* * *
* * *
Phyllis cradled the small basket against her middle as she stood across the road from the Angel Alms Society. Mrs. Goodge had wrapped not one but the last two of her delicious apple tarts in a fancy pink serviette and tucked them into a basket she’d dug out of the back of the pine sideboard.
She watched as a man who she assumed was Graham McConnell rammed a black top hat onto his head and hurried down the broad steps. Moving quickly, he turned in the direction of the Upper Richmond Road and disappeared.
Phyllis started to step off the curb but hesitated. Did she dare simply walk inside? What if McConnell returned? Well, if he did, she had a shilling in her pocket; she could always say she’d stopped in to make a donation as well as thank his clerk for helping her when she was “lost.” It had to be done and she was determined to do it properly. She had to speak to Stuart Deeds. There was no guarantee he’d come out to lunch, and this might be her only chance. Taking a deep breath, she hurried across the road, climbed the steps, and went inside.
“Hello,” she called softly. “Is anyone here?”
“Can I help you?” Stuart Deeds stepped into her field of vision. He looked surprised and then a pleased smile curved his thin face. “Well, hello. How nice to see you again, Miss Morgan. Do come in.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Mr. Deeds, but I had to come.” She gave him what she hoped was merely a polite smile.
“Come sit down, Miss Morgan.” He led her into the outer office, pointing at a chair in front of a narrow desk. “My guv is gone, so we’ve time for a nice chat.”
She sat down and he went behind the desk and took his own seat.
“You were so very kind to me when I was lost that I felt I had to thank you for going to all that trouble.” She put the basket in front of him. “Here, this is for you: a small token of my appreciation.”
Delighted, he smiled at her as he opened the serviette. She winced inside. She could see he thought she liked him, and nothing could be further from the truth. Guilt speared through her, but she ruthlessly shoved it aside. She was working for justice, and sometimes that was hard and put one in a difficult situation.
“Apple tarts,” he laughed. “How wonderful. Did you make them?”
“No, no,” she replied. “My grandmother made them. She’s a wonderful cook.”
“They look delicious, but as it’s close to lunchtime; I’ll save them for dessert.” He tucked the serviette over the tarts and set the basket to one side.
“Speaking of lunch—” he looked at her expectantly—“I don’t suppose you’re free, Miss Morgan?”
She smiled apologetically. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve another engagement.”
Another shaft of guilt hit her as his face fell. “Perhaps another time, Mr. Deeds.”
“Oh, do call me Stuart. And may I be so bold as to call you Arabella?”
“Of course, Stuart. Please do.” She was glad he’d remembered the name she’d used at their previous meeting; she’d thought it was Isabelle. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about this society. I’m thinking of making a contribution, but as you know, money doesn’t grow on trees. I want to ensure that my donation would be put to good use.” She’d decided on this line of inquiry after hearing specifically what Mrs. Jeffries wanted her to learn.
“I assure you, it would. The Angel Alms Society is a highly regarded charity. It is overseen by a board of gover—”
“How often do they meet?” she interrupted.
“Usually once a month, but at certain times during the year, during the months leading up the actual alms distribution, they meet every fortnight,” he explained. He went on to give her additional details on how the charity was set up and managed.
She forced herself to be patient. Stuart certainly loved the sound of his own voice. When he paused to take a breath, she pounced. “Are you at any of these board meetings?”
“I attend all of them,” he announced proudly.
“Excellent. You have such a wonderful way of explaining things, Stuart. Can you give me a description of say—oh, I don’t know—one of the meetings from the past month?”
He drew back, his expression puzzled, and she was afraid she’d gone too far, too fast. But then he brightened. “You want to hear what a meeting is like?”
“Naturally, from what you’ve just told me, that seems to be where the most important decisions might be made. Now, do tell me and don’t be afraid to tell the truth. I want to know everything, warts and all.”
“In that case, let me tell you about our last meeting.” He rolled his eyes. “There was ever so much going on.”
She listened carefully. Stuart enjoyed talking and he was a natural gossip. She had to interrupt him only a few times to find out exactly what she’d come here to learn.
As if he’d read her mind, he gave her an embarrassed smile. “I hope you don’t think I’m being a gossip, but Mr. McConnell did seem to expect me to tell him everything after the meetings.”
“I’d never think you a gossip, and I’ve already told you that I came to see you because I wanted to understand everything about the charity. Do go on,” she encouraged.
“It’s very well run, if I do say so myself.” He smiled proudly. Finally, after several more minutes of talking about the charity and the office, he said, “I do hope I’ve not discouraged you. Perhaps telling you about my stationery drawer being untidy and mucked about wasn’t helpful.”
“Oh, no, that’s the kind of detail I wanted to know,” she replied. “Do you have any idea who might have gone through your desk?”
“Just between you and me, I think it was either the verger at St. Andrew’s or possibly even the vicar. Both of them have keys. Mind you, I don’t think the vicar was stealing anything; I imagine he simply needed something and didn’t think I’d notice the drawer was so untidy. But I’ve my suspicions about the verger: I think he stole those three bags of clothing I overheard Mr. McConnell mention to Mrs. Starling.”
Without thinking, Phyllis blurted, “Exactly when did he mention the clothing to her? Was it at one of the meetings?”
Again he drew back, but this time his eyes narrowed. “That’s an odd thing to ask.”
For a moment she almost told him the truth, but at the last second she decided against that course of action. “I’m sorry if my question seemed strange to you.” She gave him another smile. “It’s just that you tell things so well, it’s almost like one of those mystery stories. You know, the sort that Mr. Doyle writes for The Strand Magazine.” He was still staring at her, so she threw caution out the window. “I just finished reading Mr. Doyle’s ‘The Story of the Brazilian Cat’ in this month’s issue and it was wonderful. You should think about writing for them, I’m sure you’d be fantastic.”
His expression lightened. “Really? You think so? I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”
“You tell everything so well; that’s why I asked that question. But it was silly of me to ask; of course you wouldn’t recall a minor detail like that.”
“Thank you.” He beamed. “But actually I do. It was the morning of December sixth. We were coming in to open the office, and Mrs. Starling walked past on her way to the church. Mr. McConnell tried to stop her; he said we had received these three bags of clothing and when could she and her committee come to sort them? But she didn’t even stop; she yelled she was in a hurry.”
“You do have a good memory.” She meant it, too. “How did you recall the date?”
“I wrote it in my diary.” He pointed to a red-leather-bound book on the corner of his desk. “I’ve found that when one works for Mr. McConnell, one must remember everything. He doesn’t like answering questions. But back to my suspicions. I think the verger must have pinched those clothes and while he was here he mucked about with my stationery drawer and played with the typewriter. There
was a tiny piece of paper jammed inside it.”
She was saved from having to comment by the door opening. Stuart got up and raced to the foyer. “Hello, Inspector, Constable. I’m afraid Mr. McConnell isn’t here just now. But I expect him back after lunch.”
Phyllis was already on her feet and moving toward the back of the small building. She silently prayed that she’d find a back door.
“Actually, we’d like to have a word with you,” she heard Constable Barnes say.
But there was no back door. Moving as quietly as possible, she rushed across the expanse of the outer office and down the short hallway to a closed door.
“I’m with someone now, but do come in. The young lady and I are almost finished with our business.”
Phyllis opened the door and stepped into Graham McConnell’s office.
* * *
* * *
Betsy knew she’d made a mistake. She should have waited till Graham McConnell’s housekeeper came out to do the shopping and accidentally bumped into the woman. But instead she’d boldly walked up to the three-story white stucco building and knocked on the front door leading to McConnell’s ground-floor flat. McConnell’s middle-aged housekeeper, Mrs. Ellen Pillington, wasn’t impressed when Betsy announced she was a private inquiry agent. Truth be told, the housekeeper looked her over from head to toe, her expression one of disbelief.
“Why are you asking about him?” Ellen Pillington folded her arms over her chest and eyed Betsy with a disapproving frown. “Why is his comings and goings any of your business?”
“They’re not,” Betsy replied. “I told you, I’m a private inquiry agent, and Mr. McConnell’s name has come up in the course of an investigation we’re conducting. May I come in and speak to you?” She was tired of standing on the doorstep, and if the woman wasn’t going to cooperate, she wanted to know now so she could get back to Upper Edmonton Gardens and tell Mrs. Jeffries.
“It’s not my house and I’ve no intention of letting you inside nor answering your questions. A woman private inquiry agent . . . That’s ridiculous.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pillington, I need to get out, please.” The voice came from behind the housekeeper.
Giving Betsy one final glare, the housekeeper moved aside. “Sorry, Mrs. Walcott.”
Mrs. Walcott, an attractive black-haired matron in her mid-thirties, stepped outside, smiled at Betsy, and went down the walkway.
Mrs. Pillington slammed the door shut.
Betsy made a face at the closed door and turned. She was surprised to see Mrs. Walcott standing on the pavement, waiting for her. “Don’t mind Mrs. Pillington. She’s like that with everyone.”
“Really? She must not have many friends.” Betsy nodded politely and started to move past the woman.
“She doesn’t have anyone, that’s why she is so desperately devoted to Graham McConnell. Are you really a private inquiry agent?”
“I am,” she replied. It wasn’t really a lie: She was making inquiries and she was a private citizen. “These days there are a number of women in the profession. My employers discovered that most women are more comfortable speaking with other women rather than male agents.” She was gilding the lily a bit, but if you were going to pretend to be something you weren’t, pertinent details made the lie more believable.
“Forgive me, I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Mrs. Pillington.” She glanced at the front window and grinned. “The curtain twitched; she must be watching us. I’m going to the High Street to shop. Would you care to walk with me?”
“I’m going that way myself,” Betsy replied. She’d long ago learned to trust her instincts, and now she was certain this woman had something to tell her. She hoped it would help catch Margaret Starling’s killer. Christmas was getting close.
CHAPTER 10
Stuart led the way into the outer office, stopping short when he saw the empty chair where Arabella Morgan had been sitting. “Oh, dear, where’s she gone? There was a young lady here. She was thinking about become one of our donors.”
“Perhaps she’s gone out the back door,” Witherspoon suggested.
“It’s been boarded up for years.” He looked confused. “Could you wait here, please, I’ll just check Mr. McConnell’s office. Perhaps she felt faint or needed to . . . I don’t know. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time, Mr. Deeds,” Barnes called after him.
Inside the office, Phyllis raced to the window, silently praying she could get it open. She heard Constable Barnes and knew from his warning that she had only seconds.
Pushing the heavy curtains to one side, she put her hands underneath the top of the frame and pushed up with all her might. It opened. “Thank God,” she murmured. Her heart pounded and her mouth was suddenly dry. There were footsteps outside the door, so she swung her legs over the sill, held on to her hat, and jumped out. The window was a good four feet from the ground and she landed hard, wincing as pain shot up her legs.
From inside, she heard the office door open. “Arabella—Miss Morgan—are you in here?” He must have spotted the open window, because a second later she heard him say, “Goodness me, have you gone out the window?”
Gripping her purse and holding her hat fast on her head, she ran for it, not caring where she went as long as it was away from the open window. She dodged to one side, keeping low and praying Stuart wouldn’t stick his head out and see her. She reached the corner of the building, when she realized she was in the oldest part of the churchyard. Directly ahead, ancient headstones covered in lichen marked the burial spots of the faithful, and beyond them was a terrace leading to the side door of the church. She sprinted to the wall separating the churchyard from the road and, keeping low, raced toward the door.
Behind her, she heard what she hoped was the window slamming shut. She hugged the wall until she reached the edge of the terrace, and just as she stepped onto the cobblestones, the door opened and a man carrying a burlap sack and a broom stepped out. “Hello.” He grinned. “Havin’ a nice look around, are ya?”
“Thank you, I am,” she smiled politely, and walked past him. “It’s a lovely churchyard.” She reached the door but he didn’t budge. “May I get past, please? I’d like to go into the church.”
“Of course, miss.” He stepped out of her way. “But I’m wondering how you got in here. This door’s been locked all morning.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Phyllis was quite pleased with herself for remaining calm. “I used it only five minutes ago.”
He said nothing. He simply stared at her with an expression that said he didn’t believe a word she said. Phyllis didn’t care, even if both Stuart Deeds and this fellow told the inspector about her, all they’d be able to report was that a woman named Arabella Morgan had behaved oddly.
* * *
* * *
“Do you think that young man is a reliable witness?” Witherspoon whispered to Barnes. “He seems quite imaginative. If the back door’s been boarded up, uh, where could this young woman have disappeared?”
Barnes knew the “young woman” was either Phyllis or Betsy, so he tried to come up with an answer that sounded reasonable. He hoped whichever one it was had gotten clean away. But he didn’t want the inspector dismissing Deeds’s interview out of hand. “Perhaps the young lady was here earlier and he forgot she’d left.”
“I’m so sorry,” Stuart said when he returned. As he crossed the room, he stopped long enough to grab a rickety-looking chair from the ones placed against the wall. He put the chair next to the one in front of his desk. “You must think me mad, but I assure you there was a young lady here. I’ve no idea where she went.”
He gestured at the chairs as he went around the desk and sat down. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”
“So Mr. McConnell is at lunch?” Witherspoon asked.
“No, Inspector, he’s gone to the doctor.”
“I do hope it’s nothing serious.” The inspector sat down.
“It’s his arm, Inspector. I think it might be some sort of nasty rash, or perhaps he got it badly scratched. I saw him putting an alcohol tincture on it yesterday and it appeared very inflamed. Now, how can I help you?”
Barnes took the rickety chair and winced as it squeaked. Witherspoon gave him a fast, sympathetic glance before turning his attention to the clerk. “You know why we’re here, Mr. Deeds. We’re investigating Margaret Starling’s murder.”
“She was a nice lady. Quite opinionated sometimes but nevertheless, she always treated me decently.”
“How long have you been employed here, Mr. Deeds?” Barnes could hear the chair groaning under his weight so he braced his feet against the floor.
“Eighteen months.”
“You’re the clerk. Are you the one who keeps the financial records?” Barnes carefully pulled his notebook out of his trouser pocket but even that small movement made the chair creak.
“No, no, Mr. McConnell takes care of all the financial records. The ledger is in his office.”
“What are your responsibilities?” Witherspoon asked.
“I make sure the office is always staffed during our business hours. Mr. McConnell frequently has to be away. He does an enormous amount of fund-raising within the parish and of course the community. It’s not easy getting people to give their hard-earned money to the poor. I also handle all the correspondence, sending out the thank-you and acknowledgment letters for gifts we’ve received. I keep an inventory of everything that is donated, the clothes and fuel, sometimes food—”
Barnes interrupted: “Isn’t that what the advisory board does?”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 21