Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a Yorkshire policeman, had started it off years earlier when she’d first come to Upper Edmonton Gardens. Witherspoon had been in charge of the Records Room at Scotland Yard, but when those horrible Kensington High Street murders began, she’d encouraged him to ask a few questions in the neighborhood. Not only that, but she’d made sure the household staff was out and about, asking questions as well, her excuse at the time had been “curiosity.” Naturally, Smythe and Betsy, who hadn’t been married then, figured out what she was doing. It hadn’t taken Wiggins or Mrs. Goodge long to suss it out, either.
Witherspoon had ended up catching the killer, saving several lives, and had been promoted out of the records room to the Ladbroke Road Police Station. Since then, they’d added several trusted friends to their small band of sleuths and took great pride in working for justice. Naturally, the inspector had no idea he was getting assistance.
The back door opened and slammed shut, and then footsteps and the clatter of paws pounded up the corridor. Wiggins, a handsome young man in his early twenties, burst into the room. A brown, black, and white mongrel dog was at his heels. “I’ve just run into Constable Griffiths and he was on his way to Putney to join the inspector and Constable Barnes.”
“Putney? But that’s across the river, why would he go there?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Because it’s ’appened again,” Wiggins announced. “We’ve got us another Christmas murder.”
* * *
* * *
Inspector Gerald Witherspoon’s annoyance at being called out of his own district for a homicide evaporated when he saw the victim. “Poor woman. If the blow to her head didn’t kill her, then lying out here for hours would have done it.” He shook his head in disgust. He rose to his feet and wished he could avoid looking at both the body and the stained shovel that was probably the murder weapon. But he knew his duty. “Who found her?”
The tall young constable who’d accompanied them from the local station pointed to the back door of the house. “The scullery maid, sir. She’s the first down in the mornings, and when she went into the kitchen to make the cook’s tea, the cat wanted out. She said when she opened the back door, she noticed the oil lamp there”—he pointed to a spot a few feet away from the statue—“and when she opened the door wider, she saw her mistress lying here.”
“She kept her wits about her,” Constable Barnes added. “I’ve spoken to her, sir, and after she told the housekeeper, she went to the fixed-point constable on the corner and raised the alarm.”
Witherspoon nodded and then glanced at the victim. “Who is this lady?”
Barnes opened his little brown notebook. “Margaret Starling. She’s a widow and she lives here with her servants.”
Witherspoon frowned in disbelief. “She has servants? Didn’t any of them notice she wasn’t in the house last night? I’m no expert on bodies, but this poor woman’s flesh is almost frozen. She has to have been out here for hours.”
“According to the maid, sir, none of the servants were home last night. Mrs. Starling gave all of them an evening out.” He looked up as a two police constables and a middle-aged man wearing a black overcoat and a bowler and carrying a medical bag hurried toward them.
“That’s Dr. Littleham, sir, the police surgeon for our district,” the constable explained.
Witherspoon turned to the young constable. “Please search her pockets before the doctor begins,” he instructed.
Barnes, who knelt on the other side of the victim stood up and joined the inspector. The two men headed for the doctor and introduced themselves. As soon as the introductions were over, they went to the house. Barnes knocked on the back door.
A housemaid with red eyes swollen from weeping opened up. She stared at them for a long moment.
“May we come in, miss?” Witherspoon asked politely.
“Sorry, sir.” She stepped back and held the door open for them to enter. “I was told you’d be coming in to speak to us. Please come inside. Mrs. Wheaton, the housekeeper, is waiting for you in the old butler’s pantry.”
They stepped over the threshold and followed her to a door halfway down the dimly lighted corridor. The maid rapped once and then stuck her head inside. “The police are here, Mrs. Wheaton.”
As they stepped inside, a tall, white-haired woman rose from behind a long table. “I’m Agnes Wheaton. This has been a terrible, terrible time for all of us here, I hope you’ll find the person that did this quickly.” She gestured at the row of straight-backed chairs opposite her. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Would you care for tea?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is my colleague, Constable Barnes.” He surveyed the long, narrow room as they took their seats. He’d often interviewed servants in the butler’s pantry, and they were usually dismal places with shelves of mismatched crockery, scratched, rickety furniture, dirty windows, and stained linens. But this one was decent. The chairs all matched, an unstained white tablecloth covered the table, the two windows were clean—as was the blue cotton curtains—and the floor was polished. Apparently, Mrs. Starling wanted her servants to have their meals in a cheerful room.
Mrs. Wheaton took her own seat.
“Mrs. Wheaton, I understand how difficult this might be for you—” he began, only to be interrupted.
“I want her killer caught,” Mrs. Wheaton cried. Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked and held them back. “Forgive me, Inspector, but it has been a most upsetting day. Go ahead and ask your questions; I’ll do anything I can to help catch whoever did this to Mrs. Starling.”
Witherspoon nodded. It was rare to find servants who seemed on the surface to be so fond of their employers, but Mrs. Wheaton obviously liked and cared about the victim. He wondered if the rest of the staff felt the same way. “Thank you. We appreciate your cooperation. We were told that Mrs. Starling was here alone. Is that correct?”
Mrs. Wheaton nodded. “That’s right. She gave us the night off. She does it every year. It’s an early Christmas present to the staff. She buys us tickets to a play or a pantomime. Last night it was A Runaway Girl at the Gaiety Theater.”
“What time did you all leave?” Barnes asked.
“We had to get up to the West End, so Mrs. Starling let us go at a half past five. She only wanted a cold supper, so I left it on the sideboard in the dining room and off we went.” Again tears flooded her eyes. “We’d no idea something so awful was going to happen to the mistress.”
“Of course you didn’t know,” Witherspoon murmured.
“When we came home last night, we assumed Mrs. Starling was asleep in her bed. It wasn’t until this morning when Martha came running in that I realized something was amiss.”
“The entire staff was together last night, is that right?” Witherspoon asked.
“Yes. Mrs. Starling was a very independent woman; she wasn’t the sort who would worry about being on her own in the evening.”
“Would she have locked the doors?” Barnes opened his notebook and began to write.
“Of course. This is a very good neighborhood, but the front door was always kept locked,” she replied. “Mrs. Starling gave me a key to use last night—” She broke off and covered her mouth with her hand. She took several long, jagged breaths and then brought herself under control. “I’ve just realized, if we’d used the back door, we might have found her in time to save her. Oh, my Lord, how dreadful.”
“Ma’am, don’t distress yourself,” Witherspoon said. “At this point, we’ve no idea what time Mrs. Starling passed away. But as you’ve brought the subject up, why didn’t you use the back door?” Even the most liberal of employers generally expected their servants to use a side or a back entrance.
“Normally we would have, but the back door key’s been missing for over a month now, so Mrs. Starling told us to come in the front.” S
he shook her head. “Why, just yesterday I told her we ought to get a new key made, but she wanted to wait a bit to see if the key turned up.”
Barnes stopped scribbling and looked at her. “Why would it suddenly turn up?”
“Mrs. Starling thought the key had accidentally been dropped somewhere in the house and that eventually we’d find it. It happened once before: The key went missing and then it was found on the floor of the dry larder a few weeks later,” she explained. “Getting a new key isn’t as easy as it sounds, and it’s also expensive. Mrs. Starling had modern locks put on both the front and back doors last year, the kind that you can lock and unlock from the inside without a key. She wanted to make sure that, in the event of a fire, everyone could get outside quickly. The key was only needed if you wanted to unlock it from outside.”
Witherspoon nodded. “Where was the key kept?”
“On a hook by the back door.”
“So anyone coming or going could have taken it,” Barnes remarked.
“That’s possible.” Mrs. Wheaton fixed him with a cold stare. “But it’s more likely one of us grabbed it, intending to run an errand or do a bit of shopping, and ended up losing it. As I said, the key has been missing since the middle of November. No one here would do anything to harm Mrs. Starling. She was a good mistress, nor would any of the tradespeople or delivery lads want to harm her.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” the constable soothed. “I’m merely looking at the possibilities, and a missing key always gets a policeman’s attention.”
Her expression softened. “Of course. Don’t mind me, Constable, I’m dreadfully upset.”
“Was Mrs. Starling in the habit of going outside by herself?” The inspector thought of the oil lamp.
Mrs. Wheaton shook her head. “No. As a matter of fact, I can think of no reason she might have gone out last night. But she obviously did: The lamp was outside, and it didn’t walk there by itself.”
“Could she have gone out because she heard something, or perhaps someone came to the door, or maybe she went to find her cat?” the inspector asked. “Any of those reasons would explain the oil lamp.”
“I don’t think so, Inspector,” Mrs. Wheaton replied. “She might not have been nervous about being home on her own, but she wasn’t foolish. She wouldn’t have opened the back door and gone out just because she heard a noise, and if someone had come to the back door, she’d have definitely kept it closed. As for the cat, Gladstone was inside when we got home, and the back door was closed and locked, which means she must have let him inside.”
“Nonetheless, something made her go outside,” Witherspoon said. “Can you think of anyone who wished to harm Mrs. Starling?”
Mrs. Wheaton shook her head. “Not really. She was very strong-willed and free with her opinion at times, but I can’t think of anyone who would do such a thing to her.”
“Had she had any recent quarrels or disagreements with anyone,” the inspector persisted.
“Well, as I said, she was free with her opinions.” She hesitated. “Actually, recently she’s quarreled with several people, but it was over silly, petty things. The only serious matter that I know of is the lawsuit.”
“Lawsuit?” Witherspoon repeated.
“She was suing Mrs. Huxton. She lives next door.”
“For what?” Barnes asked.
“Slander and defamation of character.” Mrs. Wheaton sighed. “It’s quite a sad situation, really. The two of them used to be very good friends. Then they had what I thought was a minor dispute over the property line between the two homes, and before you knew it, they weren’t speaking. Then Mrs. Starling found out that Mrs. Huxton had written an anonymous nasty letter to the vicar at St. Andrew’s Church. It accused her of all manner of dreadful things. Mrs. Starling decided to sue her.”
“She’s suing her neighbor. That’s quite serious,” Witherspoon murmured. “May we start from the beginning, please? This Mrs. Huxton wrote to the church?”
“It sounds ridiculous, but the vicar is on the board of the Angel Alms Society of Fulham and Putney. Mrs. Starling was sure Mrs. Huxton was trying to ruin her reputation at both places.” She took another deep breath. “The alms society is domiciled in the building next to St. Andrew’s Church. Mrs. Starling has been a supporter of the organization for years, both as a patron and an active member of the advisory board. Women aren’t allowed on the board of governors as yet, but Mrs. Starling wants to change that rule.” She paused closed her eyes. “Sorry, I keep referring to her in the present tense.”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Wheaton. We’ll certainly have a word with Mrs. Huxton.”
“Of course, Inspector, but, honestly, Mrs. Huxton is a lady. She’d never do such a terrible thing.”
Witherspoon resisted the urge to tell her how often it was a “lady” or a “gentleman” who’d committed the most heinous of crimes. “Is there anyone else that you can think of—anyone who might have had a grudge against your mistress?”
“I don’t think so, but speak with the rest of the servants. Perhaps one of them might know more.”
“How many servants are there?” Barnes asked.
“All together, there are eight of us.” Mrs. Wheaton replied. “This is a big house. Gretchen Terry is the upstairs maid, Fanny Herald is the tweeny, Louise Rector and Jane Prescrott do the downstairs, and Martha Horsham is the scullery. Mrs. Adkins is the cook and Arthur Gormley takes care of the garden.”
Barnes added their names to his notes, not bothering to check the spelling, as he’d be having a word with all of them. “All of you live in?”
“Everyone but Mr. Gormley; he lives in Fulham and comes in six days a week.”
There was a sharp knock on the door and then Martha stuck her head inside. “The police doctor wants to speak to you,” she announced, directing her comment to the inspector.
“Thank you, miss. Tell him I’ll be right out.” Inspector Witherspoon looked at Mrs. Wheaton as he rose to his feet. “I’ll speak with you again, I’m sure. In the meantime, Constable Barnes will take statements from the servants. We’ll need two rooms, one for him to use and one for me.”
“This room is available and the dining room upstairs.” Mrs. Wheaton got up.
“I’ll stay down here, sir,” Barnes offered. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll start with the young lady who found Mrs. Starling.”
Witherspoon nodded and hurried out.
The doctor was standing on the terrace, overseeing the removal of the body. “Be careful!” he yelled as one of the constables carrying the stretcher stumbled. “I don’t want any extra bruises caused by you lot dropping that poor woman.”
They disappeared down the walkway to the street where the police van waited. He turned to Inspector Witherspoon. “Sorry, but a postmortem is no good if I can’t tell if the victim’s bruises and wounds were caused by the assailant or a careless constable bashing the body about willy-nilly.” Dr. Littleham was a portly man in early middle age with curly brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and a luxuriant mutton chop whiskers and mustache.
“I quite understand, sir. I feel the same way about people trampling all over a murder scene before I’ve had a chance to have a thorough look.” Witherspoon had examined the area surrounding Margaret Starling’s body in great detail. He’d not spotted anything that appeared to be useful, but nonetheless it was good police procedure.
“Of course you understand. Now, I don’t generally speak to the investigation officer before I’ve done a proper postmortem, but I’ll make an exception in this case. Some of her tissue was almost frozen, so I’m sure she was outside for most of last night. I’ll know more after the examination. I understand you’re not from this district, so where should I send the autopsy report?”
“Huh.” It took a minute before Witherspoon understood the question. “Oh, sorry. Send it to the Upper Ric
hmond Road Police Station. I’ll be working from there.”
“Right, then, I’ll send it along as soon as possible.” He started to leave and then stopped and looked back at the inspector. “Forgive my asking, but is there a reason you’re on this case and not Inspector Nivens?”
Witherspoon wasn’t sure how to answer, so he did what he always did when faced with an uncomfortable question: He told as much of the truth as he could. “I really don’t know. The moment I walked into my station this morning, I had instructions from Scotland Yard to report here and take over.”
He suspected he knew exactly why he’d been sent, but he didn’t wish to add any fuel to what might become an inflamed situation. Inspector Nigel Nivens was eager to add a successful homicide investigation to his list of accomplishments. But he wasn’t seen as a particularly competent officer, and someone at Scotland Yard obviously wanted this case solved quickly.
“So the orders came down from the chief superintendent.” Dr. Littleham smiled broadly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be intrusive, but, well, from what I know of Inspector Nivens, he’ll not take kindly to being pushed aside.”
“I assure you, I’ve no wish to intrude in Inspector Nivens’ district, but orders are orders.” Though in truth he wondered how on earth someone at the Yard could have found out about the murder so quickly when it was only reported this morning.
* * *
* * *
Wiggins pulled his hat down further over his ears as he rounded the corner and spotted the small crowd in front of what he hoped was the victim’s home. After his announcement that they had themselves a murder, Mrs. Jeffries had sprung into action, sending him first to Betsy and Smythe’s home, where he dropped a note through their door, and then here to see what he could learn from the locals. She’d sent Phyllis to Luty Belle’s so she and Hatchet could be at Upper Edmonton Gardens this afternoon for a meeting. They were friends of the household and had been helping on their cases almost from the beginning. Mrs. Jeffries had taken on the task of going across the communal gardens to Lady Cannonberry’s herself. Ruth Cannonberry was also a friend and very much a part of their investigations.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 2