Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “I’ll explain in just one moment, sir.” He turned to McConnell. “Graham McConnell, you’re under arrest for the murder of Margaret Starling and the attempted murder of Stuart Deeds. Take him to the station, Constables, and be sure to put a bandage on his wound. Constable Barnes and I will be there shortly.”

  “Who hit me?” McConnell muttered as they led him toward the door. “What happened to that other man? Where’d he . . . oh, God, my head hurts.”

  Pringle turned to his employer. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll put a poultice on my leg before I clear up.”

  Biddlington smiled at his butler. “Don’t wowwy about tidying up; we’ll do that when the police aah gone. I’m so sowwy you wuh huwt.”

  “Not your fault, sir,” Pringle said as he disappeared up the corridor.

  “This must be very confusing for you,” Witherspoon said to Nelson.

  “It is quite stawtling, suh, but I think I unduhstand some of it. Margaret Stawling was my client and my fwiend. She bwought a package and left it faw me but I haven’t opened it as yet.”

  “Can we open it now, Mr. Biddlington? I think that package may contain vital evidence.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Jeffries resumed pacing. “Are you certain that Luty and Hatchet weren’t harmed?”

  “They’re fine,” Smythe assured her for the third time. “Wiggins saw them coming out of Biddlington’s back garden.”

  “They’re on the way ’ere,” Wiggins added. “I just got ’ere quicker; they’ll be ’ere any minute.”

  “I’ll do a fresh pot of tea, and when they arrive, Mrs. Jeffries can tell us how she figured it out,” Phyllis got up and grabbed the teakettle.

  By the time the tea was made, Luty and Hatchet were at the table. They took turns telling the others about the events at the Biddlington house. “You shoulda seen Hatchet.” Luty grinned at him. “He snuck right up behind McConnell and whacked him with a poker.”

  “Madam had grabbed a glass globe, but I was concerned it was too unwieldy to be effective as a weapon. The poker was far more useful in stopping Mr. McConnell’s rampage.”

  “I’m glad he isn’t dead,” Ruth added. “Justice needs to run its course and I’ve a feeling that it would have haunted you to take a human life.”

  “That’s true,” Hatchet agreed. “Now, Mrs. Jeffries, tell us how you figured it out.”

  “There were two things that kept bothering me. One was the note of warning found in Mrs. Starling’s letterbox—it was written on a typewriter—and the other thing was the handwriting. I couldn’t account for either of those factors when I was considering Nesbitt’s, Redstone’s, or even Mrs. Huxton’s motives.”

  “Whose handwriting?” Phyllis asked, her expression curious. “The only mention of handwriting was Mrs. Huxton claiming hers was so ordinary that even if she’d not destroyed that nasty letter she wrote, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “True, but remember what else she said. She told the inspector that Graham McConnell’s penmanship was so elaborate, it was unreadable. That fact simply wouldn’t go away. I kept asking myself why someone would use a typewriter to write a short note; we’ve all played about with one of them—”

  “I haven’t,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Sorry, go on.”

  “As I was saying, most of us have played about with one, and they’re very difficult to operate. So why would anyone type rather than write?”

  “Because their handwriting was distinctive.” Phyllis nodded. “That makes sense.” She looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “That was the only thing that made you realize who had killed her?”

  “That is what got me to take a closer look at him. It was a very confusing case, but there were several things that kept bothering me. From the very beginning, we knew Margaret Starling was concerned with the society’s finances. But that fact was overshadowed by her conflicts with so many people. It suddenly occurred to me that someone might have wanted to take advantage of that situation—someone who didn’t want the police looking in their direction.”

  “By ‘someone,’ you mean Graham McConnell,” Hatchet said. “How did he do it?”

  “I think he was the one who typed the note to her—the one that told her the vicar had betrayed her confidence.”

  “Is that why you had me ask Stuart Deeds all those questions?” Phyllis asked. “Because he’d already told me that he thought someone had been messing up his desk.”

  “That’s right, and once you got him talking, he told you about McConnell essentially using him as a spy. He told McConnell everything he overheard.”

  “But it was the note that caused the quarrel with Pontefract,” Mrs. Goodge observed. “One loud enough so that everyone heard it.”

  “That’s right. Pontefract had only shown the note to the board, and he was certain that none of the members had told Margaret they’d seen it. None of them wanted to agitate her any more than she already was.” Mrs. Jeffries took a quick sip of tea. “He made sure Pontefract’s own behavior made him a suspect.”

  “He’s an embezzler, isn’t he?” Ruth said.

  “I’m sure that was his motive,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “I think once the inspector sees the second ledger, the one Mrs. Starling took to Nelson Biddlington, we’ll find that he’s been stealing from the moment he arrived at the Angel Alms Society.”

  “They made it dead easy for ’im,” Wiggins muttered. “One of the board members told Mrs. Starling that thirty percent of their donations was notes or coin.”

  “Yes, and because Stuart was passing along the information he overheard after the meetings, McConnell began to suspect that Margaret was aware of his scheme.”

  “He also had Fanny Herald,” Wiggins pointed out. “That’s why ’e was so keen to walk ’er ’ome after Evensong services.”

  “I believe that’s one of the reasons she’s been so upset,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

  “You think she’d started to suspect him?”

  “Yes, and that, paired with the worry about being unemployed, probably sent the poor girl half-mad.” She took another sip. “McConnell had been to the Starling house many times. He knew where the back door key was kept. He stole it one of those times when he walked Fanny home. She was quite useful to him. He also would have known the shovel was kept in the garden shed. It was dark when the murder was committed, and I think he was the one who struck a match, grabbed the shovel, and, without thinking, dropped the match on the floor. Another thing that bothered me was the clothes. First of all, only McConnell had seen the three bags of clothing that he wanted Mrs. Starling’s committee to go through. But the clothes were never there. No one else—not the verger, the vicar, or the clerk—saw those items. McConnell mentioned them because he needed an excuse for speaking to Mrs. Starling as she hurried to confront the vicar the day after he’d dropped off the note in her mailbox and he used them as an excuse for going to the Starling house on the morning her body was found.”

  “Why did he do that?” Luty asked. “Seems to me he shoulda stayed as far away as he could.”

  “I think he was desperate to know what was happening,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “He’s one of those people that likes to keep control over everything. What’s more, I’m sure he took the coat out of the closet, the one that Stuart said the vicar wanted to give to a street person. I think McConnell took it to wear when he committed the murder to keep the blood off his own clothes.”

  “He thought of everything, didn’t he,” Phyllis murmured.

  “What I don’t understand is how he got Mrs. Starling to come out of the house that night,” Betsy said.

  “The cat. It had been missing all day. He took it to lure Mrs. Starling out that night—a night he knew the servants were gone.”

  “That’s what Mr. and Mrs. Walcott heard all day: He had the cat in his flat and it kept crying,” Betsy realized
. “That’s why he gave his housekeeper the day off. He didn’t want her to know.”

  “My theory is that he took the cat back, did something to make it cry, and when she came out, he killed her. McConnell then put the cat back in the house, locked the door, and walked away.”

  “Why put the cat back inside?” Luty asked. “I don’t git that.”

  “He did it to keep the servants from going out and looking for it. Mrs. Starling loved the cat, and if it hadn’t been in when they came back from the theater, he was afraid one of them might go outside to look for it. But his stealing the key had two purposes: one, to lock the door from the outside, and two, to make sure the servants had to come in the front door, not the back. He didn’t want her found too quickly. Of course, what he didn’t realize was that there were consequences to kicking the cat. According to what Stuart told the inspector, McConnell’s arm was so badly scratched he had to go to a doctor for treatment.”

  “Good. I’m glad that Gladstone defended his mistress.” Mrs. Goodge smiled at Samson, who was sitting in the doorway.

  They discussed the case for another hour, going over all the details and seeing how neatly they fit.

  Ruth got to her feet. “I do wish I could be here when Gerald comes home, but I’ve some guests coming tonight for supper, so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to hear what he has to say about it.”

  “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve,” Luty reminded her. “You’re all comin’ to my place for afternoon tea. We’ll get an earful then.”

  “Then it’s here for Christmas Eve dinner. We’ve a lot of celebratin’ to do,” Mrs. Goodge announced. “And as I predicted”—she poked Mrs. Jeffries lightly on the arm—“my feelings were right and you did solve it just in time.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The inspector arrived home just before five o’clock. “We did it, Mrs. Jeffries.” He handed her his bowler. “We arrested Margaret Starling’s killer.”

  “Who was it, sir?” she asked as she hung up his garments.

  “I’ll tell you over a glass of sherry. Come along, I want to celebrate. This has been a very, very hard case.”

  A few minutes later she handed him his glass and took her seat. “Now, you mustn’t keep me in suspense, sir. Who did you arrest?”

  “Graham McConnell. We arrested him at the home of Margaret Starling’s solicitor, Nelson Biddlington. He’d gone there to retrieve a package she’d taken to Biddlington for safekeeping. He confessed to murdering her.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “She found out he’d been embezzling from the Angel Alms Society. That’s why he went to the Biddlington house: He wanted to get back the items Margaret Starling found hidden in the storage room. He used it as a hiding place and she must have seen him.”

  “Was it evidence of his embezzling?” She knew it had to be the second set of books.

  “It was evidence of a sort. It was a box of money, five-pound notes and gold sovereigns.”

  She couldn’t believe it. “Only money? That was all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” He looked at her curiously.

  “Of course, sir. I’m just surprised there wasn’t a ledger or something like that. Why would Margaret Starling take a box of money to her solicitor? Doesn’t there have to be something in it that links McConnell to the embezzlement in order for it to be evidence?”

  “There were the gold sovereigns, which we found out were sent by Mrs. Madrigal, but we don’t really even need her to testify when the case goes to court. He confessed.” He told her everything that happened. She listened carefully, occasionally asking a question or making a comment. But basically he covered very much the same ground as she had only a few hours earlier. Knowing that Constable Barnes was responsible for nudging the inspector down the right path, she made a mental note to thank him for his efforts.

  When he finished, she said, “Gracious, sir, this was such a complicated case, but you solved it in the end. I knew you could.” She was starting to have doubts about her own abilities. How could she have been so wrong about the second ledger? Still, she’d been right about most of it.

  He smiled proudly. “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries. I’m just happy that we’ll be able to celebrate Christmas properly. Is the tree still coming tomorrow?”

  “Yes, and everyone is very excited about that and the tea party at Luty’s house. Would you care for another sherry, sir?”

  “Not tonight, I think I’ll take Fred for a walk and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet. I think I’ve earned it.”

  January Tenth

  Chief Superintendent Barrows’ office

  “Good morning, sir.” Inspector Nivens greeted his superior with a polite nod and a smile.

  The chief didn’t return his greeting or his smile. “Inspector Nivens, have you any idea why I’ve asked to see you?”

  Nivens knew but he wasn’t going admit to it. “None whatsoever, sir.”

  Barrows pointed to an open file on his desk. “This is a complaint against you. It was filed by another officer and it accuses you of deliberately interfering in a homicide investigation.”

  “I take it the charge was filed by Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.”

  “That’s correct. You understand that in all his years on the force, Witherspoon has never filed a complaint against a fellow officer?”

  “I have a right to challenge the accusations,” Nivens said. “And I intend to do so.”

  “You have that right.” Barrows pulled a thin stack of papers from beneath the folder. “But before you consider that course of action I must tell you that we’ve verified Witherspoon’s charges with six officers from the Upper Richmond Road. These are their statements.”

  “So taking this any further would be pointless,” Nivens snorted faintly. “So even though I’ve been an exemplary officer, I’m to be sacked?”

  “You deliberately tried to hobble a murder case,” Barrows snapped. “What did you think was going to happen if you got caught?”

  “I didn’t expect my own men to be such turncoats.”

  “Your men neither like you nor do they respect you. Don’t you understand that?” Barrows caught himself. “In the normal course of events, yes, you’d be sacked. But we both know you have some powerful friends, or at least your mother has powerful friends. Apparently she’s prevailed upon some of them to intervene in this matter on your behalf. You’ll still be a member of Metropolitan Police Force.”

  “Will I be able to keep my rank?”

  “You’ll still be an inspector, but you’ll no longer be assigned to the Upper Richmond Road Police Station.” Barrows allowed himself a smile. “I’m sending you to the East End.”

  “Where in the East End?” Nivens asked, but he already knew Barrows was going to send him to the nastiest and most miserable part of town he could find.

  “Whitechapel. I think you’ll do very well there. Think of it as a late Christmas gift.”

  About the Author

  Emily Brightwell is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-eight Inspector Witherspoon and Mrs. Jeffries books. Visit her website at emilybrightwell.com.

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