Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  Wiggins shed his coat and hat as he went to the coat tree. Mrs. Goodge poured him a cup of tea while they waited for him to hang up his things.

  “Right, then.” He nodded his thanks to the cook as he took his seat. “This murder is pretty ugly—not that there’s such a thing as a pretty murder. Sorry, it bothered me a bit when I ’eard about it. The lady was killed by gettin’ ’er ’ead smashed with a gardening shovel.” He paused to take a quick sip of the hot brew. “’er name was Margaret Starling and she lived in this enormous ’ouse right near the river.”

  “She lives in Putney, right?” Luty’s brows drew together. “So the inspector got called out of his district again.”

  “’E got sent there by Chief Superintendent Barrows, but you’ll never guess who else is there: Inspector Nigel Nivens.”

  There was a collective groan around the table. None of them liked Inspector Nivens, and there were several people present who positively loathed the fellow.

  “What’s more, I overheard two of the local constables, and they was sayin’ that Nivens is bloomin’ angry that our inspector was brought in to take care of this murder.”

  “He’s going to try and hobble our inspector,” Betsy said. “You know how much he hates him.”

  “This isn’t good,” Hatchet murmured.

  “Not good!” Luty snorted. “It’s a calamity! I don’t trust Nivens further than I could pick him up and throw him.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mrs. Jeffries warned them—although, in truth, she was one of those who loathed Nivens. She, more than the others, realized how much of a threat Nivens might become. The man wasn’t getting any younger, and the key to success and moving up the ranks of the Metropolitan Police Force was directly linked to the number of murders one solved and the number of times your name was mentioned in the press. The only reason Inspector Witherspoon hadn’t been promoted was that he had let the powers that be know he had no interest in doing anything except being an inspector. After inheriting a fortune from his late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon, he didn’t need the money, and he was such a modest man, the trappings of power meant nothing to him. “Perhaps Nivens will realize that our inspector was sent into his district by his superiors at Scotland Yard.”

  Smythe shook his head dismissively at the thought of Nivens. “Don’t count on it, Mrs. Jeffries, ’e’s so jealous of our inspector it would take the home secretary himself to keep ’im in line.”

  “I’m right worried about this, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins admitted. “When I was eavesdroppin’ on the constables, it was clear that none of the lads at the station wanted to work under Nivens. Except for one fellow, a constable named Forman. ’e’s not well liked, either; as a matter of fact, ’e’s a bootlicker.” That wasn’t precisely the word the constables had used, but he couldn’t repeat what had actually been said—not in front of the ladies.

  “Let’s hope for the best, shall we?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “Come on, don’t keep us in suspense. What did ya find out?” Luty said to Wiggins.

  He took a quick sip. “As I already said, the victim is named Margaret Starling, and accordin’ to what I overheard from the constables, she was probably killed sometime last night.” He told them what he’d heard from the two women when he’d first arrived at the Starling home. “I ‘ad to be careful when I was there, because I didn’t want our inspector or Constable Griffiths to see me, so ’angin’ about the murder scene was ’ard. I did find out a few other bits and pieces when I went to the local pub.”

  “What did you hear?” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of tea.

  “First of all, the victim was ’avin’ some sort of spat with her next-door neighbor, a lady named Olivia Huxton. She’s a widow lady, too, and I expect she’s rich as well. Her house is as big as the Starling place.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps tomorrow someone here can find out a few more details about this spat.”

  “I’ll give it a go,” Betsy offered. “Too bad the weather has been so cold; if it wasn’t, I could take Amanda with me. She’s wonderful for getting people to chat.”

  “That’s because she’s such a smart, sweet-natured little one.” Luty looked at Betsy. “And much as I miss our baby not bein’ here now, you were right not to bring her out in this cold. You sure the woman who’s watchin’ her is reliable?”

  “Mrs. Packard takes good care of Amanda, otherwise I wouldn’t leave her,” Betsy assured her.

  “Tomorrow I’ll see what I can suss out with the local cabmen. From what I know of Putney, there’s two hansom shelters in the neighborhood,” Smythe offered quickly. He wanted to get the focus of the conversation back to the matter at hand. Too much discussion about his family could lead to some awkward revelations—mainly, that he and Betsy paid a pretty penny to the woman looking after their daughter. She did a great deal more than just taking care of Amanda; she was their housekeeper as well, but that wasn’t a fact he was ready to share.

  “The house is in good order, and if I give the downstairs a good dusting this evening, I can spend tomorrow seeing what the local shopkeepers can tell me about Mrs. Huxton as well as the victim,” Phyllis said.

  “Don’t worry about the dusting,” Mrs. Jeffries told her. “I’ll take care of that tomorrow. We don’t want the inspector coming home this evening and seeing you wielding a feather duster.” She looked at Luty. “Can you tap a few of your sources and see what you can learn about Mrs. Starling’s finances?”

  “That should be easy if the victim was as rich as Wiggins thinks. I’ll see if I can find out anything about Olivia Huxton as well.”

  “I’ll see if any of my sources know anything about either of these individuals,” Hatchet offered.

  Wiggins swallowed the last bite of the tart he’d just put in his mouth. “After Mrs. Jeffries has her chat with our inspector tonight, we might ’ave a few more names to add to our list.”

  “And we’ll have whatever bits and pieces we can get from Constable Barnes,” the cook reminded them. “Who knows: we may have half a dozen more suspects by our morning meeting tomorrow.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Barnes held the empty tea mug by the handle as he headed for the kitchen. The interviews had taken longer than he’d hoped, but they still had time to do a proper search of the victim’s study and her bedroom. Reaching the doorway, he hesitated, not wanting to be rude and interrupt the two women who were having a lively chat.

  “Fanny seems het up about something.” The cook, Mrs. Adkins, put a slab of beef roast on the counter.

  “Her nose is out of joint because Mr. McConnell didn’t so much as give her a glance when he came to the front door,” Martha Horsham said.

  “She didn’t really think the fellow had any interest in her, did she?” Mrs. Adkins picked up a butcher knife and attacked the fat cap on the meat. “He was just bein’ kind. In any case, he’s way too old for her. Goodness, he’s fifty if he’s a day. She’s a lovely young woman, and when she wants to marry, she can find a nice young man.”

  “Well, Mr. McConnell did walk her home from Evensong service three or four times.” Martha dried the roasting pan and put it down next to the cook.

  “He’s a decent man, and for all we know, he might have escorted her home hoping she’d say something nice about him to the mistress. Them charity people are always on the lookout for a bit more money in the coffers . . . Oh, blast!” The cook’s voice broke. “I keep forgetting she’s gone and we’ll never see her again. We’ve no idea what’s going to happen to any of us. I don’t know if I should even be cooking this roast when she’s not here to eat it.”

  “It was on the menu for today, and if you don’t cook it, it’ll go bad. Don’t you worry, now, Mrs. Adkins. You’re a wonderful cook and you’ll find another position.” Martha stepped closer to the woman and spotted Barnes. “Did you need something, Constable?”

&nbs
p; “I was just returning my tea mug.” He held it up as he advanced into the room. “Is Inspector Witherspoon still in the dining room?”

  “As far as we know,” Martha replied. “Shall I go see?”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll go. We also need to speak to Mrs. Wheaton so we can get some details about Mrs. Starling’s family.”

  “She’s in the downstairs linen closet, sir. It’s just at the top of the stairs.”

  Barnes climbed the staircase, wincing as his bad knee began to throb. Reaching the top, he saw Inspector Witherspoon standing in the open door of the closet with the housekeeper.

  “Ah, Constable. Mrs. Wheaton has very kindly provided the names and addresses of Mrs. Starling’s next of kin as well as her solicitor.”

  “I took the liberty of sending telegrams to her relatives,” the housekeeper explained. “All she had left when Mrs. Redstone passed away were two elderly cousins in St. Ives.”

  “That’s fine,” Witherspoon replied. “We need to search Mrs. Starling’s room now, and then we’ll search her study.”

  “Her bedroom is on the first floor up the front staircase. It’s the first door on the left. Her study is just across from the dining room.”

  It took the two policemen almost an hour to search Margaret Starling’s private quarters. They compared notes on what they’d learned in their interviews as they went through her wardrobe, drawers, and the hatboxes neatly stacked on a shelf in the dressing room. Barnes even checked under Mrs. Starling’s mattress, but it was all for naught. They found nothing except what was to be expected in a gentile lady’s quarters. Witherspoon closed the drawer of her dressing table and straightened a perfume bottle he’d almost knocked over, and they went down to the study.

  Barnes opened the double doors and they stepped inside. One wall was covered with bookshelves, a thick green-and-coral rug lay on the floor, and two coral upholstered balloon-backed chairs and a matching settee stood in front of the green marble fireplace. Tables, armoires, and cabinets, most of them cluttered with magazines, knickknacks, and table lamps, were artfully arranged around the room. A walnut desk with ornate carvings on the sides was in the corner, as was a leather chair.

  “I’ll start with her desk,” Witherspoon said, crossing the room, going behind the desk, and opening the top center drawer.

  “I’ll take the armoires and the cabinets,” the constable replied.

  “Mrs. Starling was well organized.” Witherspoon pulled the drawer farther out. “Stationery and envelopes neatly stacked on one side, writing implements in their own box . . . Oh, good, I’ve found her appointments diary.”

  Barnes left the door to the armoire open and joined the inspector. “Should we start at the beginning?”

  “Eventually we’ll examine the entire diary, but as it’s getting late, let’s just take a quick look at the last few months and see if anything odd jumps out at us.”

  He flipped through the pages until he came to October first. “This looks like a good spot to begin. Read along with me, Constable, and if I start to move ahead and you see something that strikes you as strange, let me know.”

  They read through the pages and found nothing but dressmaker’s appointments, alms society meetings, luncheons, shopping expeditions, and dinner parties. When they got to November second, Witherspoon started to turn the page, when Barnes said, “Just a minute, sir. Look at that.”

  “Look at what? It’s just a notation about meeting a friend while shopping on Oxford Street. We’ve had a dozen ‘shopping’ entries. Mrs. Starling apparently enjoyed that particular activity.”

  “But look there, sir, at the bottom of the page. She’s added a name: Francine. Why would she do that?”

  Witherspoon didn’t think it significant, but he respected the constable’s experience and instincts. “Perhaps she wrote the name to remind herself about something she needed to do. We’ll ask Mrs. Wheaton who this ‘Francine’ might be. Let’s see what else is in here.” He resumed turning the pages. But it was more of the same: receptions, meetings, lunches, and dinner parties. Witherspoon closed the book. “According to the upstairs maid, Gretchen Terry, Mrs. Starling never missed appointments unless she was ill, and according to her diary there was an appointment listed for practically every day of her life. Yet twice in the last few weeks she’s canceled her plans. Why?”

  “Miss Terry said she’d gone to Tunbridge Wells first and then a few weeks later to Chelmsford, but there was nothing about either place in her diary,” Barnes reminded him.

  “Yes, and Miss Terry didn’t know why she’d made those trips, but we’ll ask Mrs. Wheaton. Perhaps she’ll have some idea.”

  Barnes went back to the armoire while Witherspoon continued rummaging through the drawers.

  “I’ve found letters,” the constable announced. He pulled out a stack neatly tied with a pink ribbon, and untied the bundle. He put them down on the open armoire drawer and pulled out the top letter. “It’s correspondence between her and Mr. Starling and it’s dated September thirteenth, 1887.” He read the first few lines then folded the pages and put them back in the envelope. He went through the next one and the next until he’d done all of them but they were all the same. “Nothing here but letters between them when Mr. Starling was on the Continent on business. Mainly it’s just household and health matters.”

  “I’ve not found anything of note, either,” Witherspoon admitted. “Let me check this last drawer”—he yanked it open—“and then we’ll have a word with Mrs. Wheaton. What’s this, then?”

  Barnes closed the armoire, crossed the room, and peered over Witherspoon’s shoulder as he pulled out a wooden box and set it on the desk. “That looks interesting, sir. What is it?” The brown box was a good fifteen inches across and six inches high.

  “It’s a writing box, and quite an expensive one at that. It’s mahogany with inlaid mother-of-pearl decorations on the corners and a silver filigree Celtic knot in the center. My late aunt Euphemia had one very similar to this.”

  “There’s a keyhole but no key,” Barnes observed. “Let’s hope it’s not locked.”

  “If it is and we can’t find the key, we’ll break it open,” the inspector said as he lifted the lid. It opened easily and they peered inside.

  There was nothing there but an envelope with Margaret Starling’s name printed in big, bold letters.

  CHAPTER 3

  “It’s been a very tiring day, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon handed her his bowler and then unbuttoned his heavy black coat. “As soon as I walked into the station this morning, there was a message telling me and Constable Barnes to go to Putney.”

  “What on earth for, sir?” She hung up his hat and a moment later took his coat and hung that up as well. She knew why he’d been called to Putney, but she couldn’t let on that, thanks to Wiggins, the household not only knew about Margaret Starling’s murder but had learned a bit of information she’d need to relay to Constable Barnes the next morning.

  “A murder, Mrs. Jeffries. A woman named Margaret Starling was killed in her own garden last night,” he sighed. “Once again, we’ve a homicide to solve right here at Christmas.”

  “That always seems to happen, sir.” She smiled sympathetically. “Perhaps this one will be a simple one, sir, and you’ll catch the culprit immediately.”

  “I do hope so, but I’m not counting on it. Can dinner be delayed? I would love to have a glass of sherry.”

  “Of course, sir. Mrs. Goodge has made nice lamb stew, but it’s not ready as yet.” She led the way down the hall to his study and went to the liquor cabinet while he made himself comfortable in his favorite chair.

  She took out a bottle of Harveys Bristol Cream sherry, poured the amber liquid into two small crystal glasses, and rejoined the Inspector. Handing him his drink, she took her own seat. “Now tell me everything, sir. You know how much I love hearing about your cases.”


  Witherspoon took a quick sip. “Well, as I said, I don’t think this is going to be an easy case to solve. According to what we learned from her servants, the victim has recently been acting strangely, and she was suing her neighbor, a woman named Olivia Huxton. Additionally, I found out that she’d quarreled with the husband of her deceased niece.”

  “Oh, dear, that sounds complicated.”

  “And it gets worse, but I digress. Let me start at the beginning.” He told her about his day, starting from the moment he arrived at the Starling home. “Of course, and though I’m not a medical man, even I could tell the poor woman must have been outside most of the night. Her flesh was nearly frozen.”

  “Didn’t her servants notice she wasn’t inside?” Mrs. Jeffries knew they’d all been gone, of course, but it was necessary to pretend ignorance.

  “They were all given the evening out.” He explained the series of events that led to the victim not being discovered until early that morning. “So, of course, that leads one to suspect that the killer knew about Mrs. Starling’s habit of giving the servants a night out at Christmas.”

  “And planned the murder for when she was alone,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “But why do you think she went outside? It was dreadfully cold last night.”

  “At first I thought she might have gone out because she’d heard something or someone had come to the back door, but her housekeeper assured us she was a sensible woman and she’d not have ventured out on her own with all her servants gone. Of course, to me the obvious reason was that she’d taken the lamp outside to look for her cat, but the servants said that the cat was safely inside when they arrived home from the theater. So she couldn’t have gone out to find him and then been murdered, which would have meant the cat managed to get himself inside on his own. The back door was closed and locked from the inside.”

  “Could the killer have done that?”

  “Possibly, but if you’ve murdered someone, why go to the trouble of putting their cat inside and leaving the gas lamp outside on the lawn? What’s more, the back door key has been lost for several weeks now. That means either the murderer could have stolen it well before the last night, which may or may not prove to be the case, or he or she locked the door from the inside and then exited the home some other way.”