“We work together,” he explained. “Especially with the clothing, when the items arrive, I make a general entry in my ledger; it’s just a basic description, something like ‘Two hatboxes donated today.’ Then the ladies go through the individual items to see what needs to be repaired, and then I make a more specific notation in the ledger.”
Barnes stopped writing. “I don’t understand. Why two notations?”
“It’s easier to keep track of everything that way.” He leaned to one side and opened a drawer. Taking out a thick ledger, he pulled it open and slid it across so that both policemen could see. He pointed to an entry. “Here, on December twelfth, I’ve written, ‘One carpetbag.’ Then beneath it I’ve written, ‘Six white handkerchiefs, three ladies’ blouses, one navy-blue boy’s overcoat.’ Those items are what we found in the carpet bag, but as you can see, there’s no notation that any of them needed to be repaired.”
“Mr. McConnell informed us you’ve recently had three bags of clothing donated,” Barnes said, “and he wanted Mrs. Starling’s committee to come and sort through them. Is that correct?”
Stuart shifted in his seat, looked down at the ledger for a few seconds, and sighed heavily. “Honestly, Constable, I’ve no idea what Mr. McConnell is talking about. As you can see from the ledger, there’s nothing recorded after December twelfth. If those bags were here in this office, I’d have written it in the ledger.”
“Then why did Mr. McConnell tell us he’d stopped in to see Mrs. Starling on Monday because he wanted to fix a time for her committee to sort through them?” the inspector asked. He’d finally realized what Barnes was doing.
“I don’t know,” Deeds admitted glumly. “To be honest, I’m worried that they were here and someone stole them. It’s not like Mr. McConnell to make mistakes.”
“Why don’t you just ask him about it?” The constable inched his feet farther apart as a distinct creaking noise came from one of the chair legs.
“Mr. McConnell doesn’t like people questioning what he says; he’s one of those people that think their word is law.” Stuart shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons he got so annoyed when Mrs. Starling began making inquiries about the society’s finances. He got so angry about it, he insisted that after every meeting I hang back and pretend to be tidying up so I could report back to him who she’d talked to and exactly what she’d said to them.”
“He directed you to spy on Mrs. Starling?” Witherspoon clarified.
Panic flashed across the clerk’s face, as if he knew he’d said too much. “Well, I’d not characterize it like that. He is the general manager. He had a right to know what she was up to.”
* * *
* * *
“You can give me the message.” Constable Griffiths stared at Forman. They were standing outside the Starling home and he and Constable Quinn had just finished the second round of interviews with the Starling servants. He’d noticed that when Forman approached them, claiming he had an important message for the inspector, Constable Quinn snorted and looked at him with undisguised disgust. “We’ll be meeting Inspector Witherspoon soon and I’ll pass it along to him.”
“Right, then.” Forman cleared his throat. “Tell Inspector Witherspoon that if he needs more men, Inspector Nivens will be glad to accommodate him.”
“That’s it?” Griffiths stared at him in disbelief. “We should have already had what we need to work this murder. So you’re telling me that Inspector Nivens is just now doing his duty?”
Beside him, Constable Quinn, a brown-haired, fair-skinned lad with a face full of freckles, snickered.
Forman gave him an ugly glare. “Inspector Nivens has done his duty. There’s more than just the Starling murder to investigate. He can’t let all our officers go to Inspector Witherspoon.”
“That’s news to me!” Constable Quinn exclaimed. “Other than the Lincoln robbery, a couple of knockabouts, and two petty thefts, it’s been quiet the past week.”
“That’s not true,” Forman retorted, but then his shoulders sagged. “Look, I’m just the messenger. I don’t know what’s goin’ on; I just do what Inspector Nivens tells me.”
“And it doesn’t matter to you if what he’s doin’ is wrong,” Quinn charged. “You’re a policeman—you know what’s right, and from what I hear, he’s got you doin’ lots that’s wrong.”
“I just wanted to get a leg up,” Forman muttered. “I didn’t know Inspector Nivens was going to actually try to hobble Inspector Witherspoon’s investigation. I thought he was just bein’ a bit stroppy because he was annoyed at losing the case himself. But now I’m in it up to my ears and I don’t know what to do. If I don’t do as Inspector Nivens tells me, he’ll come after me.”
“What exactly did he ask you to do?” Griffiths asked. He wanted to hear it from Forman. He knew what had been going on at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station, because Quinn as well as half a dozen other constables had been dropping hints for days now. As much as Griffiths and the rest of the rank and file might dislike Nivens, he felt a surge of sympathy for the pale-faced, frightened-looking Forman.
“He, uh, he asked me to go to Scotland Yard to try and find out exactly what Inspector Witherspoon had said in his complaint. He also asked me to find out who had passed the postmortem report to the inspector and now he wants me to find out where Inspector Witherspoon and the constable are right now and keep an eye on them. I’m to tell him what they’re doing and if it looks like the inspector is getting ready to make an arrest.”
“So Inspector Nivens has deliberately interfered in this investigation. Forman, you need to go to Scotland Yard and see Chief Superintendent Barrows. Tell him everything you know.”
Forman’s eyes widened and he drew back. “Are you mad? If I do that, Nivens will have my guts for garters. His family and friends will see to it that nothing happens to his career, but mine will be over right quick.”
“If you don’t do it,” Griffiths said calmly, “you’ll be in even worse trouble, I can assure you of that.”
* * *
* * *
“Lady Cannonberry, I’m so delighted to meet you.” Janet Madrigal’s round, pudgy face was flushed with pleasure. She was an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair styled in old-fashioned sausage curls and wearing a crimson-and-gold-striped dress with puffed sleeves.
“Forgive me for barging in like this without so much as a calling card or a note, but I’m on a rather important errand and I’m hoping you can help me.” Ruth had spent the train journey there coming up with a plan to find out what Mrs. Jeffries had asked her to do. But in the end she’d realized that sticking closely to the truth might be the best way. Not that she was going to be completely honest. She’d decided Gerald’s name wasn’t going to be mentioned.
“Not at all, Lady Cannonberry. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.” She led the way into the drawing room.
The walls were papered with bright coral cabbage roses on a pale green background; a huge mirror in an elaborate gold frame was over the fireplace; and a wooden ivory-colored fire screen painted with intertwined coral and pink cabbage roses stood in front of the hearth. Overhead, a chandelier with bell-shaped ivory lamps blazed with light.
Mrs. Madrigal gestured at the couch. “Please sit down and make yourself comfortable. Would you care for tea or perhaps coffee?”
“No, thank you. Please don’t go to any trouble; as I said, I feel very badly for interrupting your day.” Ruth sat down.
“Lady Cannonberry, please stop apologizing. I had nothing important planned for today. Now, my housekeeper said you wished to speak to me about Margaret Starling?” She sat down on a chair opposite Ruth.
“That’s correct.”
“Dreadful tragedy . . . absolutely dreadful.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what the world is coming to: Nowadays a woman isn’t even safe in her own back garden. Were you a friend of Mrs. Starling’s?”
“No, I never met her, but she was a highly regarded and respected member of a group I’m also involved with. Several of our members have asked me to come and speak to you about a very delicate matter.”
“What’s the name of this group?”
“It’s the London Women’s Suffrage Society; we’re part of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies. Margaret was a member of the Putney/Wandsworth branch.”
Mrs. Madrigal regarded her steadily, and Ruth was afraid she’d made a mistake. Not all females believed in women’s rights.
“She was also a member of the Angel Alms Society,” Mrs. Madrigal said softly. “As was I when I lived in London. But I’ve nothing to do with her other interests. Don’t misunderstand: I believe in women’s rights as much as the next person; I’m simply confused as to why you’ve come here.”
Ruth drew a deep breath. This was the difficult part. “I’ll admit it must seem odd, but our group wants to make certain that the person who murdered Mrs. Starling is caught and punished.”
“As do I”—Mrs. Madrigal nodded in agreement—“but isn’t that up to the police?”
“Absolutely. We’re certainly not trying to do any investigating on our own, but I did learn something that might be pertinent. Unfortunately, when I told a policeman at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station what I’d heard, he was very dismissive and essentially told me to mind my own business. I’m not going to do that. Mrs. Starling deserves better.”
“Everyone deserves better than being murdered,” Mrs. Madrigal concurred, nodding. “But even if I can answer your questions, what makes you think the police will listen to you then?”
“Because I’ve found out they’ve put another policeman in charge and I’ve heard that, unlike the man I spoke with, this policeman listens to members of the public who come forward. If you can answer my questions, the information I have to give could be very helpful in catching the killer.”
“All right. Then go ahead and ask.”
* * *
* * *
As arranged, Constable Griffiths and Constable Evans, along with the Upper Richmond Road lads, met up with Witherspoon and Barnes in a café on the Upper Richmond Road.
The inspector waited till everyone had a cup of tea and a bun before he spoke. “How did it go this morning?” Witherspoon directed his question at Constable Evans. He’d sent him and Constable Firth to the hansom cab shelters to question the drivers as well as to all the pubs along the Upper Richmond Road.
“One of the hansom cab drivers told us that he’d taken a cleric to the Starling home on the night of the murder, but you already knew that. None of the other drivers reported taking anyone else near the house. We did a bit better with the pubs. Merton Nesbitt was at the Three Swans on Sunday night. He was there from half past eight to closing at eleven o’clock.”
“So that probably eliminates him,” Witherspoon said. “The PM report estimated the time of death as between nine and eleven.”
“I’d not let him off just yet, sir,” Barnes said. “Even the doctors admit that it’s impossible to be accurate in determining when someone was killed. Nesbitt could have done it before he went to the pub.”
“That’s true.” Witherspoon turned his attention to Constable Griffiths. “Did you learn any additional information from the servants?”
“Not really, sir. No one said anything more than was written in your initial report. But Constable Quinn and I haven’t compared notes.”
“Constable Quinn, what did you find out and, more important, what was your impression of the household?”
Quinn’s mouth gaped open in shock. “Find out, sir? I was going to include it in my report, sir. I was going to write it up for you; that’s what Inspector Nivens has us do.”
Griffiths chuckled. “Inspector Witherspoon thinks all policemen, regardless of their rank, have eyes, ears, and brains. He expects us to use them. Now, stop looking like a surprised squirrel and answer the question.”
Quinn licked his lips. “Well, sir, the young lady I spoke with, a maid named Louise Rector, told me that she knew when the back door key went missing. She said it was November twenty-fourth; she remembered because it was her birthday and Mrs. Starling had given her permission to go out that evening with her family. She said when she went to grab the key so she could get back inside, it was gone.”
“Why didn’t she tell anyone?” Barnes demanded.
“She didn’t want to get another maid into trouble—a girl named Fanny Herald. She’s the tweeny, and apparently Mr. McConnell from the alms society had escorted her home from Evensong service that night. He walked Fanny all the way to the back door and lingered for a good ten minutes, chattin’ with Miss Herald. Mrs. Starling was a good mistress, but like most mistresses she felt responsible for the morals of her female servants. She wouldn’t have approved of Fanny staying outside and talking with McConnell. She would have expected the girl to come straight inside when she got home.”
“It would have been useful if she’d told me this when I spoke with her,” Witherspoon muttered.
“She told me she hadn’t thought much of it until recently. She said this Miss Herald’s acting strange, really upset, and crying at the drop of a hat. She thinks the girl might know more than she lets on.”
“You were going to put all this in a written report?” Barnes cried. “You should have told us this right away!”
“Now, now, Constable Barnes,” Witherspoon soothed. “We mustn’t blame the constable for following his station’s procedures.”
“I don’t, sir. I blame someone else,” Barnes said softly. “And we both know who it is.”
“Yes, well, we’ll deal with that at a later time. Does anyone else have anything to report?” No one did, so Witherspoon gave the constables their assignments for the afternoon, sending Griffiths and Quinn out to interview more locals, while Constable Evans and Constable Firth were told to have a chat with Edgar Redstone. “Make sure Mr. Redstone understands we know he lied to us when he claimed to be home on the night of the murder.”
Then they finished their tea and left.
“I’d like a quick word with you, Constable,” Griffiths said to Barnes as they stepped outside. “It’s just a small matter about the paperwork going to Ladbroke Road.”
“I’ll meet you at the corner,” Witherspoon told his constable. “We’ll take a hansom to the alms society. I think it’s going to rain. I do hope Mr. McConnell is available. I’ve a lot of questions for him.”
As soon as the inspector was out of earshot, Quinn made himself scarce while Griffiths told Barnes about their encounter with Forman. “So I sent him to see the chief superintendent. I hope that was all right.”
“It was,” Barnes assured him. “And I’ll make sure our inspector follows through on his threat to write a full report about Nivens’ conduct. That man has no right to call himself a police officer.”
* * *
* * *
Mrs. Jeffries paced as she waited for the others to arrive for their afternoon meeting.
“You’re going to wear a hole in floor if you don’t sit down.” The cook put a plate of brown bread on the table next to the big teapot. “Don’t worry, they’ll be here any minute.”
“I know, I know. I’m just a bit apprehensive. I gave them all such difficult tasks, and I’m worried that I’m wrong.”
“You’re always worried that you’re wrong”—Mrs. Goodge took her seat—“but you’re not. I’ve had one of my feelings, so stop your fretting.”
“I wish they’d all get here.”
“They’ll be here within the next five minutes, you mark my words.”
The cook was almost right: Everyone except Phyllis was at the table within the interval Mrs. Goodge had predicted.
Phyllis came rushing in two minutes later, her cheeks were flushed; a long strand of hair had sl
ipped out of her topknot and she was out of breath. “I’m sorry I’m so late, but I had to leap out a window.”
“A window?” Wiggins got up. “Are you all right? Did you get hurt?”
“I’m fine; it’s just it was quite an odd experience.” Phyllis started to giggle. “I’m sorry, I can’t believe I did it. But I managed to get there, find out what we needed, and then get away without being caught by the inspector.”
“Your day sounds more exciting than mine, though, all in all, mine was interesting as well. Mind you, I didn’t need to leap out a window.” Betsy poured a cup of tea and set it in front of Phyllis’s chair. “Come have some tea and catch your breath.”
Phyllis sat down. Wiggins took his seat as well. “Cor blimey, my day was strange, too. There must be somethin’ in the Christmas air.”
“I’ll go first, then,” Hatchet offered. “My report won’t take very long. It took most of the day, but I found that the Angel Alms Society uses the London and Southwestern Bank; it’s on the Putney High Street. But what took so long was that I also discovered another little tidbit.” He paused and took a sip of his tea.
Luty gave him a disgruntled look. “Stop bein’ so melodramatic and tell us what you found out.”
Hatchet chuckled. “I found out that Graham McConnell has a bank account in Southampton.”
“The bank here in London told you that?” Luty retorted.
“Don’t be absurd, madam. You know how bankers are. They keep their mouths shut as tightly as their vaults. However, bank clerks who make very little money can easily be persuaded to part with information.”
Luty laughed. “You had to bribe a bank clerk, didn’t ya?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I did. We’re running out of time. Tomorrow is the twenty-third.”
“How did a clerk here in London know about McConnell’s bank account in Southampton?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“He found out accidentally. Apparently, McConnell handed over the wrong bankbook when he was making an alms society deposit. Both bankbooks apparently have the same cover. The clerk gave it back but not before he’d noticed the name of the bank. It was the Southampton and Portsmouth Bank.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 22