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

something about the men Edison had been quarreling with before he was killed, the ones Luty had called the Merry Gentlemen. They were professional investors and financiers and this was their territory, Throgmorton Street. It was close enough to the Bank of England and the stock exchange so that the money lads didn’t have to walk too far to get a nice pint at lunchtime.
    Two men, both of them wearing ordinary business suits, went past him and into the pub. He glanced down at his own brown jacket, white shirt, and tie, and decided he looked respectable enough to give it a go. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped inside.
    It was just after opening time and already the pub was filled with jobbers hanging on to their bowlers, accountants in navy suits and regimental ties, and ordinary clerks. Wiggins elbowed his way through the crowd to the bar. He wedged himself into a space next to two lads who looked to be about his age.
    â€œWhat’ll you have?” the barman asked.
    â€œPint of bitter, please.” He pulled some coins out of his pocket and had them at the ready when the barman put his beer in front of him. “Ta.”
    Wiggins eased to one side to scan the room, looking for someone on their own who might be in the mood for a chat. It was a cut above a working-class pub, with booths along one wall and small tables packed densely in the remaining floor space.
    â€œSouthampton St. Mary got lucky.”
    Wiggins turned his head sharply.
    A dark-haired young man with deep-set brown eyes and pale, pockmarked skin tapped his fingers on the counter to make his point. “Two of those goals shouldn’t have even counted. Seems to me the real score should have been a ruddy draw. Swindon Town played better.”
    â€œAre you daft?” His companion, a young lad with wispy blond hair, snorted contemptuously. “All of those goals were good. Swindon’s got a lousy team. Luton Town beat ’em by two goals last month.”
    â€œAnd Millwall has thrashed them both,” Wiggins interjected. “They beat Luton last month and Southampton the week before.”
    The two stopped their conversation and eyed him curiously. Wiggins knew he should have kept his opinion to himself, but he’d not been able to stop himself. Except for his friend Tommy, he’d no one to talk football with. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, it’s just that—”
    â€œYou a Millwall supporter?” the first one asked.
    He nodded.
    â€œThen you must be looking forward to this Saturday.” The dark-haired lad grinned broadly. “I hear Clapton is out for revenge considerin’ the way you thrashed them last month.”
    â€œMy mate’s a Clapton supporter and even he says they’re a sorry bunch,” the blond added. “They play like a pack of schoolgirls.”
    Wiggins couldn’t believe his luck. He jumped into the conversation with relish. When their glasses were empty, he ordered a round for the three of them and it was only as the two lads left to go back to work that he realized he’d not asked one single question about Orlando Edison or the Merry Gentlemen.
    * * *
    Jon Barlow, deliveryman for Hubbard’s, the inspector’s local wine merchant, put his cup down. “Are you talkin’ about that fellow that got himself bashed over the head?” he said to Mrs. Goodge. “Is that who you’re askin’ about?”
    Mrs. Goodge forced herself to smile and ignore the brown-paper-wrapped package that had been brought to the door by special messenger only moments before Barlow had arrived with a crate of wine for the holidays. She was dying to know who had sent her a present but she knew her duty: She had to see if Barlow knew anything. “Yes, that’s who I’m asking about.”
    Barlow scratched his chin. He was a short, wiry man with thinning black hair that stood up in tufts around his ears. “Yeah,