Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  He smiled. “I didn’t hear everything, but I know she threatened him about something or other.” He snickered. “Mind you, with this one”—he jerked his thumb toward the hall again—“there’s no tellin’ what she knew about him.”

  “Tell us what you heard,” Witherspoon pressed.

  “I heard her shouting that she’d go to the bishop, and then I heard him screamin’ that if she did, he’d make her sorry.”

  “Lancaster!” a male voice shouted. “What is going on here?”

  “Nothing, Reverend.” Lancaster snickered softly and reached for the mop. “These policemen want to have a word with you. It’s about that murdered lady, you know. Mrs. Starling. The one you was shoutin’ at a couple of weeks back.”

  A man with short-cropped, graying brown hair and a prominent nose hurried toward them. As a clerical collar was visible beneath the folds of his elegant black suit coat, the inspector suspected this might be the good reverend. But right now his appearance could equal that of any street tough. His eyes were narrowed, his cheeks flushed red, and his mouth set in a thin, flat line. “How dare you spread such malicious gossip about me!” he snapped. “I most certainly was not shouting at Margaret Starling.”

  “I’m just tellin’ the truth, Father. Lying is a sin and you’d not want me to sin, would you?” Lancaster shrugged, turned his back, and resumed mopping. “Mind where you step, sir: The floor is wet, and it’d be a pity if you fell and hurt yourself.”

  The reverend glared at him for a moment and then turned his attention to Witherspoon. “Don’t believe a word this man says. He’s a liar. Come along, then; let’s go to my study and get his distasteful business done with.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and stomped back the way he’d come, leading them down the hall and past two closed doors to the end of the corridor.

  Witherspoon trailed after him and stepped inside the open door, then blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected a vicar’s study to be this opulent.

  A bookcase filled with volumes took up one wall, and on the opposite side were two windows, both draped with heavy gold brocade curtains tied back with gold tassels. A carved settee with two matching chairs, all upholstered in ivory and gold fabric, stood in front of the white marble fireplace. Two portraits, both of elderly gentlemen in full bishop’s regalia, hung on the wall. Evergreens and holly decorated the mantel top, and a set of polished candelabra holding ivory candles stood on the two rosewood cabinets flanking the door.

  Reverend Pontefract went behind a massive rosewood desk and plopped down. “I hope this won’t take too long. I’ve an important meeting soon.” He waved at the two straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. “Do sit down, please.”

  “Thank you.” Witherspoon introduced himself and the constable as they took their seats. “Now, I’m sure you understand why we’re here,” he began, only to be cut off by the good Reverend.

  “You’re here because of Margaret Starling’s murder, but despite what Lancaster may have said to you, I know nothing about that matter.” He leaned forward putting his arms on the desk and clasping his hands together.

  Witherspoon nodded as if he believed the fellow. “Nonetheless, we’ve some questions you may be able to help us with. Was Margaret Starling a member of this congregation?”

  “She was”—he smiled smugly—“but she was hardly one of the genuine faithful. There were many a Sunday when she wasn’t here.”

  “But she was a member?”

  “Yes, she was, but as I said, I’d not consider her to be one of the most faithful members.”

  “How long has she been a member?”

  Pontefract’s heavy eyebrows rose. “How long? Well, I’m not sure. I’ve only been here myself for eighteen months. I was transferred here from St. Peter’s in Highgate. Mrs. Starling was here when I arrived. Why? What does that have to do with her death?”

  “Nothing as far as I know, but background information is always useful,” the inspector explained. “I understand that Mrs. Starling was on the advisory board for the Angel Alms Society. Is that true?”

  “She was.”

  “I take it their mission was to raise money for the poor?” Witherspoon wanted to make sure there wasn’t something else involved. It was easy to make assumptions based on nothing but what the name of an organization implied, but he’d learned from experience to take nothing for granted.

  “That’s correct.” Pontefract relaxed a bit. “The society provides money and fuel—alms, as we call it—to some of the poor and deserving families in the parish twice a year, every Christmas and Easter.”

  “Where does the money come from?” Barnes asked bluntly.

  “The community, the St. Andrew’s congregation, various sources. But all fund-raising is handled by the society.”

  “And is it the society that determines who gets the money?” the constable persisted.

  “Of course. However, I will admit that they do look to me for advice about what families in the parish are most deserving, but the board of governors makes the final decision.”

  “Mrs. Starling was on the advisory board. What do they do?” Witherspoon asked.

  Pontefract lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Not much, really. The advisory board was only formed a few years ago so the ladies could feel they had some say in the running of the society. Silly nonsense, if you ask me. That’s what comes of all these women protesting in front of Parliament and agitating for the right to vote. But several women in the congregation essentially threatened that unless they were given some role to play within the society, they’d withhold funds not only from the society but from St. Andrew’s.”

  “So someone made up a board that doesn’t do anything so the church could hang on to their money?” Barnes stared at him directly.

  “I would hardly put it in those terms,” Pontefract sputtered. “The bishop was most upset when it happened. Everyone thinks the church is wealthy, but the truth is it takes an enormous amount of money to keep our doors open. So when some of our ladies threatened to withdraw their funds, the bishop very kindly came up with a plan to give them some say in the matter.”

  “Was Mrs. Starling one of the women?” Witherspoon interjected. He knew and approved of the constable’s line of inquiry because it was effective. Barnes’ blunt questions had rattled the man and loosened his tongue quite a bit.

  “Yes.”

  “And exactly when did this incident happen?”

  “Eighteen months ago. It was the first crisis I had to deal with when I was assigned here,” he said. “Two days into my tenure, and Margaret Starling and two other women marched into my office with their demands. It was not a pleasant start to my relationship with her.”

  “That’s understandable. Your verger said you had a disagreement recently with the deceased. Would you please explain the nature of the argument?”

  “There was no argument,” Pontefract said. “I’ve told you, Lancaster is a liar. You can’t believe a word he says.”

  “Why do you keep him on, then?” Barnes asked softly. “You’re the vicar. If the man is a liar, why don’t you show him the door and get someone else? Surely there’s no shortage of men in the parish who’d want his position.”

  “Believe me, I’ve tried, but the bishop won’t hear of it.”

  “The bishop doesn’t believe he’s a liar?” The constable struggled to keep the amusement out of his voice.

  “Of course he does. The bishop knows good and well the man wouldn’t know the truth if he found it written on the lectern Bible. But in this instance there’s nothing we can do about the situation. Unfortunately, Lancaster is the distant cousin of a deceased church member who left St. Andrew’s a huge legacy with the provision that Lancaster was to have a position for his lifetime.”

  “So you can’t sack him,” Witherspoon murmured. “Nonetheless, whether Mr. Lancaster is
truthful or not, we’ve heard from other sources that you had a terrible disagreement with the victim.”

  “I don’t know who told you such a thing,” he began, only this time he was interrupted.

  “Olivia Huxton told us.” The inspector watched him carefully. Generally he didn’t repeat what witnesses said when giving statements unless it was pertinent. In this case he decided it was most definitely apropos.

  “That’s impossible, she wasn’t even here that day,” he sputtered before he caught himself. “Oh, dear, this is dreadful. A man in my position oughtn’t to be subjected to this kind of horrible abuse. I’m a man of the cloth, and I shall most certainly speak to your superiors about this.”

  The inspector smiled. “By all means, my direct supervisor is Chief Superintendent Barrows at Scotland Yard. In the meantime, please tell us what happened with Mrs. Starling.”

  Pontefract sat back, his shoulders slumped as he exhaled. “It’s true, we did have words.”

  “Again, sir, I ask you what caused the argument between you and the victim?”

  “Mrs. Starling accused me of ruining her reputation. She said my actions had compromised her position within the community and caused her great distress.”

  “What did she accuse you of doing?” Witherspoon was fairly sure he knew, but he wanted confirmation.

  “I’d received an anonymous letter about her, the contents of which were most unflattering—scandalous, really. Naturally I showed her the letter, and she seemed to think that I’d agreed not to show it to anyone else. We had words when she claimed I’d gone back on my word and that I showed it to the board of governors. She insisted that I’d done it deliberately to hurt her.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Richard Wylie, the duty sergeant, nodded respectfully as Inspector Nivens and Constable Forman stepped through the front door of the Upper Richmond Road Police Station.

  “Good day, sir. The postmortem report just came in.” Wylie pointed to the brown envelope lying on the counter. “Should I put it in Inspector Witherspoon’s office?”

  “Witherspoon doesn’t have an office,” Inspector Nivens snapped. He stopped long enough to give Wylie a good glare. “He’s merely using the duty inspector’s office. But when I’m on the premises, that title is mine.” He stuck out a gloved hand. “Give it here. I’ll see that he gets it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wylie picked up the envelope and handed it across the counter. He waited until Nivens and his shadow, that little sneak Forman, had disappeared down the corridor into the duty inspector’s office before he chuckled.

  Constable Tony Sorrell, who’d just come out of the cloakroom behind the counter, leaned against the doorframe. He carried his helmet in one hand and his police whistle in another. “Is something amusing you, sir?”

  “Indeed.” Wylie chuckled again. “Let’s just say that I’m doing my duty and making sure that justice is being properly served.”

  Sorrell shoved away from the doorframe and moved to the counter. “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”

  Wylie’s grin broadened even more. “I’m doin’ what’s right, Tony. Some of us around here don’t care for the way some people”—he looked in the direction of Nivens’ office—“are using this station to further their personal ambition.”

  Sorrell glanced toward Nivens’ office as well and then looked back at his colleague. “Be careful, Sergeant. Inspector Nivens is a vindictive sort. Look what he did to poor old Hoskins last week.”

  “I remember. Nivens mucked up what should have been an easy arrest, but when he wrote the report, he made the poor lad take the blame for his own incompetence.” Wylie looked disgusted. “Hoskins is young and he’s a decent enough record that Nivens stink won’t stick to him for long.”

  “That’s not the point, sir. The point is”—again he glanced down the corridor to make sure Nivens was safely behind closed doors—“Nivens did it even though there were witnesses to what really happened, so be careful.”

  Wylie smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I’m not some green boy and I can take care of myself. Nivens isn’t the only one with friends in high places.”

  “The gossip I’ve heard is that he hates Gerald Witherspoon.” Sorrell put his helmet on and adjusted his chin strap.

  “He’s insanely jealous of him. But what he doesn’t know is that some of us have a lot of admiration and respect for Gerald Witherspoon. You should hear the way his men speak about him, and they’re not just sucking up to curry favor, either.”

  “I’ve heard they like him.” Sorrell tucked his whistle in his trouser pocket.

  “It’s not just that; they respect him. Witherspoon has solved more murders in this town than anyone on the force. When he writes his reports, he makes certain all of his men get their fair share of credit.”

  “We know that Nivens doesn’t do that. Constable Harlow helped bring in those Bascomb brothers that burgled those big estates along the river, but when the report was done, Harlow’s name wasn’t mentioned.”

  “Yeah.” Wylie snorted. “I’ve been on the force a long time and I’ve seen more than one like Nigel Nivens. You mark my words, when Nivens leaves today, that postmortem report will be in his coat pocket, not on the duty inspector’s desk.”

  “Come on, sir, Constable Forman is right there. Inspector Nivens won’t do anything improper in front of him.”

  “You’re a nice lad, and it’s admirable that you hold your colleagues in such high regard”—Wylie gave Sorrell a skeptical glance—“but Forman’s always been an ambitious toady. He’ll do whatever Nivens wants him to do because he’ll think that will put him another rung up the ladder. What’s more, Nivens has already started doing his best to make sure Inspector Witherspoon doesn’t make any progress on this murder.”

  Sorrell stared at him, his expression curious. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. He knew that Inspector Witherspoon was goin’ to ask for our lads to be used in questioning the neighbors about the Starling murder, but he made sure that didn’t happen.”

  “Is that why there’s two constables from the Ladbroke Road Police Station here?”

  “Yes, and it’s a good thing they’ve come. Both yesterday evening and this morning—the times when Inspector Witherspoon would be formally requesting assistance from Nivens—the nasty little sod made sure he wasn’t here.”

  “Yeah, but wasn’t Inspector Nivens out workin’ that Lincoln robbery both times?”

  “That’s what he claimed, but I’ve my doubts.”

  “You’re sayin’ that Inspector Nivens is deliberately trying to sabotage the investigation?”

  “Not the investigation.” Wylie pulled out another envelope from beneath the counter. It was the twin of the one he’d handed Nivens. “Just Inspector Witherspoon. But not to worry: Dr. Littleham made sure to give me this.” He held up the envelope. “A second copy of the postmortem report. Seems our police surgeon had his doubts about Nivens as well. He asked me to give this to Witherspoon directly, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Horatio, I appreciate you takin’ the time out of your busy day to see me,” Luty said as the tall, balding banker led her into his office.

  She’d spent the morning chasing after information and hadn’t learned anything they didn’t already know: mainly, that both Margaret Starling and the neighbor she’d been feuding with were both rich. She’d almost given up and gone home, but she’d found herself close to one of her many solicitors’ offices, and there she learned that Horatio Stillman had once served on the board of governors of the Angel Alms Society. As he was the only connection to Margaret Starling she’d been able to find so far, she’d not wasted a moment in coming to see him. Luty was determined to have something useful to report at their afternoon meeting.

  “Nonsense, Luty, you
’re always welcome here. Let me take your cloak.”

  “Thank you, Horatio.” Luty unbuttoned the peacock-blue garment and turned so he could slip it off her shoulders. He motioned at the closer of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Do sit down. Would you care for tea or perhaps coffee?” he asked as he took her cloak to the coat tree next to the door.

  “No, I’m fine.” She sat down, shifting to get comfortable on the hard wooden seat, and then looked around Stillman’s office. It was a standard banker’s lair: shelves filled with ledgers and black file boxes, an oak stationery cabinet sitting on a claw-foot table in one corner, and a portrait of the queen over the fireplace. But the one thing that wasn’t typical was the beautifully drawn map of the world on the wall behind his desk.

  She waited for him to take his chair before she spoke. “Now, you’re probably wonderin’ what I’m doin’ here . . .” she began.

  “I do hope you’re not here because you’re dissatisfied with the way we’ve handled your mining business.” He leaned forward, his long face creased with worry.

  “You and your bank are doin’ a fine job,” she assured him. “I couldn’t be happier. Actually, this is a bit awkward, and I hope you don’t think I’m takin’ advantage of our friendship, but my visit today is a bit more personal.”

  “Personal?” His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “In that case, please feel free to be entirely candid. Whatever you tell me will remain here in this office. You can count on my discretion.”

  “Thank you, Horatio, that’s good to know. Truth is I need your help on a private matter, and you know how much I’ve always valued your opinion.” Luty wasn’t one to give out empty compliments, and in his case she wasn’t just saying nice things to get him to cooperate. Horatio and his bank were performing their duties admirably; however, experience had taught her never to underestimate the value of flattery.

  He settled back into his chair. “Why, thank you, Luty. That’s a very nice thing to say. Now, tell me how I can help you.”