Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  There were faded spots where paintings had once hung on the green-and-gold wallpaper. Witherspoon suspected those pictures had been sold.

  Redstone swept a stack of magazines off one armchair and an open copy of the Times off the other one. “You may sit.” He flopped down in the center of the settee and stared at them.

  “Thank you, sir.” Witherspoon took a seat. “I’m assuming you understand why we’re here.”

  “I’m not an imbecile, Inspector. You’re here because someone murdered Margaret Starling, but as I’ve told you, my relationship with her is and has been at an end for quite some time now.”

  “You were married to her niece.” Barnes propped his notebook on the arm of his chair and flipped it open to a new page. “Is that right?”

  “I was.”

  Witherspoon shifted on the uncomfortable cushion. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Starling?”

  “I don’t remember the exact date. It was around the time of my late wife’s funeral.”

  “When did your wife pass away?”

  “A little over a year ago, Inspector. She died of bronchitis two weeks before her mother died. It was a terrible tragedy.”

  Barnes looked at him. “You haven’t seen Mrs. Starling since then?”

  “No.”

  “Not even at the Angel Alms Society meetings?” the inspector asked quickly. “Aren’t you on the board of governors?”

  “I am on the board, so of course I’ve seen Margaret at the meetings.” His thin mouth curved in a slight smile. “I thought you meant when had I seen her alone. Sorry, my mistake.”

  “Mr. Redstone, a witness has told us you saw Mrs. Starling recently and at that time you had a terrible row with her,” Witherspoon charged. “Please stop wasting our time and tell us the truth. When was the last time you spoke to the victim?”

  “Victim,” he repeated, his eyes blazing with fury. “Margaret Starling was no more a victim than the man in the moon. That woman never had a bad day in her entire life.”

  “Until her life was ended by murder,” Witherspoon reminded him. “You obviously had no love or respect for her. She was a very wealthy woman”—he gestured at the objects around the room—“and you’re obviously in quite dire straits financially. Do you expect to benefit from Mrs. Starling’s estate?”

  His mouth dropped open in surprise. “Your implication is outrageous. I have no expectations and I’ve nothing to do with that woman’s death.”

  “You accused her of stealing your wife’s inheritance,” the constable added.

  “Because it’s true,” he snapped. “My wife should have inherited her mother’s money, and when she passed away, it should have been mine. But because my wife died shortly before her own mother, Margaret got it all. It wasn’t fair, and so I went around to speak to Margaret about it, to try and make her see reason. But she refused to so much as countenance sharing the inheritance.”

  “So you admit you were angry at her for not sharing money she’d inherited from her own sister, is that correct?” Witherspoon pressed.

  “That’s right, but as I said, the woman was so selfish, she adamantly refused to understand that her ridiculous behavior was bankrupting me. I wasn’t the only one who was cheated out of what should have been rightfully mine; the Angel Alms Society expected to get half Marion’s money. They were disappointed as well. Both Graham McConnell and Reverend Pontefract spoke to Margaret about it, but she kept insisting it was her money—only hers. She told them they’d get it when she died.”

  “Where were you on Sunday night?” Barnes asked.

  “I was here.” Redstone stared at them stonily.

  “Can anyone confirm your whereabouts? A servant, perhaps?”

  “There’s my housekeeper, but she’s here only in the afternoon and she leaves at six o’clock.”

  “You only have one servant?” Barnes waved his hand around. “This is a large house, sir.”

  “I know that, Constable, but when my wife passed away, I had to let most of the servants go.”

  “Why is that?” Barnes persisted.

  “As the inspector guessed, my financial circumstances are quite dire,” he said. “However, they are not the business of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “I’m afraid they are, sir,” Witherspoon said. “Your dispute with Mrs. Starling was essentially one of finances, and she was murdered at a time when you don’t have an alibi.”

  “Nonsense. Why would murdering Margaret now do me any good whatsoever?” He laughed. “I’ve told you, I have no expectations and I know she didn’t leave me anything in her will.”

  “How do you know that?” Witherspoon realized the man had made a valid point.

  “The last time I saw her, when we had that dreadful argument, she made it clear that even though I’d been a good husband to her late niece, she owed me nothing and I wasn’t to think I’d inherit from her.”

  “Once your wife had passed away, why would you have thought she might leave you something?” Barnes asked.

  “Because when my wife was alive, we lived on the income from a trust set up by her mother, and because the money kept coming every quarter this past year, I foolishly assumed the capital from the trust was my late wife’s property. But it wasn’t. Margaret had merely allowed the disbursement to continue for a year so that I could make other financial arrangements. It would have been useful if Margaret had told me that, but she didn’t. So when the money stopped, I went to see her and was stunned to learn that the trust now belonged to her. I asked Margaret if she could ensure that I received at least that part of the estate, but she claimed she’d done enough and that I had had ample time to find employment.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “She made it quite clear that when she was dead, she was abiding by my late mother-in-law’s wishes and leaving every penny to charity. Specifically, to the Angel Alms Society.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “It’s very kind of you to escort me,” Phyllis told the young man. “I feel so silly; of course the London Rowing Club would be on the river. I don’t know why I got so muddled in my directions.”

  “It’s my pleasure, miss. This is a good neighborhood, but sometimes there are some rough sorts down by the river.”

  She gave him a grateful smile. He smiled shyly in return. He was dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. Beneath his bowler hat, his hair was blond, his eyes hazel, and his complexion pale.

  After the morning meeting, she’d come to Putney hoping to find out a bit more about the Reverend Reginald Pontefract. Even though Ruth Cannonberry was more than capable of taking her own measure of the fellow, after Ruth had left the meeting, all the women had deemed it a good idea to find out as much as possible about the vicar.

  Phyllis had volunteered, but when she’d arrived at St. Andrew’s, she not found one single person to talk to, not even the verger. She hung around the church steps for a few minutes and then decided that it might be worth her time to go to the High Street and see if anyone there was in the mood for a bit of gossip. She was almost at the Angel Alms Society when this young man stepped out the front door. Phyllis instantly made up her mind not to let him get away from her.

  “I’m Arabella Morgan,” she lied. “I do hope I’m not keeping you from something important.”

  “My name is Stuart Deeds, and you’re not keeping me from anything.”

  “Do you work at that building next to the church?” She gave him another dazzling smile.

  He blushed. “I do, I’m a clerk at the Angel Alms Society. Usually I work until half past five, but today the manager had to go to the doctor. He told me I could go when I finished typing up the correspondence.”

  “You can use a typewriter machine,” she gushed. “Goodness, you must be so very clever.”

  He blushed and ducked his head. “Not really, miss, but th
ank you.”

  “What does the Angel Alms Society do?” Phyllis tried to think of a way to bring up Pontefract’s name. “Is it part of that church that’s next to it?”

  “Not really, no; what I should say is that it’s not officially part of the church, but Reverend Pontefract, he’s the vicar there; he’s on the board of governors. He and Mr. McConnell—he’s my guv—are always discussing something or other. Plus he comes into our office frequently. The society hands out overcoats and scarves to some of the beggars in the area. It’s been such a miserably cold winter, and there’s many on the streets that don’t even have a decent coat.”

  “Are these coats and such donated?” She knew the question was idiotic, but she wanted to keep him talking.

  “Oh, yes, there’s some generous souls in this neighborhood.” Stuart guided her around a cluster of young lads, giving them a good glare for not moving out of their way. “We’ve a good system. Even if I’m not there, the vicar can get in and help himself to whatever’s in the donation cupboards.” He chuckled. “But sometimes, we don’t have what he needs.”

  Phyllis tried to think of what else to ask him, but her mind was suddenly blank, and she was afraid she’d made a mess of things. “Uh, you mean you don’t have coats or scarves?”

  “Not always. Yesterday morning Reverend Pontefract came in looking for an overcoat. He’d promised some poor man that he’d get him one, but all we had were ladies’ overcoats. He got a bit testy about the matter as well; he said he’d been in the coat closet last Saturday and had seen one that would have fit the man. I told him I’d not touched the closet in two weeks, so I’ve no idea where it went. I’m not sure he believed me.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I hope Merton Nesbitt is cooperative,” Witherspoon murmured as he and Barnes waited for someone to answer the front door. “I do wish we’d been able to talk to him yesterday.”

  “Yesterday was a busy day, sir, and we’re here now,” Barnes said as the door opened and a young, black-haired housemaid peered out at them.

  “Yes?”

  “We’d like to speak with Mr. Merton Nesbitt,” the constable said.

  She opened the door wide and ushered them inside. “His flat is upstairs on the top floor.”

  The foyer was wide and well furnished, with two brass umbrella stands, a coat tree, and a side table covered with a bright red table runner and topped with a tiny evergreen tree in a red-and-white ceramic urn. A staircase decorated with red-and-white Christmas bunting wound around the bannister was straight ahead.

  “Do you work for Mr. Nesbitt, miss?” Barnes asked.

  “No, sir, I work for Mrs. Retting; she owns the house.” She pointed to the stairs. “There’s only the two flats. Mr. Nesbitt’s is on the left and Mr. Underwood has the one on the right.”

  “Do you live in, miss?” the constable persisted.

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Her pretty face grew wary. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

  “It’s a police matter, miss. Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble”—Barnes gave her his kindest smile—“but can you tell me if Mr. Nesbitt went out this past Sunday night?”

  She said nothing for a moment, her expression confused. “I wouldn’t know, sir. Mrs. Retting’s tenants come and go as they please. They all have their own keys. Sometimes the gentlemen go out in the evening, but I don’t know about that night—” She broke off, then continued, “No, that’s not true: Someone went out that night, because when I got up the next morning, whoever it was had tracked mud and leaves all over.” She pointed to the gray-and-white tiled floor. “It took me ages to get it up.”

  “Thank you, miss” Barnes nodded. “The inspector and I will go on upstairs, then.”

  She nodded curtly and disappeared down the corridor.

  “Well done, Constable,” Witherspoon said as they started up the staircase. “We’ll be sure to ask Mr. Nesbitt if he went out that night.”

  “And if he says he didn’t, we’ll see what the other tenant has to say; it had to have been one of those two who went out. The housemaid would have known if it was Mrs. Retting.”

  When they reached the top floor, they were both gasping for air. Barnes paused for a moment so he and the inspector could catch their breath before moving to Nesbitt’s door and giving it a sharp rap.

  “Who is it?” a man’s voice asked.

  “The police. We’d like to ask you some questions,” Barnes said through the door.

  The door opened and a middle-aged man with high cheekbones, brown eyes, and brown hair with just the right amount of gray at the temples to be attractive stared out at them. “What’s this about?”

  “Are you Merton Nesbitt?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I am. Who are you?”

  Witherspoon introduced himself and Constable Barnes and then said, “May we come in? We’d like to ask you some questions about the murder of Margaret Starling.”

  Nesbitt’s eyes widened. “I don’t see why you want to speak to me. I’ve nothing to do with this matter.” He started to close the door, but Barnes stuck his foot in the opening.

  “I think, sir, you have quite a bit you could tell us. We have it on good authority that you had threatened the deceased on more than one occasion,” Barnes bluffed. “Now, you can either speak to us here or you can accompany us to the Upper Richmond Road Police Station.”

  “Oh, all right, then, have it your way, but you’re wasting your time as well as mine.” He flung the door wide, turned, and retreated into the flat.

  The two policemen stepped over the threshold. The flat was decently but not lavishly furnished with two black upholstered chairs, a tweed settee, and a bookcase.

  “Go on, then; let’s get this over with.” He flopped down on a chair and glared at the two police officers. He didn’t invite them to sit down.

  Barnes pulled out his notebook and opened it.

  Witherspoon stared at Nesbitt. “What was your relationship with Margaret Starling?”

  “I had no relationship to the woman; she was a friend of my wife’s.”

  “You didn’t like Mrs. Starling, did you?”

  “I hated her. She ruined my life.” He cocked his head to one side and smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I killed her. From what I hear, Margaret had a number of enemies.”

  “How did she ruin your life?” The inspector shifted his weight a bit in an attempt to get more comfortable.

  “She testified against me in our divorce proceeding. My wife left me and I was turfed out of my home.”

  “The grounds for divorce are very narrow, Mr. Nesbitt.” Witherspoon was no expert on divorce law, but he knew legally ending a marriage was both costly and difficult. “Are you saying that Margaret Starling lied to the court when she testified against you?”

  “No, she didn’t lie. I was unfaithful to my wife—I’ll admit it—but I’m hardly alone in that regard. What I objected to was the fact that Margaret instigated the divorce proceedings. Evangeline wouldn’t have thought of such a thing if it hadn’t been for Margaret’s interference.”

  “Where does your former wife live?” Witherspoon thought it might be useful to speak to the lady.

  “In Paris, Inspector.” He smiled cynically. “She sold my home, packed up our belongings, and bought a house in Paris.”

  “She left the country?”

  “Yes. She seemed to think the French are far more tolerant of divorced women than the English. That may or may not be true, but if she’d stayed here, she’d definitely be ostracized by our class of people.”

  “I take it your former wife was the one with the money,” Barnes said.

  “That’s correct, so now I’m reduced to this miserable little flat and living off a tiny legacy left to me by a maiden aunt, and it’s all thanks to that interfering old cow, Margaret Starling. I’m glad someo
ne killed her.”

  Witherspoon glared at him. “Where were you on Sunday night?”

  “I was here all evening.”

  “You cook for yourself?”

  “Of course not, Inspector. I went out for an early dinner, but I was home by six o’clock. According to the newspaper reports, Mrs. Starling was killed late in the night, so it couldn’t have been me.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Starling?” Barnes asked.

  “A few days before she died, I went to see her.”

  “Was it a social call?” The constable didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “Hardly, Constable. I went there to gloat.”

  “Gloat?” Witherspoon repeated.

  “Oh, yes. You see, what Margaret didn’t know was that I’d had a nice chat with the other members of the board of governors for the Angel Alms Society. She took something from me, so I decided to return the favor.” His eyes narrowed and he broke into a smirk. “I wanted to let the cow know that I was getting back at her.”

  “How?” Barnes asked.

  “Oh, it was easy, Constable. Margaret had been agitating for months to change the by-laws so women could be on the board. We were going to bring the matter up for a vote at the Christmas disbursement meeting, but I made certain it never even got on the agenda.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Smythe stepped into the Dirty Duck Pub and stopped just inside the door so his eyes could adjust to the dim lighting. It was just past opening time, but the place was already busy. Sailors, dockworkers, tally clerks, businessmen, and bread sellers, their empty baskets propped on the hearth, lined the bar and sat at the benches along the walls. Every table was full to bursting as well.

  Blimpey Groggins, the man he’d come to see, sat at the table closest to the fire with two others: a well-dressed man in a blue-and-gray-checked business suit, and a hard-looking man wearing scruffy clothes and a flat cap. He spotted Smythe, waved him over, then spoke to his companions. They got up, the businessman giving Smythe a curious glance as they left.