Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “No one but a complete imbecile would have called him a good officer . . .” Nivens’ voice trailed off as Barrows jerked off his spectacles and leapt to his feet, his expression furious.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that as it may have sounded.” Nivens swallowed nervously. He knew he’d gone too far. “Of course you’re not an imbecile. I’m merely so distraught over losing my chance to prove that I’m just as capable as Inspector Witherspoon that I let my emotions get the best of me.”

  Barrows said nothing for a moment; he merely fixed the inspector with a hard stare.

  Nivens could feel the beads of sweat starting to form along his hairline and silently prayed they wouldn’t come rolling down his forehead. “Please accept my apologies, sir.”

  Barrows relaxed a fraction, put his spectacles back on, and sat back down. “Right, then. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear your insubordination.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your understanding.”

  Barrows ignored him and picked up a file folder from the stack on his desk. “I’ve a lot of work to get through, Inspector, so unless you have something else to say, I suggest you get back to Upper Richmond Road and attend to your duties. Inspector Witherspoon will handle the Starling murder and you’re to assist and cooperate with him in every possible way. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nivens nodded curtly. “Good day, sir.” He turned and left the office, taking care to close the door softly.

  As expected, Constable Forman was waiting for him in the corridor. The tall, blond-haired constable shoved away from the wall and stood to attention. The smile that had started to form on his thin, bony face disappeared.

  Nivens realized the lad had taken one look at his expression and seen that things had gone wrong. That would never do; he wasn’t going to have anyone, least of all a mere constable, read him like the ruddy morning paper. Nivens unclenched his fists and put on his bowler. “I do hope there won’t be too much traffic. I don’t want any delay getting back to the station.”

  Forman’s brow creased in confusion. “Uh, yes, sir.”

  Nivens was back in charge now. He was pleased with himself for having picked Forman out of the crowd of officers at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station. The constable didn’t disappoint him. He was smart enough to keep quiet and see which way the wind might be blowing before he started asking any questions. Nivens admired that particular characteristic. He’d gotten where he was today by being able to read people correctly, and the minute he’d walked into the Upper Richmond Road Police Station he’d spotted the one constable so ambitious he could easily be used.

  But Forman, for all his ambition, was no fool, and Nivens knew the man had calculated the risk he’d be taking by falling in with him. Nivens was under no illusions about his popularity with the rank and file. They were subservient and civil, of course, but he knew they loathed him. Forman, however, had his eye on moving up in the ranks, and attaching himself to someone with the Nivens family connections and power could be advantageous in the future.

  It was important he make sure that Constable Forman still saw him in that light. It wouldn’t do to let him see that a mere chief superintendent like Barrows could intimidate Nivens in any way, shape, or form. He didn’t want Forman jumping ship now. If Nivens was going to prove that Witherspoon wasn’t as capable as everyone thought he’d need help. Someone like Forman could play that part easily.

  The skirmish with Barrows was unimportant; he was angry, of course, but the meeting had gone the way he’d thought it might, although he was a bit annoyed with his own reaction. He should have kept his temper. “Let’s go,” he said, and started down the stairs.

  “Yes, sir,” Forman replied as he followed him.

  Nivens deliberately didn’t speak until they were a good two blocks away from headquarters. “As expected, Chief Superintendent Barrows has allowed himself to be influenced by politics.” That wasn’t precisely the truth, but it wasn’t precisely a lie, either.

  “I take it things didn’t go as you hoped, sir.”

  “Not as I’d hoped, but exactly as I predicted. As I said, the chief superintendent has allowed politics, not proper police procedures, to influence his decision.”

  “That’s unfortunate, sir.”

  “Not for me, Constable.” Nivens smiled. “This isn’t the end of matter, and I’m going to make sure Barrows is going to regret this. I’m going to make him rue the day he pulled me off this case.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Gretchen cast a quick, furtive look toward the closed dining room door. “I don’t want the others to think I’m tellin’ tales,” she explained to the Inspector. “But I’m the upstairs housemaid, sir, and I saw and heard things the others didn’t.”

  “By ‘others,’ I take it you mean the other staff?” Witherspoon had learned from past mistakes to be specific when asking questions.

  The maid nodded. “That’s right, sir. Mrs. Starling was a good mistress and they’ll not want to face the truth. In the last few weeks of her life, she wasn’t her usual self.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Like I said, sir, I’m the upstairs maid, and as well as doin’ the cleanin’, I’d often act as lady’s maid for the mistress. You know, helping her get dressed when she had a meeting or an important social occasion.”

  “She went out often?”

  “Not as often as some, like that Mrs. Huxton next door—she’s out every night of the week—but the mistress did go out to dinner parties, and she went to the Angel Alms Society every week for her committee work or the meetings. But the point is, sir, recently, when I’d go in to help her dress, she’d be starin’ off out the window, muttering to herself.”

  “Can you be a bit more specific? Was Mrs. Starling speaking to someone who wasn’t there, or was she simply thinking out loud?”

  “At first it was like she was thinking out loud, like she’d seen or heard something she couldn’t understand, but a few weeks later it was more like she’d found something out and was arguin’ with herself about what to do about it.” Gretchen shook her head. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what happened; and as the weeks went on, she got worse and worse.”

  Witherspoon looked up from his notebook, his hand now motionless on the paper. “Can you recall exactly when Mrs. Starling began acting in such a manner?”

  She thought for a few moments. “It was early last month . . . Yes, that’s right. She came home from shopping and went straight up to her room. She wasn’t angry or anything; it was more like she was confused about something.”

  “You said it got worse and worse. What did you mean?”

  “Well, the next day, when she came home from her meeting—it was her usual fortnight meeting of the alms society, and I was upstairs dustin’ the second-floor landing—she was in a right old state, sir. I could tell she was upset about something, but when I asked if everything was all right, she said for me not to worry, that she’d take care of the matter.”

  “So she was upset,” he repeated.

  “Not upset; I used the wrong word. She was angry, sir. Really angry about something.”

  “Do you have any idea why?”

  “No, sir, and it wasn’t my place to press her any further.”

  “And you think it was about then that she began behaving in a manner unlike herself?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Please don’t misunderstand, sir. She treated us the same as always, but . . . oh, this is hard to explain. Let me give you an example. Mrs. Starling had an appointments diary, and unless she was ill, she always kept her engagements. But twice recently she’s canceled appointments at the very last minute and gone off on some errand of her own. That wasn’t like her, Inspector, not at all.”

  “Where did she go?’ Witherspoon asked.

  “The first time she went to Tunbridge Wells, and a few weeks later she w
ent to Chelmsford. I know, sir, because she had me book her tickets and bring them here.”

  “Did she say why she’d gone to either of those places?”

  “No, she just said she had something important to do”—Gretchen’s eyes filled with tears—“and I can’t help feeling that whatever it was she was doing is what got her murdered.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Downstairs, Constable Barnes had taken statements from Mrs. Adkins the cook and Louise Rector, one of the downstairs maids. Both of them had said more or less what Martha Horsham had stated: No one saw anything, no one heard anything, and no one had any idea who might want to kill their mistress.

  Barnes hoped the dark-haired young woman who had just sat down might have something more to say than the others had. Surely someone here must have noticed something on the days leading up to the murder.

  “What’s your name, miss?” he asked.

  “Fanny Herald, sir, I’m the tweeny.”

  “How long have you worked for Mrs. Starling?”

  “Four years, sir, since I was sixteen.” She smiled shyly, revealing a set of even white teeth.

  “And you’ve been happy here?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. It’s a nice household. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Mrs. Starling. I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “Why don’t you just let me ask the questions? You might know more than you think you do,” he assured her. “First of all, have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around the neighborhood recently? Someone who you’d never seen before. Someone who didn’t seem as if they belonged here.”

  “No, sir, I’ve not seen anyone like that.”

  “Then has anything odd or unusual happened lately?”

  She thought for a moment. “Not really, sir. Gladstone caused a bit of bother—he’d not come home by the time we left for the theater—but he does that all the time. He likes to sit in Mrs. Huxton’s garden so he can aggravate her spaniel.”

  “I see.” Barnes nodded. “When you were coming home from the theater last night, did you see anyone in the area?”

  “It was too dark, sir.” She smiled ruefully now.

  Same as the others, he thought. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, and every single member of the household assumed that their mistress was safe in bed. But she wasn’t—she was lying dead out in the back garden. “Yes, I’m sure it was.”

  “But Gladstone was back inside when we come in, sir,” she added. “Mrs. Wheaton went down to make sure he was home.”

  He stifled a snort of disgust. The housekeeper had checked on the cat but not on her mistress. But then he caught himself; it wasn’t the servants’ fault that someone had murdered their employer.

  “I wonder what’ll happen to him now.” Fanny frowned.

  “Happen to who?”

  “Gladstone.” Her frown deepened. “Come to think of it, what’ll happen to all of us? With the mistress dead, they’ll not need us here.”

  Barnes wished he could give the girl some assurance that it would be all right, but he couldn’t. If Mrs. Starling had been as good a mistress as the servants claimed, she might have made provisions for them, but then again she might not have. “I’m sure that’s worrying for you and the others,” he said, “but right now let’s just concentrate on the matter at hand. Has Mrs. Starling had any conflicts recently?”

  “Conflicts?”

  “Disagreements, arguments, anything of that nature,” Barnes explained.

  Fanny’s brows drew together. “Well, I’m not sure if you’d call it an argument, but I know she had a disagreement with Mr. Redstone.”

  “Who is Mr. Redstone?”

  “He was married to Mrs. Starling’s niece, but she’s passed away now. Mr. Redstone was here last week and he had words with the mistress. I wasn’t eavesdropping, but when he was here, he was shouting so loudly when they were in Mrs. Starling’s study, I couldn’t help but hear what he said.” She looked down at the tablecloth.

  “What did you hear?” Barnes demanded. When she looked up, her eyes filled with tears, and he knew he’d used the worst possible tactic to get the girl to talk. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t mean to upset you, but this is a murder investigation, and every small bit of information might help us find her killer. So please stop thinking you’re protecting her memory by being discreet about what you overheard.”

  Fanny sucked in a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right, sir. Mr. Redstone was shouting that Mrs. Starling had robbed him.”

  “Robbed him of what?”

  Shaking her head and biting her lip, she said, “I don’t know, sir. Honestly, at that point Mrs. Wheaton came into the room and told me to go downstairs to help with laundry.”

  A constable stuck his head inside. “Excuse me, sir, Constable Barnes, if you’ve finished, the inspector would like you to join him in the dining room.”

  “I’ll be there in just a moment.” Barnes looked at Fanny. “Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything odd or strange that happened in the days leading to Mrs. Starling’s death?”

  “No, sir.” Fanny shook her head, her eyes filling with tears again. “If there was, I’d tell you, because Mrs. Starling was the first mistress I’ve ever had that was decent to me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Should we wait for Wiggins?” Mrs. Goodge glanced toward the back door, her expression anxious. “He’s been gone for hours.”

  “Now, stop fretting, Mrs. Goodge. Wiggins is probably learning something useful or he’d be here. He can take care of himself,” Betsy, a blonde, blue-eyed young matron, reached across the table and patted the cook’s hand. “Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

  The cook looked doubtful. “Let’s hope so, but I’m beginning to get one of my feelings.”

  “He’s fine,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “And I don’t think you’re having a ‘feeling.’ You’re hungry. You were so busy sending off notes to your sources at lunchtime that you didn’t eat more than two bites.”

  “I only sent out three of them,” the cook retorted, “and the ones to Janice Miller and Lester Halliday had to be mailed so I needed to get them done for the early afternoon post.”

  Mrs. Goodge did her share of their sleuthing from the kitchen. She’d worked in some of the finest, most aristocratic houses in England before ending up at Upper Edmonton Gardens, and she had dozens of former colleagues whom she could count on for useful information. Add to that, there was a small army of tradespeople, delivery boys, and street lads who came into her kitchen. She plied them with tea, treats, and in some cases sympathy to loosen their tongues and find out what she needed to know.

  “I was hoping he’d get here before we started.” Phyllis put the teapot on the table next to the plate of jam tarts and then took her own seat. “I wish I could have gone with him. I’m curious as to what he’s found out.”

  “He’ll git here in his own good time,” Luty Belle Crookshank declared. The elderly American was tiny, white-haired, and rich. She’d been involved in one of their first cases and had noticed the inspector’s servants asking questions. After that case was solved, Luty had come to the household with a problem of her own, one that she wasn’t certain the police would take seriously. Since then, she and her devoted butler, Hatchet, insisted on helping with the inspector’s cases. Luty knew everyone who was anyone in London. She was as much at ease with an aristocratic cousin of the queen as she was with a beggar.

  “I don’t see how we can have much of a meetin’ without him,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. She was a bit annoyed to be told that her “feeling” was nothing more than hunger, although in this particular instance it was probably true. She helped herself to a tart. “We don’t know anything.”

  “But of course we do.” Mrs. Jeffries took her seat at the head of the table. “We know that the Inspector and Constab
le Barnes were sent to Putney this morning. And I’ve a feeling that Wiggins will get here before too long. You do realize you’re all here very early. It’s only just gone half three.”

  “It seemed later with it getting dark so early.” Smythe took the seat next to his wife. He was a tall, muscular man with harsh, heavy features and enough gray in his dark brown hair to make the fifteen-year age difference between him and his Betsy noticeable.

  “I agree with Mrs. Goodge, we don’t have much information.” Hatchet put his old-fashioned top hat on the coatrack, crossed the room, and sat down next to Luty. Tall, with a poker-straight spine, the bearing of an emperor, and a headful of thick, white hair, he and Luty were more than just employee and employer. They had a history together and were devoted to each other.

  “It won’t hurt us to wait a few more minutes before we begin,” Ruth, Lady Cannonberry, said as she accepted a cup of tea from Phyllis. She was an attractive woman of late middle age, with only a few strands of gray in her dark blonde hair. The widow of a peer as well as a country vicar’s daughter, she took seriously Christ’s admonition to love thy neighbor as thyself and firmly believed that all souls were equal in the sight of God. She was also the inspector’s “special” friend, and that occasionally caused problems, as she was as devoted to the cause of women’s suffrage as she was to the inspector. There were times when she knew her activities might cause him embarrassment, although out of deference for his feelings she had refrained from chaining herself to the railings at Parliament.

  Suddenly, Fred got up from his spot by the cooker. Wagging his tail, he scrambled to the back hall, his nails clicking hard against the wood floor.

  “Oh, good, Wiggins is home now,” the cook sighed happily.

  “’Ello, old fellow,” they heard the footman say. “You ’ad a good day, then? Come on, let’s go inside.”

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” Betsy exclaimed as he came into the room.

  “We want to know what happened.”