Ruth smiled. “Doing something is better than sitting around my drawing room, fretting.”
Mrs. Goodge came back to the table and took her seat. “Good, it sounds like we’re well on our way to getting this murder solved.”
“Do you have any sources coming today?” Phyllis asked.
“Not a one,” the cook said. “Today the greengrocer is delivering the evergreens and holly so I can decorate the dining room for our Christmas dinner.”
“What about the tree?” Betsy asked. “When is it coming?”
“Today, and we’ll all decorate it at the party on Christmas Eve. So everyone had better get crackin’ if we want this case solved before the big day.”
* * *
* * *
Sir Gareth Cleary rose from behind his desk as the two policemen were shown into his study. “Come in, Inspector, Constable. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Good day, sir. I’m Inspector Witherspoon and this is my colleague, Constable Barnes. “Thank you for seeing us so promptly.”
The man behind the desk reminded him of a portrait he’d seen of Benjamin Franklin. He had a round, kindly-looking face, a receding hairline, and long, wavy hair that brushed the edge of his collar. A pair of oval wire-rimmed spectacles were perched on his nose. He went well with the old-fashioned room. Wooden wainscotting, so dark it looked black, covered the lower half of the forest-green walls. Gray velvet curtains tied back with green tassels hung at the two windows. There was a portrait of the queen as a young woman hanging over the black marble fireplace, and a bulldog lay in a huge basket on the hearth. He lifted his head to stare at them and then went back to sleep.
“Of course, sir, as I said, I’ve been expecting you.” He motioned to the chairs in front of the desk as he took his seat. “Please sit down. I assume you’re here because of Margaret Starling.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Dreadful business, absolutely dreadful. I still can’t believe that she’s gone. She was such a big part of the Angel Alms Society. We shall miss her very much. Now, what can I do to help you?”
Witherspoon, who wasn’t really sure why the constable had been so insistent that they interview Sir Gareth this morning, glanced at Barnes.
“We’ve been told that Mrs. Starling attended all the alms society meetings since the beginning of November,” Barnes said. “Is that correct?”
“That’s right.” Sir Gareth took his spectacles off and laid them on the desk. “She’s always been one of our most stalwart members.”
“So it wasn’t unusual for her to be in attendance?”
Sir Gareth sat back and folded his hand across his ample middle. “It was. She’s always been very committed, but her attending so many meetings, especially at this time of the year, was odd.”
“But isn’t this the time of year that your society selects the recipients of the alms?” Witherspoon asked.
“That’s true, but that had nothing to do with Margaret. The advisory board took care of housekeeping matters. You understand, they repaired and sorted the donated clothing, made sure there were provisions in the emergency food cupboard—that sort of thing. They had nothing to do with the selection of the alms recipients. The vicar of St. Andrew’s and the board made those decisions.”
There was a loud snort and a series of short staccato ones, followed by the loudest snore Witherspoon had ever heard. Both policemen looked at the bulldog. He was still sound asleep.
“Sorry, Alfred is very old and he snores horribly. But he gets very distressed if he isn’t with me,” Sir Gareth explained.
“That’s quite all right, sir.” Witherspoon smiled at the sleeping animal. “I’m a dog lover myself.”
“Did Mrs. Starling tell you why she was attending so many of the meetings?” Barnes asked.
“Not at first, but I’ve known Margaret for many ye—” He caught himself. “Sorry, I’m still thinking of her in the present, not the past.”
“That’s easy to do when you’ve lost a friend.” The inspector smiled sympathetically. “Do go on.”
“The meetings are long and rather boring, so I confronted her and asked why she was suddenly coming to all of them. She told me she had some grave concerns about the finances of the society.”
“What kind of concerns?” Witherspoon asked.
“At first she refused to say; all she would tell me was that she’d heard some very disturbing information. But she wouldn’t be specific. It was only later that I learned exactly what those concerns entailed.”
“Did you take her seriously?” Barnes put his pencil in his left hand and flexed the fingers of his right one.
“I did. Margaret wasn’t one to exaggerate. I pressed her, but she said that she’d get back to me when she had additional information, and a few weeks later she did.”
Barnes flipped to a clean page in his notebook. “When was the first time she spoke to you about this?”
“November seventeenth. I remember because it was getting late and I was in a hurry to leave, as I had a luncheon engagement. She started asking me questions about how the actual finances were handled, who got the money, how often the books were examined, and who examined the records. I must say, I was quite surprised, and had it been anyone but Margaret asking those questions, I wouldn’t have taken it seriously.”
“But you did take her seriously. Why?” Witherspoon asked.
“First of all, because I knew her character. Margaret didn’t make idle chitchat to make herself look important. Secondly, at the previous meeting, the one on November third, I overheard her speaking to Graham McConnell. At that meeting Mr. McConnell announced that donations for the quarter were much lower than usual. After the meeting, she asked him about an individual contribution, one from a former member who’d left the area, and McConnell said the woman gave the same amount she always gave: ten pounds. Margaret argued with him, saying she was certain he was mistaken, that she’d spoken to this person and learned she was giving more each quarter, not the same.”
“Do you recall the name of this individual?” Witherspoon asked quickly.
“It’s Mrs. Ordway—Francine Ordway,” he replied. “She moved to Tunbridge Wells at the beginning of last year. McConnell brushed her aside, saying that donors often exaggerated the amount they gave and that Mrs. Ordway was elderly and forgetful.”
“And it was the next meeting that she approached you with questions,” Barnes clarified. “Is that correct?”
“That’s right, but it was what she told me at the following meeting, the one on December first that was so surprising. She told me she’d gone to Tunbridge Wells. Mrs. Ordway insisted she sent fifteen pounds a quarter to the society, not ten. I’ll admit, I was in a quandary. I said that perhaps Mr. McConnell had been mistaken; that happens, especially at this time of year when everyone is so very busy. Margaret said she had another avenue of inquiry and that she’d speak to me later. Then she left.”
“Did she bring the subject up again?” Barnes was fairly sure she had.
“Yes, at the next meeting, the one on December fifteenth. She told me she’d spoken to another person who donated to the society, Mrs. Harriet Minton. She lives in Chelmsford and Margaret had gone to see her. She said Mrs. Minton claimed she sent three pounds a month to the society. It was at this point that I agreed we should bring in an outsider to examine the records.”
“I don’t understand,” Witherspoon said. “What was wrong with Mrs. Minton’s donation?”
“Everything, Inspector. The last recorded entry for the donation was in September.”
“Did you ask Mr. McConnell about it?”
“I did, and he said that they’d not received any money since the September entry. But he did point out that Mrs. Minton sometimes sent the money to the alms office and sometimes she sent it to the church.”
* * *
* * *
>
“What do you mean, you’ve found out nothing?” Nivens demanded. “You’ve had plenty of time, I sent you to the Yard yesterday and you’ve learned nothing. What kind of detective are you?”
“I did my best, sir,” Forman said, “but no matter who I asked, no one would tell me anything.” He knew he’d made a mistake. Falling in with Nivens wasn’t going to do his career any good. Now he had to think of a way to salvage the situation without making Nivens too angry. The man wasn’t completely powerless.
“What about the other matter?” Nivens snapped. “Did you at least find out about that? Surely someone here saw who received those two postmortem reports.”
Forman swallowed nervously. “I asked Sergeant Wylie, sir, but all he said was that when he returned from the lavatory, one of them was on the counter. He had no idea how the second got into Inspector Witherspoon’s hands.”
“Blast,” Nivens muttered. “That won’t do. There must be some way to stop him. I’ll not let him solve this case. Not this time. If he mucks it up, Chief Superintendent Barrows will have to give it back to me. Have you been keeping an eye out for his servants?”
“I’m trying to, sir, but I don’t know what they look like.” Forman felt sweat break out on his forehead. “But I did what you told me, and this morning I’ve watched to see if there was anyone looking suspicious and hanging about the Starling neighborhood.”
Nivens slumped in the chair. “This isn’t working, I’m going to have to take more direct action.”
Forman panicked. He was only willing to go so far and no farther. “What do you mean, sir? If we get caught mucking about with the evidence—”
“We’ll not get caught,” Nivens interrupted, “and I certainly don’t need you questioning my authority. Now, get out there and find Witherspoon and that blasted Constable Barnes. Keep an eye on them and then report back to me before you go off shift today. That’s an order.”
* * *
* * *
Wiggins stared at the young woman he hoped was Fanny Herald. He was at bottom of St. John’s Road, in the spot where it ended at the edge of a field. He’d gone to the Starling home, and as Mrs. Jeffries had predicted, at one o’clock a housemaid dressed in a navy-blue overcoat came out the servants’ entrance and went toward the High Street. He’d followed her, thinking he’d use his old standby, bumping into the girl, when she suddenly darted into the post office. He’d waited and she came out and carried on walking. He’d been sure she was going to the railway station, but instead she went on to the Upper Richmond Road. He had kept his distance, watching her as she made her way past the Angel Alms Society and then St. Andrew’s Church to the edge of a field. She’d stopped and now stood there.
He walked closer and heard her crying, faint sobs she was trying to muffle with a wadded-up handkerchief over her mouth. Throwing caution to the winds, he went over to her. Her back was to him and her sobs were loud enough that she didn’t hear him. Not wanting to startle her, he cleared his throat before he said, “Excuse me, miss, but are you all right?”
She whirled around, her face a mask of fury. “None of your blooming business!” she yelled. “Now leave me alone.”
“I’m ever so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to intrude, but you looked so upset, I just ’ad to make sure you were all right.”
She glared at him for a few seconds and then her face crumbled. “Am I all right,” she repeated, her voice cracked. “Of course I’m not all right. I’ve made a right fool of myself.” Tears flowed down her cheeks and her nose was wet. “Now the mistress is dead and we’re all going to get turfed into the street. I’ve nowhere to go. My gran can’t take me in again and I don’t know what to do.”
He wondered if the tears were because she was terrified of being on the streets or if it was something else. But whatever was upsetting the poor lass, he wasn’t just going to leave her standing here scared and blubbering in the wind. “Miss, we’ve all made fools of ourselves one time or other. Now, look, I know I’m a stranger and you don’t know me from Adam. I mean you no ’arm and me mum raised me to be a gentleman. She’d be ashamed of me if left a lady in distress ’ere on the edge of cow field. There’s a nice café on Disraeli Road; please let me buy you a cup of tea. You’ll feel ever so much better.”
She swiped at her face. “You’ll buy me a cup of tea? Well, that’s better than nothing. All right. My name is Fanny Herald. What’s yours?”
“Albert Jones.” He took her elbow. “It’s just up ’ere, miss.”
Five minutes later he seated her at one of the tables in the workingman’s café before going to the counter to get their tea.
“’ere you are, Miss ’erald.” He put the tea down in front of her.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “I’m so sorry to have made such a spectacle of myself, but the past few days have been hard.”
“I understand, miss. Would it ’elp to talk about it? Sometimes a chat can make you feel better.” He wasn’t certain whether he wanted her to say yes or no. He didn’t want her to start crying again. He knew he was here to find out what she knew, but he hated seeing anyone look as scared and miserable as she did.
“I’m not sure even where to start.” She took a sip of tea. “My mistress was murdered last Sunday night. You’ve probably heard about it because it’s been in all the papers. Her name was Margaret Starling.”
“I’m sorry. That must be awful for you.”
“Not just me, but for the rest of the household as well.” She brushed a strand of hair off her cheek. “The police have been asking everyone questions. We’ve no idea what we’re going to do once the solicitors read her will; we’ll probably all be tossed into the streets. It’s fine for people like Mrs. Adkins—she’s the cook, and she’ll not have any trouble getting another position—but for girls like me, it’s goin’ to be hard and I’ve got no place to go.” Her eyes filled with tears again.
“What kind of work do you do?” he asked quickly.
“I’m a tweeny.” She took a breath and brought herself under control. “I’m not even a properly trained lady’s maid. I’m going to have a devil of time finding another position.”
“You could go to one of them domestic employment agencies,” he suggested. “Lots of people get work like that.”
Her expression changed. “I’ve not thought about that. Do they have positions with room and board? That’s what I’d need—a roof over my head.”
“I think so. If you’ve good work and character references, you should be able to find something that will suit you.”
“How can I get a reference? My mistress is dead,” she muttered.
“Don’t be daft. You can get one from the ’ousekeeper and you can get a character reference from a churchman or a doctor or someone like that,” he pointed out.
She brightened again. “That’s true. I go to Evensong services on Thursdays, so perhaps the vicar will give me one. Or maybe Mr. McConnell . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her lap. “But I’ll not ask him. It’s ’is fault I’ve been in such a state.”
This was the opening Wiggins wanted. “Is this Mr. McConnell a friend?”
“Friend? No. I thought he was kind—I thought he liked me—but now I think he was just using me so I’d say nice things about him to the mistress.” She snorted. “He didn’t even look at me when he come to the house on Monday. It’s not like I was sweet on him or anything like that. For God’s sake, he’s old enough to be my father, and he’s got a head like a turtle.”
“He sounds a right scoundrel,” Wiggins agreed.
“He is. He uses people. That’s what Mrs. Starling said about him, and he tried to use me to sweeten her up. Then he had the nerve to treat me like I was some jezebel who’d set her cap for him. He’s the one that come after me—he’s the one that sat next to me every Thursday at Evensong and then insisted on walkin�
� me home—and now I know it weren’t because he liked me; he just wanted me to put in a good word for him so Mrs. Starling wouldn’t set her solicitor on him.”
* * *
* * *
“Perhaps we ought to stop in at the Starling house and have a word with Constable Griffiths. He and the constable from Upper Richmond Road should have had time to speak to the rest of the servants.” Witherspoon said as he and Barnes headed for the Lower Richmond Road in search of a hansom cab.
A hard blast of wind hit them as they turned the corner, and Barnes reached up and tightened the chin strap on his helmet. “Right, sir. It’ll be interesting to hear what Constable Griffiths has to say about the other lad. Mind you, they seem a good sort, and we can thank them for keeping us informed about Inspector Nivens’ silly antics. There’s a cab dropping a fare, sir. If we hurry, we can get it before anyone else does.”
They raced up the street, with Barnes taking the lead and hurrying ahead. He had the door open by the time the inspector reached it.
“I’m wondering if we should interview the other members of the board,” Witherspoon said to Barnes as they climbed into a hansom. “Your suggestion that we speak with Sir Gareth Cleary was most informative, Constable. Perhaps some of the other board members will add to what we know.”
“We did learn a lot, sir.” Barnes braced himself as the vehicle lurched forward.
“On the other hand”—Witherspoon reached up and grabbed the handhold—“I think we should speak to Mr. McConnell again. He omitted mentioning a number of pertinent details about what happened during those meetings.”
Barnes nodded in agreement. “And I still need to ask him where he was on the night of the murder.”
Witherspoon looked surprised, started to say something, and then shrugged. “Well, sometimes we miss a step or two, Constable, but not to worry, we’ll ask him now.”
“I’ll tell the driver we’ve changed destinations.” Barnes banged on the roof of the vehicle and then stuck his head out the tiny window as the cab slowed. “Take us to St. Andrew’s Church.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 20