Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “That doesn’t seem to make much sense,” she agreed. Still, she’d give this matter some thought precisely because it was so very strange. “You got much accomplished today.”

  “Yes, but we’ve so much more to do. It took ages just to interview Mrs. Starling’s servants and search the pertinent areas of the house where she kept her business and personal correspondence. Luckily, we found her appointment diary and a very intriguing note.”

  “A note?”

  “Indeed.” He told her about finding the envelope in Margaret Starling’s writing box. “The way her name was printed made one think it had been written by a ten-year-old practicing his letters, but when we opened it, the note inside was even more surprising.”

  “What did it say?”

  “As well as I recall, it read something like this:

  “‘Dear Mrs. Starling,

  “‘You should know that your good character has become a slanderous topic of discussion amongst those who previously held you in high regard. Someone you trusted has shown an anonymous letter accusing you of senility, drunkenness, and a host of other character defects to the Board of Governors of the Angel Alms Society.

  “‘Sincerely,

  “‘A Friend

  “‘P.S. Be careful whom you trust.’”

  The content of the note was surprising, but even more surprising was that it had been written on a typewriter.

  “A typewriter?” she repeated. “Goodness, that’s quite unusual.”

  “I thought so at first, but then I realized that typewriter machines are far more common than they were even five years ago.”

  “That’s true,” she murmured. “On your last really big case, Pierce and Son used typewriters for all their correspondence and invoices.”

  “As do most of the law firms here in London. We live in a modern world, Mrs. Jeffries, and from what I’ve seen, when a new, more efficient method of doing something comes along, it’s adopted very quickly.”

  “I agree, sir, but I’m sure you’ve asked yourself this already: Why would someone bother to use a typewriter? They might be more common, but using one requires a certain level of skill, doesn’t it?”

  “Only if the operator wishes to type fast. Otherwise, anyone can use one.” He grinned. “Truth to tell, I’ve played about with one a time or two, and all you need do is use your fingers to hit the keys.” He stuck out his two index fingers and imitated striking the keys.

  “Yes, I have as well; they had one on display at the Women’s Institute. Where is the note now, sir?” She hoped it wasn’t at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station. She’d not put it past Nivens to destroy any and all evidence Inspector Witherspoon found.

  “Constable Barnes took it to Ladbroke Road.” Witherspoon took a sip of his sherry. “He was going there anyway, and he said he’d noticed the evidence closet at Upper Richmond Road had a broken lock and that the note would be more secure at our station.”

  Mrs. Jeffries silently sighed in relief. No doubt Constable Barnes had come to the same conclusion and realized evidence would be safer somewhere Nivens wasn’t in command. “I’m sure it will be, sir. How long did it take you to search the house?”

  “We didn’t have enough men to go over the whole house. The place is enormous, but according to the housekeeper Mrs. Starling kept all her important documents and correspondence in her study, so that’s where we concentrated our efforts. However, to be on the safe side, Constable Barnes and I searched her room as well. There was nothing of interest there. Unfortunately, it was so late by the time we’d completed those tasks that we didn’t have time to speak to Mrs. Huxton.”

  “That’s the neighbor she was suing?” Mrs. Jeffries knew who she was, but again, it was important to feign ignorance.

  “That’s right.” He tipped back his glass and drained it. “Let’s have another one, shall we? I’ve not told you the worst of it yet.”

  “Of course, sir.” She smiled serenely, poured him another one, and topped hers off. She was fairly sure she knew what he was going to tell her and was equally certain that was the reason for his second drink.

  “Here you are, sir. Now, what’s the worst of it?”

  “As I said before, this case isn’t in my district. But orders are orders, and Chief Superintendent Barrows sent me in to handle it. Unfortunately, the case should have been handled by the duty inspector at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station, and the duty inspector is Nigel Nivens. I’m afraid he’s going to be very upset about it as well.”

  “But as you said, sir, it’s not your fault that you were given the murder,” she said softly. “Surely Inspector Nivens will understand you had no choice.” She forced herself to say the words for the inspector’s peace of mind, but she knew it was a lie. Nivens would do everything in his power to undermine the investigation.

  “I was going to speak to him myself, but when we stopped in at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station, he’d gone for the day.” Witherspoon frowned. “Mind you, his being gone was a bit annoying, as I wanted to make arrangements to get the local constables to question the neighbors.”

  “Of course, sir. You’ve found out really useful information on many of your previous cases because someone in the neighborhood saw or heard something important,” she agreed.

  Her mind was working furiously. She was sure that Nivens had deliberately absented himself from the station. He knew Witherspoon would need help from the local lads.

  “Indeed I have, and that’s why it’s necessary to have the local constables help out and knock on a few doors,” he took another sip. “But not to worry; perhaps I’m making too much of Nivens’ absence this afternoon. I’m sure once I have a moment to speak to him we’ll sort it out in no time.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning Constable Barnes made sure he had a word with Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge when he stopped in to get the inspector. When the constable had first realized that the inspector was obtaining information on his cases from an unknown informant, he’d been annoyed. But then he’d noticed the bits and pieces Witherspoon had picked up were very, very useful and, more important, that they were coming from a trusted informant—or, in this case, informants: the inspector’s household and friends.

  Being a smart old copper, he’d stepped back and watched how the cases unfolded. It didn’t take long before he was convinced that their efforts were important. People who would spit on a policeman’s shoe rather than talk to him would chatter like magpies to Wiggins or Betsy or any of the others. They ferreted out ancient history, buried facts, gossip, and hearsay and handed it to Mrs. Jeffries. She took the unrelated strands of information, turned them this way and that, and handed them the killer on a silver platter. The woman was the best detective he’d ever seen. Luckily, she and the rest of the household were so devoted to their inspector, none of them cared that they never got the credit. At that point, he’d boldly told the two senior ladies of the household what he knew, and ever since then they’d been sharing information.

  “We heard that the vicar and the victim had some sort of argument recently,” Barnes told them. “It’s good that Wiggins found that out as well. Mind you, we’ve still a number of things to suss out; the Starling housekeeper had no idea who ‘Francine’ was nor why Mrs. Starling had gone to Tunbridge Wells or Chelmsford. But she did agree that such behavior was out of character for Mrs. Starling.”

  “Don’t worry, Constable, it’s still early days yet; you’ll soon sort out all the bits and pieces,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She and Mrs. Goodge had already given him a full report on what Wiggins had learned the previous day. The housekeeper had also repeated what Witherspoon had told her the night before so that he could fill in any missing information that might have slipped the inspector’s mind.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Everyone is going to be out today, so hopefully we’ll kno
w more by tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll even know who the mysterious ‘Francine’ is and why Mrs. Starling took those two trips.”

  “Ah, yes, that reminds me of something I wanted to tell you.” The cook leaned closer to Barnes. “Everyone’s a bit concerned about being seen by our inspector. If you could, please, if you spot one of them, try and distract our inspector. It’s one thing if he sees one of the household in this neighborhood, but if he sees one of them across the river in Putney, he’ll wonder what they’re doin’, and that’s a question we’d rather he not ask.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Barnes assured them. “Now, what the inspector didn’t tell you was that I overheard a rather interesting conversation in the kitchen.” He told them about eavesdropping on the cook and scullery maid, then filled them in on a few small details that Witherspoon had overlooked. “I know it doesn’t sound very important, but I thought I’d pass it along.”

  “Everything is important,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We want to get this case solved quickly. We have only five days until Christmas.”

  “I’ve a feeling we’ll catch this killer by Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Goodge declared.

  “Fingers crossed that you’re right.” Barnes grinned at the cook, put his mug on the table, and got to his feet. “Right, then. I’ll see you two ladies tomorrow.”

  As soon as he disappeared up the staircase, the two women went about getting the table set up for their morning meeting. Everyone already had a task assigned, but it was important to pass along what Mrs. Jeffries had heard from the inspector as well as the other details they’d gained from Constable Barnes.

  Everyone arrived soon after the inspector and Constable Barnes left. Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge took it in turn to tell the others the latest information, and less than a half hour after the meeting started, the kitchen was quiet.

  Mrs. Jeffries picked up the empty teapot and took it to the sink. “Do you have any sources coming in today?”

  “I’m sure someone will. I sent out those three notes yesterday and the laundry is due back today.” Mrs. Goodge pulled her big green bread bowl out from beneath the worktable. “He’s the only one I know for certain will be here today, and the trouble is the laundry lad probably won’t know anything about anyone in Putney. It’s much easier to find out useful bits when the inspector is in his own district.”

  “True, but don’t get discouraged, Mrs. Goodge. We’ve had cases that were outside his district before and we’ve always solved them,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “You’re right. This one will be no different,” Mrs. Goodge popped off the lid from the tin of flour she kept on the worktable. “I can feel it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Gracious, sir, this is a bit unexpected.” Barnes stood in the center of the Huxton drawing room and slowly turned, his mouth slightly agape. The large room was elegantly appointed with pale gold painted walls, French-style upholstered furniture, and a polished diamond-patterned parquet floor. But it was the paintings and statues that held his gaze. A richly colored picture of a nude woman reclining on a couch hung above the black marble fireplace; between each of the three windows there was a statue of a woman, either nude or wearing only a few wisps of fabric; and along the wall opposite the hearth was a series of paintings depicting a horned man with absurdly hairy legs and pointy ears chasing a lovely young blonde girl. By the time his gaze focused on the last of the paintings, Barnes could feel himself blushing.

  Witherspoon cleared his throat. “I believe the paintings depict the god Pan, and the statues appear to be Grecian in origin. One doesn’t expect to see this sort of art in the homes of genteel ladies. Not that there is anything wrong with this sort of art.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Inspector.” A tall woman of late middle age stepped into the room and closed the double oak doors behind her. She wore a high-necked white blouse and a blue skirt, and around her waist was a wide blue and silver braided belt. Her graying brown hair was pulled into a topknot held up by a large silver filigreed comb. Her face was pale and her lips thin, and she stared at the two policemen out of a pair of deep-set dark eyes.

  “I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon and this is my colleague, Constable Barnes,” he said as she advanced into the room. “Forgive me, Mrs. Huxton. I wasn’t disparaging your décor.”

  She waved him off impatiently. “I don’t care whether you were or not, Inspector. Now, why don’t the two of you sit down and we’ll get this distasteful matter over with.” She sat down on a sofa and gestured toward the two chairs opposite before clasping her hands together on her lap.

  They sat where she had indicated and Barnes, after giving the god Pan one last glance, pulled out his notebook.

  “I take it you know why we’re here,” the inspector said.

  “Yes. Margaret managed to get herself murdered and you’ve no doubt been told by her servants that she and I were involved in a legal dispute.”

  “I hardly think she is at fault for being a victim,” Witherspoon said.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. Please, forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken so flippantly. Margaret Starling and I were once very close friends, and even though we’ve been estranged recently, I’m very upset by the manner of her death. No one deserves to die as she did.” She swallowed. “I’ve heard she lay outside all night. Is that true?”

  “I’m afraid so, Mrs. Huxton.” Witherspoon leaned back farther. “You’ve just said you and Mrs. Starling were once good friends. Can you tell us exactly what happened between you?”

  “Is that really pertinent, Inspector?”

  “We won’t know that until you tell us what happened,” he replied. “As policemen, it’s been our experience that not all legal disputes are actually settled in court.”

  She stared at him defiantly. “I didn’t kill her, Inspector, so I don’t see how our personal difficulties have any bearing on her murder.”

  “That may well be true, ma’am,” Constable Barnes interjected, “but we only have your word that you had nothing to do with her murder.”

  She gasped and looked at Barnes, her expression stunned. But before she could say anything, Witherspoon said, “The constable is correct, Mrs. Huxton, so if you don’t mind, I’d like you to answer the question.”

  Her eyes narrowed angrily. “That’s ridiculous. People such as myself don’t commit murder. If we think we’re going to lose in court, we simply hire better lawyers.”

  “I assure you, ma’am, people from the upper classes do commit terrible crimes, including murder.” Barnes smiled cynically.

  Mrs. Huxton said nothing for a long moment, her expression stony and hard. “If it’s the only way to be rid of the two of you, I’ll tell you everything. My relationship with Margaret turned sour last summer. Up until then we’d been both good friends and good neighbors. We often had dinner together and went to each other’s social functions. I supposed that’s what upset me the most.” She looked away.

  “What did?” Witherspoon pressed. There was much to do today, including getting some additional constables from the Upper Richmond Road Police Station. Inspector Nivens hadn’t arrived that morning when he and Barnes stopped in to seek assistance.

  “It’s going to sound so petty, Inspector, but I suppose there’s nothing for it but to tell you the truth. The final nail in the coffin of our friendship was when she had a garden party and didn’t invite me,” she explained. “But that’s not what started our estrangement. It was the gooseberry bushes, you see.”

  “Gooseberry bushes?” Witherspoon repeated.

  “I told you it was going to sound petty,” Mrs. Huxton sighed. “For years those wretched bushes didn’t produce anything except a few miserable berries. But last summer the berries suddenly burst forth into full splendor and they were delicious. There were plenty of them, so both households helped themselves until they were
almost gone. One evening at the end of July, I was having a small dinner party with some of my friends from the art world. I’d not invited Margaret because she wasn’t interested in art, but that’s beside the point. I’d instructed the cook to take the last of the gooseberries and prepare a fool. Imagine my surprise when cook came and informed me that she couldn’t do the fool because Margaret’s scullery maid had just picked the last of the berries. Well, those bushes are mine, so I sent Liddy, my scullery maid over to ask for them back. I told her to explain to Margaret’s cook that I was having an important dinner and that I needed them, as my guest had made a point of telling me how much he loved gooseberry fool.” She paused and took a breath. “But Margaret’s cook wouldn’t give them back; she claimed the berries belonged to the Starling household and that Margaret was hosting a dinner party herself for her women’s group. At first I was going to let it go, but then I realized that I couldn’t.” She jabbed her finger in the air as she spoke. “Those bushes are on my property, not Margaret’s. So I went over and made my case. But Margaret wouldn’t listen. She claimed the bushes were on her side of the property line. After that, we became more and more estranged. But things didn’t come to a head until a week or so later.”

  “What happened then?” Witherspoon wondered why so often it was the most trivial, silly actions that led to the most dreadful consequences.

  “We were still on somewhat civil terms until then, but early on Friday evening I went outside to see if the gardener had finished cleaning the lawn furniture, and when I looked across to her garden, there she was with the entire advisory board. I’m on the board as well but I’d not been invited.”