but he didn’t want the lad to be stuck at home twiddling his
thumbs while they waited for the police to clear out of the
Braxton house.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find someone to talk to me, I always
do.” Wiggins smiled gamely. “Cor blimey, but I feel so bad
about poor Luty and Hatchet bein’ left out.”
“We’ll tell them tomorrow,” Smythe promised. “Now
get on with you, time is awastin’, and we’ve got to be back
for supper or Mrs. Goodge will ‘ave our ‘eads.”
56
Emily Brightwell
Wiggins laughed and hurried off. Smythe pulled open
the door of the pub. The bar was straight ahead. The barman
stood behind the counter polishing glasses. He looked up as
Smythe stepped inside. A couple of men dressed in working
clothes were standing at the bar, two men wearing suits
were sitting at a table by the small fireplace, and an old man
smoking a clay pipe was sitting on a bench next to the door.
Everyone looked at him. This wasn’t good. The place was
dead quiet. He’d never get anyone to talk. In his experience,
people tended to talk freely when a pub was noisy, crowded,
and filled with drunks. But he was here now, he might as
well give it a go.
“What can I get for you?” the barman asked as he
stepped up the counter.
“A pint, please.”
“You a stranger in these parts?” The barman shoved a
glass under the keg and pulled the spout. “I’ve not seen you
in here before.” His voice was just a tad unfriendly.
“Never been ‘ere,” Smythe replied. “Why? You only
serve locals?”
An embarrassed flush crept up the barman’s broad face.
“We serve the public,” he muttered. He gave Smythe his
pint. “No offense was intended. I was just making conversation.”
“No offense taken,” Smythe said easily. “I expect everyone’s a bit nervous, what with murder ‘appenin’ around these parts,” he commented. He was fairly certain that whatever chance he might have had at getting any information was now ruined. He shouldn’t have reacted so harshly, the
whole neighborhood was probably nervous. People tended
to get suspicious of strangers when murder had been done.
The barman grunted in agreement. “Murder’s rare
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
57
around these parts.” He picked up a towel and wiped the
end of the tap.
“Wonder if they know who did it?” Smythe watched the
barman over the top of his tankard. Maybe it wasn’t hopeless after all. The fellow was talking.
The barman looked at Smythe curiously. “When did you
hear about it? Is it in the papers?”
“Nah, it only ‘appened last night,” he replied. He was
prepared for the question. “But people were talkin’ about it
at the train station this morning and at the café next to it. I
overheard one fellow say he thought it was that Ripper fellow that did it, the police never caught him.”
“It weren’t the Ripper,” one of the taller of the two men
at the other end of the bar said. “It was probably one of the
poor sods who worked for him.”
“Mind your tongue, Harry,” the barman snapped. “You’ll
not be speaking ill of the dead.”
Harry snorted in digust. “Just because he died doesn’t
make him a saint. He treated his servants worse than a dog,
and that’s fact. Look how he done our Addie.”
“For goodness sakes, Harry, that was two years ago. Ad-
die’s married and moved to Brompton now.” The barman
shook his head. “Give it up, the man’s dead.”
“Don’t like to be speakin’ out of turn,” Smythe said to
Harry. “But what did he do to . . . uh . . .”
“He tried to stop her last quarter’s wages when she give
notice,” Harry replied. His companion nodded his head.
“Can you believe it? That bunch had worked her like an animal, and when she’d finally had enough and found another situation, he said he’d not pay her.”
“So she left without her wages?” Smythe pressed. That
could be a motive for murder.
58
Emily Brightwell
“Oh, no, he had to pay up, we threatened him with the
law, so that toff-nosed daughter of his gave Addie her
money. But that’s the way he treated everyone, even that
cousin of his works like a dogsbody about the place to earn
his keep.”
“I’m glad the young lady got what was due her,” Smythe
said. He wanted a few more details.
“With no thanks to that tightfisted sod,” he said.
“Harry, let him rest in peace,” the barman said softly.
Smythe wondered if the barman would be quite so compassionate if Braxton had died owing him any money.
“Why do you care?” Harry’s companion asked accusingly. “You didn’t like him any better than we do.”
“No, I didn’t, but it just don’t seem right to talk about
the man when he can’t defend himself,” the publican
snapped. He looked at Smythe. “You want another pint?”
“No, thanks, this will do me.” Smythe had a feeling that
the well had finally gone dry.
Wiggins rubbed his hands together to keep them warm.
Sheen Common was a cold, miserable, and ugly patch of
ground. Even worse, it was almost empty. A lone man walked
slowly up a footpath on the far end, and there was a telegraph
boy hurrying across the other end. All in all, the prospects for
finding someone to talk to didn’t seem very good.
He sighed and wondered what he ought to do. He’d been
here for almost an hour, and he was near frozen, but he
didn’t dare go near the Braxton house. He desperately
wanted to have something to report at today’s meeting.
Maybe the telegraph boy was a possibility? Maybe he was
taking a message of importance to someone that had something to do with the murder. Wiggins turned to see where the lad had got to, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. Then
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
59
he decided it was just as well, telegraph boys were trained
not to talk to people about the contents of messages.
Cor blimey, it was getting cold. He’d seen a café just near
the railway station; he’d get a cuppa and see if he could find
anything useful there. Wiggins headed toward the Upper
Richmond Road. Just as he reached the edge of the common, an auburn-haired woman wearing a wool hat and long gray coat entered the common. She walked past Wiggins
without a glance, her attention focused on the far side of the
common. She wasn’t
