He’d paid attention as he reached this neighborhood and noted that there were half a dozen pubs and two hansom cab stands within a mile of the victim’s home. Good ground for learning interesting bits and pieces, like who may have had a reason to want the victim dead. It was too bad Smythe hadn’t been home: Between the two of them, they could cover twice as much territory as he could on his own. He reached the edge of the group of spectators in front of the house and slipped between them until he was in the center.
Wiggins looked up and studied the façade. It was a rich person’s home and was set back from the road, with a huge lawn bisected by a brick walkway leading to the front porch. The five-story redbrick house had pristine white wooden trim around all the windows. Full-grown evergreens shielded the left-hand side of the house from the street, and on the right side was a black wrought-iron gate leading to the back garden.
Wiggins stepped back as two large women, one holding a shopping basket, elbowed their way past him, blocking his view. He looked around them just as the gate opened and two policemen carrying a covered body on a stretcher emerged and moved toward the police ambulance pulled up at the curb.
“Oh, Lord, poor Mrs. Starling. I heard she laid outside all night,” the shopping basket lady said to her companion, a redheaded woman dressed in a brown-and-gold-plaid overcoat and matching hat. “Nita says she heard that the girl who raised the alarm told the police constable the poor woman’s skull was bashed in.”
“How would Nita know that?” Redhead asked.
“Because Bobby Fallon was right there waitin’ to cross the road and he heard every word the girl said. You know he runs and tells Nita everything he hears.”
“Poor Mrs. Starling. What a terrible way to die.” Redhead clucked her tongue.
Wiggins started to ask a question, but before he could open his mouth, Shopping Basket Lady added, “Maybe the killer knew she’d be alone; after all, it wasn’t any secret that they was all getting the night off. Mr. Gormley was in the pub last Saturday braggin’ to everyone who’d stand still for more than two seconds about what a generous employer he had and how they was all goin’ out to see a play in the West End.”
Redhead snorted. “Maybe she was generous to her servants, but there was plenty around that couldn’t stand the woman. Amy Maitland, she does for that vicar at St. Andrew’s—you know, the one that no one likes—and she told me that Margaret Starling and the vicar had a right old shouting match a couple of weeks ago.”
Wiggins took a step back as the two women talked. He didn’t want them realizing he was eavesdropping on their conversation, though in truth they were talking so loudly that half the people clustered there were listening and most of them weren’t bothering to hide their curiosity.
“What was they fightin’ about?” A blond-haired street lad in a green jacket and scruffy trousers asked.
“It’s rude to listen to someone else’s conversation,” Redhead snapped.
“Oh, come on, you was talkin’ loud enough to wake the dead,” the boy shot back.
“Harry Linton, I’ll not have you speak to me like that.” Redhead raised her fist and took a swipe at young Harry, who easily evaded her, laughing as he dodged toward the crowd’s edge.
“What a nasty boy,” Redhead mumbled.
“We’d best watch our tongues.” The lady with the shopping basket looked around her uneasily. “You never know who is listening. We’d not like people to think we’re gossipmongerin’.”
Well, blast a Spaniard, Wiggins thought as the crowd began to move off and disperse. The little brat’s antics had put a stop to getting any more information from this bunch.
* * *
* * *
“The dining room is here, sir,” Fanny Herald said as she escorted Inspector Witherspoon down the wide corridor to a set of double doors. Suddenly the front door knocker banged loud enough so that both Witherspoon and Fanny started in surprise.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Witherspoon asked.
“No, sir, but perhaps it’s one of your lot, sir. I’ll just nip up and see.” She went to the door and opened it, and a moment later the inspector heard her say, “Mr. McConnell, what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see Mrs. Starling. I don’t have an appointment but she told me to come by. Is there something wrong here? There’s a number of people milling about outside on the street, and a police van.”
Witherspoon hurried to the foyer, and the tweeny stepped to one side. A man with wire-rimmed spectacles, wavy brown hair riddled with gray, and a round face with a small chin stood in the doorway.
“Hello, I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. And you are . . . ?”
The man’s mouth opened in surprise but he caught himself. “I’m Graham McConnell. I’m the director of the Angel Alms Society and I’ve come to have a word with Mrs. Starling.”
Witherspoon hoped this man wasn’t a close friend. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. McConnell. Margaret Starling was murdered last night.”
McConnell gasped. “Oh, dear Lord, you can’t mean that. But I just saw her yesterday. I don’t understand. Margaret murdered? Surely there must be a mistake!”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“But that’s absurd. Who on earth would do such a thing? Was it a robbery?”
The inspector ignored the question and asked one of his own. He might as well find out as much as possible about her movements on the day she was killed. “Where did you see her yesterday?”
“At church—at St. Andrew’s Church. I spoke to her after the service and told her I’d be by this morning.”
“What was the reason you wanted to see Mrs. Starling?”
“We needed to fix a time for her committee to sort through several bags of donated clothes. This is dreadful news, Inspector, absolutely dreadful.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is a terrible shock. You knew Mrs. Starling quite well?” Witherspoon asked.
McConnell smiled sadly. “We weren’t close friends, but I’ve known her for several years now. Despite some of the controversy she’s caused, she’s been a tremendous asset to the Angel Alms Society. We shall miss her terribly. Do you have any idea who might have done this dreadful thing?”
“Controversy?”
McConnell shifted awkwardly and looked down at his feet. “I shouldn’t have made that comment, Inspector, I spoke without thinking. Margaret Starling was always—always—pushing the society to do better in serving those in need, and sometimes people got a bit impatient with her. That’s all I meant. But can you tell me, do you have any idea who might have done this?”
Witherspoon shook his head. “Not yet, but we’ll catch the killer. I’m glad to have met you, Mr. McConnell. You’re on the list of people we are going to interview.”
He drew back in surprise. “You want to speak to me?”
“We’ll be interviewing everyone in Mrs. Starling’s circle.” Witherspoon nodded politely. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on with the investigation.”
“Of course, Inspector,” McConnell stepped out onto the porch. “Good day, sir.”
* * *
* * *
Downstairs in the butler’s pantry, Constable Barnes smiled at the young woman sitting across from him. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Martha Horsham, sir. I’m the scullery maid.” She was an attractive, slender girl with brown eyes, brown hair, and a rosebud mouth.
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Starling?” he asked.
“Two years, sir.”
“And she was a good mistress?”
“She was, sir. Paid our wages properly, didn’t make us pay for our own tea and sugar, and gave us our afternoons out every week.” She blinked hard to hold back the tears. “And she always let us have a nice evening out at Christmas. That’s where we were last night.”
“I un
derstand you were the one that found Mrs. Starling, is that correct?”
“That’s right, sir, I did.” Her lips began to tremble. “I’m sorry . . . I’ve never seen a murdered body before.”
“It’s all right, Miss Horsham. Begin at the beginning and tell me what happened in your own words. Take your time.”
She dabbed at her eyes and sat up straighter. “I’m the first one down in the mornings. I come in and get the fire started in the cooker for Mrs. Adkins; she’s the cook. I’d just got the kindling lighted, when Gladstone began crying to be let out, so I went to the back door and opened it. He went running out, and as I was propping the door open so he could get back in for his breakfast, I saw the oil lamp sitting outside, so I opened the door wider and then”—she swallowed heavily, her eyes finally filling with tears—“that’s when I saw Mrs. Starling.”
“Take your time, miss.”
She swiped at her cheeks as the tears spilled out. “It took me a second or two to realize what I was seein’; I mean it was a real shock. I ran to her, thinkin’ she’d had a heart attack or something; but as I got closer, I could see she was dead.”
“You knew she was dead? How? You just said you’d never seen a dead body before?”
“No, sir, I said I’d never seen a murdered body before; I’ve seen lots of dead bodies. My uncle is an undertaker, and my mum and I help out there when he needs us.”
“My mistake, Miss Horsham.” Barnes smiled at her. “Please, go on.”
“I could tell right away that something dreadful had happened. I’ve a strong stomach, sir, but there was blood all over her clothes and the ground. So I turned and hurried back to the house. I didn’t even bother bein’ quiet; I just rushed up the stairs to Mrs. Wheaton’s room and told her that we had to send for the police, that something terrible had happened and Mrs. Starling was laying outside. I don’t think she believed me at first, but she come right down and we went outside, though, truth to tell, I stayed on the terrace. But it didn’t take her more than a moment to see what had happened, so she sent me off for the constable at the corner.”
Barnes studied the young woman. She was upset that her mistress was dead, but she had her wits about her. “How did you know that Mrs. Starling had been murdered?”
“Because, sir, the back of her head was bashed in, and when I started back to the house to get help, I saw the gardener’s heavy shovel propped up against the angel statue. The end of it was covered in blood. Well, sir, she didn’t bash herself in the head and then walk five feet over to the statue and put the shovel against it herself, did she? Seemed to me someone else must have done it. That makes it murder, doesn’t it?”
CHAPTER 2
Inspector Witherspoon put his notebook on the table and pulled out a chair. Sitting down, he surveyed the cavernous room while he waited to take a statement from Gretchen Terry, the upstairs maid.
Portraits of well-dressed men and women hung on the gold-and-white-striped walls. Opposite the dining table, which could easily accommodate twenty guests, was a marble-topped sideboard that ran the length of the room. Heavy cream-colored velvet curtains tied back with thick gold braids and topped with elaborate valances draped the two floor-to-ceiling windows. The polished parquet floors were covered in black-and-gray Persian rugs, and there were elegant filigree wall sconces placed strategically around the doors and windows. Upon arriving, the inspector had given the outside of the house only a quick glance, but now he saw the place was much bigger than he’d realized. Judging what he’d seen so far, Margaret Starling had been a very wealthy woman.
“Excuse me, sir, but Mrs. Wheaton said you wanted to speak to me.”
Inspector Witherspoon turned and saw a young housemaid standing in the doorway. Her hands were clutched together and her expression apprehensive. She was a slender girl with even features and dark blonde hair beneath her maid’s cap.
“I do.” He smiled as he waved her over, pointing to the empty seat to his right. “Please don’t be nervous. We’re going to be taking statements from everyone in the house. You’re Miss Terry?”
“I am, sir,” she stared at the dining chair that the inspector had pointed at and hesitated briefly before sitting down. “Sorry, sir, but I’ve never sat in the dining room. It feels strange.”
“Yes, I’m sure it must. Now, first of all, Miss Terry, how long have you worked for Mrs. Starling?” He opened the notebook and took a pencil out of his breast coat pocket.
“Three years, sir.”
“I understand you and the others were gone last night.”
The maid nodded. “We were, sir, it was our annual night out. Mrs. Starling did it every year, and when we got home, no one thought to have a look in to make sure Mistress was all right.”
“What time did you arrive home?”
“It was eleven. I know because I heard the bell from the carriage clock in the little sitting room striking the hour.”
“And you went straight up to bed, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir . . . well, all of us did but Mrs. Wheaton. She went down to the kitchen to make sure Gladstone was safely inside. He’d been missing all day.”
“Gladstone? Oh, yes, the cat.”
“Right, sir. usually he has the run of the place, but he’s taken to slipping out and disappearing, so Mistress ordered us to keep the downstairs window closed and make sure he was inside at night.”
“And I take it he was in?”
She laughed uneasily. “Yes, sir. I overheard Mrs. Wheaton telling Cook all was well and that Gladstone was prowling the hall with his ears pinned back and his tail twitching. He gets like that sometimes when he’s thwarted. Mistress spoiled him, so he’s used to getting what he wants.”
Witherspoon noticed she’d relaxed a bit, so he decided more direct questions were in order. “When you came home last night, did you notice anyone in the immediate vicinity?”
“Truth to tell, sir, I was crammed in the middle between Mrs. Adkins and Martha, but even if I had been able to see, Mrs. Wheaton had closed the shades on the windows because of the cold. When the carriage pulled up in front of the house, it was too dark to see anything except the two brass lamps on the front porch.”
“That’s understandable,” he murmured. “Let’s try this another way. Yesterday during the day, did you notice anyone odd or suspicious near the house?”
“I was outside only once, sir. Cook asked me to post a letter for her and I took it to the post box on the corner. But I don’t remember seeing anyone except Mrs. Hinckley from across the road, and she was just getting into a hansom cab.”
“To your knowledge, did Mrs. Starling have any enemies— anyone she’d recently had a disagreement or a conflict with?”
Surprised, Gretchen’s brown eyes widened. “Uh, it doesn’t feel right speakin’ ill of the dead, sir. Mrs. Starling was a good mistress, treated all of us decent.”
“Then you should want her killer caught,” he said softly. “The more we know about who may have been angry or upset with Mrs. Starling, the easier it might be for us to catch her assailant.”
“I know, sir, but if I tell you, you’ll think she was mean and quarrelsome, and she wasn’t; it was just that lately she started acting strange.”
“Strange?” he repeated. “In what way?”
“In several ways, sir.”
* * *
* * *
Miles away, at the headquarters of Scotland Yard, Inspector Nigel Nivens stood rigidly at attention in front of Chief Superintendent Barrows. “Is that your final word on the matter?”
Barrows considered his answer carefully. He was Nivens’ superior officer in the Metropolitan Police Force, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew this inspector wasn’t one of the usual rank-and-file coppers. Nivens had powerful family members and important friends who could make life miserable for a policeman, even one at his high level. “Inspector
Nivens, I understand your disappointment in being taken off the case, but the instructions to hand the matter over to Inspector Witherspoon came from the very highest levels.”
“May I ask who gave those orders?” Nivens struggled to bring himself under control. He could feel the heat rising on his cheeks, and his hands itched to pound the edge of the chief superintendent’s desk. He sucked in a quiet, deep breath and forced his fingers to relax.
“No, you may not. I was told to keep his intervention confidential and I intend to do so. Please, Inspector Nivens, do calm yourself. I can assure you, this is no reflection upon your abilities as a police officer.”
“Of course it is.” Nivens couldn’t stop himself. “The only reason I’m to be taken off the case is because someone very powerful thinks I’m not up to the task.”
“Don’t be absurd. You’ve a fine record,” Barrows said. “It’s simply that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon has solved more homicides than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Po—”
“That’s only because he has help on all his cases. Why can’t you understand? I’ve told you time and time again, Gerald Witherspoon wouldn’t have been able to solve any of those cases without assistance. His entire household and a number of other people—”
“That’s ridiculous.” Barrows didn’t like being interrupted. “I’ve heard this nonsense from you before, Inspector. Frankly, it’s most unbecoming. Even without Witherspoon’s excellent record of homicide solutions, he’d still be considered a fine officer.”
“Fine officer!” Nivens yelled. “He was in the ruddy records room before he got lucky and solved those horrible Kensington High Street murders.”
“Nonetheless, since then he’s become an excellent detective as well as a good officer.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 3
