Ruth was struck by an urge to giggle, because the situation was so absurd, but at the same time she hated seeing anyone, even Pontefract, so frightened and distressed. “Everything is fine, Abigail. You and Cook can go back downstairs.”
Abigail’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at Pontefract. “If you say so, ma’am. But if you need me, you just shout.”
“Thank you Abigail.”
Pontefract’s mouth opened and closed for several seconds before he could get any words out. “Did that young woman think I was harming you? Oh, my gracious, what kind of street urchin have you let into your home? What a dreadful little guttersnipe. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
Some of her sympathy for Pontefract vanished. “She’s neither a guttersnipe nor a street urchin. Furthermore, if you continue to verbally abuse her in my presence, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Ask me to leave,” he moaned, and flopped onto the settee, his mouth gaping open in shock. “But . . . but . . . I need—”
Ruth interrupted. “She heard you shouting, Reginald, and as my butler is out for the evening, she did precisely what she should have done. Women are learning to stick together and to defend themselves when and if the need arises.”
“But I would never harm you . . . Oh, goodness, I’m sorry.” His eyes flooded with tears and he blinked to stop them from running down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry. You’re right. I was making a spectacle of myself, and your maid is to be commended for coming to what she thought was your defense. I just lost my head for a few moments. Please forgive me.”
“Of course, Reginald. Now, before you do anything else, finish that whisky and take some deep breaths to calm your nerves. Then you must tell me why you’re so certain you’re going to be arrested.”
He did as he was told, drained his glass, put it on the side table, and inhaled heavily.
Ruth got his glass, crossed to the liquor cabinet, and poured him another. She topped her own off as well. “Now, tell me why you’re so frightened.” She handed him his drink and took her seat.
“Thank you.” He took a quick sip. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but I’m no longer at St. Peter’s in Highgate. I was sent to St. Andrew’s in Putney eighteen months ago.”
“Really,” Ruth murmured, but now his showing up on her doorstep made sense.
“Yes, well, one goes where one is sent, but I digress. One of the women in my parish was murdered.”
“I know that. Her name was Margaret Starling; it’s been in all the papers.” She didn’t want to let on that she knew anything more than the general public.
“Inspector Witherspoon came to the church today to question me about her murder”—Pontefract took another deep breath—“but before he got to my study, the verger, Tom Lancaster, filled the inspector’s head with lies.”
“Why would he do that?” Ruth asked softly.
“He hates me and he told the police that I’d had a dreadful argument with Mrs. Starling—that we’d quarreled.”
“Had you?” Ruth took a sip.
“Yes, but Margaret was quarreling with everyone. For goodness’ sakes, she’d filed a lawsuit against her next-door neighbor. But none of this is important; what’s important is that I had nothing to do with her death. But he’s going to find out that I was there Sunday night.”
“That’s what you meant earlier when you said you’d gone there to talk with her?” Ruth asked.
He nodded. “That’s right. I’d been upset all day over a number of things. She was also a member of the advisory board of the Angel Alms Society. We’re loosely affiliated with the charity and I’m on the board of governors. Recently, Margaret had been asking a lot of questions about the charities’ finances. Sir Gareth Cleary told me she’d convinced him that we needed to bring in an outside person to have a look at our books.”
“Why would that upset you?”
“It didn’t; we’ve nothing to hide. Margaret Starling has been at the center of a number of unpleasant incidents, and this was the final straw. So I decided to go and speak to her myself—to clear the air, so to speak. But when I got there, she didn’t answer the door, and I gave up and left.”
“Did you tell the police you’d been there that night?” Ruth was sure he hadn’t informed them.
“I was too afraid.” His shoulders slumped and he stared glumly at the floor. “Ruth . . . may I call you that?”
“Of course. Why were you so afraid? Your arguments with the victim sound petty—not the sort of motive one would have for committing murder.”
He said nothing for a long moment, then finally he spoke. “Have you ever done something that you bitterly regretted? You know, given in to a stupid compulsion and done something you knew was wrong?”
“Of course. Everyone does that at one time or another.”
“True, but when you’re a vicar, you’re supposed to be above such human impulses. People don’t forgive you for not being perfect.”
“None of us is perfect.” She stared at him sympathetically.
“I’m not, and that’s why I was so scared. I did something . . . something that most definitely gives me a motive,” he admitted. “I’m certain Margaret Starling had found out the reason I’d been sent away from St. Peter’s. She kept dropping hints that she knew that my troubles at St. Peter’s weren’t the only reason I’d been given a smaller, poorer parish, and she told me that she knew if there was one more complaint about me to the bishop, I’d lose everything.”
Ruth was surprised by his admission but struggled not to let it show on her face. It wasn’t her place to pass judgment on him. “Whatever your troubles at St. Peter’s might have been, if you’ve done nothing wrong at St. Andrew’s, why are you worried? Even if she’d gone to the bishop, what could she have told him?”
He closed his eyes, hung his head, and exhaled. “That I was a thief. I kept three pounds for myself that should have gone to the Angel Alms Society. Margaret might have known about it.”
* * *
* * *
Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge gave Constable Barnes a concise report on what the household had learned. He, in turn, gave them additional details from the previous day’s interviews.
“You’ve found out a lot in a very short period of time,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And, frankly, I don’t mind saying that I can’t make heads or tails of anything.”
“You will, Hepzibah,” Mrs. Goodge assured her. “I know it. I’ve a good feeling about this case.”
“I hope you’re right, Mrs. Goodge.” Barnes put his mug down on the table. “But as I see it, we’ve more problems with this one than we usually do. We’ve got that ruddy Inspector Nivens doing his best to muck up the investigation. Luckily for us, the duty sergeant at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station managed to get a copy of the postmortem to us. If we’d had to rely on Nivens, we’d be out of luck.”
“Nivens deliberately withheld it?” Mrs. Jeffries was outraged. “That’s awful. He’s a policeman, sworn to uphold the law, and that’s interfering in an ongoing investigation. Surely you can do something about him now?”
“We’ve no proof it was deliberate.” Barnes shrugged. “But what Nivens didn’t know was that the doctor made two copies of the report.”
“Thank goodness,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But it seems to have put the doctor to a lot of trouble. Fancy writing out two copies of a postmortem.”
Barnes laughed. “Not at all, Mrs. Goodge. We’re in the modern age, and reports aren’t handwritten anymore. Dr. Littleham has a typewriter girl, and she’s been trained to use something called carbon paper. It lets you make two copies at the same time.”
“What will they think of next?” The cook shook her head. “But there must be some way to prove Nivens deliberately hid the original report.”
Barnes drained his mug of tea. “I doubt it. Nive
ns is good at covering his tracks. And you know the inspector, he never likes to think the worst of fellow officers, even a useless one like Nivens.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see the two of you tomorrow, and hopefully by then we’ll all have lots to talk about.”
“Hopefully.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled ruefully. “And hopefully we’ll be able to understand exactly what it all might mean. Christmas is coming closer and closer.”
“You’ll do it, Mrs. Jeffries.” Barnes headed for the back stairs. “You always do.”
“I’m not so sure,” the housekeeper mumbled as she got up. Thus far, nothing about this case made any sense at all. But she shoved that problem to the back of her mind and helped Mrs. Goodge arrange the table for their morning meeting.
As soon as everyone had arrived and taken their seats, Ruth said, “May I go first? I’m meeting a source for morning coffee and I’ve something important”—she paused—“well, it could be important . . . that I need to report.”
“Of course. Go ahead. We’re all ears,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
Ruth told them about her surprise visitor. She took her time and told them everything he’d said. “Honestly, I was so stunned that he is involved in this case.”
“What’s more stunnin’ is that he nicked three quid,” Smythe said. “What’s wrong with the man? Why risk your livelihood for a few pounds?”
“He said it was a momentary lapse in judgment,” Ruth replied.
“Did he say how Margaret Starling might have known what he’d done?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“He said she’d been asking a lot of questions about how the donations were handled and he thinks she stumbled onto what he’d done accidentally. He grew alarmed when he found out that she’d convinced Sir Gareth Cleary and the board to have the books examined by an outsider. Someone named Nelson Biddlington.”
“Nelson Biddlington!” Luty yelped. “Are you sure that’s the name?”
Ruth nodded. “That’s the name he heard. Why?”
“Nelson Biddlington is one of my solicitors.” Luty looked puzzled. “But he ain’t an accountant. So why would the society want him to look at the books?”
“I don’t know. Reginald didn’t say anything more about it,” Ruth said.
“But ’is admittin’ ’e was there that night takes the wind out of my sails.” Smythe grinned. “Last night I found the ’ansom driver that took ’im to the Starling ’ouse.”
“You’re not alone.” Hatchet looked at Smythe. “That’s more or less what I learned last night as well, with one caveat: Apparently—and I suspect the good reverend was silent on this point—he was sent to St. Andrew’s because he was too familiar with the ladies of St. Peter’s, and that familiarity was not appreciated.”
Ruth looked surprised and then she burst out laughing. “He didn’t mention that specifically. He has a high opinion of himself, especially when it comes to women, but I don’t think he’s a killer.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Because the murder sounds planned,” Ruth explained. “The killer had to know that Mrs. Starling would be home alone and would have had to figure out a way to get her outside that night.”
“And whoever did it would have to know where the shovel was kept and that it was available,” Mrs. Goodge added.
“That’s right”—Ruth nodded in agreement—“but Reginald Pontefract isn’t very good at planning. He tends to react, not think or plan.”
“Still, he was there, and we only have his word for it that he left without seeing Margaret Starling,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Why don’t I go have a chat with Nelson Biddlington?” Luty offered. “Maybe he knows something. There has to be some reason the board wanted him to look at the books.”
* * *
* * *
“We’ve a lot to do today, sir.” Barnes pulled open the door of the Upper Richmond Road Police Station and waited till Witherspoon had stepped inside. “Let’s hope this doesn’t take long.”
“It shouldn’t.” Witherspoon smiled as he approached the desk. “Good morning. Is Inspector Nivens available? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Of course, sir.” Wylie pointed to the hall. “He’s in the duty inspector’s office.”
“Thank you.” Witherspoon headed in that direction.
“I’ll wait here, sir,” Barnes called after him.
Witherspoon knocked on the door and then stepped inside when he heard a muffled “Enter.” “Good morning, Inspector Nivens.”
Nivens was at the desk. He looked up from the open file he’d been reading. “Morning, Witherspoon. I suppose you’re here for the PM report? Well, I was just thinking that before we go over that, I’d like to know how the case is progressing. It is, after all, in my district.”
Taken aback, Witherspoon stared at him for a brief moment. “Actually, Inspector Nivens, I’ve already seen the postmortem report. I’m here to ask for some additional men. Two should do nicely. I was hoping I could have them this morning, and from what it looks like here, the station isn’t terribly busy.”
Nivens looked surprised. “What do you mean, you’ve seen the PM report?” He jabbed his index finger at the open file. “You couldn’t have. It’s right here.”
“But I did see it and I’m wondering why you still have the report on your desk. It was done two days ago, and since that time I’ve been here several times. It should have been passed to me immediately.”
“Are you implying that I deliberately withheld it?” Nivens voice was low, guttural, and meant to be intimidating.
“Yes.”
“How dare you!” He shot to his feet.
“I dare because it’s true. You deliberately withheld pertinent information in the investigation of a homicide. What’s more, you’ve absented yourself from this station during those times when you knew I’d be here to request additional constables to assist in the house-to-house interviews and general police work.”
An ugly red flush spread over Nivens’ face as he balled his hands into fists. “That’s absurd,” he snapped, his voice rising. “I did no such thing, and what’s more, if you dare to imply I behaved in such a manner, you’ll be sorry.” He banged his fist against the desk.
“Do you really think your threats frighten me?” Witherspoon smiled slightly. “You may do as you like. However, for now, I suggest you give me two of your constables, as I have a murder to solve. Furthermore, I’ve already sent a report about your behavior to Chief Superintendent Barrows—” He broke off as someone pounded on the door, and a second later it flew open to reveal Constable Barnes, Sergeant Wylie, and two other constables.
“We heard yelling.” Barnes looked at Witherspoon. “All well, sir?”
“Get out, Witherspoon!” Nivens yelled before turning his fury to the crowd in his doorway. “All of you, close that damned door and get out of my sight!”
Witherspoon didn’t move. “Not without my additional constables and”—he pointed at the file on the desk—“that copy of the PM report.”
Nivens grabbed the open file, closed it, and shoved it across the desk. “Take the wretched thing, then. Sergeant Wylie, assign two constables to Witherspoon, and all of you, get the hell out of my office. Now!”
Ten minutes later Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes, accompanied by two local constables, left the station.
“You lads, get on with it,” Barnes ordered. “Split up and make sure you cover all the neighbors on both sides of Moran Place, and when you finish there, do the street directly behind the Starling home.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the constables replied. They nodded and hurried off. Barnes waited till they’d disappeared around the corner before he spoke. “It sounded like Inspector Nivens lost his temper, sir.”
“He threatened me and I told him I’d already submitted a complaint to Chief Barrows about his withh
olding information and assistance on this case.” Witherspoon waved at the hansom driver who had just pulled up.
“Really, sir?” Barnes couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.
“Well, actually, I haven’t done it as yet, but I’m going to do it. Let’s grab that hansom before it disappears.” He started toward the curb. “Frankly, I don’t mind Nivens making it clear he doesn’t like or respect me, but I must draw the line when he deliberately interferes in a homicide investigation, so Chief Superintendent Barrows will be getting a full report about his shocking behavior.”
“Good for you, sir.” Barnes wanted to burst into song as he trailed after him. “Where to now?”
“Let’s see what Edgar Redstone has to tell us.”
* * *
* * *
Edgar Redstone stared at them from the open door of his home. “Why do you want to speak to me? I’ve nothing to do with Margaret Starling—not anymore.” He was a portly man in navy trousers and a white dress shirt with a frayed open collar. His thinning brown hair was disheveled and there was stubble on his chin.
“May we come in Mr. Redstone?” Barnes asked politely. “I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable speaking to us here rather than at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station.”
Redstone stared at them with a cunning, speculative expression on his broad face. For a moment Witherspoon thought he might slam the door on them, but he finally stepped back and waved them inside.
He led them down a short hall and into a dimly lighted drawing room. The room was furnished with a dark green horsehair settee and matching armchairs, all of which had stacks of books, newspapers, and magazines on them. At the two windows, cream-and-gray-patterned curtains were tied back to let in the pale winter light, and on the floor was a faded oriental rug. A mahogany corner table, both the bookcases, and the end tables on each side of the settee were cluttered with objects: ceramic knicknacks, silver candlesticks, ornate picture frames, brilliantly colored enamel snuff boxes, and even a set of golden bowls.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 13
