Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “We’ve heard that as well, but what about Graham McConnell?”

  “That name doesn’t sound familiar, either.” Octavia took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sorry, Ruth, I’m not being terribly helpful. The only thing I know is that Ellen Ratchet—she’s the correspondence secretary for the Putney/Wandsworth branch—said she saw Margaret Starling in Bayswater a few days before the murder. Ellen said she called out to Margaret, but she didn’t hear her and simply continued walking and went into a private home.” She smiled ruefully. “That’s not particularly useful information.”

  “It could be,” Ruth responded politely. “We never know what’s going to be helpful. Did Ellen say where exactly she’d seen Margaret?”

  “She didn’t say, but it must have been Porchester Terrace. Ellen said she’d been visiting her sister, and that’s where she lives.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “Only that she wondered what Margaret was doing there and that she was carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I don’t understand, Inspector. You’ve already spoken to all the servants.” Mrs. Wheaton looked confused. “Why do you need to speak to them again?”

  “It’s one of our methods, Mrs. Wheaton,” Witherspoon explained. They were standing in the foyer of the Starling home. “Everyone was still in a state of shock when we did the first interview, and we’ve found that often, if you question people a second time, we learn some additional useful information.”

  “I’ve not had a chance to speak to Mr. Gormley,” Barnes added.

  “But he was interviewed by one of the constables.”

  “I know, but I’d like to speak to him myself.”

  “If you think it will help, then of course,” she replied. “He is in the garden tidying up. And when you’ve finished with him, you can use the butler’s pantry for your interviews.”

  “Thank you.” The constable nodded and disappeared down the hallway to the back stairs.

  She turned to the inspector. “You can use the dining room. I’ll send the upstairs maid in.”

  “May I speak with you first?” he asked.

  “Certainly, but I’ve told you everything I know.” She caught herself. “All right, come along, then; let’s get this done. Mrs. Starling’s cousins are due here this afternoon. They’ll be staying until after Christmas.”

  Witherspoon followed her. “Have you spoken with Mrs. Starling’s solicitor?”

  “The Biddlingtons? Yes. She has two of them; they’re brothers. One of them is in Scotland until the twenty-third of the month, but Ronald Biddlington came on Tuesday.” She shoved open the dining room doors and they went inside. “He was very kind and he told us that we could stay on until the will is read, and that won’t be until after the New Year. We were all very relieved.”

  “I’m sure you were.” Witherspoon pulled out a chair and sat down. Mrs. Wheaton remained standing. “Mrs. Wheaton, you’ll be more comfortable if you sit.”

  She hesitated briefly before she took the chair next to him. “Sitting in here feels very odd, almost disrespectful.”

  “From what I’ve learned about your late mistress, I don’t think she’d find it disrespectful in the least.” He cleared his throat and tried to think of how to word the question he wanted to ask.

  This morning Mrs. Jeffries reminded him that in all his previous cases he’d concentrated on the victims’ actions in the days prior to their deaths. He’d realized that he’d asked her servants only the standard questions. He’d not delved deeply enough. “In the weeks before her murder, Mrs. Starling had a number of conflicts. But from what we’ve learned of her character, she wasn’t by nature a quarrelsome woman. All of you, her servants, seem to have been devoted to her. She might have been opinionated and strong-minded, but she doesn’t seem the type to have deliberately set out to make enemies. Have you any idea what was driving her behavior?”

  “I’ve thought about that as well,” Mrs. Wheaton sighed. “I think it started in October with that wretched letter. The vicar shouldn’t have shown it to her. When she came home that day, she was dreadfully upset. She went into her study, wrote a note, and sent Fanny Herald to the Biddlingtons’ office. He came for dinner that night.”

  “Mr. Ronald Biddlington?”

  “No, his brother, Nelson. She demanded he file a slander suit against Mrs. Huxton. He tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant—” She broke off with an embarrassed smile. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, Inspector, I was helping serve that evening. But that’s neither here nor there. What I do recall hearing is that Mrs. Starling seemed to feel that the vicar wasn’t going to show the letter to the society’s board of governors. Mr. Biddlington told her if no one but the vicar saw the letter and he kept silent on the matter, she had no basis for filing the suit. Apparently, it is only slander if your reputation is damaged. But she told Biddlington to file the suit anyway.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “She was so hurt and angry. But it really wasn’t like her, Inspector, and I think when she got over being so angry, she’d have withdrawn the lawsuit. But unfortunately she then found out the vicar hadn’t kept silent. She’d not brought up the subject of the letter for ages, then all of a sudden—I think it was the first week in December—something happened and she discovered that he’d done precisely as she’d asked him not to do and shown the entire board the letter. When she went to see him, she was furious.”

  Witherspoon knew how the victim had found out, but now wasn’t the time to share that information with her household. Not until they caught the killer.

  Mrs. Wheaton’s eyes filled with tears. “Between the letter, her worries about the finances at the society, and the arguments she’d had with Mr. Redstone and Mr. Nesbitt, I’m surprised she didn’t have a stroke.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Arthur Gormley stared at Barnes out of watery gray eyes and then took an oversized handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and blew his nose. He was a tall man with a round red face weathered by hours spent outside. “You want to look inside the garden shed?”

  “That’s right,” Barnes replied. “And I’d like to ask you a few questions as well.”

  “One of the constables has already asked me a lot of questions.” He turned and picked up the pruning shears he’d put on one of the outstretched hands of the angel statue. “Come on, then. Have a look. But there’s nothing but gardening equipment, rat poison, and paraffin.” He started walking to the shed. “A constable already searched in there, so I don’t know what you’re expectin’ to find.”

  Barnes trailed after him. “On the night that Mrs. Starling was killed, was the shed locked?”

  Gormley gave a negative shake of his large head. “The shed’s been here longer than the house. Them keys are long gone.”

  “Aren’t you afraid someone will steal your tools?” Barnes asked.

  “It’s never happened before.” They’d reached the shed, and Gormley turned the discolored brass knob. The door squeaked as it opened, and the gardener and Barnes stepped inside.

  Two windows let in enough light so that Barnes could see properly. A worktable ran the length of the far wall. It held three rows of neatly stacked pots; half a dozen empty wooden seed trays, also stacked; a square clump of dirt under a damp burlap bag; hedge and pruning shears; and a tin of rat poison. Above the table was a set of shelves holding hand tools, seed catalogues, two tins of paraffin, and half a dozen open boxes containing nails and screws. Shovels, rakes, and hoes stood along the opposite wall. The concrete floor was chipped in spots but free from dirt or grease.

  “Was the shovel used to murder Mrs. Starling stored in here?” It had been taken into evidence.

  “It was right there.” Gormley pointed to a spot on the wall within arm’s reach of the door. “It’s the heaviest one
we’ve got. I use it in the winter to turn the earth over, but I’ll never touch the wretched thing again. It should be burned.”

  Barnes stared at the empty space. Had the killer simply come inside and grabbed the first thing he or she could find, or had they been here before and knew the shovel was here for the taking?

  “There’s no lamp in here.” Barnes looked around.

  “No need of one. No one comes here at night.”

  Barnes stopped himself from pointing out that the killer had. Instead he said, “You keep a tidy shed.”

  “I do, I take pride in it,” Gormley said. “Mind you, your lot could do better when tramping about someone else’s patch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of your lads was smoking in here,” He pointed to the floor. “I found a spent match, and none of us smoke, especially not in here. This old wood could catch fire.”

  “When did you find it?” Barnes knew that none of the constables, even the ones from Upper Richmond Road, would dare smoke while on the job.

  “Monday morning, I came in here as soon your lot searched it and made sure everything was as it should be.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” One of the constables from Upper Richmond Road stuck his head into the shed. “If you’ve a moment, sir.”

  “I’ll be right out,” Barnes replied. He looked at the gardener. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Gormley.” He stepped outside and motioned for the constable to follow him, He said nothing until they were at the edge of the terrace and out of anyone else’s hearing. He gave the constable his full attention, noticing for the first time that the dark-haired young man had a baby face that didn’t look old enough to shave, let alone be a police constable. “What’s your name, Constable?”

  “Brendon McNeil, sir, and I’ve found out something that might be important.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “One of the neighbors across the road, a Mrs. Larson, says that on Sunday night she saw the vicar from St. Andrew’s at Mrs. Starling’s house.”

  “She was sure it was him?”

  “Yes. She said she’d seen a hansom cab pull up in front of Mrs. Starling’s home and so she rushed outside to try and get it,” he said eagerly. “She goes to St. Andrew’s herself and she saw him quite clearly as he stepped out of the vehicle. She spoke to the driver and told him to wait a moment, and when she went to go back into her house, she said he was at Mrs. Starling’s front door.”

  “She didn’t greet the vicar, even though she’s a member of his flock?”

  “Mrs. Larson said she was in a hurry; she needed to get her aunt to the railway station before the last train left. She’d already sent a housemaid and a footman to the High Street to find a hansom, but they’d not come back, and she didn’t want to risk losing this one by standing around in the cold, chatting with ‘that idiot vicar’—her words, sir, not mine.”

  “Did you ask her what time she saw him?”

  “Ten o’clock. She’d been checking the time because she didn’t want her aunt to miss the last train.”

  “Good work, Constable. This could well be important,” Barnes said. “Is the house-to-house done?”

  “Yes, sir. Both Constable Peters and I finished, but the only thing we learned was what I’ve just told you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Constable Griffiths smiled at Eliza Alston. But the portly white-haired woman didn’t notice, as she was staring at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I don’t want Mr. Redstone finding out what I’ve told you,” she said. “I’m not expecting him back anytime soon, but with that one, you never know what he’ll do.”

  The constable and the housekeeper were standing in Redstone’s cluttered drawing room. Griffiths had come to Tavistock Road to interview the neighbors. Constable Barnes had made it clear that verifying the whereabouts of both Redstone and Nesbitt on the night Mrs. Starling was killed was important. Griffiths and Constable Evans had split up, with Evans heading to Cedar Lane to talk to Nesbitt’s neighbors.

  When Griffiths turned the corner onto Tavistock Road, he’d seen a man he assumed to be Redstone leaving the house and getting into a hansom. He saw the housekeeper through the window and decided to try his luck. If she knew nothing, he’d try the neighbors.

  At first Mrs. Alston was evasive and told him she had left at six o’clock the night of Mrs. Starling’s murder and had no idea if Redstone had been home or not. But then something, perhaps her conscience, had prodded her, and she’d told him plenty. He couldn’t wait to pass it along to Constable Barnes and Inspector Witherspoon.

  “Mrs. Alston, this is a murder investigation, but I will do my very best to be discreet about everything you’ve told me,” Griffiths assured her. “But I do need to make absolutely sure of the facts. You’re positive Mr. Redstone wasn’t home on Sunday night?”

  “Of course I am,” she snapped. “You think I’d make something like this up? When he’s in his cups, he does nothing but complain about Mrs. Starling, blaming her for ruining his life and turning him into a pauper. Mr. Redstone wasn’t home the night Mrs. Starling was killed. I fixed his supper and left it on the sideboard, just as I always do, and then I left. But I’d just got to the pub when I realized I’d left my coin purse here. Well, I had to come back, didn’t I? Mr. Alston won’t eat his supper without his ale, and I always stop on my way home and get it for him. Mr. Alston visits his brother every Sunday afternoon, but the omnibus drops him off at the other end of our street from the pub, so I always buy the ale on Sundays.” She picked up a cleaning cloth from the table. “When I got back here, Mr. Redstone was gone.”

  “If he wasn’t here, how did you get inside?”

  “I’ve a key; I let myself in, had a good look around to make certain he’d not had a fall or something awful like that, then I found my purse and left.”

  “What time did you arrive here?” Griffiths asked.

  “About half past six.”

  “So he could have just stepped out for a walk,” he pressed. “You don’t know that he was gone for the evening.”

  “I most certainly do.” She glared at him. “The next morning Mr. Selby from next door asked if Mr. Redstone was feeling better. Apparently, Mr. Redstone was in his cups again and Mr. Selby helped the hansom driver get him into the house. Mr. Selby told me it was after eleven when he came home.”

  “Have you any idea where Mr. Redstone went?”

  “No, but it was obviously somewhere he could get drunk. Look, it’s not my business, and he isn’t one to appreciate questions. Now, if it’s all the same to you, he might come back any moment. This isn’t the best position I’ve ever had, but at my age it was all I could get, and I’d like to keep it.”

  “Of course.” Griffiths knew when it was time to quit. “Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Alston. I’ll see myself out.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Everyone arrived for their afternoon meeting on time.

  “Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, this is a real treat.” Wiggins grinned from ear to ear as he settled into his chair. “Mince tarts, brown bread, and your raspberry jam.”

  “It’s a cold day and I thought we could use a bit of cheer.” The cook took her own seat. “Now, before we start, I’ve found out something, but I’ve no idea if it’s useful or not and I’d like to go first, because I’ve a pork roast in the oven. I’ve got to see to the potatoes and carrots as well.”

  “Do go ahead, Mrs. Goodge.” Mrs. Jeffries finished pouring out the tea and began handing round the cups.

  “On the night Margaret Starling was killed, Merton Nesbitt wasn’t home. He was seen at the Three Swans; that’s a pub on the Upper Richmond Road less than a quarter mile from the Starling home.”

  “Your source was certain of this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  The cook nodded as she got to her feet. “She was. She wasn’t in
the pub herself, but her friend was and she told my source. Nesbitt is well-known in the neighborhood.”

  “Why is that?” Phyllis asked.

  “Because he’s divorced, and during the trial or whatever it is they do nowadays, there was some scandalous gossip about him.”

  “You have to go to court to get a divorce,” Betsy murmured. “Don’t you?”

  “You do now, but it used to be by a Private Act of Parliament,” Mrs. Goodge said. “It cost the earth. When I was young, I had a position in a household where the husband was trying to divorce his wife. Mind you, he could never prove she’d been unfaithful, so despite spending hundreds of pounds, they were stuck with each other. It was a miserable place and they couldn’t keep servants. I stayed only for three months myself.”

  “If Nesbitt was in a pub, why would he lie to the inspector? He must have been seen by dozens of people that night,” Hatchet speculated. “Why tell a lie that is so easily disproved.”

  “He was probably scared to tell the truth.” Mrs. Goodge went to the oven, opened the door, and pulled out the roast. Grabbing a spoon from the counter, she began basting the juices over the meat.

  “Nesbitt and the other suspects have been lucky so far,” Betsy declared. “Nivens hasn’t cooperated properly with our inspector. He’s not given him any additional constables to help question the local people.” She turned to her husband. “You ought to go to the Three Swans and see if you can find out when Nesbitt left that night. Or even better—find out if someone might have seen where he went.”

  “It’ll take ’ours to get across the river this time of day. The Three Swans isn’t goin’ anywhere, so I can do it tomorrow. I’ve found out a few bits myself.” He glanced at the cook. “I’m sorry, you done?”

  “Yes. You go on.” She put the basting spoon on the saucer next to the cooker and took the lid off the saucepan and frowned. “These need another twenty minutes before they can be drained. Sorry; go on, Smythe. I’m talkin’ to myself.”