Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen by Emily Brightwell Page A

apron and gloves with the fingers cut out, blew on her hands. “Too cold for Mum to be here—she had pneumonia last year and Da didn’t want her takin’ ill again. I heard your inspector got that Edison murder from round the corner. I saw Georgie Marks this mornin’ and he was there last night and he said poor Mr. Edison had his head bashed to bits.”
    â€œThat’s what we heard, too,” Phyllis said. “Did you know him?”
    â€œI didn’t know him, but I’ve seen him before. He was a nice-looking man, handsome, if you know what I mean. But his household has always bought from us. His housekeeper, Mrs. Clarridge, would come in once a week with their fruit and veg order.”
    â€œHow exciting,” Phyllis exclaimed. “Did she ever say anything about him?”
    Dulcie shook her head. “She isn’t much of a talker. Mum says she’s the kind that thinks herself a bit above the likes of us. One time Mum commented that the master of the house must have done a lot of entertainin’ because he was a single gentleman who always ordered so much, but all that Mrs. Clarridge would say was that she didn’t comment on her employer’s circumstances with tradespeople. What’ll you have today?”
    â€œTwo pounds of turnips, please, and a pound of carrots.” She let her mind wander while she waited for Dulcie to fill her order. She kept thinking about the theater, about the wonderful play she’d seen, and wishing she could go back and see it again.
    She was jerked out of her reverie by angry shouts. “Are you bloomin’ blind? Watch where you’re goin’!” a red-faced cabbie screamed as he pulled his hansom sharply to the right to avoid smashing into a laundry wagon that had cut in front of him.
    â€œHere you are,” Dulcie said. “Give us your basket, then, and I’ll put the veg in.”
    Phyllis, who’d been staring at the laundry wagon, shoved her shopping basket onto the narrow counter. “You said that Mr. Edison’s housekeeper dropped his order off every week?” she said.
    â€œThat’s right.” Dulcie dumped two bundles wrapped in newspaper into the basket and brushed off her hands. “She’d bring the order on Fridays and Da would deliver it that afternoon. I don’t know what’s goin’ to happen now. Da liked going there—he never had to wait long before they opened the tradesmen’s door. Not like some places where you have to hang about for ages while they fetch up the housekeeper to go over the order.”
    â€œMrs. Clarridge didn’t look at the order when it came in?” Phyllis thought that was odd. Mrs. Jeffries didn’t go through household deliveries, either, but she was the exception rather than the rule. In every other household where she’d ever worked, either the lady of the house examined everything coming in or the housekeeper did.
    Dulcie shook her head. “Nah, one of the maids would unlock the door, Da would take the order into the wet larder, and then the girl would lock up behind him. Straight in and out, that’s what he liked. Will there be anything else?”
    * * *
    Wiggins stood outside the pub on Throgmorton Street and watched as people went inside. This was the financial heart of England and before he went inside he wanted to make sure the place wasn’t going to fill up with toffs in shiny black top hats who wouldn’t give him the time of day.
    Coming here had been his second choice. He’d first tried to find a servant from Edison’s household to chat up, but after waiting for what seemed ages without seeing so much as a housemaid stick her nose out for a bit of air, he’d decided to try his luck elsewhere. But once he’d made that decision, he wasn’t sure where to go next. The only other address they had was Yancy Kimball’s hotel in Paddington, or he could try to find out