The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (26 page)

“Mrs. Popejoy!” Mrs. Goodge snorted. “Well somehow, I’m not surprised. That one sounds like she’s been around the park a few times.”

“Do go on, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“What? Oh yes, as I was sayin’, about six months ago Mrs. Popejoy up and tells Mr. Phipps she don’t want to see him no more,” Betsy continued. “He were ever so upset. Went ‘round with a long face for weeks, at least that’s what Gertie—that’s the girl who cleans for him—told me. Then, less than two weeks ago, he gets a note from Mrs. Popejoy saying she wants to see him. Cheered him right up, that did.”

“Why don’t you tell everyone who Mr. Phipps resembles,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

Betsy smiled proudly. “Ashley Phipps looks very much like Leonard Hodges.”

For a moment they all looked puzzled, then one by one, their expressions changed.

“So that’s ‘ow they did it,” Smythe muttered.

“Clever, wasn’t it,” Betsy agreed.

“Diabolical, that’s what it was,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

“Brilliant plan,” Hatchet said, “but rather risky.”

“I’ll be danged,” Luty exclaimed. “If that don’t beat all.”

“Huh?” Wiggins scratched his head.

“Now.” Mrs. Jeffries reached into her pockets and drew
out the notes she’d written earlier. “We’ve much to do today if we’re going to bring this case to a successful conclusion.”

“I don’t understand,” Wiggins wailed.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But for right now you must get busy.” She handed him a note. “I want you to take this note to Phipps Chemists on Lewis Road. Don’t let anyone see you, but make sure that Ashley Phipps himself reads it.”

“But ‘ow can I do that? What if ‘e isn’t there?” Wiggins asked.

“If he isn’t there,” Mrs. Jeffries said patiently, “then track him down. But it is imperative he receive that note and that he receive it today.” She pulled another note out of her pocket and handed it to Betsy. “Take this one to Mr. Hodges, but make sure he doesn’t receive it until six o’clock this evening. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Betsy replied, reaching for the paper and tucking it carefully into her pocket.

“’Ow about me?” Smythe asked.

“Well,” Mrs. Jeffries hesitated. “I know you’re awfully tired.…”

He grinned. “I ain’t that tired. What is it?”

She told him. Then she gave Luty and Hatchet some instructions. “Be sure and be there right at seven o’clock. Do whatever you must to get Mrs. Popejoy to start the séance on time.”

“Do I get to go to this one?” Betsy asked hopefully.

“No, I’ll need you with me,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Besides, Peter might be there, and if he sees you, it could ruin everything. Mrs. Popejoy mustn’t suspect.”

She spent the next ten minutes going over the fine points of her plan and looking for flaws. The others picked at it, but couldn’t pull it apart.

“Everything should work perfectly if nothing untoward or unexpected happens,” she said.

“Something unexpected always happens,” Luty warned. “That’s the nature of life. But in this case, if everyone does like they’re supposed to, them varmints that murdered Mrs. Hodges should be locked up before the day is out.”

“Come in. Sit down. Let Madame Natalia help you with your troubles.” She smiled sympathetically and gestured towards a round table covered with a spotless white cloth. A crystal ball rested in the center of the table.

“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” Luty plopped down in a chair and motioned for Mrs. Jeffries to do the same. “But we didn’t come for no séance, not that I didn’t enjoy it the last time I was here.”

Mrs. Jeffries dragged her gaze from Madame Natalia’s “study” and took the chair next to Luty. The room was most extraordinary. The blinds were drawn and the windows were covered in layers of pale mauve and blue gauzy fabric that seemed to float mysteriously of its own accord, for she couldn’t feel a draft. In front of the fireplace was a painted octagonal screen etched with the golden script of some unknown language. Over the mantel, there was a huge black-and-silver drawing of the zodiac and at each end of the mantel stood a brass brazier wafting up delicate-scented smoke rings.

Mrs. Jeffries took a deep breath and inhaled the exotic scent of sandalwood. She blinked and fixed her gaze on the portrait of an ethereal young woman with long flowing hair. She blinked again, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the
dimness. The only light in the room came from dozens of candles scattered about on the tops of tables and highboys. Then she turned to the medium.

Madame Natalia was staring at Luty. She was dressed in a full bright red skirt with a white sash around the waist. Her blouse was emerald green, high-necked and had wide, flouncy sleeves. On her head was a turban the same color as her skirt. Tiny black curls escaped from around the top and sides.

“If you are not here for a reading,” Madame Natalia asked archly, “then I do not understand why you’ve come.”

“Actually,” Mrs. Jeffries replied, “we’re here for a bit of professional advice.”

“Advice?” Madame Natalia laughed. “But I do not give advice, Mrs. Jeffries. The spirits do. I’m merely the channel for the voice from the other side.”

Mrs. Jeffries noticed that the more the woman spoke, the thicker and more exotic her accent became. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re probably quite good at being a channel, but we were thinking of engaging your services for a rather different matter.”

“I do not perform parlor tricks,” the medium replied haughtily.

“We wouldn’t dream of asking you to do such a thing,” Mrs. Jeffries assured the woman quickly. “However, you do have certain, er…”

“We want to know how you fake that Indian’s voice,” Luty stated bluntly.

Madame Natalia swelled with indignation. “I do not fake this voice. It is real, as real as you or I. How dare you, madam. How dare you insult me and the spirits.”

“Now don’t git on yer high horse. You put on a right good show for people,” Luty retorted. She plonked her purse down on the table. “You do a danged good job. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Madame Natalia replied. But she seemed to have lost most of
her righteous indignation and her eyes were locked on Luty’s purse.

“Please, madam,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “We’ve the highest respect for your abilities and we really do need your help.”

“Let’s start talkin’ turkey,” Luty interrupted. “We know you ain’t talkin’ to the other side, whatever in tarnation that is, but we think you’re right good at soundin’ like Soarin’ Eagle.” She broke off and opened her purse. Taking out a wad of notes big enough to make Madame Natalia’s eyes widen, she plonked them on the table right under the madame’s nose. “Now, do we talk business or do I pick up my money and skedaddle?”

The medium hesitated briefly, reached over and snatched the bills. She tucked the money into her sash, grinned and extended her hand. “The real name’s Nessie Spittlesham. The feller out front is my husband, Bert.” She leaned forward on her elbows and pushed the crystal ball to one side. “Now, as you say, let’s talk turkey. Exactly what do you ladies want?”

“Can you teach one of us to do what you do?” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t sure how to explain what she wanted. But if her plan were to be successful, she needed this woman’s help. “With your voice, I mean. Luty says that when you’re speaking as Soaring Eagle, it sounds very authentic.”

“‘Course it sounds authentic,” Nessie said proudly. “All my voices sound good. I’ve been workin’ on them for years. Let me see if I’ve got this right. You want me to show one of you how to sound like Soaring Eagle?”

“Not Soaring Eagle,” Luty said. “We want you to teach us how to sound like someone else, like someone from the other side, like a ghost.”

Nessie regarded them thoughtfully. She didn’t seem overly upset by the unusual request. “What kind of accent does your ghost have?” she asked.

“Upper-class English,” Mrs. Jeffries replied promptly. “But actually, we’ll need you to help us learn to do two
separate voices. Oh yes, and we’ll need to know how to do this by tonight.”

“Two voices,” Nessie yelped. “By tonight? That’s bloody impossible.” She jerked her chin towards Luty. “And with that flat twang of hers, it’d take me a bloomin’ year to teach ‘er to sound like a toff.”

Luty snorted.

“Well, how about me?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “Could you show me? It’s dreadfully important, you see.”

Nessie drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “How come you two want to learn something like this anyway? You thinkin’ of goin’ into the business? ‘Cause if you are, I can tell you now, it’s a bleedin’ ‘ard way to make a livin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries studied the woman for a moment before answering. She decided to tell her the truth. “We’ve no wish to go into this professionally,” she explained. “We only need this particular skill for one night. If you can’t teach us, are you available for hire tonight?”

“Lord, Hepzibah,” Luty exclaimed. “What are you doin’? We can’t get her into the Popejoy house. What do you expect me to do, hide her in my muff?”

“Did you say Popejoy?” Nessie snapped.

“Don’t be absurd, of course we can get her in,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “And yes, I did say Popejoy. You see, Nessie, we’re trying to catch a murderer. To do that, we’re going to need your help.”

“Now, Constable,” Inspector Witherspoon asked for the third time, “you did say this driver was prepared to testify in court?”

“Yes, sir,” Barnes replied patiently. “The driver is fully prepared to testify to the truth. The cab stopped on the way to the train station that night. Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy both got out. But I don’t see what good it’s goin’ to do us, they were only gone five minutes.”

Witherspoon didn’t see what good it was going to do either. But somehow he felt it was important. He sighed.
His head ached, he’d missed his lunch, and despite having found the cab driver, he was still no closer to a resolution on this wretched case. On top of that it was starting to rain again.

“Excuse me, sir.” A middle-aged constable stuck his head into the office. “But there’s a Mr. Phipps to see you, sir.”

“What about? I don’t know any Mr. Phipps.”

“He says he’s got a note from you, sir. Says it’s about the Hodges murder.”

“A note! From me?” Witherspoon couldn’t believe his ears. Egads, was there a whole army of people out there sending notes with his name on them? By golly, he was going to get to the bottom of this. “Send him in.”

A moment later there were impatient footsteps in the hall and a man in a bowler hat and heavy topcoat stepped into the inspector’s office.

“Why, it’s Mr. Hodges, sir,” Barnes began. “No, it’s not. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you look very much like another gentleman.”

“My name is not Hodges,” the man snapped as he advanced towards Witherspoon’s desk. He had a high-pitched very feminine voice. “It’s Phipps. Ashley Phipps. And I demand to know the meaning of this.” He flung the note onto the inspector’s desk.

Witherspoon opened the paper. He scowled as he read its contents. “Barnes, what do you make of this? ‘Dear Sir,’” he read. “‘You are in possession of vital information concerning the murder of Mrs. Abigail Hodges on the night of January fourth. Kindly come into my office at the Ladbroke Grove Police Station to help us with our inquiries. Signed, Inspector Gerald Witherspoon.’”

“Did you write it, sir?” Barnes asked.

“Of course I didn’t write it,” the inspector replied.

“Then why does it have your name on it, Inspector?” Phipps said angrily. “And furthermore, I’ve no idea what this is all about. I’ve never even heard of this Abigail Hodges.”

“You didn’t read about the murder in the newspapers?” the inspector asked.

“No, I did not,” Phipps retorted. “Are you claiming you know nothing about this note, sir?”

“I didn’t send it, Mr. Phipps. I’ve no idea who did.”

“If this is someone’s idea of a joke,” Phipps sputtered, “well, I must say it’s in dreadfully bad taste. If you didn’t write this, sir, then I take it I’m free to go?” He began edging towards the door.

“Just a minute, sir,” Barnes said. “You don’t, by any chance, happen to remember what you were doing on the night of the fourth, do you, sir?”