The key to the back door was missing: Was it possible the killer had stolen it in order to force the servants to use the front door on the night of the murder? Had he or she planned it that way to prevent anyone from coming to the victim’s aid? No, that didn’t make sense. Why go to the trouble of committing a terrible crime and then walk away, leaving the victim still alive? Furthermore, the key had been missing for weeks, but perhaps that was simply a coincidence.
A gust of wind slammed against the window, but she barely blinked. When the body was discovered, the murder weapon—the shovel—was leaning against the angel statue. Why didn’t the killer leave it lying by the victim? Why walk five or more feet and stand it against a stone figure? Had the murderer done that deliberately to confuse the investigation, or had he or she simply been unable to leave it lying on the ground? She’d once had a neighbor in Yorkshire who was like that. Poor Helga Ridgeway was so obsessed with order that she’d go out in the middle of a snowstorm to reset flowerpots that had been upended. Was the murderer like Helga? No, she thought to herself, don’t overthink it. Maybe it was simply a routine gesture. The killer had a shovel in his or her hand and out of habit propped it up on the nearest object.
Across the road, the wind split a branch off and sent it hurling through the air and out of her line of sight. Her eyes narrowed as another idea took hold. The cat wasn’t home by the time the servants left for the theater. But it was safely inside when they returned, which meant that only Mrs. Starling could have let it inside. No, that’s not true, she told herself; the killer could have let the cat into the house. But would that only work if the murderer had the missing key because the door was locked? The Starling housekeeper said that the door could be locked with a key only from the outside. She hunched her shoulders, moving them in a circle to relieve the stiffness.
She stared into the storm, mesmerized by the wildness of the wind and the bolts of lightning splitting the sky in two. Who had the most to lose if Margaret Starling stayed alive? She couldn’t get that thought out of her head. Edgar Redstone and Merton Nesbitt gained nothing from her death, unless it was really true that Nesbitt’s former wife might be thinking of reconciling—in which case, he might have a reason for wanting the victim dead. But as motives went, it was a bit on the flimsy side. Nesbitt could easily take himself to France, and if his former wife was serious about reconciling, he could make certain they married in Paris.
As for the vicar, Pontefract had the most to lose if the victim had gone to his superiors in the church, but he didn’t know for certain that Mrs. Starling knew about the money he’d pinched. She shivered. The room was getting colder. Getting up, she closed her curtains and got ready for bed.
But sleep eluded her. She stared at the ceiling, trying her best not to think but to let her mind wander. Who had killed Margaret Starling? Who had the most to lose if she were alive now? The Angel Alms Society was going to benefit from her death—that was true—but surely a charitable organization didn’t commit murder just to keep its coffers full.
She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes, breathing slowly and evenly, and soon she was drifting off to sleep. But just as she was about to go under, she realized that there was one aspect of the case they’d not examined thoroughly. She sat bolt upright, staring into the darkness. Ye gods, they’d been so distracted by all the anger and rage directed at the victim, they’d not seen what was right in front of their noses!
* * *
* * *
“Should we take her with us this morning?” Betsy wiped a piece of boiled egg off Amanda’s chin. “It’s not that cold outside, and the storm’s passed. Seeing her would mean so much to Mrs. Goodge and Luty.”
Smythe put his coffee mug on the table and looked at his daughter, who was sitting on her mother’s lap, grinning like a drunken sailor.
“Me wan go, me wan go,” she chanted, her little fists bouncing gleefully up and down.
They were in the spacious kitchen of their downstairs flat, having breakfast. “Do ya think that’s a good idea, love? We’ve a lot to do today.”
“How do you know?” Betsy put the toddler on the floor and began clearing the dishes. “Mrs. Jeffries claims she doesn’t have a clue about this case. What’s more, all of us seem to be finding out the same information.”
“Leave the dishes for Mrs. Packard,” he said. “And stop frettin’ over this case. Mrs. J. will solve it; she always does.”
“Me wan go, me wan go.” Amanda was at her daddy’s knee, her tiny finger jabbing his thigh. “Me wan go . . . me wan go.”
There was a knock on the back door and Amanda shrieked in delight, “Mrs. Packwa here!” Moving as quickly as her chubby little legs could go, she headed for the door.
“It’s too early for Mrs. Packard.” Betsy raced after her daughter, scooped her up, and then opened the door.
A blond-haired, blue-eyed young lad who looked to be about ten stood there. He was rail thin and wearing brown trousers with patches on the knees, a navy-blue coat with most of the buttons missing, and a greasy gray flat cap. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, then whipped the cap off and nodded politely at Betsy. “Blimpey sent me.” He grinned at the little one and she giggled.
“Come in, then.” Betsy opened the door wider and the boy stepped inside.
He gazed around the spacious kitchen. “Cor blimey, this is nice. It’s so warm in ’ere, and you’ve got one of them nice cookers and a sink. Me mam would give ’er right arm for a cooker and a sink like that.”
“What’s your name?” Betsy asked.
“Me name’s Roy and Blimpey sent me ’ere with this note.” He pulled an envelope out of his trouser pocket and started to hand it to Betsy, but she pointed to her husband. “Give it him.”
“Oi.” Amanda tried saying his name. “Oi, you wan play? Oi, Oi,” she chattered, trying to get his attention.
“This is Amanda,” Betsy said, introducing her daughter. “Don’t mind her. She loves older children.”
Roy gave the child another grin before hurrying to the table and handing Smythe the envelope.
He opened it, pulled out the note, read it, and put it on the table. “Thanks for bringing this.” He looked at Roy. “’Ave you ’ad any breakfast?”
“Just a cuppa tea and slice of bread,” he replied.
Betsy plopped Amanda on the floor again and went to the large oak pantry sideboard opposite the dining table. Opening the top cupboard, she got down a plate of jam tarts and a hunk of cheddar cheese.
She put the items on the shelf, opened the top drawer, and took out a crisp, white linen serviette that she put next to the tarts. Then she got a knife and carved off a generous six-inch hunk of cheese. Within moments she had the tarts and the cheese wrapped in the cloth.
Roy’s eyes widened as she handed him the bundle. “Here, this is for you. A growing lad needs lots of good food.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He cradled it against his thin chest. “This’ll make me mum so ’appy. Now we’ll ’ave us a decent supper tonight.”
Smythe dug a coin out of his pocket and handed it to him. “Seein’ as it’s Christmas, take this as well.”
His mouth opened in surprise, his eyes widening ever more as he reached for the money. “Cor blimey, it’s a shilling. Thanks ever so much. This’ll buy plenty of food. I ’ope Blimpey sends me ’round ’ere again.”
“Merry Christmas, lad,” Smythe laughed. Both he and Betsy knew what it was like to be poor, and neither of them ever let anyone leave their home hungry.
“Oi, oi, wan play?” Amanda grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
“Amanda, behave,” Betsy warned. “He’s got to go. Here, come along, then. Let’s walk him to the door.”
“Oi go? Wanna play,” Amanda declared, but she dutifully took his free hand and escorted her new friend to the back door.
“Good-bye, little Amanda,” he said, causi
ng her to giggle uncontrollably. “And thanks again for the food.” He stepped outside.
As soon as the door was closed, Betsy turned to her husband.
“What did the note say?”
“Not much; only that Blimpey was called out of town. Apparently, Nell’s auntie is ill and they’re stayin’ with ’er till after Christmas. But ’e wanted me to know that ’e’s found out more about Graham McConnell. The man’s mother is dead.”
“Dead? But I thought he went there once a quarter to see her,” Betsy said. “That’s what Blimpey told you originally.”
“Yeah, but ’is note said that’s not true.” He picked up the paper and began to read, “Upon further investigation, my source found out McConnell’s mother ’as been dead for two years. I don’t know if this fact is important, but I thought I’d send it along just in case.”
“If his mother’s dead, then why does he go to Southampton every quarter?” Betsy asked.
Smythe shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe ’e’s got a lady friend down there—someone ’e doesn’t want the board of governors to know about.”
CHAPTER 9
“Constable Barnes, how much do you know about embezzlement and fraud?” Mrs. Jeffries asked after the constable had added some additional details about the previous day’s investigation.
“I’ve arrested my fair share of those types. Why?” He stared at her curiously. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I could be completely wrong, but last night I realized something that might be important.”
“What?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.
“I can’t say yet. All I know is that we might be looking in the wrong direction.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the constable. “In your experience, do embezzlers keep a set of books with the details of the money they’ve stolen? Oh, dear, I’m not sure I’m asking the question properly.”
“I know what you’re wantin’ to know,” he said. “Most small embezzlers don’t bother, especially if they’ve just pinched off a bit here and there. But the ones that have worked out a system to steal on a regular basis generally keep a record of sorts. Most of them want to know how much they’ve stolen. Add to that, embezzlers, at least the clever ones, usually have more than one way to steal. They’re not just putting their fingers in the till a time or two. Some of them are very sophisticated—they set up fake payable accounts and false bank accounts, and every month or quarter they pay themselves for goods or services that don’t exist.”
“I see,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Constable, can you and the inspector speak to Sir Gareth Cleary today?”
“He’s the chairman of the board of governors, right?” Barnes asked.
“That’s right, and I think it’s important to find out when, exactly, Mrs. Starling began voicing her concerns about the alms society finances.”
“You want me to find out specific dates?” Barnes looked skeptical. “What if he doesn’t remember?”
“If you can’t get a specific date, try and see if he can recall about when she first spoke to him. Also, find out if he has heard the name ‘Francine’ in connection with Mrs. Starling and if he can tell us who she might be.”
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Jeffries, but the inspector might have other plans. We’ve a lot on our plates. The inspector wants to finish the second interviews with the Starling servants, and I know he’ll want to speak to Edgar Redstone again.”
“I know, but I think this might be important.” She glanced at the clock on the pine sideboard. “I’ve a couple of other requests, Constable, and they might be even more difficult for you.”
* * *
* * *
“Here’s my baby.” Mrs. Goodge grabbed Amanda and sat down with her on her lap. “Hello, my darling. Are you all ready for Christmas? We’re going to have a lovely time this year!”
Amanda giggled and clapped her hands together.
“Luty and Hatchet are right behind us,” Betsy said as she took her seat.
“Then it’s good that I can get my cuddles in before Luty gets here.”
“I am here,” Luty announced as she and Hatchet came into the kitchen. “Oh, good, everyone’s here.”
They spent the next few moments hanging up their outer garments, then Luty took her seat and Mrs. Goodge graciously handed their mutual godchild over to her friend. “Here, you can have her now. I’ve got to check if those Christmas buns have started to rise. But go ahead with the meeting; I can hear well enough from my worktable.”
“We’ve much to get through this morning, and I’ve tasks for each of you,” Mrs. Jeffries announced. “So, everyone, listen carefully.” She told them what she’d learned from the inspector and then added a few details they’d heard from Constable Barnes. “But as I told the constable, I’ve a feeling we might be looking at this murder from the wrong side.”
“What does that mean?” Phyllis asked.
“We focused too much on those who hated Margaret Starling and not enough on what she was actively doing when she was killed,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “I don’t want to say too much, because there is a very good chance I could be wrong.” She sighed heavily. “Oh, dear, this might be a wild-goose chase as well, but I feel we must do it.”
“What do you want us to do?” Hatchet asked.
“Give me a moment.” She took a sip of tea to get her thoughts in proper order. She looked at Luty. “First of all, I’d like you to find out which bank the Angel Alms Society uses, and after that I’d like you to go to Nelson Biddlington’s home on Porchester Terrace and see if you can find out if Margaret Starling went there a few days before she died.”
“That sounds simple enough.” Luty rubbed her finger along Amanda’s cheek, causing the little one to giggle. “But you should know there was no one home when I went to Nelson’s house yesterday. He ain’t due back until tomorrow, so there might not be anyone there today, either.”
“Try anyway.” Mrs. Goodge put the cloth back over her huge bread bowl and took it to the counter by the cooker. “If the master is coming home tomorrow, there should be one or two servants there today getting things ready for him.”
“Unless you’ve something else for me to do.” Hatchet looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Why don’t you let me find out what bank the alms society uses for their deposits? Luty isn’t the only one with sources in the financial world.”
Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “All right. Wiggins, your task is going to be difficult, but I think you can do it. Today is probably Fanny Herald’s afternoon out, and I want you to make contact with her.”
“Isn’t she the tweeny from the Starling ’ouse?” he asked.
“That’s right. And I’d like you find out some very specific information.” She told him what she needed.
When she’d finished, Wiggins stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Cor blimey, Mrs. Jeffries, that’s a lot. Isn’t she the one that started cryin’ when the inspector was interviewin’ ’er?”
“Yes, and that’s precisely why I want you to talk to her. I know it is asking a great deal.”
“And you can do it,” Phyllis interjected. “Use your charm, Wiggins. From what the constable overheard in the kitchen about her, she sounds like the type to get her head turned easily.”
“I’ll do my best,” he shrugged. “But don’t expect too much. I’m not that charmin’”
“You’ll do fine,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. “Phyllis, I’d like you to take one of Mrs. Goodge’s apple tarts to Stuart Deeds. Tell him it’s a thank-you gift for the way he helped you find that rowing club. Now, I suggest you do it around noon, and we’ll hope that he comes out of the society offices for lunch.”
“What do you want me to find out?”
Mrs. Jeffries told her.
Wiggins laughed. “Cor blimey, Phyllis, you’re goin’ to ’ave to be even more charmin’ than I am to find all that o
ut.”
“She can do it,” Betsy said confidently. “I’ve faith in both of you. But before we go any further down this road, Smythe needs to tell you about our visitor this morning.”
“Oi came,” Amanda cried. “Oi came but he not play.”
“Who’s this Oi,” Luty demanded.
Smythe told them about their visit from Roy and then looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Does this ’elp or ’urt your idea?”
“It helps,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “As a matter of fact, it helps a great deal. Do you think your source can find out precisely why McConnell goes to Southampton every quarter? Is that possible?”
“That source isn’t goin’ to be doin’ anything until after Christmas,” he said.
“Oh, dear, that’s unfortunate.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Betsy. “But perhaps there is another way. Do you have someone to take care of Amanda today?”
“Of course. We brought her this morning only so Mrs. Goodge and Luty could see her. What do you want me to do?”
Mrs. Jeffries told her. “If you make contact with McConnell’s housekeeper and she’s friendly, find out if she knows why he went to Southampton.”
“What should I do?” Ruth asked. It was the first time she’d spoken except to say hello when she arrived.
“You’ve been right quiet,” Wiggins said. “You all right?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “Despite praying for guidance, I still don’t know if I should mention Reginald Pontefract to Gerald. I don’t want to burden him while he’s trying to solve this murder, but I did promise the vicar I’d help him.”
“The best way to help him is for the real murderer to be caught,” Phyllis noted.
“And to do that, I’ve got a chore for you,” Mrs. Jeffries added. “I want you to go to Chelmsford.” She told her specifically what she wanted her to do. “That won’t be too onerous a task, will it?”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 19