The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (19 page)

“I’ll get the girl myself,” Hodges said. “Then perhaps we can get this situation straightened out. Whatever information you think you’ve learned, Inspector, I assure you, my niece is innocent.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Barnes waited until he heard Mr. Hodges’s footsteps going up the stairs. Then he turned to the inspector. “I’m still wonderin’ who sent that note. Any ideas, sir?”

The inspector had actually given the matter a great deal of thought. He was rather glad the constable had asked. “Actually I’ve already deduced who it must have been.”

Barnes looked appropriately impressed.

“Obviously”—Witherspoon lowered his voice—“it was one of the Hodgeses’ servants.”

“Really, sir?”

“But of course, who else could it have been? It was someone in the household who didn’t want to risk losing their position by coming forward and telling the police what they’d learned, but on the other hand, they didn’t want justice to be thwarted either.”

They heard the sound of pounding footsteps on the staircase. Alarmed, both men hurried into the hall.

Leonard Hodges, breathing hard and looking very agitated, stopped on the bottom step. “I’m not really sure what to make of this,” he began. “Honestly I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation, but I don’t know what it could possibly be.”

“Please calm yourself, Mr. Hodges,” the inspector said. “Just tell us what’s wrong.”

“It’s Felicity.”

“Yes, what about her?” Barnes asked as he began edging towards the staircase. “Is she refusing to speak to us?”

“She’s gone.”

Mrs. Jeffries paused across the road from the Hodges home. She pursed her lips, wondering what approach to take with Felicity Marsden. Perhaps she should slip around to the back of the house and wait and see if the girl came out into the garden, that would ensure them privacy. But then she glanced at the gray, darkening sky and realized that with the weather so bleak and cold, her quarry was hardly likely to come into the garden at all. Yet Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want to run into the police! For all she knew, Inspector Witherspoon might be inside the Hodges house at this very minute.

Suddenly the front door opened and the object of her thoughts appeared on the front steps. The inspector stood there, waving his hands and talking earnestly to Constable Barnes. His bowler was askew, as though he’d tossed it on his head without proper care, and his coat was undone. Mrs. Jeffries could see he was extremely agitated. Something must have happened. But what? She had to know.

She saw the inspector point to his left, in the direction of the Queens Road, and then Constable Barnes nodded and hurried away. Mrs. Jeffries decided to take the bull by the horns. She waited until Barnes was out of earshot and quickly crossed the road.

“Oh, Inspector,” she called gaily as she came up behind him, “how very nice to see you, sir.”

Witherspoon jumped in surprise and whirled around. “Why, Mrs. Jeffries, what are you doing here?”

“I’m just on my way to Fitzchurch’s,” she explained. “They’ve such lovely linens and we’ve quite a few sheets that need replacing. Well, as I had to pass here to get to there, I thought I’d just have a peek at the”—she broke off and pretended to be embarrassed—“scene of the crime. Oh dear, sir, I’m afraid you’ll think me such a busybody, but I was so terribly curious.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Jeffries,” the inspector said quickly, seeing his housekeeper’s obvious discomfort. “I understand completely. Naturally you would be curious.”

“How very understanding you are, sir,” she replied. “But then, that’s why you are such a brilliant detective. You understand people.”

Witherspoon’s chest swelled with pride for a brief moment before he remembered the latest development in this baffling case. “It’s jolly good of you to say so,” he said. “But I’m afraid this case has even me a bit flummoxed.”

“Nonsense, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “I’ve absolute confidence in your abilities. Whatever has happened is, I’m sure, only a temporary delay.”

“Do you really think so?” he asked hopefully.

“Of course. Now, tell me, sir. What has you so agitated?”

“I fear my prime suspect has flown,” he confessed on a sigh.

“Oh dear, how very tiresome for you.”

“It most certainly is. Really, young people these days! No respect for the law. I tell you, Mrs. Jeffries, as difficult as it is to imagine such a thing, that young woman has something to hide.”

“I take it you’re referring to Miss Marsden?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She was rather surprised by this new development.
“Did she know you were waiting to see her?”

“Yes. The maid told her we were downstairs waiting to speak with her,” the inspector replied, “but when Mr. Hodges went up to fetch the young lady, he found her gone. She’d also taken her carpetbag and some clothes.”

“Oh dear, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries clucked sympathetically. “That’s most annoying, I’m sure. But not to worry, you’ll soon catch up with her.”

“I’ve sent Barnes to get us a hansom,” Witherspoon continued, glad of the chance to unburden himself. “We’re going to see Benjamin Vogel. If he’s gone as well, we’ll know the two of them are our murderers.”

Mrs. Jeffries almost bit her tongue to keep from telling the inspector he shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Instead she said, “But I thought Miss Marsden had broken her engagement to Mr. Vogel?”

“That’s just what they wanted everyone to think. But one of the housemaids has admitted that Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel have been secretly meeting with one another.” Witherspoon’s eyes narrowed. “Hilda Brown has been acting as their go-between. The supposed breakup of the engagement was just a ruse. No doubt they didn’t want Mrs. Hodges cutting Miss Marsden out of her will.”

“So you think that Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel conspired together?” Mrs. Jeffries’s mind was racing furiously. “But why?”

“Because Miss Marsden stands to inherit a great deal of money upon her aunt’s death, that’s why.”

“She’s the sole beneficiary to Abigail Hodges’s estate?” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to be absolutely clear on this point.

“Not the sole beneficiary,” Witherspoon said cautiously as he peered up the road for Barnes. “Mr. Hodges gets the other half. The estate’s worth over a million pounds.”

“Gracious, sir, that is a lot of money.”

“Many would kill for such an amount,” Witherspoon replied, “and I’m almost certain that Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel did.”

A cold blast of wind slammed into them, rattling the branches of the trees. Mrs. Jeffries drew her cloak tighter as she saw a hansom cab turn into the road and come towards them. She was running out of time, but there was one last important point she needed to impress upon the inspector.

“But, sir,” she said softly, “who sent the note to Constable Griffith?”

“Note?” Witherspoon stared at her blankly.

“The one purportedly from you, sir,” she explained. “Constable Griffith searched the house and found the jewels because he thought you’d instructed him to do so, but you hadn’t.”

“Oh that. Well, obviously, it was one of the Hodgeses’ servants. Possibly even young Hilda Brown herself.” Witherspoon brightened perceptibly. “Yes, I’m sure that’s who sent the note. No doubt the girl realized what Miss Marsden had done. She probably felt very guilty for being a party, even an innocent party, to such wickedness.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought that a possibly illiterate maid having the gumption to forge an inspector’s name on a note was about as likely as pigs flying. She had to do something. She was sure that note hadn’t been written by Hilda Brown, just as she was becoming more and more certain that Felicity Marsden and Benjamin Vogel weren’t the killers.

The hansom drew up next to them. Mrs. Jeffries smiled and patted the inspector on the arm. “I’m sure you’re right, sir. It probably was the maid. Mind you, the girl must be better educated than most servants.” She broke off and laughed gaily. “Why, so many of them can barely read or write. The girl’s obviously clever too, if she had the foresight to forge your name. Apparently Miss Brown knew exactly what to do to get the uniformed lads to make such a quick and thorough search. My thinking that perhaps someone was deliberately trying to lay the blame for this heinous crime at an innocent woman’s feet is simply silly. Why, you’re far too just a man to arrest someone for a crime merely because it’s the easiest course of action.”

Her words had the effect she’d hoped. The inspector’s face fell and she could tell he was truly unsettled. For the truth of the matter was that the inspector
was
a just man. Now that she’d hinted that Felicity Marsden might be an innocent victim instead of a heartless killer, she knew Witherspoon wouldn’t rest until he got at the truth.

“Yes, well, I’ll just be off,” the inspector said as he reached for the latch and opened the door. Constable Barnes caught sight of Mrs. Jeffries and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Jeffries,” he called. “What are you doin’ over this way?”

“I’m just on my way to Fitzchurch’s,” she replied.

“Perhaps I’ll give this whole situation a bit more thought,” Witherspoon muttered as his housekeeper and constable exchanged pleasantries. He was still muttering to himself when Barnes closed the hansom door and the horses clip-clopped briskly away.

Mrs. Jeffries started walking. She thought about the various pieces of information she’d learned. It could well be that someone was indeed trying to make the police think that Felicity Marsden and possibly Benjamin Vogel were the killers. But then again, there was the chance that Inspector Witherspoon was correct and the note had been written by a servant or someone else who didn’t wish to come forward. But that was rather farfetched. Again, she had the feeling that some unknown hand was moving the pieces of the puzzle to and fro. The note, the jewels, the ease with which Miss Marsden’s and Mr. Vogel’s alibis had been shattered, it was all too neat and tidy.

She turned the corner onto Princes Road. Felicity Marsden and Leonard Hodges were the two who stood to benefit the most from Abigail Hodges’s death and Felicity was the one without an alibi. But what about Jonathan Felcher, she thought. Didn’t he benefit as well? He might not inherit anything directly from his aunt, but now that she was dead, he’d have control over his own money.

And, she reminded herself, Felcher was planning on leaving the country in a few days. That certainly bore thinking about.

She stopped at the corner of the Uxbridge Road and waited for several moments before there was a break in the traffic. But if Felicity Marsden was innocent, she thought as she darted behind an omnibus, why had she buried a gun in St. John’s churchyard? Mrs. Jeffries had a twinge of conscience at this thought.

So far she’d done nothing to lead Inspector Witherspoon to that gun and she knew she really should. Yet she couldn’t help but feel that even with the inspector’s passion for justice, with the kind of evidence that gun suggested, he’d have no choice but to arrest Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel for the crime.

And Mrs. Jeffries didn’t want that. Something was seriously wrong with this case. The evidence against Felicity Marsden and Benjamin Vogel had seemed to happen in the twinkling of an eye. It had all come about too quickly.

Mrs. Jeffries stopped and stood still. Of course. Why hadn’t she realized it before? Shaking her head at her own stupidity, she quickened her pace. Someone was indeed trying to make it appear that Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel were the perpetrators of this terrible murder and now she understood why. The real killer had only started planting the evidence against the young lovers when it had become obvious the police weren’t convinced Mrs. Hodges had been killed by a burglar. When the burglary plan fell apart, she thought, whoever was behind this had switched to another plan. That was the way it must have happened. Nothing else made any sense.

With an increasing sense of urgency, Mrs. Jeffries decided on a course of action. But first, she had to find Felicity Marsden and Benjamin Vogel before the police did.

“Can’t say that I’m surprised, sir,” Constable Barnes said as they came down the steps of Benjamin Vogel’s lodging
house. “Once we knew she’d run, it were only reasonable that he’d run too.”