Read Online Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake by Emily Brightwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Brightwell
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shrugged. “Yeah, but what can you do? Poor girl’ll just have to do the best she can. She’s a right pretty girl; it’s just as well she’s not livin’ in that house. I’d not trust a man like Frommer to keep his hands to himself.” He sighed. “Still, it’s one extra mouth to feed. The shop’s doin’ all right, but well, you know how it is. I only wish one of them coppers would come along and ask our Emma a few questions. She could set ’em straight.”
That could be arranged, Wiggins thought. “Did she ever see Mr. Frommer’s mistress?” He could feel himself blush as he asked the question, but he wanted to have as much information as possible before this morning’s meeting.
“That she did.” Nat grinned broadly and dropped the rag into the water. A few drops shot up and splattered over the apron spread across his wide belly. “Twice.”
Wiggins nodded encouragingly. He’d come out this morning to try to find that footman who’d scarpered off the previous night. Failing that, he’d hoped to make contact with a servant from the Frommer house. But no one had so much as stuck their head out the door this morning, and rather than go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens empty-handed, he’d come along to see if any of the tradespeople could give him any clues about the footman’s whereabouts. He’d only had to mention the murder to the dark-haired grocer and Nat Hopkins gave him an earful. “Cor blimey, then she actually saw him with his fancy woman.” He shook his head in pretended amazement. “That wasn’t too smart of the fellow, lettin’ himself be seen that way.”
“Frommer’s not too smart.” Nat picked the bucket up and started for the edge of the pavement. “He’s arrogant and stupid. Probably didn’t even realize that Emma was in the house when he had his woman there.” He dumped the dirty water into the street and looked up at Wiggins speculatively. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”
Like a bolt from the blue, Wiggins was suddenly inspired. There was a way to kill two birds with one stone. “’Course I’m curious,” he admitted. “Murder always makes a body ask questions like. Especially if they work for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He’s in charge of this killin’ and I’ll bet my next quarter’s salary ’e’d be right interested in anythin’ your Emma ’ad to say.”
“Here we are, Constable.” The inspector stopped in front of a door upon which a faded sign reading ASHBURY AND ALLADYCE, SHIPPING AGENTS was attached. They stood in front of a tall, rather scruffy-looking office building on a small, narrow street just off the East India Docks. On one side of the building was a long, fully occupied warehouse;its front doors stood wide open, and despite the narrowness of the street, vans, carts and freight wagons were lining up to pick up and deliver goods. On the other side was a smaller but equally busy goods depot. In the bright morning sunshine, the blue-black Thames glittered through the spaces between the buildings.
Witherspoon knocked once, opened the door and they stepped inside. They found themselves in a small, rather dim room. The inspector blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. What light there was crept in through the rather dirty transom over the front door.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
Witherspoon jumped and turned to see a tall, cranelike man stepping out of a door on the other side of the room. “Er, we’d like to speak to Mr. Roland Ashbury’s clerk,” he said, squinting so that he could see the fellow better. “I say, it’s awfully dark in here.”
“I haven’t drawn the curtain yet,” the man replied. He sounded rather petulant. His hair was dark blond and curly, his face bony and his mouth a thin line slashed across a jutting chin. “I’ve only just unlocked the door and come inside.” He swept a heavy curtain down the entire wall, revealing a set of windows and letting the sun inside the gloomy room. At once
That could be arranged, Wiggins thought. “Did she ever see Mr. Frommer’s mistress?” He could feel himself blush as he asked the question, but he wanted to have as much information as possible before this morning’s meeting.
“That she did.” Nat grinned broadly and dropped the rag into the water. A few drops shot up and splattered over the apron spread across his wide belly. “Twice.”
Wiggins nodded encouragingly. He’d come out this morning to try to find that footman who’d scarpered off the previous night. Failing that, he’d hoped to make contact with a servant from the Frommer house. But no one had so much as stuck their head out the door this morning, and rather than go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens empty-handed, he’d come along to see if any of the tradespeople could give him any clues about the footman’s whereabouts. He’d only had to mention the murder to the dark-haired grocer and Nat Hopkins gave him an earful. “Cor blimey, then she actually saw him with his fancy woman.” He shook his head in pretended amazement. “That wasn’t too smart of the fellow, lettin’ himself be seen that way.”
“Frommer’s not too smart.” Nat picked the bucket up and started for the edge of the pavement. “He’s arrogant and stupid. Probably didn’t even realize that Emma was in the house when he had his woman there.” He dumped the dirty water into the street and looked up at Wiggins speculatively. “You’re a curious one, aren’t you?”
Like a bolt from the blue, Wiggins was suddenly inspired. There was a way to kill two birds with one stone. “’Course I’m curious,” he admitted. “Murder always makes a body ask questions like. Especially if they work for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He’s in charge of this killin’ and I’ll bet my next quarter’s salary ’e’d be right interested in anythin’ your Emma ’ad to say.”
“Here we are, Constable.” The inspector stopped in front of a door upon which a faded sign reading ASHBURY AND ALLADYCE, SHIPPING AGENTS was attached. They stood in front of a tall, rather scruffy-looking office building on a small, narrow street just off the East India Docks. On one side of the building was a long, fully occupied warehouse;its front doors stood wide open, and despite the narrowness of the street, vans, carts and freight wagons were lining up to pick up and deliver goods. On the other side was a smaller but equally busy goods depot. In the bright morning sunshine, the blue-black Thames glittered through the spaces between the buildings.
Witherspoon knocked once, opened the door and they stepped inside. They found themselves in a small, rather dim room. The inspector blinked, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. What light there was crept in through the rather dirty transom over the front door.
“May I help you gentlemen?”
Witherspoon jumped and turned to see a tall, cranelike man stepping out of a door on the other side of the room. “Er, we’d like to speak to Mr. Roland Ashbury’s clerk,” he said, squinting so that he could see the fellow better. “I say, it’s awfully dark in here.”
“I haven’t drawn the curtain yet,” the man replied. He sounded rather petulant. His hair was dark blond and curly, his face bony and his mouth a thin line slashed across a jutting chin. “I’ve only just unlocked the door and come inside.” He swept a heavy curtain down the entire wall, revealing a set of windows and letting the sun inside the gloomy room. At once
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