The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (9 page)

Inspector Witherspoon waited patiently for Jonathan Felcher to sit down. He’d been waiting now for a good two minutes. The fellow couldn’t seem to find a place to settle. He’d paced between the fireplace and the settee half a dozen times. Finally the young man stopped in front of a leather wing chair, smiled at the inspector and sat. He gazed at Witherspoon out of a pair of wary hazel eyes and casually flicked a lock of wavy brown hair off his forehead.

“All right, Inspector,” Felcher said as he began stroking his beard, “go ahead and ask your questions. Though, I must say, I don’t think you’re going to learn anything useful. I certainly don’t know a thing about who robbed and murdered Abigail.”

“I understand you took your aunt and uncle out to dinner on the night of the murder,” Witherspoon began. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue. He really must refer to this crime as a robbery. Blast it, this wasn’t a murder plot. Was it? He wasn’t sure anymore, just as he wasn’t sure what this fidgety young man could possibly tell him.

But dash it all, he had to keep trying. Nothing else about this case was going right. Despite a massive effort by the uniformed lads, they hadn’t heard hide nor hair about the
missing jewelry. It hadn’t turned up in any pawnshops or any of the usual places stolen goods frequently appeared.

“That’s true. They’ve had me ‘round for meals so many times I felt I really ought to return their hospitality.” Felcher smiled slightly. “It’s difficult, though. I live in lodgings, so I had to take them to a restaurant. We went to Clutter’s. It’s a nice little place near Covent Garden. Do you know it?”

“Er, no. What time did you finish your meal?” the inspector asked. He knew this line of inquiry would probably lead nowhere, but he felt he must do a thorough job of interviewing everyone.

Felcher plucked a piece of lint off the lapel of his brown jacket. “It was rather early, actually. Abigail and Leonard had another appointment. So it must have been half past seven or so when I saw them off in a hansom.”

“Did your aunt tell you where they were going?” Really, the inspector thought, the man acted as if he were bored. Wasn’t he in the least concerned with helping to catch his aunt’s killer?

Felcher gave a condescending smile. “No, but Leonard did. Abigail had the good sense to be embarrassed by her foolishness. But her dear husband isn’t anywhere near as discreet! He let the cat out of the bag.” He broke off and laughed. “I don’t know who she thought she was fooling. Everyone knew she was always trotting off to mediums and spiritualists or whatever it is those people call themselves.”

“So you knew she had an appointment with Mrs. Popejoy?”

“But of course. Madame Esme Popejoy is the newest rage in some circles. Once Abigail heard of her, she didn’t rest until she’d badgered Leonard into wangling an introduction.”

“Why did your aunt have such an interest in spiritualism?” Witherspoon asked curiously.

“My late aunt was obsessed with communicating with the spirit of her son.” He yawned exaggeratedly. “A rather
pointless exercise if you ask me. The boy died when he was five. The lad could hardly be expected to have much to say.”

Witherspoon stifled a sigh. This was getting him nowhere. What could Mrs. Hodges’s interest in spiritualism have to do with her murder?

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s probably quite true,” the inspector muttered. He searched his mind for another pertinent question. “Did Mr. Hodges happen to mention to you that he’d given the servants the evening off?”

Felcher’s eyebrows shot up. “Certainly not. Why would he tell me? I’m hardly likely to care one way or another.”

“That is as it may be,” the inspector replied, refusing to give up, “but there is always the possibility he did mention it to you and you inadvertently mentioned that fact to the wrong person.”

“The wrong person?” Felcher snapped, half rising from his chair. “Now, see here, I’m not sure I like your implication, sir.”

“I’m implying nothing, Mr. Felcher. I’m merely trying to determine how the miscreants that robbed and murdered your aunt could have known the house was going to be unattended that evening.”

Felcher relaxed back into his seat, his bluster dying as quickly as it had come. “Well, no one heard that information from me! I didn’t even know about it. I’m hardly privy to my aunt’s domestic arrangements.”

“After you and the Hodgeses had finished your meal,” Witherspoon asked, “what did you do for the rest of the evening?”

“What did I do?” Felcher stared at Witherspoon incredulously. “That’s hardly any of the police’s concern. Look here, I thought my aunt was murdered by a burglar. What’s that got to do with me? What’s that got to do with how I spent my evening?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Felcher,” Witherspoon said firmly. “Our questions are merely routine. You mustn’t read
anything sinister into them. We’re asking everyone who saw Mrs. Hodges on the evening of her death the same thing.”

Felcher didn’t look convinced. But he answered the question. “As soon as I put Abigail and Leonard into the cab, I went back to my lodgings. I stayed there for the rest of the evening. My landlady can confirm that.”

It was midafternoon when Mrs. Jeffries arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. The house was very quiet. Wiggins, Smythe and Betsy were still out.

Mrs. Jeffries paused at the top of the backstairs. She heard the low murmur of voices. Quietly she tiptoed downstairs and peeked into the kitchen. She saw the cook sipping tea and chatting with the butcher’s boy and a man from the gasworks. Obviously Mrs. Goodge had gotten busy.

She went back upstairs and pulled a feather duster out of the cupboard. As she dusted the drawing room Mrs. Jeffries thought about what she’d learned so far. She no longer had any doubts about this crime. It certainly hadn’t been a burglary gone bad.

From what she’d overheard about Abigail Hodges she’d wager a year’s wages that the woman had been the victim of a well-planned murder. The robbery was merely a trick. A rather clumsy attempt to divert the police’s attention from the real motive for the crime. Someone wanted Abigail Hodges dead. But who?

Mrs. Jeffries hovered in the hallway near the backstairs. She’d finished dusting a rather ugly portrait of one of the inspector’s ancestors when she heard the backdoor slam.

Tossing the duster into the cupboard, she dashed for the kitchen.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Goodge,” she said cheerfully, taking the chair next to the cook, “you certainly look like you’ve been busy today.”

Mrs. Goodge smiled widely. “Haven’t done much cooking, but I’ve heard a thing or two.” She sat back
and crossed her arms over her massive bosom. “Let’s hope the inspector’s not too particular about what he eats tonight.”

“Don’t fret about that. The inspector enjoys everything you cook. Now, what have you found out?”

“Well, I didn’t learn all that much about Abigail Hodges, but I heard a bit about her husband. He was married before.”

“He was a widower when he married Mrs. Hodges?”

“Right. He married Mrs. Hodges almost a year to the day after his first wife died. Interestin’, isn’t it?” Mrs. Goodge smiled smugly. “And his first wife died in a funny way too.”

Mrs. Jeffries leaned forward. “A robbery?”

The cook shook her head. “A drowning. Her name was Dorothy. She were a Throgmorton before she married Leonard Hodges.” She gazed at the housekeeper expectantly. Mrs. Jeffries knew the name was supposed to ring a bell, but it didn’t.

“Throgmorton?” Mrs. Jeffries repeated.

“Of Throgmorton’s Carriages. They’re up Nottingham way, surely you’ve heard of them. One of the wealthiest families in the Midlands.”

“Oh yes, of course. Please go on.”

“A couple of years after they was married, Dorothy Hodges went off by herself to the Lake District. She drowned when the skiff she were in overturned.”

“Presumably, then, Mr. Hodges had a substantial amount of his own money when he married his second wife. He probably inherited quite a bit from his first wife’s death,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

“Not a penny,” Mrs. Goodge said smugly. “He probably thought he were going to, but them that’s got money knows how to hang on to it. When she drowned, her people made sure that Hodges got nothing. All of her money was tied up in trusts and such.”

“Were you able to find out where Leonard Hodges was when his first wife died?”

“He was in Scotland—he worked for Dorothy’s father. Old Mr. Throgmorton had sent Hodges to Edinburgh.” Mrs. Goodge shrugged. “But peculiar as it is—I mean, Mr. Hodges losin’ both wives in strange ways and him not even forty yet—there weren’t no hints of foul play attached to Dorothy Hodges’s death. And from what I’ve heard of the Throgmortons, if they’da thought that Hodges had anything to do with the drowning, they wouldn’t have let it go.”

“Coincidences do happen,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.

“Yoo-hoo,” shouted a familiar voice from the top of the stairs. “Anyone home?”

“What’s Luty doin’ here this time of day?” Mrs. Goodge asked as they waited for the elderly American woman to make her way down the stairs. “She and Betsy aren’t going out until this evening.”

“Afternoon, Hepzibah, Mrs. Goodge,” Luty Belle Crookshank said as she came into the kitchen.

They both gaped. Luty Belle, who favored bright colors despite her advanced years, had outdone herself. Today she wore an emerald-green-and-white-striped day dress with a heavily draped apron over a kilted skirt. A velvet hat with a bottle-green feather was perched jauntily on her white hair.

“Are you two gonna gape at me all day or ask me to sit down?” Luty asked with a grin.

“Oh please, sit down, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

“I come by to offer ya some help,” Luty said eagerly. “Heard ya was workin’ on another one of the inspector’s murders.”

Mrs. Jeffries was taken aback. “Gracious, how on earth did you learn we’re working on a case?”

Luty chuckled. “Stop frettin’, Hepzibah. It ain’t common knowledge if that’s what you’re a-thinkin’. But I was shopping on Regent Street today and I happened to run into Wiggins.”

“What’s Wiggins doin’ on Regent Street?” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “I thought he was supposed to be gettin’ that footman at the Hodgeses’ to chat a bit.”

Mrs. Jeffries brushed that aside. “How much did Wiggins tell you?”

“About Abigail Hodges?” Luty pursed her lips. “Not much, just what little he knowed. But once he mentioned the word ‘murder,’ I knew you’d be wantin’ my help.”

“That’s very kind of you, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries began cautiously. “But so far—”

“I’da been here earlier only I was already promised to go over to Stockwell to the orphanage.” She frowned. “They’s a-havin’ prizes’ day and ‘course I had to go. Without me all those pious old biddies that show up for that kinda folderol woulda had some of them young’uns thinkin’ they ought to be grateful for the very air they breathe.” Luty shook her head in disgust. “Land’s sake, why can’t people just give generously outta the kindness of their hearts instead of makin’ them puir young’uns put on a show fer ’em. But that’s enough about that. I’m here now and rarin’ to get started.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at her helplessly. Though Luty Belle Crookshank was fully aware of their activities in helping the inspector, she wasn’t sure if including her in every investigation was a wise idea. Despite her liveliness and energy, Luty was no longer young. And on their last case, it had been Luty herself who’d come to them for help. But as she gazed at the elderly American’s sharp brown eyes and determined expression, she knew she didn’t have the heart to turn her away.

Besides, Luty could be very useful.

“What time are you and Betsy meeting Edmund Kessler this evening?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Seven. Why?”

“Because the spiritualist Edmund is taking you to visit may know something about one of the other persons in this case.” At Luty’s puzzled frown she broke off and smiled.
“Let’s get you a cup of tea while I explain everything we’ve learned so far.”

Half an hour later Mrs. Jeffries had finished telling Luty everything when the backdoor opened and Betsy stepped inside.

The maid took off her coat and hat. Her mouth was curved in a dejected frown and her shoulders slumped. “I didn’t learn nuthin’,” she said disgustedly as she hung up her things on the coat tree.

“You mean none of the shopkeepers would talk about the Hodges household?” Mrs. Goodge asked in alarm. The very idea of such tight-lipped discretion filled her with horror.

“Oh, they talked all right,” Betsy muttered, “but none of ’em had anything worth ’earin’.” She plopped down onto the nearest chair and accepted a cup of tea.

“Now, I’m sure that’s not true, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve heard. As I’ve said before, at this stage of an investigation, it’s very difficult to tell what will or will not be important.”

“All right.” She sighed dramatically. “The grocer told me the Hodges pays the bill regular like and don’t haggle none over the prices. Though they was always ready to point out a mistake. I mean, they didn’t complain about the prices, but if the bill was added wrong or they was charged for somethin’ they didn’t get, they’d let the grocer know about it quick enough. The fishmonger and the butcher said the same. Though the boy at the grocer’s said that he didn’t see how a household the size of the Hodgeses’ could be fed properly on the amount of food they bought.”