Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  * * *

  * * *

  Barnes found Lancaster in the back of the sanctuary. He was carrying a bucket of water. “I’d like a word, please.”

  “Course. What is it?” He put the pail on the floor.

  “In the days prior to Mrs. Starling’s murder, I know she was at the alms society for their meetings, but did she spend much time here in the church?” Barnes asked.

  “On Sundays she was here, and a time or two during the week I saw her coming in during the afternoon or early evening.”

  “When did you see her?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t know the exact days, but it was in the last two weeks before she was murdered. Both times she went into the church, then a few minutes later she popped out again.”

  His statement confirmed what Fanny Herald had told the inspector. “When was the last time you saw her here?”

  “Oh, that was just a day or two before she died. It was before Evensong service; I’d come in to light the lamps and make sure everything was at the ready.” He cocked his head and scratched the stubble on his chin. “Come to think of it, she was actin’ right funny that time. I saw her come out of the old chapel room.”

  “Chapel room?”

  Lancaster pointed to the front of the church. “It’s that first door in the corridor on the far side of the altar rail. It’s a storage room now, but at one time it was a private chapel. A lot of churches had them, you know, so the lords and ladies wouldn’t have to mingle with the rest of us.”

  “Right. Go on, then.”

  “It was one of them twilight days; it’d been raining and I’d not done the lamps, so it was gettin’ dark. I didn’t want to scare her, so I didn’t say anything until she’d got to the pew where she’d put her carpetbag and cloak. Then I said hello and asked if she needed any help. Mind you, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but it looked like she was carryin’ a book. I thought she might be nickin’ a hymnal, ’cause she saw me and then tucked it in her carpetbag right quick, grabbed her fancy cloak, and rushed out like the hounds of hell was at her heels.”

  “You thought she was hiding something?” Barnes asked.

  “That’s right. For a minute or two, I thought she might be stealin’. But then I realized someone as rich as her wouldn’t be nickin’ hymnals or tattered copies of the prayer book.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lancaster,” Barnes said.

  The verger nodded, picked up his bucket, and went out the side door to the churchyard. Barnes pulled out his notebook and pencil and made notes of his conversation with the verger. He was almost finished when he heard the front door open. He looked toward the narthex and was surprised to see a constable from the Upper Richmond Road Police Station.

  “I’m glad you’re here, sir.” Constable Sorrell hurried toward him. “I was afraid you and the inspector might have already left.”

  “How did you know where we were?”

  “One of the servants at the Starling house overheard you say you were coming here,” he explained. He pulled an envelope out of his inside coat pocket. “Sergeant Wylie sent me. This is for you and the inspector.”

  Barnes took the envelope, noting that it hadn’t been sealed. “This is from Sergeant Wylie?”

  “That’s right. He had some information he needed to pass along as soon as possible.”

  Barnes read the note and then looked at Sorrell. “Did he say how he found out this tidbit?”

  “He said to tell you a little bird told him.” Sorrell tried not to smile but failed miserably. “Truth is, Constable Barnes, sometimes it’s impossible not to accidentally overhear things. Sometimes, some people have very loud voices.”

  “I see.” Barnes laughed and shoved the note in his pocket. “I’ll make sure the inspector sees this right away. And please tell Sergeant Wylie he has our thanks.”

  “I will,” Sorrell replied. “Uh, just so you’ll know, Constable Forman is already on his way to Scotland Yard.”

  “Nivens wants him to find out what Inspector Witherspoon wrote in his report?” Barnes knew there hadn’t been a report as yet, but Forman didn’t need to know that. “Does he have connections to anyone at the Yard?”

  Sorrell shook his head. “No, he’s not been in the force long enough. Forman’s a right bootlicker, and the boots he’s lickin’ now are on Inspector Nivens’ feet. He thinks being the inspector’s lapdog will help his career, but according to the sergeant, no one at the Yard will tell him anything.”

  “Good, but I’m more concerned about Dr. Littleham. I’d not like to see him damaged by having helped us.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Constable.” Sorrell grinned. “Sergeant Wylie wrote him a note as well.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Jeffries was in the foyer waiting for the inspector when he arrived home. “I’m so glad you’re home, sir. I was afraid that you’d be out late because of the Starling murder, and there’s a storm brewing.”

  “It’s going to be a bad one as well; it’s already started to rain and the wind is howling.” He handed her his bowler and then unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, slipped it off, and hung it on the peg. “Gracious, it’s been quite a day. We learned a lot of information, and I, for one, need a bit of time to understand it all. Do we have time for a nice glass of sherry?”

  “Of course, sir. Mrs. Goodge has made a lovely pork roast for tonight, and she’s got it resting in the warming oven.” She led the way to his study, went to the cupboard, and had both of them a glass poured by the time he’d settled in his chair.

  She handed him his drink and took her own seat. “Now do tell me about your day, sir.”

  He took a sip from the delicate cut-crystal glass. “We started out at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station, and for once we managed to get some help from two of their lads. Unfortunately, I had to threaten Inspector Nivens.”

  Mrs. Jeffries, who was putting her glass on the side table, was so shocked her hand jerked, spilling a few drops of her drink. “You threatened Inspector Nivens? Goodness, sir, what happened?”

  “I’m a bit ashamed of myself, Mrs. Jeffries—I do pride myself on controlling my temper—but this morning I was annoyed.” He told her about his altercation with his fellow officer. “So not only did I threaten him, I also lied. I told him I’d already reported his behavior, which, of course, I haven’t. But I fully intend to do so.” He paused to take a sip of his sherry. “What’s more, apparently some of the officers at Upper Richmond Road don’t think highly of Inspector Nivens, and, well, they’ve done something I’m not sure I ought to approve of”—he paused—“but I do.”

  Mrs. Jeffries was still reeling, but she found her tongue enough to ask the right question. “What did they do, sir?”

  Witherspoon chuckled. “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t laugh, but it is funny. Someone must have overheard both my exchange with Inspector Nivens and his conversation with a young constable after I’d left.” He told her about receiving Sergeant Wylie’s note and Constable Sorrell’s conversation with Barnes. “There wasn’t much in the note—only a warning that Nivens had sent a constable to the Yard to find out what was in my report about Nivens and that he was actively trying to hobble the investigation. That’s the one thing I can’t forgive, Mrs. Jeffries. But as they say, forewarned is forearmed.”

  “You’re not worried about Nivens damaging you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, shrugging. “As a matter of fact, I’m both touched and humbled that so many officers are prepared to offer their assistance to someone outside their own district. But time is getting on, and we don’t want to let Mrs. Goodge’s nice roast dry out. After we left the station, we interviewed Edgar Redstone.” He told her about their conversation. “I did find it interesting that he told us that Reverend Pontefract and Graham McConnell were even more disappointed than he was.”

  “You mea
n because they both assumed that the late Mrs. Redstone’s mother was going to leave a large percentage of her estate to the Angel Alms Society?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  He nodded. “He also made certain to mention that, with Margaret Starling dead, the society will get their legacy now.”

  “That should make Reverend Pontefract and the board of governors happy,” she murmured. As he’d been speaking, an idea had flown into her head and refused to leave. She was always telling Witherspoon to listen to his “inner voice,” so perhaps it was time for her to do the same. “Inspector, have you considered that you should speak to someone at the Angel Alms Society?”

  “We’ve already interviewed Graham McConnell, and I’ve got the names and addresses of the board. They’re on my list of people to see.”

  “What about the clerk, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “You made me think of him when you were telling me about the rank-and-file constables at Upper Richmond Road and how they’d found out Nivens was trying to interfere in your investigation. Perhaps that young clerk knows something.”

  Witherspoon looked at her over his spectacles, which had slipped down his nose. “That sounds like a very good idea. I’ll put him on our interview list for tomorrow. Thank you for the suggestion, Mrs. Jeffries.”

  “Don’t thank me sir,” she chuckled. “You know good and well it was your own ‘inner voice.’ Your description of how the lads at Upper Richmond Road knew what Nivens was up to is what prompted me to think you should interview the clerk.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you to say, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, and gave her a grateful smile. “After we left Redstone, we interviewed Merton Nesbitt. He claimed he was home when Mrs. Starling was murdered, but we’re fairly sure he wasn’t.” He told her the details of their visit to Merton’s flat and their conversation with the maid.

  “She’s sure it was Monday morning that the mud was tracked into the foyer?” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “Absolutely. And as neither she nor the owner of the house had gone out that night, it had to be one of the tenants. Mr. Underwood not only told us that he’d been home all evening, he also said he’d heard Nesbitt come in late that night.”

  “Interesting.” She took a sip of sherry. “He admitted he was the one to keep Mrs. Starling’s request that women be allowed on the board off the agenda. He must have really hated her.”

  “He did. He felt her interference cost him everything.”

  Mrs. Jeffries silently thanked her lucky stars. This could be the perfect time to nudge the inspector to take a closer look at Nesbitt. Smythe’s source said that Nesbitt told his friends that his wife might want to reconcile. “Perhaps he wanted to make certain she didn’t interfere again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not unheard of for estranged couples to reunite. Perhaps Nesbitt was going to write to his former wife to ask for a reconciliation. He’d not want Margaret Starling using her influence to ruin his chances of getting his wife and her money back.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose. But there’s very little we could do to find out if such a situation were true or not.”

  “You could ask Mr. Nesbitt’s friends,” she said. “Men do sometimes like to boast about such matters, especially if they’ve had a drink or two. But, of course, you know that. Where did you go after that?”

  “We went to the Starling house. We wanted to conduct second interviews with the servants. Sometimes people will recall additional details after the shock has worn off a bit. Constable Barnes wanted to have a look at the garden shed as well.” He took a sip of sherry. “I must say, Mrs. Jeffries, I’ll never understand women.”

  “Goodness, sir, what happened?”

  “Let me start from the beginning.” He repeated what he’d heard from Mrs. Wheaton and told her about Constable Barnes learning that a match had been found in the garden shed. “The gardener was sure the match hadn’t been dropped by a member of the household, and Constable Barnes is equally certain it wasn’t a police constable who tossed it onto the floor.”

  “You think the murderer dropped it?”

  “I do. There’s no lamp or light in the shed, and we know that she was killed after dark. It’s very possible the killer used it to get the shovel out of the shed.” He finished his sherry and set the glass on the side table.

  “Would you like another, sir?”

  “No. I’m very tired, and another sherry might put me to sleep.” He put his hand over his mouth to hide a yawn. “After I spoke to Mrs. Wheaton, I spoke with the tweeny, Fanny Herald, and it was dreadfully uncomfortable. She started to cry.” He repeated everything he’d told Constable Barnes about the awkward interview. “Honestly, I quite understand why Miss Herald behaved the way she did. I’d be curious as well. What I don’t understand is Mrs. Starling’s behavior.”

  “Are you sure Fanny Herald was telling the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure what to make of it, but once again a thought flitted into her head and then flitted out before she could grab it.

  “Yes. Constable Barnes spoke with the verger at St. Andrew’s and he recalled seeing Mrs. Starling there in the late afternoon on several occasions in the two weeks before her death. The third time he saw her, Mrs. Starling was coming out of the private chapel. It’s now a storage room, but I must say, hearing someone use that term reminded me of ‘priest’s holes’ and hiding places. You know, when King Henry dissolved the Roman churches and monasteries. Many Catholics refused to convert, and they had hiding places for their priests and their rosaries.”

  “I didn’t realize St. Andrew’s was that ancient,” Mrs. Jeffries remarked. Dozens of thoughts were swirling in her head, but she didn’t have time to think about them now. She needed to listen.

  “Neither did I, but apparently at least some part of the building is quite old,” he said.

  “Did the verger say anything else?” She didn’t want to rush him, but the roast was going to be dry if he took too much longer.

  “That’s all Constable Barnes told me. Oh goodness, I didn’t tell you that one of the constables interviewing the neighbors on Moran Place reported that Pontefract was seen at the Starling home Sunday night. That’s why we broke off the interviews and went to the church.” He recounted what the vicar had told him.

  “So he admitted to being at the Starling home that night but insisted he had nothing to do with her murder,” she said. “That’s interesting. Do you believe him?”

  “At this point I’m not sure what to believe. Information is coming so quickly that it’s difficult to make sense of what really happened that night.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another sherry, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked, more to buy a bit of time to think than anything else.

  “You’ve talked me into it, Mrs. Jeffries. But if we ruin Mrs. Goodge’s roast, I’m blaming you.” He laughed as he handed her his glass. “Thank you, yes. Honestly, Mrs. Jeffries, it’s a very complicated case and I’ve not told you all of it. After we left St. Andrew’s, Constable Griffiths tracked us down and told us he’d found out that Edgar Redstone wasn’t home that night.”

  She kept her back to him and listened as she filled their glasses.

  “So, in addition to speaking to the rest of the Starling servants, the board, and the clerk at the Angel Alms Society, we’ve got to reinterview Edgar Redstone as well as Merton Nesbitt. We’ve so much to do tomorrow.”

  “Don’t get discouraged sir. At least now you’ve more help,” she reminded him. She took their drinks and went back to her seat. “Despite Inspector Nivens’ nasty attempts to thwart the investigation, you’ve two more constables as well as the two from Ladbroke Road. Can’t they do some of the interviewing for you?”

  “Well, I’d trust Griffiths or Evans to do a proper job.” He hesitated. “I’m sure the constables from the Upper Richmond Road Police Station are competent as well. But in a murd
er investigation, sometimes it is the tiny details that points one in the right direction. I don’t mean to boast, Mrs. Jeffries, but my lads know my methods. They know to include everything in the report, not just what they think might be important.”

  “I understand what you mean, sir,” she replied. “You’re worried they’ll leave something that appears inconsequential out of their reports. But you could pair a constable from Upper Richmond Road with both Griffiths and Evans. That might be useful and it would save you a great deal of time.”

  He sipped his sherry, his expression thoughtful. “That’s a good idea. I’ll speak to Constable Barnes tomorrow and we’ll see what we can do. Otherwise, I’m worried we’ll not get this one solved before Christmas, and I was so looking forward to spending time with my dear Ruth and my godchild.”

  “Nonsense, sir, you’ve made great progress,” she spoke more enthusiastically than she felt. “You now have several more avenues of inquiry, and you know that most of your suspects lied about where they were on the night of the murder.”

  “True, but that doesn’t make it easier. The difficult part will be finding out which one of them killed her.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Jeffries checked to see that the back door was locked and then took her old-fashioned oil lamp up the back staircase to her room. She blew out the flame and pulled a straight-backed chair up to the window.

  Across the street she could see the bare branches of the trees twisting and turning in the wind. Rain pounded against the glass panes and a lightning bolt slashed across the sky, followed by a clap of thunder.

  She had no idea what to do about this case, and the reality was that they were running out of time. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the headrest of the chair and took a deep breath. Another burst of thunder jerked her to attention just in time to see a streak of lightning cut through the sky. She stared at the raging storm, letting her mind wander and not trying to make sense of where it went.