Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “Maybe she was panicked,” Ruth suggested. “It does happen, you know. Unless one has a heart of stone, taking a human life could easily make someone behave without thinking.”

  “That’s possible.” Betsy picked up her mug and took a sip of tea. “Anyway, that’s all I found out.”

  “Who’d like to go next?” Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table.

  “I will,” Wiggins offered. He grinned at Betsy. “You aren’t the only one who found a source from the Huxton house. I met a housemaid and she told me a few bits and pieces. It’s mainly gossip but it might come in useful. The girl is a friend with one of the maids from the Starling house, and Mrs. Starling has been quarrelin’ with more than just her neigh—”

  “We already know that,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “Sounds like she was squabbling with half of London. There’s that Edgar Redman—”

  “Redstone,” Mrs. Jeffries corrected.

  “But he wasn’t the only one,” Wiggins insisted. “Cecilia said the Starling tweeny told her that her mistress ’ad a spat with a fellow named Merton Nesbitt.”

  “When did this happen?” Ruth asked.

  “Cecilia didn’t know, but she thinks it must have been sometime recently.” Wiggins shrugged. “She was just repeatin’ what the tweeny had told her. But that’s not all she heard. All that quarrelin’ was botherin’ Mrs. Starling so much that in the two weeks before she was murdered, she’d gone to the church three or four times to pray on her own. Then, a couple of days before the murder, Mrs. Starling called the tweeny in to run an errand. She had a parcel all done up in brown paper and she’d wrapped it herself instead of getting one of her servants to do it. And instead of giving the tweeny the package, Mrs. Starling said something like ‘No, this is too important. I’ll take it myself.’”

  “Did the girl know where the package was going or to whom it was addressed?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “She didn’t. She said Mrs. Starling had been at church late that afternoon, then she’d gone into her study and ten minutes later called the tweeny to come take the package. Then she all of a sudden changed her mind. The tweeny told Cecilia Mrs. Starling hadn’t even taken her coat off before she’d done up the parcel.”

  “I suppose it could have been a Christmas present,” the housekeeper speculated.

  “It doesn’t sound like it, Mrs. Jeffries,” Wiggins argued. “Cecilia said that her friend was wonderin’ if she ought to tell the police about it.”

  “Of course she ought to tell the police!” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll make sure to mention the incident to Constable Barnes.”

  Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the carriage clock on the pine sideboard. “It’s getting late.” she looked at Wiggins. “Anything else?” When he gave a negative shake of his head, she said, “Does anyone else have anything to report?”

  “I doubt what I found out has anything to do with the murder,” Luty offered, “but I’ll tell ya anyway.” She told them about her meeting with Horatio Stillman. “It’s not much, nells bells: Horatio’s nephew doesn’t even work there anymore. Still, I thought I’d pass it along.”

  “Don’t be so down in the mouth, madam.” Hatchet grinned. “At least you found someone today who had some connection to the Angel Alms Society. That’s better than I did.”

  “Yeah, but you’re goin’ out tonight and you’ll probably find out all sorts of juicy gossip,” Luty complained. “Right, then. Tomorrow I’ll have a go at seein’ what I can learn about Edgar Redstone or Merton Nesbitt’s finances. That be okay?” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries.

  “That’s excellent, Luty.”

  “And I’ve some sources coming in,” Mrs. Goodge added. “I’ll see what I can learn.”

  “I’ll take Graham McConnell,” Hatchet offered as he rose to his feet. “If we’re through here, I must go.”

  “Take the carriage,” Luty ordered. “I’ll take a hansom home.”

  He started to object, but she held up her hand. “Don’t give me any sass, Hatchet. Smythe is going back to Putney; we can share a cab as far as Knightsbridge.”

  “Don’t worry, ’atchet. We’ll see that she gets ’ome safe,” Smythe assured him.

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’re the one that was ’ere askin’ questions this mornin’, aren’t you?” The driver stopped stroking his horse’s nose long enough to turn and look at Smythe.

  “I was. I’m lookin’ to speak to someone who might ’ave been workin’ two nights ago.” Smythe shifted his feet in an effort to keep warm. He was at a cabman’s shelter around the corner from the end of the Putney High Street, and although it was only five o’clock, the sky was darkening. Freezing wind blew in from the river as shoppers hurried toward the line of hansoms.

  Two well-dressed matrons, both of them loaded down with parcels, rushed along the pavement to where Smythe and the cabman stood. One of them yanked open the cab door and climbed inside while the other called to the driver. “Number fifteen Burstock Road,” she ordered as she, too, entered the vehicle. He shrugged at Smythe, gave his horse one last stroke, and then jerked his thumb toward the back of the line. “Go see Beckman. ’e was workin’ that night,” he said as he climbed up into the rig.

  “Ta.” Smythe nodded his thanks, hoping that the line of hansoms wouldn’t move so quickly that Beckman would get away from him. Already the second and third cabs had been taken.

  “You Beckman?” Smythe asked as he reached the fifth cab. “Can I talk to ya?”

  “What about?” The driver, a young man with a huge black mustache, a slender face, and deep-set green eyes stared at him suspiciously.

  “Something important.” Smythe watched as the cab right in front of Beckman’s picked up a fare. “I know you’re not wantin’ to miss a fare, so if you’ll take me to the bottom end of Moran Place, you’ll not miss out. But before we go there, can you pull around the corner and stop so we can talk?”

  Beckman stared at him curiously, then nodded. “If you’re willing to pay the fare, that’s fine with me. Get inside.”

  Smythe did as instructed and then grabbed the handhold as the cab pulled away. Two minutes later it slowed and came to a stop. Smythe got out and the driver got down from his seat.

  “Right, then, what’s this all about?”

  “Night before last, did you pick up a fare and take them anywhere near Tavistock Road, Moran Place, Brindle Street, or Cedar Lane?”

  The driver looked doubtful. “Course I did. This is where I work. I must ’ave taken half a dozen fares between them spots.”

  “Can you remember anythin’ in particular about any of them fares? You know, what the fare looked like, what time you picked them up, and exactly where you dropped ’em off?”

  “You’re wantin’ to know if I dropped anyone near Moran Place where that poor woman was killed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why is that your business?” Beckman eyed him warily. “You’re not a policeman.”

  “I’m a private inquiry agent,” Smythe replied. “And I’ve been hired by an interested party to look into her death.”

  “A private inquiry agent? You look like a street tough,” Beckman challenged. “So why should I believe you?”

  “What’s it to you what I look like? I’m just out ’ere tryin’ to earn a ruddy livin’ and you’re not ’elpin’ much.”

  That was precisely the right tactic to use, because Beckman stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “All right, I did pick someone up. I remember because it was gettin’ late and the fellow was all bundled up in a long cloak and had a scarf wrapped around his chin. Mind you, it was really cold.”

  “Where did you take him?”

  “To the corner of Moran Place and the Upper Richmond Road.”

  “What time did ya drop him there?”

  “I d
on’t know the exact time, but it was close to ten o’clock.”

  “Did ya get a look at his face?” Smythe asked.

  “No, but as he was payin’ me, his scarf shifted enough so that I could see what was underneath.”

  “And what was that?” Smythe asked.

  “A clerical collar.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The Angel Alms Society was housed in a small building made of the same stone as St. Andrew’s and located at the end of the churchyard wall. It was a single-story structure with a high peaked roof and a short, wide set of stairs leading to the front door.

  “This was probably a carriage house,” Witherspoon muttered as he and the constable stepped into the covered entryway.

  Barnes tried the handle, which turned easily. “It’s not locked, sir and it’s getting late. Do you think anyone is here? Should we just go inside?”

  “Yes. It’s not a private home.”

  Barnes opened the door and they entered into a small, poorly lighted foyer. Directly ahead of them was a coat tree hung with half a dozen garments, a battered brass umbrella stand, and a painting in a garish golden frame of an angel hovering over a sleeping, fair-haired little girl.

  “May I help you?” The voice came from the left, where the foyer opened into an office.

  “We’d like to speak to Mr. Graham McConnell.” Witherspoon advanced into the room. Two paintings, both of them of golden-haired angels, hung on one side of the pale green walls, and a line of mismatched clothes cupboards and storage cabinets stood along the opposite side. Brown-and-white tiles, some of them cracked, covered the floor, and a set of striped brown-and-purple curtains hung at the one window.

  A young man with thinning blond hair stood up from behind a desk. “You’re the police.” He hurried toward the short hallway. “Uh, let me see if Mr. McConnell’s available.”

  “If he’s here, please ask him to make himself available,” Barnes called as the young man scurried toward a closed door. “It’s rather important that we see him.”

  “Yes, sir.” he reached the door just as it opened, and Graham McConnell stepped out. He stopped and stared at the two policemen. “Hello, Inspector. I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “We’d like to speak to you, sir,” Witherspoon said.

  “I heard.” He flicked a glance at the young man. “I’ll take these gentlemen into my office. You may go back to work, Stuart.”

  “Yes, sir.” Stuart scurried back to his desk.

  Graham McConnell’s office was far nicer than the outer trappings. A fire burned in the small fireplace; on the walls were portraits of well-dressed gentlemen in wing collars and old fashioned suits; and in front of the two windows was a large, ornately carved mahogany desk. McConnell went behind the desk and sat down. He pointed to a set of high-backed chairs with worn red velvet padding on the seats. “Sit down, please, and tell me what this is all about. I’ve already told you everything I know about Mrs. Starling’s death.”

  “Not really, sir. The inspector said he only spoke with you for a few moments.” Barnes pulled out his notebook and pencil as he took his seat. “There are always a few more details to go over.”

  McConnell flushed slightly. “I’m sorry, that was foolish of me. Of course you have more questions.”

  “Mr. McConnell, we understand you and the rest of the board of governors were somewhat upset with Mrs. Starling because she’d been disruptive at the alms society meetings. Is that correct?” Witherspoon took his seat.

  McConnell looked surprised. “I wouldn’t characterize it in quite that way, Inspector. Who gave you that information?”

  “Reverend Pontefract told us,” Barnes said. “He said that Margaret Starling had been asking a lot of what he termed silly questions for the last six weeks and that you and the rest of the board were very annoyed.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true, but ‘annoyed’ is too strong a word to use. Mrs. Starling could be occasionally irritating, but I never lost my temper with her, nor did any other member of the board. She’s worked very hard and diligently for the society, and her opinions, though at times controversial, were valued.”

  “How often does the society meet?” Witherspoon unbuttoned his heavy coat.

  “Generally we meet once a month, except for the two months prior to Christmas and Easter. We meet every fortnight during those months. It takes quite a bit of time to decide who will be receiving alms and how much each family will get.”

  “What was the purpose of your last meeting? The one just prior to Mrs. Starling’s death.”

  “That was the December fifteenth meeting and it was the annual disbursement meeting, the one where we go over the list of recipients. She was there that day, as she had been for every meeting since mid-November. Generally, members of the advisory board don’t attend all the meetings, unless of course they’ve something to report, but there’s no rule against it.”

  “Was she the only member of the advisory board who was at that meeting?” the inspector asked.

  “She was the only one at that particular meeting or, for that matter, any of the meetings since mid-November.”

  “And you spoke to her at that time?”

  “That’s right.” He smiled ruefully. “After the meeting ended and everyone else had gone, we had a brief discussion.”

  “What about?” Witherspoon asked.

  He shifted uncomfortably and looked down at his desktop. “It was an awkward conversation, Inspector, and one that upset me a great deal. I’ve prayed about whether or not I should mention the conversation to you, and frankly I’m still not certain of the ethics of the situation. Mrs. Starling swore me to secrecy, and, what is even worse, I’m not certain she was in her right mind when we spoke.”

  Barnes looked up from his notebook. “Mr. McConnell, this is a murder investigation, so you need to tell us anything you know. That poor woman had her skull bashed in six ways to Sunday. I’d say that the only ethical thing you ought to be concerned about is doing everything you can to help us catch whoever killed her.”

  McConnell closed his eyes, his expression pained. “I know, Constable, and I’ve wrestled with my conscience about the matter. But what she told me sounded so ludicrous, I simply wasn’t sure I ought to repeat it. I thought perhaps it would do more harm than good. But of course you’re right: I ought to have told you.” He took a deep breath. “Mrs. Starling said she had evidence that there was someone embezzling money from the society. When I pressed her for details, she refused to tell me who she suspected”—again he looked down at his desk—“but she said it was someone on the board.”

  Witherspoon leaned forward. “You didn’t think that information was pertinent?”

  “Of course it’s pertinent!” he exclaimed. “But as I’ve just told you, I don’t think she was in her right mind when she spoke to me. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Mrs. Starling had been acting peculiar for weeks before she was killed.”

  “In what way was she acting peculiar?” Witherspoon realized he was verifying what both Gretchen Terry and Pontefract had said.

  “Well, as you’ve already heard, at board meetings she’d ask strange questions—questions that had nothing to do with the matter under discussion. She began acting as if she didn’t trust anyone in the society or, for that matter, St. Andrew’s Church. Don’t just take my word for it—she was upset during our entire disbursement meeting; you can ask anyone on the board of governors. She kept interrupting the proceedings and asking questions, she was rude to everyone, and when Reverend Pontefract stated that the governors were under no obligation to answer her questions, she got very hostile and even asked him how he’d like it if she went to the bishop with what she knew.”

  “What did she mean by that?” Barnes asked.

  McConnell shook his head. “I’ve no idea. Her behavior was shocking, to say the le
ast. The governors were most upset, so we tabled everything on the agenda except for getting the Christmas alms. The meeting was adjourned as soon as the list of disbursement recipients was approved.”

  The inspector leaned forward. “May we have the names of the board of governors?”

  “I’ll have my clerk get a list ready for you.” He went to the door, opened it, and called out, “Stuart, write down the names and addresses of the board members and have it ready when the officers leave.” He returned and took his seat. “You can pick it up on your way out. Forgive me for not sharing this information sooner, but I wanted to preserve Mrs. Starling’s reputation, now that she’s not here to defend herself. But that was foolish of me, and I should have realized that I had to tell you what she’d told me. But honestly, Inspector, there’s no evidence whatsoever that anyone on the board has done anything wrong. I think Mrs. Starling was going through a very difficult time in her life and she was starting to imagine things.”

  “How many board members have access to the society’s funds?” Barnes asked.

  “No one except myself and Reverend Pontefract. He’s on the finance committee, but the majority of the donations come through here”—he hesitated—“though quite often people do hand him their donations directly. People like to impress the vicar. I saw you going into the church and I assumed you went there to speak to him.”

  “We did speak with him,” the inspector replied. “As we’re already here, perhaps we’ll have another word with him.”

  But their hopes of asking the vicar any more questions were soon dashed. They stepped outside just in time to see the good reverend’s hansom pull away from the front of the church.

  * * *

  * * *

  Henry Devlin drew back in surprise. “Why on earth are you asking about the Angel Alms Society? Don’t tell me you’re interested in giving to them and you’re no longer going to support us?”