“All right, I’ll see if I can talk our inspector into it. But I’m goin’ to look a right fool if we get to the Angel Alms Society this morning and Graham McConnell is sitting at his desk.”
* * *
* * *
At the morning meeting, no one was surprised by Mrs. Jeffries’ revelation. “I know I generally don’t say who I think committed the crime,” she admitted, “but I think in this situation I needed to tell you. The truth of the matter is that I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s McConnell.”
“You’re never a hundred percent sure,” Mrs. Goodge told her. “Now, what if anything do you want us to do today?”
“Constable Barnes is going to try to get a constable to watch McConnell’s flat, but I’d like one of us to keep an eye on it as well.”
“I can do that,” Wiggins offered. “You think he’s goin’ to run off?”
“It’s possible. If he did return to the office yesterday afternoon, I’m sure Stuart Deeds told him the police had been there; and if Mrs. Pillington, his landlady, tells him a private inquiry agent was at his flat, that might frighten him enough to leave.”
“I’ll go with ya,” Smythe told Wiggins. “Might as well ’ave two of us on the job. If ’e goes, one of us can follow ’im and one of us can get back ’ere.”
“Should I still go to Nelson Biddlington’s house?” Luty looked confused.
“Yes, that’s very important. You need to find out if Mrs. Starling came to see him and if she left the second set of books at his home,” Mrs. Jeffries explained.
“But we don’t know for certain she was actually there,” Ruth reminded her. “We only know that my source thought Mrs. Starling was on Porchester Terrace a few days before she was killed.”
“I’m aware of that.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at Luty. “If I’m wrong, it could be very embarrassing for you.”
“I’ll be with you, madam,” Hatchet said cheerfully. “Then we can both be embarrassed.”
* * *
* * *
“Where is Constable Forman?” Inspector Nivens paced in front of the counter. “He was supposed to report to me half an hour ago.”
Sergeant Wylie looked surprised by the question. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. Didn’t you send him to Scotland Yard this morning?”
“No, I didn’t.” Nivens’ brows drew together. “Are you saying he’s gone to the Yard on his own?”
“Apparently, sir,” Wylie replied. “He came in fifteen minutes before his duty shift and said he was going to the Yard. I just assumed he was running an errand for you.”
“You shouldn’t have made such a stupid assumption, Sergeant,” Nivens snapped. “You should have jolly well asked Forman what he was doing and who had authorized him to be absent from duty.”
“If he’s at the Yard on official business of any kind, sir, he’s on duty, not absent,” Sergeant Wylie said.
“He can’t be on official business!” Nivens yelled. “I didn’t send him there.”
“Perhaps Inspector Witherspoon did, sir.” Wylie smiled as he spoke.
Nivens stared at him for a long moment, then turned on his heel and marched to the duty inspector’s office. He stepped inside, slamming the door so hard the building shook.
* * *
* * *
Witherspoon stepped out of the hansom and waited while Barnes paid the driver. The constable joined him on the pavement in front of the alms society building. “This is the moment of truth, sir. If I’m right, Graham McConnell won’t be here.”
“You really think he’s guilty?” Witherspoon said.
“Yes, sir. I think he’s an embezzler and I think he killed Mrs. Starling because she’d found evidence against him.” Barnes repeated Mrs. Jeffries’ words, but as she’d not mentioned any real evidence against the man, he hoped that when they went into the office, they’d find neither hide nor hair of the fellow. “It’s ten past nine, sir, so the place should be open.”
When they stepped inside, the foyer was dark. “The gas lamps were lighted the last two times we were here.” Barnes moved toward the outer office. “Mr. Deeds, are you here? Mr. Deeds? Where are you?”
“The gas lamps are out here as well,” Witherspoon muttered. The two policemen moved into the center of the room. “And the blinds are still drawn. What on earth is going on? Mr. Deeds? Mr. McConnell?”
They heard a groan. “Oh . . . oh . . .”
“It’s coming from in there, sir!” Barnes raced toward McConnell’s open office door. Witherspoon was right on his heels. They charged inside. Stuart Deeds was on the floor. His head was covered in blood as he struggled to get to his feet. “Help me, uh . . .”
Rushing to him, Barnes gently pushed him back down. “Don’t move. We’ll get a doctor.”
“He hit me,” Stuart’s whispered. “He hit me hard, two times, and I don’t know why . . . I gave him the address but he hit me anyway . . . He ran . . . Oh . . . it hurts.”
“Stay with him,” Witherspoon ordered. “I’ll get help.”
“There’s a fixed-point constable on the corner,” Barnes yelled as the inspector disappeared.
The constable looked around the room for something to cover Deeds with but saw nothing. “Don’t move, Stuart. I’m going into the other office to get something to keep you warm.”
“All right.” Stuart’s eyes fluttered shut. “I hurt. My head hurts, uh . . .”
Barnes scrambled to his feet and raced to the first coat cupboard in the outer office. He flung open the door and grabbed five or six garments, not caring that they were women’s coats and cloaks. He hurried back to Stuart Deeds, hoping the lad was still alive.
But Stuart’s eyes were closed. Dropping to his knees, Barnes draped a heavy gray mantle over Stuart’s legs and then a navy-blue cloak over his chest. Stuart’s eyes opened. “Am I dying?”
“Not yet,” Barnes said. “Who did this to you?” He knew who it must have been, but as a policeman he needed to hear Stuart say the name.
“Mr. McConnell. He was here when I came in, I came early to do . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Don’t try to talk anymore. The doctor’s on his way.” Barnes saw there was blood all over the lady’s shirt and coat. He looked around the room, noticing for the first time that all of desk drawers were wide-open and the chair behind the desk was overturned.
McConnell was either looking for something or was in a miserably bad mood.
“But I must tell you,” Stuart struggled to get the words out. “He’s insane. He’s got a gun. Hit me with it.”
* * *
* * *
“Nelson Biddlington has done very well for himself,” Hatchet commented as he and Luty waited in the drawing room.
The walls were painted a pale blue, indigo-and-gray-striped curtains hung at the windows, and ivory-and-sapphire-patterned rugs lay on the polished oak floor. An ivory settee and three matching upholstered wing chairs were grouped in front of the fireplace.
“There’s family money here,” Luty murmured. “But even if there weren’t, Nelson woulda done just fine. That’s why I hired him and Ronald.”
“Ronald Biddlington is his identical twin, right?” Hatchet knew they were her solicitors, but he’d never met either man.
“That’s right. They’re both good men and Nelson is a smart as they come.”
“Why, thank you, Luty.” Nelson stepped into the room. He was a short, thin man with curly gray hair, a prominent nose, and bright blue eyes. “What a nice thing to say. It’s so lovely to see you. I’m sowwy I wasn’t available when you came yestewday, but I’ve only just weturned fwom Scotland.”
Luty had already warned Hatchet that Nelson had a speech problem and he couldn’t say the letter r.
“It’s good to see you, too, Nelson,” she got up from the settee as he advanced across the spacious room.
“This is Hatchet, he works for me.”
Nelson extended his hand and the two men shook. “I’m vewy pleased to meet you, Hatchet. Please, let’s sit down. I’ve asked Pwingle to bwing tea.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble on our account.” Luty sat down on the settee and Hatchet and Nelson each took a wing chair.
“It’s no twouble,” Nelson assured her. “It’s just Pwingle and me today. The othew sewants won’t be coming back until Chwistmas Eve.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you when you’ve just got back from a trip,” Luty said, “but I’ve got something real important to ask you.”
“Is it about Mawgwet Stawling’s mudder? She was one of my clients and a fwiend as well. I want the muddewah caught, so I’ll do anything I can to assist Inspecto Withahspoon.”
“Thank you, Nelson, I know this must be difficult for you,” Luty began. “The first thing I need to know is whether Margaret brought something here to you a few days before she was killed.”
“I don’t know. I’ve been in Scotland fow two weeks. Pwingle was heah, so if she bwought anything, he’d have put it in my study.” He got up from the chair. “It’s this way,” he motioned for them to follow him.
* * *
* * *
“The wound bled copiously”—Dr. Littleham tucked the roll of bandages into his medical bag and snapped it shut—“but there’s no indication of any additional damage.” He smiled at Stuart, who was sitting up with a huge bandage wrapped around his head. “You’ll need to take it easy for a few days, young man. But you’ll soon feel better.”
“Thank you, Dr. Littleham,” Witherspoon said. “We’re very grateful you were able to come so quickly.”
“Yes, well, my surgery is just up the road. I must get back, I’ve patients to see.” He turned his attention to Stuart. “Be careful for the next day or so, and if the headache gets worse, come see me and we’ll try something else for the pain.”
“Yes, sir.” Stuart still looked dazed. “Feels like my head is foggy.”
“That will pass,” the doctor assured him. He picked up his bag. “You took a bad blow, but you’ll be fine. Good day, everyone.”
Witherspoon waited until the door closed behind the doctor before he spoke. “Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Deeds?”
“Mr. McConnell hit me,” Stuart said. “You must find him. I just realized, he’s gone to hurt someone.”
“Gone where?” Barnes asked sharply.
“To Mrs. Starling’s solicitor. That’s why he came into the office today. He needed the address from my files. He’d donated to us, so I wrote it down and took it to him, but he hit me anyway. He’s going to do something bad. I saw him put more bullets in his pocket.”
“Do you remember the address?” Witherspoon demanded.
“Uh . . . uh . . . let me think . . .” Stuart squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “Bayswater. Porchester Terrace . . . I think it was number three.”
“Stay with him,” Witherspoon ordered Constable Quinn. “Griffiths, Evans, you’re with us!” he yelled as they raced for the door.
* * *
* * *
Wiggins hurried into the kitchen. “We’ve got a problem. McConnell’s gone. ’e left his flat this mornin’ before we got there. He was carryin’ a carpetbag with ’im. Smythe’s gone to the alms office to see if McConnell went there.”
Betsy looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “You were right: His landlady must have told him I was there yesterday asking questions.”
“Is he trying to run away from the police?” Ruth asked. “Is that what’s happening?”
“I don’t know what is going on,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted, “but I’ve a feeling something awful is going to happen. Oh, dear, I do wish I hadn’t sent Luty and Hatchet to see Nelson Biddlington.”
“You think McConnell is going there?” Wiggins exclaimed. “How would he know that Mrs. Starling went there?”
“From Fanny Herald,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “That’s why she’s been crying and carrying on. She feels guilty about passing along so much information about Mrs. Starling. But that’s not important now. Wiggins, take a hansom and get to Porchester Terrace.”
“What’s the ’ouse number?” He headed for the back door.
“I don’t know, but you can find it. Luty’s carriage will be out front.”
* * *
* * *
Nelson ushered them into his spacious study. The curtains were pulled back and they could see the garden through the French doors. A fire screen stood in front of the green marble fireplace; next to that was a set of brass fireplace tools. The mantelpiece was cluttered with magazines, puzzle boxes, a stack of novels, and a huge glass globe, inside of which was a mountain village complete with snow. Shelves filled with books covered two of the four walls. A globe of the earth was next to the desk, and the floor was covered with a colorful oriental rug.
“If she left something fow me, it would be on my desk,” he said as he crossed the room. They trailed after him.
The package was sitting in the center next to a black file box. It was wrapped in brown paper.
“I’ll bet that’s it.” Luty grinned.
Nelson stopped and stared at the package with a sad expression on his face. “She did bwing me something. I wish I’d been home.”
There was a loud crash from outside the room. All three of them jerked in surprise.
“Oh, deah, I think Pwingle must have dwopped the tea tway. He’s been having pwoblems with his balance lately. I’ll go check.” Nelson hurried out of the study, pulling the door shut behind him.
Nelson’s voice came through the study door loud and clear: “What do you want? Stop that wight now!”
A second later they heard Pringle yell, “Run, Mr. Biddlington, run! This man’s got a gun.” There was the sound of breaking china; metal clanged and footsteps pounded against the floor. Someone screamed.
“Get out to the garden.” Hatchet pushed Luty toward the French doors.
“Don’t be dumb.” Luty jerked away from him and raced to the fireplace. She grabbed the snow globe and started for the door.
“Not that.” Hatchet picked up the heavy poker. “Madam, I must insist you stay behind me.”
From the foyer they heard a high-pitched, hysterical male voice. “Where is it? Tell me where it is or I’ll kill him!”
Hatchet, with Luty on his heels, cracked open the study door and peeked outside. He saw a man with graying hair standing over the butler. His back was to them but they could clearly see he had a gun pointed at Pringle’s chest.
“I want the package,” he said to Nelson. “I know she brought it here and I want it. Get it now.”
Nelson tried to bluff it out. “What package?”
“The one Margaret Starling brought here. Stop trying to play me for a fool.” He kicked Pringle in the leg. The butler winced but didn’t cry out. “I can do worse than this. The next time it’ll be a bullet in his knee.”
“Don’t shoot; I’ll get it,” Nelson said. “You don’t have to kill anyone. You can have the package.”
Hatchet shoved Luty back, opened the door wide, and crept out into the foyer, holding the poker high over his head. McConnell’s back was to him but both Nelson and Pringle could see him. The butler’s eyes widened in surprise, but Nelson kept calm.
“Put the gun down, suww, and let my butlew up,” he said in a loud, strong voice as Hatchet moved closer and closer.
“Get the package first,” McConnell yelled, “and be quick about it if you don’t want this man to die! I don’t have all day and my patience is wearing thin!”
Hatchet was close enough to strike a blow, but suddenly McConnell sensed his presence and turned his head. Hatchet brought the poker down just as McConnell ducked to one side. The blow landed on the side of his head.
McConnell stumbled but m
anaged to bring the gun up. He stared at Hatchet in disbelief, aimed the weapon, and then collapsed completely, dropping the gun, which mercifully didn’t go off. Pringle scrambled away as McConnell fell to the floor.
“Is he dead?” Nelson dropped to his knees and grabbed McConnell’s wrist, feeling for a pulse.
“Oh, deah, what a mess.” Pringle looked around the foyer. A table was overturned; the tea tray had landed against the wall; cutlery, sugar and cream, and cups and saucers were scattered everywhere; and the teapot had broken in half and now sat in an ever-increasing brown puddle.
There was a furious pounding on the front door. “Mr. Biddlington, Mr. Biddlington, are you all right? It’s the police.”
Hatchet yanked Nelson to his feet and shoved the poker into his hand. “We can’t be found here.”
“Go out the Fwench doowahs, I’ll stall them,” Nelson replied. “Huwwy, get out now. I know what to do.”
Hatchet raced into the study just as Witherspoon and the constables burst through the front doors.
Luty was already outside, motioning for him to hurry. He ran across the room and into the garden, closing the doors behind him. He grabbed Luty’s elbow and they ran as fast as they could toward the far end of the property.
“Are you all right, Mr. Biddlington?” Witherspoon shouted as he rushed toward them. “We could hear screaming.”
The constables surrounded Graham McConnell as he struggled to get up.
“I’m fine, suww. This man”—he pointed to McConnell—“bwoke into my home and assaulted me and my butlew. I defended myself with a pokuh.”
Griffiths and Evans pulled McConnell to his feet. Blood dripped from the side of his head and ran down his neck.
“I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.” The inspector introduced himself. “I take it you are Mr. Nelson Biddlington?”
“I am, Inspectuh, but I’ve no idea what’s going on heuh.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 24
