“Excellent, Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Who is next?”
“I’ll go,” Betsy offered. She told them about her encounter with Mrs. Pillington and how it led to meeting Mrs. Walcott. “She seemed to want to speak to me, so I walked with her to the High Street. I didn’t think I could ask her the same questions I was going to ask McConnell’s housekeeper, so I brought our conversation around to the night Mrs. Starling was murdered. I wanted to find out if she knew if McConnell was home that night. But she and her husband had gone out and so she didn’t know.”
“That’s a pity,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Who would—”
“Wait, I’ve not finished,” Betsy interrupted. “What she did tell me was the reason they’d gone out was because of the cat crying. Mrs. Walcott said that on that Sunday they kept hearing a cat screeching its head off like it was being tortured. They went out and searched the back garden but couldn’t find the animal. It wasn’t till later in the day that Mrs. Walcott realized the noise was coming from inside the McConnell flat.”
“If the animal was making such a nuisance of itself, why didn’t she knock on the door and ask the McConnell housekeeper what was wrong?” Ruth asked.
“She did. But it was McConnell who answered the door. He’d given Mrs. Pillington the day off. When she asked about the screeching cat, he insisted the noise must be coming from somewhere else—that there wasn’t a cat in the house.”
“I take it she didn’t believe him,” Mrs. Jeffries guessed.
“That’s right, but the cat’s screeching continued, so she and her husband went out to dinner; and when they arrived home, the place was as dark and silent as the grave.”
“What time did they get home?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She was feeling more confident now, as one more piece of the puzzle in her head had slipped into place.
“She didn’t know the exact time, but it was late enough that McConnell could have been asleep.” Betsy shrugged. “That’s it from me.”
“Can I go next?” Wiggins paused, and when no one protested, he told them about following Fanny Herald and their meeting at the edge of the cow field. “You were right, Mrs. Jeffries, it was ’er afternoon out. She calmed down a bit when we got to the café. Poor lass, she’s worried sick about not ’aving a roof over ’er head. She didn’t make a lot of sense, but from what I could get out of ’er, she thought Graham McConnell was sweet on ’er. ’e’d made a bit of a fuss, walked ’er ’ome from Evensong service, and got ’er chattin’ about everything that went on at the Starling house. She thought ’e was serious, but then, after Mrs. Starling died, ’e cut ’er off completely—not just that time the inspector said ’e came to the ’ouse, but she saw ’im twice after that and ’e barely spoke to ’er.”
“Where did she see him?” Phyllis asked.
“Once on the street outside the alms society and once in the church,” he replied. “She said ’e was in the storage room shovin’ ’ymnals into a bookshelf. She claims she wasn’t followin’ ’im, but I think she was.”
“I do, too,” Phyllis said. “I was at St. Andrew’s today and I had a look a good look around. The only way she could have seen into that room is if she was right up at that tiny little window in the door.”
“Wasn’t the storage room once a private chapel?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“It was,” Mrs. Jeffries confirmed. “Go on, Wiggins, tell us the rest.”
“There’s not much more to say. She kept goin’ back and forth between bein’ angry at McConnell and crying that she’d made a fool of ’erself. The only other bit I could get out of ’er was ’er sayin’ she wanted to speak to the police again—that now that she’d ’ad time to think about all them times McConnell walked her ’ome from Evensong, ’e’d not really been askin’ about ’er; ’e’d been askin’ about the Starling household and Mrs. Starling’s comings and goings.”
“We’ll make it a point to let Constable Barnes know they need to speak to her again,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“May I go next?” Ruth asked. “My report won’t take long.” She waited a moment and then told them about her visit with Janet Madrigal. “Margaret Starling visited Mrs. Madrigal at the end of November. The two women had never met before, but Mrs. Starling managed to convince her that there was a serious problem with the finances at the Angel Alms Society and that she needed to find out how much Mrs. Madrigal donated. She said she sent them three pounds a month and had been doing so for over ten years.”
“That’s a lot of money. Three hundred and sixty quid,” Smythe muttered.
“It is, but she wanted to continue to donate, because when she lived in Putney, she’d gone to St. Andrew’s and was a supporter of the charity,” Ruth explained. “But the interesting thing she told me was that the monthly donation was always done with coins, not a check. She sent gold sovereigns every month.”
“Gold sovereigns,” Luty exclaimed. “Why’d she do that? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“The custom was started by her late husband. He used to drop the sovereigns off at the society office on the first of every month, and when he died, she simply continued doing it.”
“How?” Mrs. Goodge looked doubtful. “They’d not fit properly in a paper envelope?”
“She sent them in little boxes.”
“And she always sent them to the alms society?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“That’s what she told me”—Ruth picked up her teacup—“which was confusing to me. Reginald Pontefract admitted that he’d stolen three pounds, and when I found out that’s what she sent every month, I assumed that was the money Pontefract had taken. But if the box was mailed directly to the society, I don’t see how he could have had access to it.”
“He has a key to the office,” Phyllis pointed out. “According to Stuart Deeds, the vicar can come and go as he pleases. If Mrs. Madrigal has been sending gold sovereigns for ten years, it’s likely he knew about it.”
“And he could easily have waited till the office was empty, slipped inside, and taken it.” Ruth sighed. “That is so very unbecoming of a man of the cloth.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Phyllis apologized to Ruth.
“I was finished anyway, and your explanation does make sense.”
“Good, then I’ll go next,” Phyllis laughed. “I’ve already told you the best bit; now I’ll tell you the rest.” She reported the details she’d heard from Stuart Deeds. “After the meetings, Stuart always tidied up, which gave him the opportunity to eavesdrop on the board of governors. He said Mrs. Starling always stayed late, and he overheard her talking to the board members. The most important conversation he overheard was Sir Gareth Cleary agreeing they should bring in an outsider to go over the books. I know we already know that much, but—and this is significant—after every meeting since the beginning of November, Graham McConnell made a point of asking Stuart what he’d overheard. Stuart says it took a few times before he realized that McConnell expected him to repeat everything.” She continued her narrative, taking her time and making certain they had all the details. “Unfortunately, the inspector and Constable Barnes arrived and I had to make a run for it. Lucky for me, Graham McConnell’s office door was unlocked, so I managed to get inside and out the window before the inspector could see me.” She told them about her encounter with the verger and how she’d stayed inside St. Andrew’s for more than an hour to avoid running into Witherspoon.
“Cor blimey, Phyllis,” Wiggins laughed. “I’d have paid to see you climbing out a window.”
“Yes, well, I’m not doing it again for your entertainment”—she grinned—“but it was quite exciting. That’s all I’ve got.”
Mrs. Jeffries looked at Luty.
The elderly American swallowed the bite of bread she’d just taken. “Nelson Biddlington will be home tomorrow morning. He’s comin’ in on the night train from Scotland, but
the butler—he’s the one I spoke to today—he wouldn’t tell me if Margaret Starling had been there or if anyone had sent any sort of package there or not.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “He flat out said what was or wasn’t delivered to Mr. Biddlington wasn’t any of my concern. Acted like he had a poker up his bu—” She broke off. “—uh, er, spine.”
Everyone laughed. They knew what she’d almost said.
“Really, madam, such language,” Hatchet chided.
“I didn’t say it; anyway, our little Amanda isn’t here. We’re all grown-ups and we’ve all heard words like that before. But let me finish—I’m goin’ to see Nelson tomorrow and he’ll tell us what we need to know.”
“I’ll go next,” Smythe said. “Merton Nesbitt was at the Three Swans the night Mrs. Starling was killed. No one knew what time ’e arrived, but everyone knew ’e didn’t leave until closin’ time and that ’e was dead drunk. What’s more, no one noticed any blood on ’is clothes. So unless ’e went ’ome and changed before ’e went to the pub, I don’t think ’e’s the killer.” He looked at the housekeeper. “I hope you’ve really figured it out, Mrs. Jeffries. Tomorrow’s the twenty-third.”
“I think I know who did it, but I could be wrong.” Mrs. Jeffries drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “And if I’m wrong, we’re right back where we started.”
* * *
* * *
Witherspoon was in a pensive mood when he arrived home. He handed Mrs. Jeffries his hat and unbuttoned his overcoat. “It’s been quite an eventful day, and, to be perfectly honest, I’m tired.”
She hung up his hat and took the coat after helping him take it off. “Are you too tired for a sherry, sir?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve been looking forward to relaxing.” He headed down the hallway.
“And I’ve been looking forward to hearing all about your day, sir.” She hurried after him. She got their drinks as he settled into his chair and, a few moments later, took her own seat.
He took a sip and then ran his finger along the rim of the small crystal glass.
“Did you learn much today, sir?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, but I’m not certain what it all means. We started out by interviewing the head of the board of governors, Sir Gareth Cleary.” He told her what they’d learned and she listened as carefully as always until he got to the end.
“So Mr. McConnell’s explanation as to why there wasn’t anything recorded since September was that sometimes this particular donation went to the alms office and sometimes to St. Andrew’s?”
Witherspoon nodded. “That’s what he said, and he was very sure of his facts. He spoke to Graham McConnell directly.”
She was confused now. Her theory about the murder was based on there being two sets of financial records, one for the alms society and a secret one kept by the embezzler. Was she wrong? Or was there some other explanation?
“After we left Sir Gareth, we went to the Angel Alms Society and had a word with the clerk.”
She forced herself back to the here and now, listening as he told her the details of that encounter.
“But I must say, I think Mr. Deeds is a tad forgetful.” He told her about the missing young woman and his concerns that the clerk wouldn’t be a reliable witness. “Luckily, Constable Barnes seemed to feel the fellow simply got confused about the sequence of events this morning. I’ve done that myself a time or two.”
“What did you do after that, sir?” she asked quickly. The less he thought about the “missing young woman,” the better.
“We met up with the constables. By the way, pairing the Ladbroke Road lads with the ones from Upper Richmond was a very good idea.” He repeated what they’d learned.
Mrs. Jeffries sipped her sherry as she listened. She forced the questions that were now screaming for her attention to the back of her mind and hoped she could remember everything. “And what did you do then, sir?” she asked when he finally finished.
“Well, we went back to the alms society. I had a number of questions for Mr. McConnell. We waited for quite a while, but he never returned. While I waited, Constable Barnes went to St. Andrew’s to have a word with the verger.”
“About what, sir?”
Witherspoon looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure. He murmured something about finding out about the history of the building. I didn’t want to say anything, Mrs. Jeffries; you know I have the highest regard for Constable Barnes. He’s an excellent policeman and a cracking detective. But I do fail to see how the history of that building could have anything to do with this murder.”
CHAPTER 11
Mrs. Jeffries couldn’t sleep. She lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling while her mind raced from one thought to another. She rolled over onto her side and wondered if she was completely mistaken about this case. Perhaps the murder of Margaret Starling wasn’t the result of a complicated plot of embezzlement and fraud but the result of simple, ugly hatred.
She rolled back the other way and let her thoughts come willy-nilly as she played with the idea that her recent assumptions were wrong. Edgar Redstone wasn’t home the night of the murder and no one knew where he’d really been. His housekeeper had said that he was “in his cups” when the next-door neighbor and the hansom driver helped him into his flat on Sunday night. But the only motive he had had to kill the victim was hatred. On the other hand, he’d only recently learned that the income he depended on from the quarterly trust actually belonged to Margaret Starling and she’d taken it back. Depriving him of his livelihood could have been what drove him over the edge and into murder.
What about Merton Nesbitt? There were witnesses who said he’d been at the Three Swans, but he could have killed Mrs. Starling before he went there that night. But when he arrived, no one noticed blood on his clothing, and smashing someone’s skull with a heavy shovel would have resulted in stains.
She frowned. Mrs. Huxton had claimed that without the letter, Margaret Starling had had no slander case against her. But was that true? No, of course not. Reverend Pontefract had shown the letter to the board. If a sample of Mrs. Huxton’s handwriting was shown to the board members, surely some of them would be able to testify it was the same as what they’d seen in the letter. Even if it wasn’t enough evidence to win a slander case in a court of law, it was surely enough to damage her social reputation. Or was it?
This was getting her nowhere, so she closed her eyes and took long, deep breaths to calm her mind. Her last thought before she drifted off to sleep was that she wasn’t wrong. But now she wasn’t sure she could prove it.
* * *
* * *
Constable Barnes arrived early the next morning. “We’ve a lot to cover,” he told the two women as he took his usual spot. “First of all, there’s something the inspector doesn’t know and it’s important. Nivens has one of his lackeys following us about and trying to interfere in the case.” He told them about Constable Griffiths meeting with Constable Forman. “After Forman confessed what he’d been up to, Griffiths told him to report it to Chief Superintendent Barrows.”
“Will that do any good?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. “Nivens is as slippery as an eel. He’ll wiggle out of it some way or other.”
“Not this time,” Barnes said confidently. “Not if Inspector Witherspoon follows through on his threat to report Nivens. That’s why I’m telling you about this.” He looked at the housekeeper. “You’ll need to keep after him to do it. Otherwise, Nivens will keep coming after him and he’ll go after that idiotic Constable Forman. Stupid fool should have known better than to trust Nivens.”
“I’ll do my best,” Mrs. Jeffries promised. “But Inspector Witherspoon is so kindhearted . . .”
“True, but this time Nivens went too far. He tried to hobble a murder investigation,” Barnes explained. “You just need to keep reminding him of that. Now, tell me what your lot found out yesterday.”
It
took less than a quarter of an hour to share the details. When they’d finished, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Now it’s your turn, Constable Barnes.”
It only took him a few minutes to add to the information Witherspoon had shared with Mrs. Jeffries. “I did go see Tom Lancaster. I wanted to see if he would mention running into Miss Phyllis in the churchyard—you know, just in case the inspector wants to have another word with him—but he didn’t. Mind you, now that I know Fanny Herald saw McConnell mucking about with the bookshelf in the storage room, I really wish I had asked him about the history of the church.”
“You think McConnell was hiding something there?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“It’s possible. I’ll duck in and have a look this morning,” Barnes said. “We’ve some questions for McConnell.”
“I think you should send a constable to watch his flat,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. She was on dangerous ground here; she could easily be wrong.
“You think he’s the killer?” Barnes asked. “Based on what?”
“I think he’s been embezzling from the Angel Alms Society and Margaret Starling found out about it.” She took a deep breath. “But I could be wrong. You should know I’m not one hundred percent sure of my conclusions. Nonetheless, I’m going out on a limb here and asking you to watch his movements.”
“Do you have any evidence he did it?” Barnes pressed. “You know how much I respect your abilities, Mrs. Jeffries, but there’s three other people who hated the victim, and any of them could have done it.”
“There is evidence against him,” she acknowledged, “and I think I know where it is. If I’m right, we should have it by noon. If I’m wrong, the only mistake you’ll have made is sending a constable to watch his flat.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 23
