Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “Don’t worry, Henry, I’m not abandoning the Second Chance Temperance Charity. I’ll continue with my usual contributions.” Hatchet reached for his teacup and took a sip. He grinned at his old friend. Devlin was a ruddy-faced, blue-eyed Irishman with wispy gray hair.

  They were sitting at a table in the large, cluttered Devlin drawing room that now served as headquarters for the charity in question. A desk stacked with papers, books, and ledgers stood next to the two windows. Several settees and couches, all of which had seen better days, were pushed against the far wall, and on the other side of the disused hearth were half a dozen storage cupboards and old wardrobes.

  “Thank God for that,” Henry sighed in relief. “You’re one of our biggest supporters. If not for you, we’d be hard pressed to operate.”

  “You say that to everyone,” Hatchet snorted. “But I have it on good authority that you’ve plenty of donors. There’s a lot of people like me in this world.”

  “True, but most of the ones who found themselves destitute and at the mercy of a habit that is well-nigh impossible to control without help don’t end up doing as well as you did in life. But you’re right: I am exaggerating. Charities are just like any other kind of business—we compete with one another for donor money—so when you mentioned the Angel Alms Society, I got worried.” He picked up his own cup. “Tell me, why are you asking about them if you’re not thinking of donating?”

  Hatchet considered the question carefully. There were already a number of their acquaintances and friends that knew he and Luty as well as the others in the Witherspoon household helped with the inspector’s cases. He didn’t wish to add to that number. On the other hand, Henry was no fool. Furthermore, he was a decent man who’d given up a life of leisure and a fortune of his own to dedicate himself to this charity—a charity that was one of the few that tried to help men and women who’d climbed into a bottle so far, they couldn’t see their own way out. “A friend of ours—mine and Luty’s—is a man called Inspector Witherspoon.”

  “Ah, the one who solves all those murders.” Henry nodded appreciatively and then brightened as he understood. “Good Lord, he’s investigating the Starling murder.”

  “That’s right, and being as the victim was closely associated with the Angel Alms Society, I thought I might have a go at finding out a bit about them . . . You know, the sort of information that the police might not find out on their own. Did you know Margaret Starling?”

  Henry shook his head. “No, I’ve never met her, but I have heard of her, and of course I read about the murder in the newspapers. Poor woman, what a horrible way to die. All alone out in the cold.”

  “What can you tell me?” Hatchet put his cup down on the tabletop.

  “Not very much. The Angel Alms Society is closely associated with but not part of St. Andrew’s Church. Their charter requires them to have the current vicar on their board of governors.”

  “They must be an ancient society . . .” Hatchet began, only to be interrupted.

  “You’d think so because of the name, no one gives out ‘alms’ anymore, but they’ve been in existence for only fifty years or so. The church is old but the society isn’t. They picked the name deliberately to make it seem older than it actually is. I’m not sure how it’s run, but I know they give out ‘alms,’ or money and fuel, twice a year, at Christmas and Easter.”

  “Who receives these alms?”

  “Anyone can apply, but from what I’ve heard about them, it’s generally someone ‘deserving’ from the local parish. I hate that word.”

  “‘Deserving’? Why?”

  “Because who is to say who is deserving and who isn’t?” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “If people need help, they need help. Why should someone starve to death or freeze in the cold simply because society doesn’t think them deserving? You either take Christ’s instructions seriously, or you don’t. God is the one who determines who is deserving, not humans.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But you’re not here to listen to me go on about my personal bugaboos. What else do you want to know?”

  “Anything else that you might know.”

  Henry looked up, his expression thoughtful. “Well, I did hear a bit of unsavory gossip about them . . . Actually, it wasn’t about the Angel Alms Society; it was about the new vicar at St. Andrew’s. Apparently, he got into some trouble at his last parish and that’s why he was sent down this way.”

  “Do you know what kind of trouble?”

  “I’ve no idea what the details might be, but the gossip was he was a bit too free with his hands, and some of the ladies from his previous parish were not amused. Apparently the last young woman was from quite an influential family, she complained to her father, he went to the bishop, and Pontefract was moved to a smaller, less affluent parish.”

  “That’s all they did to him? If the charges were true, why wasn’t he run out of the church?”

  “Don’t be daft, Hatchet, they make certain those kind of charges are never properly investigated. The church hates scandals. It’s much easier just to slap the priest on the wrist and move him along. Though I did hear that this wasn’t Pontefract’s first skirmish with the church authorities. He was warned that if there was one more complaint against him about anything, he’d be out the door.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You’ve got a visitor, ma’am.” Abigail, Lady Cannonberry’s maid, met her at the front door, then glanced toward the drawing room as she took her mistress’s cloak and hat. “It’s that vicar—the one you didn’t want to be alone with when he came to dinner that night. You remember, ma’am; it was about two years ago.”

  “Oh, my goodness, you don’t mean Reginald Pontefract?”

  “That’s him.” Abigail shook the cloak to get the damp off.

  Ruth frowned. She’d neither seen nor heard from Pontefract since their last encounter. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No, ma’am. I told him you were out and I didn’t know when you’d return, but he insisted on waiting. I didn’t know what to do. Everton is out shopping, so I asked Cook what to do, and she told me to put him in the drawing room.” She hung up the cloak and hat. “But I’ve kept the door open a bit so I could keep an eye on him. He’s not tried to steal anything.”

  Ruth couldn’t help but smile. Abigail had no illusions about the world. She’d been raised in the East End and didn’t think a vicar was any less likely to be a thief than the next person. “Thank you, Abigail. You’ve done an excellent job. I’ll go see what the gentleman has to say for himself.”

  “Should I stay up here, ma’am? I remembered what you said the last time he was here: how, when he invited himself to dinner that night, you didn’t want to be alone with him. So I put the sugar hammer in me pocket when I went down to ask Cook what to do with the fellow.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Abigail. I can scream quite loudly if I need to, but I appreciate your concern.” She went into the drawing room.

  Pontefract tossed the magazine he’d been reading onto the settee and got to his feet as she entered. “Oh, thank goodness you’re home. I was so worried you’d gone out for the evening, and your maid wouldn’t tell me anything. Perhaps you ought to have a word with the girl about respecting one’s betters. But do forgive me for barging in without sending a calling card or making an appointment. It was imperative that I see you.”

  She stared at him. His hair was disheveled, his coat was unbuttoned, and he was clenching his hands into fists. “Good evening, Reginald. It’s nice to see you again. It’s been quite a long time. Would you care for a sherry or perhaps a whisky?”

  “Thank you.” He swallowed and gave her a weak smile. “I could do with a glass of whisky.”

  “Sit down, please, and I’ll pour us both one.” She crossed the room to the liquor cabinet, where a cut-glass decanter filled with amber liquid sat behind a semic
ircle of matching glasses. She poured the liquor, giving her own glass just a tad more than she gave him. Ruth had a feeling she was going to need it.

  “Here you are.” She moved to the settee and handed him his glass. “You look upset. Is something wrong?”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Wrong? I wouldn’t say there was something wrong per se, but I do need your assistance.” He took a drink, almost draining the glass.

  “My assistance?” She sat down on the chair across from him. “Reginald, what are you talking about?”

  “Are you still friends with that policeman? The one who solves all the murders?”

  “Inspector Witherspoon? Yes, we’re very good friends.”

  “Then you must help me—you must!” he cried. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything, but they’re going to blame me. It wasn’t my fault that she died. I had nothing to do with it. I simply went there to have a talk with the woman, but she didn’t even come to the door.”

  “What woman? Reginald, what are you talking about?”

  “Your inspector thinks I killed her, and if you don’t help me, he’s going to arrest me. He thinks I murdered Margaret Starling.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I must have a glass of sherry,” Witherspoon said as he handed his hat and coat to Mrs. Jeffries. “We’ve learned so much today, my head is spinning.”

  “It seems you’ve worked hard, sir. No wonder you came home so late. We were starting to worry.” She hung up his garments.

  “Dinner isn’t ready, is it?”

  “It won’t be ready for another half an hour. Mrs. Goodge had made a lovely Lancashire hot pot and a nice crumble for dessert.”

  “Excellent. Then we can go into the study and have a drink.” He headed down the hall with Mrs. Jeffries right on his heels.

  She poured their drinks while he made himself comfortable. “Here you are, sir. Now do tell me about your day. As I said, sir, it got so late, we were concerned.”

  “It was simply one of those days, Mrs. Jeffries, we had so much to do that time got away from us.” He took a sip of his sherry. “Our first interview was with Olivia Huxton, and I must say, she was both evasive and forthcoming simultaneously.” He took his time, taking care to recall each and every word Mrs. Huxton had said. “So as you can see, on the one hand she told us everything, yet somehow I’ve a feeling she wasn’t being completely truthful. Of course, that’s the reason Constable Barnes interviewed her servants: We wanted to be certain they could vouch for Mrs. Huxton being home the night of the murder.”

  “Servants will sometimes lie to protect their mistress, especially if they feel their position is at stake.” Mrs. Jeffries made a mental note to check with Constable Barnes for his impression of the Huxton household. He was a bit more adept at ferreting out lies than Inspector Witherspoon.

  “True, but hopefully that’s not the case here.”

  “And they confirmed that Mrs. Huxton was home all evening?”

  “That’s right.” He took another drink.

  “So now that Margaret Starling is dead, Olivia Huxton doesn’t have to be concerned with the lawsuit.”

  “Correct, but I thought the most interesting thing about her statement was that she freely admitted to stealing and destroying the anonymous letter she’d sent to the vicar.”

  “She confessed to destroying evidence.” Mrs. Jeffries took a sip of her drink as she tried to keep all the information straight.

  “But she didn’t know it was evidence at the time,” he pointed out, “and as she rightly commented, she considered the letter her property. But I’m not certain about that. I should think that, once the letter is posted, it belongs to the recipient. Nonetheless, it is pointless to worry about it, as it’s gone.”

  “She stole the letter so it couldn’t be used against her in court, right?”

  “I don’t think that was the real reason she took it,” Witherspoon said. “I think she was ashamed to have written it in the first place. She didn’t seem that concerned about the lawsuit, even when Constable Barnes and I both told her that courts do use handwriting to verify evidence. She said something like ‘If my writing looked like Graham McConnell’s, I’d agree with you; his penmanship is so elaborate it’s unreadable. But mine looks like any other woman’s who’d been educated at St. Anne’s School for Girls.’”

  “You think she stole it simply because she was ashamed?” Mrs. Jeffries found that hard to believe. On the other hand, the inspector could be very perceptive about people.

  “To be honest, that was my impression.”

  “Did she say what was in it?”

  “Not word for word, but she did admit she’d written it out of spite and that it wasn’t altogether true.” He took a fast sip before repeating the accusations in the anonymous letter. “The information she gave us about everyone else in the case was useful.”

  “Let’s see, Olivia Huxton told you that Mrs. Starling argued with the head of the alms society, the vicar of St. Andrew’s, and even her late niece’s husband—what did you say his name was?” She knew perfectly well what his name was, but she wanted him to repeat it so it wouldn’t seem that she knew too much about the case.

  “Edgar Redstone,” Witherspoon said. “But we didn’t have time to interview him today. After we saw Mrs. Huxton, we went to have a word with the Reverend Pontefract at St. Andrew’s Church. But before we could speak to him, we were waylaid by the verger, a man named Tom Lancaster.”

  “The verger had something to tell you?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “He told us quite a bit.” The inspector repeated what Lancaster had said. “Unfortunately, the vicar arrived before we could learn more, and that was the end of that. By the time we’d finished with Reverend Pontefract, the verger had disappeared.”

  “You’re going to speak with him again, I presume.” She took another sip.

  “Indeed we shall. Then, as it was right next door, we went to the Angel Alms Society and spoke with Graham McConnell.”

  “Isn’t he the man who arrived at the Starling home the day her body was discovered?”

  “That’s right. He’s been quite helpful, but like many people of his class he was reluctant to pass along some very pertinent information.” He repeated everything McConnell had said.

  “Goodness, sir, he should have reported this to you immediately!” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “Why do some people think they’re doing the dead a service by remaining silent?”

  “McConnell said he kept quiet because he was concerned that Mrs. Starling was imagining situations that weren’t true, and as I’ve said before, her own housemaid and even Pontefract made the same claim against her.” He drained his glass. “Still, he should have told us that only a short time before her death she’d accused Pontefract of embezzling from the society.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. You said the society was separate from St. Andrew’s Church, and if that’s the case, how would the Reverend Pontefract have access to the finances?”

  “I asked that question, and, according to Mr. McConnell, sometimes people give their donation directly to the vicar.” The inspector shrugged. “McConnell says they like to do it to impress him.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Jeffries frowned slightly, not entirely sure if what she’d just heard made sense. “Would you care for another one, sir?”

  “That would be lovely,” he replied.

  She took his glass and refilled it. Information was coming fast, but what did it mean? What’s more, it appeared that there was some truth to the notion that the victim was acting peculiar in the weeks before she died. But that didn’t mean Margaret Starling was prey to an overactive imagination. Someone did murder her. She handed Witherspoon his sherry. “Did you interview anyone else this afternoon?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. By the time we finished with McConnell, it was very late. We wasted so much ti
me at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station waiting about for Inspector Nivens this morning that we felt as though we were behind schedule the entire day. But we did have a good look at the postmortem report.”

  “That was fast.” Mrs. Jeffries took another sip and then put her glass on the side table.

  “Yes. Dr. Littleham did a very efficient report and the results were what we expected: Margaret Starling was killed by multiple blows to the head.”

  “Did the report speculate on the time of death?”

  “As near as the doctor could tell, it was between nine and eleven at night.”

  “Which means the killer probably knew the servants would be gone until after that time,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured.

  “The servants didn’t get home until eleven,” he said. “But then again, that tidbit of information isn’t very useful. Mrs. Starling’s habit of giving the staff an evening out at Christmastime was well-known.”

  “Which means the killer probably planned the murder well in advance.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “But I didn’t. I’d never hurt anyone; I’m a man of the cloth, one of God’s servants,” Pontefract cried as he leapt up and stamped his feet.

  “Reginald, sit down and calm yourself,” Lady Cannonberry ordered. “Whatever is wrong, shouting and having a tantrum isn’t going to help. I know Gerald Witherspoon; he’s an excellent detective, and if you’re innocent, you’ll not be arrested.”

  “If I’m innocent!” he shouted. “How can you say such a thing? I know we’ve never been close, but I’ve always considered you as more than just a casual acquaintance. For God’s sake, you’re supposed to believe me.”

  Suddenly the drawing room doors burst open and Abigail, wielding the sugar hammer like a club, raced into the room. She skidded to a halt halfway across the room. “We heard screamin’. Is everything all right, ma’am? Cook’s at the top of stairs with the butcher knife if we need more help.”