Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel

by Emily Brightwell

  “You’re a ’ard one to see.” Smythe plopped into the stool opposite Blimpey. “Did ya get my message?”

  “I did, and you’ll be pleased to know that, despite the short notice, I’ve already found out a few juicy bits that your lot might find useful.”

  A portly man with a round red face, wispy ginger-colored hair, and sharp blue eyes, Blimpey owned the Dirty Duck as well as a number of other establishments in London. He was a buyer and seller of information. Blimpey’s informants worked in the courts, all the prisons, the insurance companies, the shipping companies, all the newspapers, the hospitals, the docks, and Parliament, and there were even whispers he had a source or two at Buckingham Palace. He’d once been a burglar, but after a nasty fall from a second-story window and an even nastier encounter with an enraged mastiff, he’d changed occupations and put his phenomenally good memory to work. He was one of those people who never forgot a fact, and this ability had now made him very rich.

  He catered to a diverse set of customers: businessmen needing market information, politicians looking to find a bit of dirt on their rivals, jealous wives suspicious of inattentive husbands, impoverished aristocrats searching for wealthy spouses, and anyone else who had the means to pay his exorbitant fees. But Blimpey had standards, and he drew the line at knowingly passing on facts that could cause physical harm to an innocent woman or child. Recently he’d made it clear to his customers that he’d rather not deal in information that was on the wrong side of the law. Most of his clients understood his decision, but there were a number of former customers who were still complaining about it. This new restriction was most probably due to the fact that he was now a husband and father. Respectability was important to him.

  “You want something to drink?” Blimpey looked toward the bar, where his man-of-all-work, Eldon, and a barmaid were busily dispensing pints.

  “I’m fine,” Smythe said. “Now, what ’ave you got for me?”

  He had no concerns about paying for Blimpey’s services. Smythe was a wealthy man. He’d gone to Australia after leaving the service of Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s aunt. He’d made a fortune there, come home, and stopped in to pay his respects to his former employer. He’d found Euphemia ill and being tended by Wiggins, a very young footman. The other household servants were robbing the woman blind. Smythe sent Wiggins for a doctor and tossed the rest of the staff out of the house. But it was too late to save the Euphemia’s life. On her deathbed she made Smythe promise to stay on at Upper Edmonton Gardens to make certain her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, would have a decent household that wouldn’t take advantage of his innocent and unworldly character. Smythe agreed, but by the time he should have been ready to move on to his own life, he’d fallen in love with Betsy and become very fond of the others. The only fly in the ointment now was that he’d kept his wealth a secret from everyone but Betsy and Mrs. Jeffries. He hoped that when they found out they’d understand and forgive him for keeping them in the dark.

  “That was quite a long list you gave me,” Blimpey said. “But as I just told ya, I’ve found out a few bits and pieces. I’ve got people still workin’, so what you don’t find out today, we might learn tomorrow.” He took a breath. “Let’s start with Merton Nesbitt. He hated Margaret Starling because she testified against ’im in a divorce. Cost him dear, too; the wife was the one with the money, and she booted ’im of her ’ouse, sold it, and then moved to the Continent. But from what we’ve ’eard, Nesbitt’s never been violent. Mind you, ’e’s broke and livin’ off a small trust and what ’e can get by sellin’ the few trinkets ’is wife didn’t take when she left. Still, when ’e was in ’is cups, ’e wailed and moaned that it was all Margaret Starling’s fault.”

  “But did ’e threaten ’er?” Smythe asked.

  “Not that I know of, but wait, there’s more to ’is story. Recently, Nesbitt told one of ’is mates that ’e’d got a letter from ’is former wife and that ’e ’ad ’opes of reconcilin’ with the lady. Seems being a divorced woman is just as ’ard in France as it is ’ere. ’e claimed she’d told him she was lonely and ’inted that maybe the divorce was a mistake.”

  “Which could mean that now Merton Nesbitt ’ad a motive,” Smythe murmured.

  “Course it does. Someone like Nesbitt, a lazy upper-class sod that’s never worked a real day in ’is life, wouldn’t want Margaret Starling stickin’ ’er oar in again and ruinin’ it for ’im.” He took a sip from his mug of coffee. “But time’s a-wastin’ and I’ve got to get ’ome early today. Nell and I are takin’ the boy to see his great-aunt, and she’ll ’ave my guts for garters if I’m late and we miss the ruddy train. So let’s move on to the next one. We didn’t find out much about Edgar Redstone—we’re still workin’ on that one—and we didn’t find much about Graham McConnell. ’e’s only been employed at the Angel Alms Society for two years, and before that he worked for a charity in Southampton. ’e goes down there once a quarter to visit ’is old mother.”

  Smythe nodded. “What did you find out about the Reverend Reginald Pontefract? ’e was involved in one of our other cases, but only as a witness, and our own sources ’ave found out a few ugly bits about ’im.”

  Blimpey chuckled. “Sounds like you already know what I’m goin’ to tell ya. Turns out the good reverend ’ad a spot of bother at ’is last church, but it didn’t ’ave a ruddy thing to do with that case of yours, either.”

  “Couldn’t keep his ’ands to ’imself?”

  He laughed outright. “Spot-on, Smythe. Accordin’ to my source at Lambeth Palace, Reginald Pontefract was tossed out of ’is parish at Highgate—a very rich parish from what I understand—and sent south of the Thames because a number of young women claimed that ’e was overly familiar with their persons. That’s the way the charge read.”

  “We found that out as well, but blast a Spaniard, that’s disgustin’.” Smythe frowned heavily. “Pontefract is a ruddy clergyman, someone a young woman would trust. Why didn’t they just toss ’im out of the church altogether? Why send ’im somewhere else to do mischief?”

  “Because ’e claimed it wasn’t true—’e said the women were lying and as it was their word against ’is—the church fathers decided the easiest course would be just to get ’im out of the way.” Blimpey nodded. “It’s ugly, I’ll grant you. This wasn’t the only charge that’s been laid at ’is doorstep, either.”

  “For God’s sake, ’ow many complaints do they need before they take it seriously?” Smythe shook his head in disgust. “I’ve got a daughter, and men like ’im shouldn’t be free to do as they like to innocent young girls, especially in a church.”

  “You’ll not get an argument from me about that, but what I’m tellin’ ya is the first complaint against Pontefract wasn’t about ’im bein’ too free with ’is ’ands. At ’is first parish, money went missin’ from the Sunday collection, and there were those in the congregation that were sure Pontefract was ’elpin’ ’imself to it. But nothin’ was proved against him.”

  “Now, that makes sense.” Smythe remembered what Ruth had told them. “No wonder he was so worried. Our source told us that Pontefract had admitted to her that he’d nicked three quid and he was afraid Margaret Starling knew about it.”

  “The church might look the other way a time or two when it’s young girls accusin’ Pontefract of actin’ improperly”—Blimpey picked up his mug and took a quick sip—“but money is a whole different kettle of fish. If Mrs. Starling ’ad gone to them with proof ’e’d stolen money, they’d toss ’im out on ’is ear. That sounds to me like a motive to murder the woman.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Nivens leaned back in his chair and stared at Constable Forman, who was standing on the other side of the desk. “Why didn’t you tell me that there was another copy of the postmortem report?”

  He had his temper firmly under control now and had spent the last few hours giving his immediate
problems a great deal of thought. The most pressing matter was finding out exactly what Gerald Witherspoon had written in his report to Chief Superintendent Barrows. But it wasn’t going to be easy. He didn’t have many sources of information at Scotland Yard, which was an unfortunate result of his actions and ambition. Forging friendships with colleagues and underlings never appealed to him; he’d always considered it a waste of time. That might have been a mistake, but right now he had to concentrate on his current difficulties.

  Forman swallowed uneasily. “I didn’t know about it, sir. No one said another one had been done. It’s not standard procedure.”

  “Find out where and when it was delivered,” Nivens ordered. “I want to make sure we don’t have a traitor in our midst.” That was a secondary matter, but it needed to be dealt with quickly. He had to find out who at the station was actively working to undermine him.

  “A traitor, sir?” Forman edged toward the door. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Forman,” Nivens snapped. “If it was delivered here, then someone made certain it was given to Witherspoon. If it was delivered to the Ladbroke Road Station, then we’ll need to keep an eye on Dr. Littleham. I know for a fact he was specifically told to send the report here. What’s more, see if you can find out why he did two copies.”

  Forman’s face fell. “To be perfectly honest, Inspector, I’ve noticed some of the lads have been avoiding me. I’m not sure anyone will tell me anything.”

  “For God’s sake, Forman, you’ve bent my ear ever since I was sent here about how you want to be a detective, so use this incident to impress me. If the others won’t tell you, get out and do some detecting work.”

  “All right, sir. Do you want me to ask Dr. Littleham directly why he did two copies?”

  Nivens eyes narrowed. “Are you joking? Of course I don’t want you to ask him directly. Use your head and figure out a way. For God’s sake, Forman, you’re no good to me if you can’t find out a few simple facts.”

  “I’ll find out, sir,” Forman said quickly. “Really, but it might take a bit of time.”

  “We don’t have time.” Nivens drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Witherspoon might catch the killer, and I’ll not have that. It simply can’t happen—not when’s he’s barged onto my turf, stolen my case, and told a pack of lies about me to the chief superintendent.”

  Shocked, Forman gaped at him but said nothing.

  Nivens was staring off into space with a calculating, speculative expression on his face. He looked at the constable. “Do you have any friends at Scotland Yard?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Jeffries picked up a clean rag, dabbed it in the open tin of silver polish, and pulled a dessert spoon from the box of silverware. She’d pulled the dining room curtains as far back as they’d go to take advantage of the pale winter sunshine. Downstairs, Mrs. Goodge was with one of her colleagues, and Mrs. Jeffries hoped the cook was learning something useful about this case. That would be very helpful. She’d decided to spend the morning polishing the silver because she was at her wit’s end. She’d not been exaggerating when she’d complained to Constable Barnes and Mrs. Goodge that she had no idea who had killed Margaret Starling.

  She smeared the spoon with a dab of polish and rubbed it vigorously. Polishing silver was the sort of mindless task that could help her see the connections between bits of seemingly unrelated facts.

  First of all, she thought, who had the most to gain from this crime? She considered the question carefully. Margaret Starling’s death meant Olivia Huxton wouldn’t have to go to court and risk paying out damages in a slander lawsuit or having her social reputation ruined. Ruth’s visit from Reverend Pontefract made it clear that he could lose his position as well as his reputation if she’d filed a complaint against him with the church hierarchy. But Pontefract had also told Ruth he only thought Mrs. Starling knew he’d stolen three pounds. He didn’t know for certain that she’d found him out. He admitted he’d been to her house on the night of the murder, but that didn’t necessarily make him the killer.

  She tossed the cleaning rag onto an open copy of the previous day’s newspaper, picked up a buffing rag, and polished the spoon. What about Merton Nesbitt or Edgar Redstone? Both had reasons to loathe the victim. They thought she’d ruined them financially, and she had. But her death would gain them nothing except some twisted emotional satisfaction. Was that enough? She wanted to think that couldn’t possibly be the case, but the awful truth was that experience taught her that, for some people, destroying an enemy would be enough.

  She finished with the spoon, put it to one side, and grabbed another piece of silverware. Mrs. Jeffries polished silver for two hours as she went over every detail they knew thus far. But it did her no good whatsoever.

  “You’re going around in circles,” she muttered to herself. She closed the silverware box, picked it up, and put it away in the bottom drawer of the buffet. As she was gathering her supplies to go downstairs, she stopped. It suddenly occurred to her she might be looking at the case backward. Instead of asking who had the most to gain from Mrs. Starling’s death, perhaps she should be asking who might have had the most to lose if the woman had stayed alive.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Mr. Underwood said he was home all evening on Sunday night,” Barnes murmured as he rejoined Witherspoon in the foyer. “He was sure it was Nesbitt who’d come in late and tracked up the foyer.”

  Witherspoon put on his bowler. “What time?”

  “He didn’t get out of bed to check the time, sir, but he heard Nesbitt’s door slam.” Barnes looked up the staircase. “Should we confront Nesbitt?”

  “No. He’ll just deny it, and a slammed door isn’t particularly solid evidence.” He put on his gloves. “I wonder if Constable Griffiths and Evans have had any luck verifying Nesbitt’s and Redstone’s whereabouts that night. That was a good suggestion; they’re our constables and they know what they’re doing. I’m not sure the local lads are up to the task.”

  “If either of them weren’t home, someone in the neighborhood would have seen them going in or out of their homes.” He opened the front door and stepped outside. “Where to now?”

  “The Starling house,” Witherspoon said. “I want to interview the servants again. Only one of them was forthcoming about how strange Mrs. Starling’s behavior was in the weeks before she was killed. I think they can tell us more.”

  “You think they were lying?” Barnes started up the short stone walkway.

  Witherspoon fell into step with him. “Not deliberately. But I suspect they didn’t want to say anything that cast Mrs. Starling’s character in a bad light. Murder is so shocking, and most people don’t understand how important even insignificant details can be in catching the killer.”

  “I agree, sir,” Barnes said. “They were holding back a bit. I sensed it as well. Plus I’d like to have a good look at the garden shed. Supposedly one of the first constables on the scene searched it, but I’d like to take a look for myself.”

  “Excellent. From what I’ve observed at the Upper Richmond Road Police Station, Inspector Nivens values loyalty from the rank-and-file lads rather than competence.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Octavia Wells reached for the blue-and-white coffeepot and poured the dark brew into the matching cups. “Margaret Starling was one of our best supporters.” She handed Ruth her coffee. “I was so upset and angry when I learned she’d been murdered. I will do whatever I can to help your inspector catch whoever did this.”

  “She was a supporter of women’s rights? I’ve never seen her at one of our meetings.” Ruth stared at her friend.

  Octavia was the treasurer of the London Women’s Suffrage Society. Her hair was flaming red, her eyes brown, her complexion perfect, and her plump figure dressed by the finest seamstresses in London. She had
long ago perfected the image of a silly matron obsessed with parties, gossip, and fashion, but in actuality she was smart and savvy and knew to the penny how much everyone in London’s upper echelon was worth.

  “She didn’t come to meetings very often and she was a member of the Putney/Wandsworth group,” Octavia explained. “She supported us with money rather than action. But she was highly respected and we’ll miss her very much. Now, I know you’re here because your Inspector Witherspoon caught the case.”

  “Yes”—Ruth nodded—“and we’re not sure why it was given to him. Putney isn’t his district.”

  “He got the case because I called the home secretary and told him to give it to him,” Octavia explained. “Sorry, that probably doesn’t make much sense to you. But my friend Barbara Canton rang me early Monday morning and told me that Margaret had been murdered. Barbara’s husband is a police superintendent. Well, I certainly didn’t want that idiot Nivens on the case, so I did what had to be done and I called the home secretary. He owes me a favor, so I asked him very politely to send your inspector to take over. It’s imperative whoever did this foul deed is brought to justice.”

  “You have a telephone?”

  “Of course. You should get one as well. They’re quite useful, and so many people have them nowadays. Lucky for us, the home secretary has one. Now, what do you need to know?”

  “There are several people who had been quarreling with Mrs. Starling before she was killed. I was hoping you might know something about some of them.” Ruth recited the names of the suspects.

  Octavia thought for a moment. “The only thing I know about Merton Nesbitt is that his wife divorced him and she went to France. I’ve never heard of Edgar Redstone. As to this Reverend Pontefract, I’ve heard some ugly gossip about him. Apparently he’s not to be trusted around young women.”