Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “I ’ad a word with one of my sources, and it seems that Merton Nesbitt might ’ave ’ad a good reason for keepin’ Margaret Starling quiet and out of ’is life.” He told them what he’d learned from Blimpey Groggins.

  “Nesbitt’s wife was thinking of reconciling?” Mrs. Jeffries tapped her fingers against the handle of her mug. “He told this to his friends?”

  “That’s right.” Smythe grinned. “Nesbitt isn’t one to ’old ’is tongue or ’is liquor. ’e wouldn’t want Margaret Starling stickin’ ’er nose in ’is business and ruinin’ it for ’im.”

  “How would she find out?” Phyllis asked. “Was Mrs. Nesbitt in contact with Mrs. Starling?”

  “My source didn’t know, but she could have been, and Margaret Starling has a lot of influence over her. She wasn’t just her friend; she was Mrs. Nesbitt’s godmother.”

  “But is that a strong enough reason to kill someone?” Ruth asked.

  “People ’ave been murdered for less than that,” Smythe said. “’e’s no money and his wife was ’intin’ she might want ’im back. ’e’d not want anythin’ or anyone muckin’ that up for ’im.”

  “And now we know he wasn’t home the night she was murdered.” Mrs. Goodge took her seat again.

  “But that’s not all I found out,” Smythe continued. “Turns out that Graham McConnell ’as only been at the Angel Alms Society for two years. Before that ’e worked for a charity in Southampton. ’is old mother lives there and ’e visits ’er once a quarter. That’s it from me.”

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

  “I will,” Ruth offered. She told them about her meeting with Octavia Wells.

  “Well, nells bells, she’s the one that got us this murder!” Luty exclaimed.

  Ruth smiled. “I’m afraid so. She has a telephone device and she called the home secretary and asked him to take Inspector Nivens off the case and put Gerald on it.”

  “So your source knew that Nivens is incompetent?” Hatchet asked.

  “Oh, yes, she knows everything that goes on in London,” Ruth explained. “Margaret Starling was a staunch supporter of women’s rights, and Octavia didn’t want her murder to go unpunished. But that’s not the only thing she told me. A day or so before she was killed, one of our members saw Margaret in Bayswater. She was going into a house and she was carrying a paper-wrapped parcel.”

  “Bayswater,” Luty said. “Where at in Bayswater? Do ya know?”

  “She wasn’t absolutely positive, but from the circumstances Octavia thought it must have been Porchester Terrace. Why?” She looked at Luty curiously.

  “Because that’s where I was today,” Luty explained. “That’s where Nelson Biddlington lives. I went to see him but he’s not home. He won’t be back to London until the evening of the twenty-third.”

  “He’s the man that Margaret Starling wanted to have a look at the Angel Alms Society financial records,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “So perhaps that’s why Mrs. Starling was there.”

  “That’s certainly possible,” Ruth said. “Look, there’s something I must ask. As you all know, Reginald Pontefract came to me because he’s desperately frightened he’s going to be arrested. But I’ve no idea how to broach the subject with Gerald. On the other hand, I don’t think Reginald is a murderer, and I did tell him I’d try to help. Oh, dear, I don’t know what is the proper or ethical course of action.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Finally, Wiggins broke the silence. “Does ’e think our inspector is goin’ to arrest ’im just because he was at Mrs. Starling’s house that night?”

  “Yes, that’s his main concern. He was there that night.”

  “But Nesbitt wasn’t home, either. ’E was at a pub less than a quarter mile from the Starling house. ’e’s got as much motive as Pontefract,” Wiggins observed.

  “True, but I’m still very much in a quandary. I told Reginald to tell Gerald the truth and to trust in both God and the legal system.” Ruth shook her head, her expression sad. “But I don’t think he believes very strongly in either. In any case, I’ll not burden Gerald just yet. That simply isn’t right.”

  “Stop worrying, Ruth, I’m sure it will work out fine,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Who’d like to go next?”

  “Mine won’t take long,” Phyllis said. She told them about her encounter with Stuart Deeds. “He’s a nice young man, but once he started talking, he did go on a bit. He said that for the last six weeks Margaret Starling was talking to the board members, asking them questions about the finances and how often the books were examined, who examined them, and what percentage of the donations was in coin and notes. It’s quite a lot, actually. Stuart reckons about thirty percent, but he didn’t know for certain, as Graham McConnell opens all the post and all Stuart does is the acknowledgment correspondence.” She stopped and took a quick sip of tea. “Then he went on and on about odd things happening at the society: A man’s coat went missing from the donation cupboard last week. Then he said there was a bit of paper jammed in the typewriter machine, and supposedly three bags of clothes have been donated to the society but he can’t find them anywhere and he thinks someone stole them and he’ll get blamed for it.”

  “Did he give you any details or dates as to when these things happened?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. A tiny idea nudged the back of her mind and then disappeared before she could get hold of it properly.

  “I tried to get that out of him,” Phyllis said. “But then the omnibus came and he got away from me. But if you think anything he said might be important, I’ll make sure I talk to him again.”

  “Don’t make a special effort to see him as yet. At this point I’ve no idea what is or isn’t important.” Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “Let’s hope the inspector will be have learned something today that can help us catch Margaret Starling’s killer.”

  Mrs. Goodge got up again and went to the oven. “Don’t be so discouraged, Mrs. Jeffries. You’ll figure this one out.”

  “Of course she will!” Betsy cried. “She always does.”

  But this time Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t so sure.

  CHAPTER 8

  Constable Barnes waited outside the dining room while the inspector finished his second interview with Fanny Herald. He’d already told Mrs. Wheaton that they would be back the next day to complete the second round of interviews.

  She’d not bothered to hide her relief. “That would be best, Constable. Mrs. Starling’s cousins are arriving this afternoon, and frankly we’re not certain what we should do. We’ve no idea if we ought to plan Christmas dinner for the guests or whether they’ll be in mourning and not want any festivities. In any case, it’s a dreadfully awkward situation. We’ve still to get the guest rooms properly aired, and Cook still hasn’t received the meat order from the butcher—” She broke off with an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry. By tomorrow things ought to be more settled.” She then disappeared down the corridor without waiting for him to reply.

  The dining room doors opened and Fanny stepped out. She held a crumpled handkerchief to her mouth, her cheeks were tearstained, and her eyes were red. She took one look at the constable, choked back a sob, and ran to the back stairs.

  Barnes stared after her for a moment and then stepped into the dining room. Witherspoon got up, his expression troubled. “Thank goodness you’re here. Miss Herald is most upset and I’ve no idea why. One moment I was asking her questions about Mrs. Starling’s last weeks, and the next she was crying.” He waved his hands in a gesture of confusion. “Did you speak with the gardener?”

  “Yes, sir, but the reason I’m here and not in the butler’s pantry interviewing the kitchen servants is because the constables interviewing the neighbors on Moran Place had something interesting to report. It seems Reverend Pontefract was here on the night Mrs. Starling was murdered. Mrs. Larson across the road saw him. It’s not that late, sir. We’ve ti
me to go to St. Andrew’s Church and have a chat with him.” He broke off as the downstairs maid stepped out of the open door of the drawing room. She was carrying a tin of furniture polish and a cleaning rag.

  “Do you want to speak to me next?” She directed her question to Witherspoon.

  “No, no, we’ll be back tomorrow, miss.”

  “Right, sir. I’ll go back to my cleaning, then.” She nodded politely and went back to the drawing room.

  Neither of them spoke until they were outside. Witherspoon sighed. “I do feel bad about Miss Herald; she just started crying.”

  “We can talk about it on our way to the church, sir,” Barnes suggested. “I’ve let Mrs. Wheaton know we’re leaving and that we’ll be back tomorrow to finish up the second round of interviews.”

  “Right. Then let’s go.”

  They left the house and made their way to the Upper Richmond Road, where Barnes found a hansom. As soon as they were inside, Witherspoon said, “Honestly, Constable, I’ll never understand women. One moment Miss Herald was fine, and the next she was weeping.”

  “What exactly did you ask her, sir?” Barnes grabbed the handhold as the vehicle lurched forward.

  Witherspoon pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I asked her to tell me about Mrs. Starling’s behavior since she’d found out about the anonymous letter sent to the vicar. At first she said she’d noticed nothing, but then she admitted there were two incidents she found troubling. The first one was in November, when Mrs. Starling had returned home from an alms society meeting. It was Miss Herald’s afternoon out, but before she could leave, Mrs. Starling called her into her study and gave her a letter to post. She remembered it clearly because Mrs. Starling told her three times that the letter had to make the early afternoon post. She said it made her curious, so she took care to notice the name and address. It was to a Mrs. Minton in Chelmsford.”

  “Did she know the address?”

  “Not the house number, but she remembered it was on Fordham Way,” Witherspoon said. “The second incident took place over several days in the two weeks before Mrs. Starling’s death. She said that Mrs. Starling kept going to St. Andrew’s Church during the day and that she’d done it three different times. I said that perhaps Mrs. Starling had gone there for spiritual reasons. She said no, that wasn’t it, because she’d seen her in the sanctuary and two out of the three times Mrs. Starling had simply stood in the back of the church as if she was waiting for something. The third time it happened was only a few days before Mrs. Starling was murdered, and that time she noticed that Mrs. Starling went into the small storage room at the front of the church. When she came out, she was carrying a book.”

  “Ye gods, was the girl spying on her mistress?”

  “In a way, yes, and I think that’s the reason for the tears,” he explained. “The first time she saw Mrs. Starling, the housekeeper had sent her to get a set of curtain rings at the draper’s shop. When she got there, she was told there were two kinds and which did the Starling household need? Well, she didn’t know, so she was on her way back, when she saw Mrs. Starling going into St. Andrew’s and she thought the mistress might know, so she dashed inside, but she said Mrs. Starling was walking up the center aisle, when she suddenly stopped, turned around, and left. Miss Herald said she was so taken aback—that there was something so odd about Mrs. Starling’s expression—that she ducked behind a pillar until her employer had left the building.”

  “What about the second and third time?” Barnes asked. The hansom pulled up to the curb and he stepped out, holding the door for the inspector.

  “The second time she admitted she had followed Mrs. Starling. It was her afternoon out and she’d been to see a cousin in East Barking and planned on going to the Evensong service at St. Andrew’s. She was early, though, and saw Mrs. Starling going up the church steps. She followed her inside. She said the very same thing happened. Mrs. Starling was halfway up the center aisle, when she suddenly changed her mind and left.”

  “And Miss Herald leapt behind another pillar.” Barnes paid the driver. “Did she happen to notice if other people had either come into the church from the churchyard or were already inside?”

  “I was going to ask that very question,” Witherspoon replied, “but then she started to cry. She did manage to tell me that the third time she’d seen Mrs. Starling go into the church, she followed her deliberately.”

  The two policemen climbed up the broad steps to the church.

  “Did she say why she’d done it?” Barnes grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, and they stepped inside.

  “She said by that time she was just plain curious. She thought perhaps Mrs. Starling was having some strange religious experience. I think we need to speak with her again,” Witherspoon started up the aisle. “Now, let’s go see what Reverend Pontefract has to say for himself.”

  “Of course, sir. Uh, do you need me to stay when you’re speaking to the vicar? I’d like to question Tom Lancaster,” Barnes said. His mind was racing. There was more to this story than a housemaid satisfying her curiosity. He wanted the real reason the tweeny had followed her mistress, and Fanny Herald would be more likely to tell Wiggins or Phyllis the real story rather than a middle-aged constable or inspector. He also thought the verger might be able to add a detail or two. Lancaster seemed like the kind of man who kept his eyes on everything.

  They reached the vicar’s study and Witherspoon knocked.

  “Come in.”

  They stepped inside. The reverend rose to his feet, his expression sour. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’d like to speak with you,” Witherspoon replied. “It’s very important.”

  “If you must.” Pontefract sat back down. He didn’t invite them to sit in the two chairs in front of his massive desk.

  Constable Barnes spoke first. “Is the verger here? I’d like to have a word with him.”

  “Why do you need to see him? I’ve told you, the man is a liar.”

  “Please, sir, just answer the question. Is he here?”

  “He’s in the churchyard,” Pontefract snapped. “At least, that’s where he’s supposed to be, but the fellow is so lazy, he’s probably off sleeping in a pew somewhere. Good luck finding him.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Barnes disappeared out the door.

  From the expression on the vicar’s face, Witherspoon suspected he’d be as uncooperative and obstructive as possible. “Reverend Pontefract, on the night of Mrs. Starling’s murder, you said you were here all evening.”

  “That is correct,” he replied. “After Evensong, I had dinner and then I worked on my sermon.”

  “Are you certain of that, sir?

  “Of course I am.” Pontefract looked annoyed. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Inspector. I was here all evening.”

  “We have a witness who claims to have seen you getting out of a hansom cab in front of the Starling house and at her front door.”

  “That’s absurd.” Pontefract leapt to his feet. “Who said that? Was it that liar, Lancaster? I was here all evening.”

  “It wasn’t your verger, sir. Not only do we have a witness that saw you, but we can easily find the hansom driver,” Witherspoon warned.

  Pontefract seemed to sink into himself for a moment, then he flopped into his chair. “My God, this is a nightmare. Yes, I’ll admit it, I did go to see her, but I didn’t kill her. I wanted to talk to her, to find out why she was asking all those questions about the finances of the charity.”

  “That was the only reason you went to see her?”

  He nodded dully. “But she didn’t even answer the door. No one did. I knocked and knocked and no one came. Then I remembered that she’d given her servants the night off, so I assumed she’d gone with them or perhaps gone to a friend’s house. I left and came back here.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us the trut
h to begin with?” The inspector watched him carefully. Reading people’s expressions wasn’t his strongest ability, but he had become much better at it than he used to be.

  “I was afraid.” Pontefract sighed heavily, closed his eyes for a moment, and lifted his chin toward the heavens. “Thanks to Lancaster’s scurrilous comments, you already knew that she’d threatened to go to the bishop about me. Fear can make a fool out of any man.”

  “Even if Mrs. Starling had gone to the bishop, what could she have told him?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I’m not sure.” The vicar looked down at his desk. “She never actually said. When we were having our disagreement, all she said was ‘How would you like it if I go to the bishop with what I know?’ But she never told me specifically what it was that she knew.”

  Witherspoon sensed he was lying. “Then why were you so upset about the threat?”

  “Because at my last parish there were some charges laid against me—charges that were never proven, I might add. Nonetheless, one’s career could be badly damaged if more lies were told. I’ve done nothing wrong here, and truthfully I’ve no idea what she thought she knew about me. Perhaps she considered my sermons to be unorthodox, or perhaps she didn’t like the way I conducted the service. Her behavior was so bizarre that there was no telling what she’d say. All I know is I didn’t want someone of her stature and wealth making groundless charges to the bishop.”

  Witherspoon didn’t care if Pontefract had violated church law or committed heresy. That wasn’t his jurisdiction. “What time was it when you went there?”

  “It was late, well after dinner. I’d had too much wine, and for some reason I convinced myself I could talk her into being reasonable.”

  “Reasonable about what? Going to the bishop? Or reasonable about her concerns over the alms society finances? You did claim that she’d been asking a lot of odd questions.”

  “Both, but mainly the bishop. Frankly, the finances of the Angel Alms Society aren’t really my concern. My career is.”