The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (16 page)

“You mean Mr. Hodges told the driver to go down the Strand?” Luty asked.

“Indeed. Mr. Hodges told the bloke exactly how to go. Told the driver he and the missus had words and ‘e wanted to give ‘er time to get over her temper.”

“That’s very interesting,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And quite possibly true.” She then told them what the inspector had confided to her. She told them about Benjamin Vogel’s now vanished gun, the jewels being found in Felicity Marsden’s room, the note to Constable Griffith that the inspector hadn’t written and the fact that Vogel’s landlady couldn’t confirm his alibi.

“That’s it then,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly. “They did it together. Felicity Marsden and Benjamin Vogel. Mark my words, they’re the killers.”

“Now, we mustn’t jump to conclusions,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “We don’t know that Mr. Vogel and Miss Marsden were even together that night, and even if they were, I hardly think that proves them guilty of murder.”

“But they both got a motive! ‘Is gun’s missing, and the jewels was found in ‘er room,” Smythe protested. “Sounds to me like that’s pretty good evidence.”

“On the surface it may well be,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “However, the inspector mentioned that he didn’t think Mr. Vogel was stupid. Hiding jewels you’ve conspired to steal in one of the other conspirators’ rooms strikes me as the mark of a very stupid man.”

“Maybe he’s going to blame it on her,” Luty suggested. “Wouldn’t be the first time a man’s taken advantage of a woman’s love. I once knowed a woman, good woman too, right smart. She up and helped her feller rob a bank. When the law caught up with ’em, he left her holding the money and hightailed it down to Mexico.”

“That’s terrible,” Wiggins mumbled.

“But why would he do that? The jewels weren’t worth much,” Betsy said. “Seems to me the object was to get rid of Mrs. Hodges so he could marry her niece. With Mrs. Hodges dead, Miss Marsden probably stands to inherit a tidy sum. Lots more money than those piddly pearls were worth.”

“Maybe all he wanted was vengeance,” Luty insisted. “Lots of men have done that. Spent a lifetime trackin’ someone down who’d done ’em wrong. Why, I knew a feller once who spent twenty years—” She broke off as Wiggins moaned. “Land’s sake, boy. What’s ailing you? My stories ain’t
that
bad.”

Wiggins moaned again and buried his face in his hands. Everybody stared at him, their expressions concerned.

“Wiggins?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted gently. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

The boy looked up, his face a mask of misery. “You ‘aven’t ’eard what I’ve got to say, and when you do, you’ll all be wantin’ to put the noose around poor Miss Marsden’s neck for sure. And I know she couldn’t have done it, I just know it.”

“You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause you think she’s pretty,” Smythe mumbled.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Wiggins. We’re hardly likely to want to put the noose around anyone’s neck at this point in our investigation.” Mrs. Jeffries didn’t add that she personally didn’t see the point of hanging criminals in any case. The criminal justice system in England had been doing that for years and she didn’t see that it had done all that much good. There were still plenty of criminals about. But this was hardly the time to enter into a debate over one of her more radical views. That could wait.

“You will when I tell ya,” he moaned.

“Oh, go on and tell us, lad,” Smythe snapped. “We’re ‘ardly like to grab a rope and go get the woman to string her up tonight.”

“Please,” Mrs. Jeffries said quietly. “Tell us what you know.”

Wiggins nodded and told them about following Felicity Marsden to St. John’s Church. “When I was standin’ in the churchyard, I saw the vicar come out the front door, so I nipped ‘round the corner to the back and what do you think I saw?”

Luty rolled her eyes. “Hurry up, boy. Hatchet’ll be here any minute and I want to hear this.”

“Miss Marsden. They’s a graveyard behind the church and she were dartin’ from one ‘eadstone to another,” Wiggins continued. “Well, as I ‘ad Fred with me, it were kind of ‘ard to keep ‘er from spottin’ me, so we finally ‘unkered down in some bushes. Then I saw ‘er stop beside a newly dug grave. She kneeled down like she were goin’ to pray, only instead of prayin’ she started diggin’. When she stood up again, the little brown parcel she were carryin’ weren’t in ‘er ‘ands.” He paused again. “She’d buried it.”

“Did you go dig it up?” Smythe asked.

Wiggins blushed. “Er, I were goin’ to.”

“What do ya mean, you was goin’ to?” Luty slapped her hand against the tabletop. “What stopped you, boy?”

“It were gettin’ dark,” Wiggins said defensively. “And I didn’t want to be late gettin’ ‘ome. I tell you, the place was right ‘orrible. Startin’ to rain, and Fred here was hungry and then it got black as night, and what with all this talk of spirits and communicatin’ with the dead, well, I weren’t goin’ to ‘ang about there diggin’ in some grave on me own.”

“Oh, Wiggins,” Betsy teased, “are you tellin’ us you was scared?”

“I didn’t say I was scared!”

Luty was shaking her head in disgust. “What a greenhorn,” she muttered.

“Blast, boy,” Smythe snapped. “The dead is dead. They’ll do you no ‘arm. You should have seen what Miss Marsden was buryin’. It might be too late now.”

“’Ow do you know the dead is dead?” Wiggins argued.

“Silly goose,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

“Now, now,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “Stop picking on Wiggins. I hardly think Felicity Marsden would bury something in St. John’s churchyard this afternoon just to go back and dig it up this evening.”

“True,” Smythe agreed, “but someone else might.”

Naturally, after Smythe’s pronouncement, everyone had an opinion concerning the best course of action. Wiggins wanted to go to bed and worry about someone digging up Felicity Marsden’s cache in the morning. Smythe, Betsy and Luty Belle wanted to dash off to St. John’s instantly, and Mrs. Goodge, who wouldn’t have gone in any case, tended to side with Wiggins.

Undecided, Mrs. Jeffries gazed at the footman thoughtfully. “You weren’t followed today, were you?”

“‘Course not. Even if someone did spot me, unless they was faster than Snyder’s hounds, they couldna kept up with me and Fred. We barely kept Miss Marsden in sight ourselves.”

Satisfied, the housekeeper nodded. “I believe then that as you’re the only one who knows about Miss Marsden’s trip to the churchyard, no one else could possibly get to it before we do.”

“Reckon you’re probably right,” Smythe said. “Wiggins and I can go do a bit of diggin’ ourselves tomorrow morning. If we get to the church right after dawn, we can get in and out without anyone seein’ us.”

“Go on with you, man,” Betsy snapped. “Why should you and Wiggins get to do all the nice things? I want to go too.”

“Nice!” Smythe stared at the girl incredulously. “I was only tryin’ to be considerate. Diggin’ about in a damp, cold churchyard at this time o’ the year isn’t exactly what I’d call nice.”

Luty yawned widely. “Quit yer squabblin’, if it’s all the same to everyone, Hatchet and I’ll be ‘round tomorrow momin’ before yer inspector’s stirrin’. We’ll bring the carriage, that way we can all go.”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly.

True to her word, Luty, with a grumpy butler in tow, called for them in her carriage at half past six the next morning. As there was little traffic at such an early hour, they made excellent time to St. John’s.

Dawn was breaking as they piled out of the carriage. Luty had directed Hatchet to bring them to the back of the church.

The churchyard was enclosed by a low stone wall capped by a thick iron railing. A small, locked gate was the only entry.

“Nell’s bells,” Luty exclaimed as she glared at the heavy black lock. “How come you people lock up yer dead tighter than a bank vault? I ain’t seen a cemetery yet in this country that wasn’t surrounded by bars. What’re ya expectin’ them bodies to do? Come back and haunt ya?”

“Actually,” Mrs. Jeffries explained cheerfully, “the railings were erected around most cemeteries and churchyards early this century. It was an attempt to keep the bodies from being stolen.”

“Pardon the interruption,” Smythe hissed softly, “but Wiggins and I’ll have a hunt ‘round the other side to see if we can’t find a way in. If we can’t, we’ll climb the fence.”

“Good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

Luty tugged on her sleeve. “Who the dickens would want to steal corpses?”

“Hmmm, oh, professional body snatchers,” Mrs. Jeffries replied absently as she anxiously watched Smythe and Wiggins disappear around the corner. Then she turned to gaze at the back entrance of the church; she wanted to be able to call out a warning in case a vicar or someone else came out into the yard.

“Body snatchers,” Luty muttered. “Why the dickens would anyone want a bunch of dead bodies?”

“To sell to medical schools,” Mrs. Jeffries said, still keeping her gaze on the church. “The students need them for dissection.”

Betsy winced. “That’s disgustin’.”

“There weren’t enough bodies, you see,” Mrs. Jeffries continued. She thought she might as well satisfy Luty’s curiosity while they waited for Smythe and Wiggins. “The problem was most prevalent in Edinburgh—they simply didn’t have enough bodies for the students to dissect. Medical schools, which, from what I’ve heard, didn’t ask too many questions about how the bodies were procured, would pay between seven and ten pounds per corpse. Surely you’ve heard of that dreadful Burke and Hare—they actually used to murder their victims in order to keep the supply available. Well, with that kind of money in the offing, body snatchers began to prey upon recent burials. Naturally this upset the relatives, and so they started standing guard for a number of days after the loved one was buried.”

“Givin’ the body time to rot, huh?” Luty asked with relish.

Betsy moaned softly. “If you two are goin’ to be so gruesome at this time of the mornin’, I’m going to sit with Hatchet.”

Luty looked offended. “We’re not bein’ gruesome. Hepzibah is just tellin’ me some of the more interestin’ bits about you English.” She grinned at the housekeeper. “How come they put up the gates then, if relatives was standin’ guard?”

“They wanted to be doubly sure.” She pointed to the spiked points on the top of the railings. “The railings were designed to make it difficult to get a body over the gate. But the newest churchyards don’t have them.”

Luty, who obviously found the subject fascinating, said, “How come?”

“After the passage of the Anatomy Act of 1832 it became much easier for medical schools to acquire bodies legally. That, of course, took the profit out of stealing from graves and that particular crime has virtually died out. It was rather distasteful, I’ll admit, but if you keep in mind the dreadful poverty so many people are forced to endure, you can understand why it happened.”

Smythe, with a panting Wiggins trailing him, appeared from around the corner. He waved them over.

“There’s another gate on the side,” he whispered. “We’ve got it open. But we’d better be quick, there’s a few lamps coming on across the road.”

Leaving Hatchet to keep watch for patrolling constables, they went into the yard. Wiggins led them to the spot where Miss Marsden had buried the parcel. It was just beneath the headstone of one Percival Pratt, who departed this world only a week ago.

Sinking to his knees, Smythe took a trowel from beneath his coat and began to dig. “I’ve hit somethin’,” he muttered as he tossed the trowel to one side and brushed some dirt off the package with his fingers. He brought out the parcel and handed it to Mrs. Jeffries.

Everyone gathered closer as she carefully eased off the string and unwrapped the paper. “Oh dear,” she murmured softly. “It’s a gun. Probably the one that killed Mrs. Hodges.”

Wiggins made a sound of distress. “Poor Miss Marsden. This’ll put a noose ‘round ‘er neck for sure.”

“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Just because she buried the gun isn’t evidence that she did the shooting.”

“But who else could of done it?” Betsy asked. “And if
it weren’t Felicity Marsden, then why did she come all the way over here to get rid of the gun?”

“That’s a very interesting question,” Mrs. Jeffries answered quickly, “and one we’d better discuss thoroughly before we take any action.” She hastily rewrapped the weapon. “Here, Smythe, hold this while I retie the string.”