The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (23 page)

“Mrs. Trotter wasn’t overly fond of my aunt,” Felicity admitted. “I think the woman’s half-mad, I don’t know why Abigail kept her on or why Mrs. Trotter stayed. They quarreled quite frequently. And Leonard wasn’t the best of husbands. I can’t prove it, of course, but I suspect that he only married my aunt for her money.”

“Careful, my love,” Vogel said softly. “People may one day say the same of me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Felicity declared.

“Why do you think that Mr. Hodges wasn’t in love with his wife?” Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think this was a particularly fruitful line of inquiry, but she might as well listen.

“Oh, he acted devoted to Abigail whenever they were together. But I used to watch his face when he thought I wasn’t looking.” She shivered delicately. “Sometimes he stared at her as though he hated her and it was so awful. She was besotted with him.”

“How long had they been married?”

“Let me see, not all that long. About eighteen months. Yes, that’s right. They were married in July of eighty-five. Abigail was determined they wed, even though it was barely a year to the day from his first wife’s death. She even married him against the advice of her solicitors.”

“Goodness, Mr. Hodges seems a respectable enough man,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “Why would Mrs. Hodges’s solicitors object to him?”

Felicity smiled wryly. “They weren’t keen on his background. Leonard hadn’t much money of his own. His investments weren’t doing all that well. He had only a small income from some property up north. But I gather it wasn’t doing all that well—there were only some tenement flats, a shop or two and a theatre, I believe. But it didn’t bring in much, all of the property was in the very poorest section of Leeds. And there was something to do with Leonard’s first wife. She died under very mysterious circumstances. Drowned, I believe, in a boating accident in the Lake District. I can’t remember all the details, but Mr. Drummond, that’s Abigail’s solicitor, claimed that Leonard’s former father-in-law, a man named Harry Throgmorton, had tried to get the police to bring a case against Leonard after she died.”

“What’d ‘e do?” Wiggins asked eagerly. “Push ‘er over the side?”

“No. Leonard wasn’t there when the accident happened. He was miles away, but you know how people are, there was some ugly gossip.” Felicity frowned. “I’m sorry. I
simply can’t remember any more details. But I do know that Abigail instructed Mr. Drummond to threaten Mr. Throgmorton with legal action if he said another word about Leonard.”

Mrs. Jeffries was very disappointed. “Well, if you do remember any more details, please let me know at once.” She reached into her cloak and drew out a scrap of paper. “If you think of anything, anything at all that’s pertinent to your late aunt, please send word to this address.”

“You mean, you want us to stay here?” Vogel asked in disbelief.

“Yes, I believe that by the time the police get ‘round to looking for you here, we’ll have found out who the real killer is.”

As they’d arranged earlier, they met Hatchet at an ABC Tea Shop. The butler, looking extremely dapper in a formal old-fashioned morning coat and top hat, met them at the entrance and ushered them inside to a waiting table.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering tea, madam,” he announced to Mrs. Jeffries. “And of course”—he glanced at Wiggins and Smythe—“an assortment of buns and cakes.”

“Thank you, Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “That was most thoughtful. May I ask if your inquiries were successful this morning?”

Hatchet grinned. “Extremely, madam. So successful that I and my associate had to duck behind a letter box to avoid meeting the landlady of the establishment from which you’ve just come.”

“In other words,” Smythe said, “Mrs. Blodgett almost caught you.”

“Precisely. However, as you’d clearly surmised earlier, Mrs. Blodgett left to do her shopping early, and after your good selves had gone inside in pursuit of your own inquiries, my associate and I were able to make the acquaintance of Miss Kuznetzov.”

“Excellent, Hatchet.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled in delight. “You seem to have developed a real talent for this sort of thing.”

Hatchet acknowledged the compliment with a dignified nod. “I’m glad you think so, but one isn’t sure one really wants to develop this particular skill. Questioning the lower classes and immigrants from the less enlightened nations isn’t something one would care to do on a daily basis. Especially this young woman. Miss Kuznetzov has a very suspicious nature.”

She reached over and patted his arm. “I’m sure it was most difficult.”

“That it was, madam, but we managed.” Hatchet coughed delicately. “After my friend—speaking in Miss Kuznetzov’s native tongue, of course—had convinced her we weren’t from Her Majesty’s secret police—”

“The what!” Smythe exclaimed. He looked truly shocked.

“The secret police,” Mrs. Jeffries explained quickly. “An institution which is common in other parts of the world. Especially that part which is ruled by the Czar of Russia.”

“Quite, madam,” Hatchet said. “Now, if I may continue. After we’d convinced the young lady that no such institution existed in this nation—”

“I should bloomin well ‘ope not,” Smythe put in.

Hatchet ignored him. “We, of course, being a free people. She was very cooperative in answering our questions. She told us that Mr. Jonathan Felcher had, indeed, been gone the night Mrs. Hodges was murdered. She hadn’t meant to mislead our police, of course. But Miss Kuznetzov’s English isn’t very good. She said that whenever one was dealing with a uniformed official, she’d learned to agree to whatever they said. The truth is, the poor girl didn’t have a clue what she was being asked. She simply kept hearing Mr. Felcher’s name, and not wanting to get him into any sort of difficulties, she kept nodding in the affirmative whenever the police asked her a question.”

“Cor, you mean she just kept sayin’ yes because she were scared to say no?” Smythe looked really disgusted
now. “That’s the daftest thing I ever ’eard.”

Tempted as she was to take this opportunity to further educate Smythe, Wiggins and Hatchet on the evils of unrestricted monarchies and their attendant institutions, Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to stick to the matter at hand.

“Gracious. Then Mr. Felcher doesn’t have an alibi for the night Mrs. Hodges was killed,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “And neither does Thomasina Trotter, Felicity Marsden or Benjamin Vogel.”

“But Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel were together that night,” Wiggins protested.

“That’s what they’ve said,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “And they may very well be telling the truth.”

“You think they might have done it, then?” Smythe asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted honestly. “I’m tempted to believe their story, but I don’t know for sure. Not yet at any rate.”

Mrs. Jeffries was silent on the trip home. Smythe and Wiggins were still talking about the horrifying conditions one must find in places like Russia, but she’d deliberately stopped listening to them.

She closed her eyes and let her mind wander, trying for that free flow of concentration that seemed to come from nowhere, but that could actually serve to point her rational thoughts in the right direction.

Mrs. Trotter might be mad, but was she a murderess? Jonathan Felcher hated his aunt and now had control of fifty thousand pounds. But did the murderer steal Mr. Vogel’s gun from his bedroom? And why go to such silly lengths to try to make the murder look as though Mrs. Hodges had interrupted a robbery and then bungle the job so badly? And who had written the note? Mrs. Jeffries sighed and picked up on the conversation.

“I wonder if you could get arrested for arguin’ with a tram driver?” Wiggins said. “They wears uniforms. Or
maybe a train conductor or even a vicar. Could you get nicked for arguin’ with a vicar in Russia?”

“In Russia they’re known as priests,” she murmured. Vicars, priests, Mrs. Jeffries thought. Churches. Yes, of course. Why hadn’t she considered it before? The footman’s last words triggered something in the back of her mind. She sat bolt upright and stared straight ahead as the snippets of information and hard facts came together in her head and formed a true straight course.

As they descended from the omnibus near Holland Park, Mrs. Jeffries suddenly turned to Smythe. “I need you to do something and I need you to do it right away.”

“‘Course, Mrs. J,” Smythe said, looking concerned. “What is it?”

“That driver, the one who drove Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy to the train station, do you think you can find him again?”

“Yes, but it may take a bit o’ time.”

“We don’t have time, Smythe,” she said earnestly. “You must find him quickly.”

“All right.” The coachman shook his head doubtfully. “But he’s already confirmed he took ’em to the station. I don’t know what else ‘e can tell us.”

“Find out if the hansom stopped anywhere on the way. If it did, ask the driver to take you to that very spot.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out some coins. “Give him a guinea if you must, but it’s imperative that if they stopped, he must take you to the precise spot.”

Puzzled, Smythe pocketed the coins and pulled his coat tighter against the suddenly chill wind. “All right, I’ll be off then.”

“Can you be back late this afternoon?” Mrs. Jeffries’s voice stopped him.

He frowned and pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s already gone eleven. But I’ll do me best. Would three o’clock do you? There’s a few lads that owe me a favor or two. Maybe I ought to get them to give me a ‘and on this one. I reckon
from the way you’re actin’ that it’s important.”

“Excellent.” She turned to Wiggins. “And I want you to get over to Luty’s. Tell her and Hatchet to come ‘round to see us this afternoon at three. Tell her it’s imperative she be there.”

“You want me to go now?” Wiggins wailed. “But I ‘aven’t ‘ad me lunch.”

“Gracious, Wiggins, you’ve just had a huge tea. Three currant buns and two tea cakes should be enough to keep even someone of your prodigious appetite from starving to death.”

He gave her a shamefaced smile. “All right, but while I’m gone, could you look in on Fred?”

“Yes, of course I will,” she promised. Her brows drew together in concern. “The dog’s not ill, I hope.”

“’E’s right as rain, Mrs. Jeffries. But ‘e gets a bit lonely without me, you see, and I promised him I’d be back by noon.”

Mrs. Jeffries glanced at the clock. It was five past three and there was still no sign of Smythe. “Oh dear,” she said apologetically, “perhaps Smythe was unable to accomplish his task.”

“Give him a few more minutes, Hepzibah,” Luty said. She absently reached down and patted Fred on the head.

“Madam,” Hatchet said, “am I to understand that our presence here implies we won’t be attending Mrs. Mettlesham’s at-home? We’re due there at precisely five o’clock. You accepted the invitation last week.”

“Well, we’ll jus’ have to unaccept it, won’t we?” Luty said impatiently. “I ain’t budging from here until I find out what Hepzibah’s got up her sleeve. Besides, them at-homes is nothing more than fancy tea parties fer a bunch of gossipin’ biddies.”

“Oh Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “I know I told you it was important that you be here, but I certainly didn’t mean for you to cancel your engagement. Gracious, I’m afraid I’ve acted prematurely. Without Smythe’s confirmation of a very important piece of information, I’m afraid—” She broke off at the sound of the backdoor opening.