have been covered in bloodstains?” she asked.

“Normally, yes, the killer should have gotten blood on his or her clothes,” he replied. “However, I understand this weapon is a sword called a long Hwando. When I read the postmortem, I contacted a friend of mine who knows something about Oriental swords, and he claims that the long Hwando was exactly as the name implied—long, and also very heavy.”

“Too heavy for a woman to use?”

He looked uncertain. “I doubt that. I’ve seen some very strong women. Furthermore, my friend said that if the killer wielded the sword correctly when he or she murdered the victim, then the culprit could have been standing far enough away to avoid any blood that spurt from the wound.”

“But how does one learn to wield a sword correctly?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Come now, Mrs. Jeffries,” he chided. “Surely you’re not serious. Fencing is very popular, and I believe the Queen’s household guards still carry swords.”

“Of course they do,” she agreed. “But fencing is usually done with a rapier, not a great heavy sword like the one you described, and even for the Queen’s household, swords are mainly ceremonial these days. No one uses them as weapons.”

“Your killer did.”

 

“What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked the inspector. They were in a hansom cab heading toward Jerome Raleigh’s rooms.

Witherspoon grabbed at the handhold as the cab hit a pothole. “I’m not sure what to make of the situation,” he replied. “Mrs. McCourt answered our questions with a candor that was most surprising, so I can’t think why she’d lie about whether or not the sword had been purchased or whether the money was still owed. What’s more, I’m not certain the issue has anything to do with the murder.” He sighed audibly. “I know one shouldn’t complain, but I’d so looked forward to Christmas this year. I’ve a godchild now, and I wanted to spend some time getting her a few nice presents. Lady Cannonberry was helping me and we were having a jolly good time looking at all the fancy things in the shops. Oh, don’t mind me, Constable. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

Barnes looked away to hide his smile. After Witherspoon’s mother had passed away when he first joined the force, he had very little family and had spent a number of years alone. But his life had changed greatly, and now he had a family of sorts: a godchild, a household that cared about him, and a dear lady friend who was becoming increasingly important to him. The good inspector was now no different than the rest of the working people in London; it was Christmas, and he wanted to spend time with the ones he cared about. “You’re entitled to complain a bit, sir,” he remarked. “It’s not something you do very often.”

Witherspoon laughed and shoved his spectacles up his nose. “Ah, well, I never expected to have a baby goddaughter and to enjoy it so very much. But I mustn’t grouse about my circumstances; the sooner we get this case solved, the faster I can be back with Lady Cannonberry buying presents and planning a wonderful holiday for my entire household. But let’s return to our case. It’s too bad that Mrs. McCourt didn’t know
how
her husband had found out that Raleigh was allegedly selling fakes.”

They discussed the case for the remainder of the ride. Barnes took care to drop tidbits of both the gossip and the facts he’d gotten this morning from Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge into the conversation.

“I must say, Constable, you do have a vast network of informants,” the inspector said approvingly as they approached Raleigh’s door. “You must introduce me to them sometime.”

“It’s just some of my local sources passing along a few bits and pieces, sir.” He banged on the wood.

“Nonetheless, it’s come in useful any number of times,” the inspector said as the door cracked open and Jerome Raleigh peered out at them.

“May we come in, sir?” Barnes asked politely. He kept his tone just harsh enough for Raleigh to understand he didn’t have a choice.

He stepped back and waved them inside. “I don’t know why you can’t leave me alone,” he complained. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“You didn’t mention that Daniel McCourt was getting ready to publicly accuse you of selling fakes,” Barnes remarked casually.

Panic flashed across Raleigh’s face, but he quickly got himself under control. “I’ve no idea where you heard such nonsense, but I assure you it isn’t true.”

“We have it on good authority that it is true,” Witherspoon added. “And furthermore, not only was he going to tell Leon Brunel of his suspicions, but he was going to ask another expert, a man from the British Museum, to examine everything you’d authenticated for him to make certain the objects were genuine.”

“He wouldn’t have done that. He wouldn’t risk anyone finding out that some of his pieces weren’t as valuable as he’d thought,” Raleigh snapped, but then he caught himself. “I mean, no collector will hold himself up to public ridicule if he’s been sold a bill of bad goods.”

“Was he sold a bill of bad goods?” Barnes took out his notebook.

“No. Alright, I’ll admit I exaggerated my abilities as an authenticator, but I do have some knowledge of the business. I am a genuine expert on Chinese ceramics.”

“But not on anything else.” The inspector was guessing, but he was fairly certain he was on the right track. Jerome Raleigh was beginning to look a bit like a cornered rat. “Is that correct?”

Raleigh looked away. “I may have exaggerated my knowledge a bit. But that wasn’t my fault.”

“If you’re an expert on Chinese ceramics, why did you claim the flap over the Yuan vases was just a mistake?” Barnes asked. “Surely an expert would have known they weren’t genuine.”

“McCourt wanted those wretched vases so badly he’d have believed a chorus girl if she’d told him the pair was genuine. I never claimed with certainty that they were exactly from that dynasty; I only told him that was my considered opinion and that they were very rare.”

“But rarity does enhance their value,” the inspector murmured. He wasn’t certain he understood precisely what Jerome Raleigh was admitting to, but it certainly didn’t sound ethical. “And you led the victim to believe they were very valuable and that the value was derived from both when they were made and their rarity, but neither of those assurances was correct. Mr. McCourt found out what you’d done and was going to expose you. Furthermore, just in the event you managed to evade prosecution, McCourt deliberately chose to expose you at a public social occasion so the gossip would soon be all over London.”