Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “That don’t seem fair.” She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and then released it as the barman brought another drink.

  Betsy took her time paying him, because she wanted to give Annabelle a few seconds to consider her offer. True, she wasn’t going to give her any money until she knew precisely what it was that the woman was selling. But she’d now bought her three gins, and she was fairly sure that alone would keep her talking. She hated the fact that she was taking advantage of this woman’s weakness and had already decided against pouring any more gin down her throat.

  “Ta, miss.” The barman took the coins and went to the cash register.

  Annabelle sipped her gin, her expression sullen. “You must think you’re right special, don’t ya?”

  “No, I’m just like everyone else: I’m trying to make a decent living.”

  “Huh, you’re not foolin’ me. You might have put on a housemaid’s dress and plain old cloak, but you made a bad mistake.” She looked down at Betsy’s feet. “Your shoes cost more than I earn in a month.”

  Betsy shrugged. “The reason I’m a private inquiry agent is because it pays decently and these shoes are an early Christmas present from my fella; he makes good money. Besides, what difference does it make? You either know something useful or you don’t.” She picked up her gloves as if she were getting ready to leave.

  “Wait a minute, I’ll tell ya,” Annabelle said quickly.

  “All right, tell me.”

  “I saw something Sunday night—something that her nibs would pay plenty for me to keep quiet about—but I’m not a blackmailer or anything like that.”

  “What did you see?”

  “As I told ya already, I don’t work for Mrs. Huxton or, for that matter, anyone else. I work for myself and the money isn’t great, but it keeps a roof over my head and I generally get to eat at the houses. I do heavy cleanin’, you see.”

  “But rich houses have plenty of servants,” Betsy noted.

  “They do, but sometimes, like at Mrs. Huxton’s, they need extra help and they’ll not hire a full-time live-in person for that; that costs way too much money, so they bring in someone like me.” She waved her hand impatiently. “But my situation isn’t important. Sunday evening I was workin’ at the Larson house; it’s directly across the road from the Huxton house, and Mrs. Larson needed an extra hand, because all of her relatives have come for Christmas. After I’d finished, I got my pay and put my coat on and I left. I came out the servant’s door on the side of the house, and that side directly faces Mrs. Starling’s home. I’d almost reached the street when I saw Mrs. Huxton coming down the front stairs of the Starling house. I moved back into the shadows; I don’t know why, but there was something about the way she moved that bothered me. Now, I ask you: What was she doin’ at the dead woman’s house.”

  “You know for certain it was Mrs. Huxton?”

  “It was; there’s a streetlamp between their houses and I got a good look at her as she hurried past it. But that’s not all—when she got to her own house, she didn’t go in by the front door, she went to the side door and slipped in that way.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Wiggins smiled at the young housemaid as he knelt and picked up the shopping basket she’d dropped. “Please let me carry this for you, miss. I feel such an idiot for bargin’ into you.” Of course, he’d deliberately “barged” into the young lady when he saw her leave the Huxton residence. She was a very young housemaid, with curly red hair, blue eyes, and more freckles on her nose than there were stars on a country night.

  She smiled broadly and lowered her head, giggling before looking back up at him. “It was an accident, but if it’ll make you feel better, you can carry the basket. I’m just going to the grocer’s to get another cone of sugar. The mistress suddenly changed the menu for tonight’s dinner.”

  “You work in the kitchen, then?” He took her elbow and they started off toward the High Street. Wiggins looked at both sides of the quiet street. He didn’t want to run into Inspector Witherspoon. For once, he wasn’t all that worried about being spotted by the rank-and-file constables doing a house-to-house. None of them knew him by sight.

  He relaxed and tried to think of a clever way to get the girl talking. Perhaps he should . . . drat, they were at the walkway of the house next door to the Huxton home, and there was Constable Griffiths coming down the porch stairs and heading toward them. What was he doing there? Blast a Spaniard! Wiggins pulled his scarf up far enough to cover his lower face. “It’s really cold,” he murmured.

  “It’s not so bad”—the housemaid smiled prettily—“though it’s colder today than yesterday.”

  Wiggins hoped the scarf would muffle his words; he wasn’t sure if Griffiths could recognize his voice. “You’ve been ever so nice about this, miss. Truly, though, I feel terrible. Are you sure you’re all right?” He stuck his hand in his pocket and wiggled his fingers, trying to grab a coin. He caught a sixpence and pulled it out.

  “I’m fine, really, but it’s very kind of you to be concerned. My name is Cecilia Wilkins. What’s yours?”

  “Albert Jones.” He dropped the coin and then stopped suddenly as Constable Griffiths came to the end of the walkway and turned onto the pavement. “There must be a hole in me pocket.” He kept his head down as he pretended to look for the money. Griffiths moved past the two of them and crossed the road.

  Still keeping his head turned away from the constable, Wiggins managed to find his money and get to his feet. “Sorry, I don’t want to leave any of me wages in the road.”

  He took her elbow again. Now that the constable was too far away to identify him, Wiggins realized his appearance could be very useful. He wouldn’t have to figure out how to get Cecilia talking about the murder. “Wonder what that policeman was doing here?”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “There was a murder next door.”

  “Actually, I do, too,” he laughed. “That’s why I’m here. But I’d no idea the murder was next door to you. That must be awful.”

  She slowed her steps and glanced at him. “You knew? Did you read about it in the papers?”

  “You could say that.” He could tell from the sudden change in her demeanor that he needed to be careful. He didn’t want her to go quiet on him now. “I work for a newspaper, the Sentinel.” It was a paper known for lurid headlines and stories.

  “Cook reads it.” She stared at him, her expression suspicious. “Is that why you’re here? Because of Mrs. Starling’s murder?”

  “That’s why my guv sent me down ’ere.” He pulled his scarf down to his neck and gave her his best smile. “But I didn’t bump into you on purpose, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

  She stopped and whirled around to face him directly. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. Give me my basket. I don’t want to talk to a reporter. The way Mrs. Huxton’s been lately, if she hears I’ve talked to a reporter, she’ll sack me.” She lunged for her shopping basket but he gingerly stepped back, out of her reach.

  “Please, miss, hear me out. I promise you’ll not lose your position, but if someone from these parts doesn’t talk to me, I’m goin’ to lose mine.”

  “Better you than me,” she shot back, grabbing for the basket again. This time he relinquished his hold on it.

  “All right, miss, I’ll find someone else. There’s bound to be someone from the Huxton household that wants an extra shilling.”

  She went still and stared at him in disbelief. “You’re willin’ to pay me a whole shilling just for talking to you? What if I don’t know anything you can put in your newspaper? Do I still get the money?”

  “You do,” he promised. “As a matter of fact, I’ll give you the money before you’ve said a word.” It wasn’t his custom to ‘buy’ information. Buying someone a pint or a cup of tea didn’t count. But in this case he had a feeling she might know something. “There�
�s a café at the end of the High Street; we can go there if you have time. I’d not like you to get in trouble for bein’ gone too long.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I can just tell ’em there was a long line at the grocers. Let’s go to that café. It’s cold, and a cup of tea sounds nice.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What do you mean?” Witherspoon asked.

  Olivia Huxton cocked her head to one side and stared at him. All vestiges of shame and grief had completely disappeared from her face. “Isn’t it obvious, Inspector? When I found out Margaret had filed a lawsuit against me, I destroyed the letter.”

  “Reverend Pontefract returned it to you?” Barnes looked skeptical. “Why would he do that?”

  “Of course he didn’t return it.” She shrugged. “But when I went to see him to discuss the matter, he got called away by the verger. The fool left it lying on his desk. I took it home with me and burnt it.”

  “You stole a letter from the vicar’s desk!” Witherspoon exclaimed.

  “There’s no law against it,” she replied. “I was merely reclaiming my property. It was my paper and ink, my words.”

  “You’re admitting you destroyed evidence in a legal matter,” the inspector insisted.

  “It was only a civil matter,” she shot back. “And, what’s more, I destroyed the letter before Margaret was murdered, so I had no reason to kill her.”

  “When, exactly, did you write this letter about Mrs. Starling?” Witherspoon needed to establish a timeline here.

  “Early October.”

  “When did you destroy the letter?”

  “I don’t recall the exact date; it was the sometime in the first week of December. I’d heard that Margaret and the vicar had a dreadful quarrel and I thought he’d be more amenable to my point of view. But I could tell from the moment I spoke with him that, instead of his being annoyed with Margaret, he was trying to come up with ways to soothe her ruffled feathers. So when the verger called him away, I knew I had to get that letter.”

  “Do you know why Mrs. Starling and the vicar quarreled?” Witherspoon asked.

  “No, I don’t, but Margaret had been quarreling with a number of people recently, so I wasn’t surprised. Why don’t you have a chat with Edgar Redstone; he’s her late niece’s husband. He hated her. He accused her of stealing his wife’s inheritance and they had a dreadful row about it. He was shouting so loudly, the entire neighborhood could hear him.”

  “Who else hated her?” Barnes asked softly.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say he hated her, but Graham McConnell found her constant questions about the Angel Alms Society finances tiresome, and Merton Nesbitt—he despised her.”

  “Merton Nesbitt?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Nesbitt was a close friend of Margaret’s. Margaret testified against him in their divorce trial last summer.”

  “Where were you on the night that Mrs. Starling was murdered?” Barnes asked bluntly.

  “Right here. I had dinner at half seven, my usual time, and then I read for a while before retiring.”

  “Your servants can vouch for that?” Witherspoon asked. There were dozens of other questions he now wanted to ask her, but the constable was correct in going right to the heart of her whereabouts at the time of the murder.

  “Of course, Inspector. Feel free to speak to my housekeeper, Mrs. Cross, or any of the other servants.”

  “What time do your servants generally go to bed?” Barnes persisted.

  “After their work is finished, Constable.” She smiled slightly. “But they were all here that night. Would you like to speak to them?”

  Barnes glanced at Witherspoon, who gave a quick nod.

  “Yes, ma’am, I would.” He got to his feet. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll start with Mrs. Cross.”

  “She’ll be downstairs doing the menus.” She pointed to the door. “Ask whatever you like. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  As soon as the constable left, Witherspoon resumed his questions. “Does Merton Nesbitt live in London?”

  “He does. He’s a member of the Angel Alms Society board of governors and he hated Margaret,” she said. “He blames her for losing a very rich wife who not only left him but took all of her money with her and moved to Paris.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Downstairs, Barnes found the housekeeper in the butler’s pantry. She looked up from an open ledger.

  “Mrs. Cross, may I have a word, please?” Barnes asked.

  Behind her spectacles, her eyes widened. “Does Mrs. Huxton know you’re here?”

  He studied her for a moment. She was a middle-aged woman with curly black hair devoid of gray and deeply etched worry lines around her mouth and eyes. “Mrs. Huxton knows I’m here and she’s given permission for me to question the servants. I’m starting with you.”

  She closed the ledger and gestured to a rickety-looking chair. “Of course. Not that you need her consent to do your job, Constable. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude; I was just startled by your appearance. This has been a trying time for all of us. Mrs. Starling’s murder is very upsetting.”

  Barnes sat down and pulled out his notebook. “I understand, Mrs. Cross. Was everyone in your household home this past Sunday night?”

  “Yes, it was an ordinary evening. I served Mrs. Huxton’s dinner at half seven and then we did the usual chores, tidied the kitchen, and at half nine everyone had gone to their quarters and I locked up the house and went to my room. I read for an hour and then retired for the night.”

  “Did you hear or see anything unusual?”

  “No, nothing.” She paused. “That’s not true: At one point during the evening, BooBoo, Mrs. Huxton’s spaniel, started barking.”

  “Do you recall what time this was?”

  “It was half ten. I glanced at the clock on my mantelpiece.”

  “Half ten.” Barnes made a note of it. It was possible the dog had heard something outside, perhaps even the killer. “Does the dog bark frequently?”

  Mrs. Cross shook her head. “Not at all—he’s very well-behaved—but he went on for a good few minutes, which surprised me. Generally, one word from Mrs. Huxton and he stops. But he went on that night. I almost went to Mrs. Huxton’s room to make certain there was nothing wrong, but he finally stopped. He sleeps in her room.”

  “I see.” Barnes wondered if the reason the dog kept barking was because his mistress wasn’t there to tell him to stop. “You said you locked the house up. Are you the only one with the keys?’

  “No, Mrs. Huxton has a set.”

  “Do you need a key to unlock the doors, or can they be unlocked from the inside?”

  “You need to have a key to unlock the doors to the outside.”

  “I presume there’s just the front and back door. Is that right?” he asked.

  “There’s an old side door as well”—she pushed her spectacles up her nose—“but it’s not used.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked as he and Witherspoon left the Huxton house. “The servants confirmed that Mrs. Huxton was home when Mrs. Starling was murdered . . . well, all of them but one. There’s a housemaid I couldn’t interview; she’d been sent to the grocers, but I doubt she’ll say anything different from the others. So it looks like Olivia Huxton has an alibi. Still, the dog barking is worrisome.”

  “Agreed, Constable.” Witherspoon pulled on his leather gloves. “But a dog barking for a few minutes isn’t evidence of anything except that perhaps Mrs. Huxton is a heavy sleeper, and Mrs. Cross did tell you that she’d had several glasses of wine with her dinner.” He looked up and down the empty street. “Let’s go to the Upper Richmond Road; we’ll be able to find a hansom there.”

  “Where are we going now, sir?”

  “St. Andrew’s Ch
urch.” He started walking at a brisk pace. “I want to have a word with Reverend Pontefract about that letter. It’s close to the Upper Richmond Road Police Station, so after we interview the vicar we’ll stop in and see if the postmortem report is there.”

  It took less than ten minutes to reach their destination. St. Andrew’s, a huge redbrick building built in the early eighteenth century, stood on a street just off the Thames. Witherspoon and Barnes climbed the wide stairs, pulled open one of the double doors, and stepped into the narthex. The doors leading to the sanctuary were open. Halfway up the center aisle was a man with stringy salt-and-pepper hair and spectacles mopping the gray stone floor.

  “Hello there,” Barnes called. “We’d like to speak to Reverend Pontefract. Is he here?”

  He stopped and stared at them for a few seconds before leaning his mop up against a pew. “He’s in his study.” He waved them forward. “It’s this way.”

  They stepped into the sanctuary proper, moving past the stone baptismal font and the wooden pews. The stained-glass windows depicted scenes from the Bible and were done in brilliant hues of gold, red, green, and cobalt blue. The choir stalls and a pipe organ were on one side of the center aisle, while a tall, carved wooden pulpit stood on the opposite side.

  “Are you the verger?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I am, sir, I’m Tom Lancaster. Are you here to see the vicar about Mrs. Starling’s murder? His office is just down there.” He jerked his thumb to the left, where the aisle in front of the pews led to a hallway. “But you might want to hear what I’ve got to say before you go see his nibs.”

  “Do you have information about the murder?” Barnes pulled out his notebook and pencil. He found a clean page and then propped the notebook on the edge of a pew.

  “The murder? Nah, can’t say that I do. But I know that his nibs and Mrs. Starling had a nasty argument before she was killed.”

  “How nasty?” the constable asked.