The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (11 page)

“That’s about all it was,” Luty interjected. “If that woman was really talking to a dead Indian named Soaring Eagle, then I’m the Queen of Sheba. But what was really important
was that we got an earful about Esme Popejoy.”

“Why, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Jeffries said, glad that neither Betsy nor Luty Belle was taking this spiritualism business too seriously. “The rest of us have had a fairly good day with our inquiries too. Before any of you begin, why don’t I tell everyone what I’ve learned and, more importantly, what the inspector’s learned.”

For the next half hour they sipped cocoa and listened as the housekeeper recounted her experiences at the Hodges home. Then she told them about Inspector Witherspoon’s interviews with Thomasina Trotter, Jonathan Felcher and Esme Popejoy.

“Sounds like Mrs. Popejoy’s puttin’ a flea in the inspector’s ear about Miss Marsden,” Smythe said when she’d concluded. “From what I found out at the pubs, no one believes Mrs. Hodges was killed by a robber. For one thing, there ain’t been no burglaries in that neighborhood in months, and for another, one of the footmen from the house next door to the Hodgeses’ told me he were out on the street fer half the evenin’. Lookin’ for the family cat, he was, and he didn’t see no one comin’ and goin’ to the Hodges house. All he saw was Mrs. Hodges’s hansom drive up and her havin’ a go at the driver before she flounced into the house.”

“What were she goin’ on at the poor driver about?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

Smythe shrugged. “I don’t know, the footman was too far away to make out what she was sayin’, alls he could tell was that she were madder than a crazy cat. ‘Course, he says she were always yellin’ at somebody. I didn’t have much luck findin’ the driver that drove her cab.”

“Did you have any luck finding the driver that took Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy to the station?” Mrs. Jeffries asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I found ‘im,” Smythe admitted, “but he weren’t much ‘elp. He just said he picked the two of ’em up and took ’em to the station.”

“What about the gun?” Wiggins said. “Is the inspector going to ask this Mr. Vogel about his gun?”

“‘Course he is,” Smythe snapped. “’E’s duty bound to at least have a chat with the bloke, even if he did get his information from that Mrs. Popejoy.”

“I don’t think the niece had anything to do with it,” Luty declared. “Seems to me if she was goin’ to shoot someone, it would be her ex-fiancé. He’s the one that took the money not to marry her. Besides, from what we found out about Esme Popejoy, I wouldn’t credit much of what she says.”

“Here, wait a minute before you start in about this Mrs. Popejoy,” Mrs. Goodge said tartly. “I’ve got my bit to say about Mr. Hodges.” She then spent the next ten minutes telling everyone at the table exactly what she’d already told Mrs. Jeffries. By the time she’d finished, they were all shaking their heads.

“This is gettin’ real confusin’,” Wiggins muttered.

“Kin I tell what we learned about Mrs. Popejoy now?” Luty Belle asked.

“Yes, please,” Mrs. Jeffries soothed. She didn’t know what to make of anything she’d heard this evening, but as was her habit, she tucked all the information safely in the back of her mind. She wouldn’t think about it until she had the peace and quiet of her bedroom.

Luty cleared her throat. “Well, fer starters, Madame Natalia says that Mrs. Popejoy ain’t no medium. Claims the woman used to work in the music halls, did some singin’ and dancin’ and some kind of mind-readin’ act.”

“And she charges an arm and a leg too,” Betsy chimed in.

“But the best part is that we heard she don’t just charge people fer a readin’, that’s what they call goin’ and watchin’ a medium try all that mumbo jumbo. She keeps
on
chargin’ them.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at Luty quizzically. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean, according to Madame Natalia, Esme Popejoy don’t charge people fer puttin’ ’em in touch with the dead,
she charges them from then on.” Luty shook her head in disgust. “After she gets her spirit guide to find someone’s dear departed relative, she starts givin’ ’em warnings. Pretendin’ the warnin’s is from the great beyond, from a relative they loved and trusted. Then she tells ’em if they don’t come back the next week to find out what’s goin’ to happen next, that she can’t be responsible for what befalls them.”

“What a perfectly appalling way to behave,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say that every time some poor unfortunate soul gets one of Mrs. Popejoy’s warnings, she then keeps them coming
back
in order to avoid disaster?”

“And she charges them a pretty penny for the advice too,” Betsy said.

“Doesn’t this Madame Natalia charge too?” Smythe asked.

“Sure,” Luty agreed. “But Madame Natalia gives ya yer money’s worth. There ain’t a bunch of spirits moanin’ gloom and doom at her séances. Soaring Eagle, fer whatever he’s worth, jawed out more advice than a preacher on a rainy Sunday. You wouldn’t have to go back to git yer answers. And accordin’ to what Madame Natalia said, that’s jus’ what you’d have to do if Esme Popejoy got her hooks into ya. Not only that, but this Popejoy woman won’t sit fer jus’ anyone, no sirree. Ya gotta be well-off before she’ll even let ya through the door. Ya gotta be recommended by someone.”

“Sounds to me like Mrs. Popejoy isn’t much more than a refined sharper,” said Smythe, referring to the class of professional tricksters that induced unwary innocents into
card games or skittles for money and then cheated them ruthlessly before disappearing.

“Or maybe the
madame
,” Smythe continued thoughtfully, “may be just tryin’ to cut out the competition. ‘Ow do we know she’s not makin’ up tales. I don’t expect this Natalia woman likes losin’ customers to Mrs. Popejoy, especially if Mrs. Popejoy’s gettin’ all the people with fat purses.”

“You may have a point there, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said earnestly. “And there’s something else we need to consider. Mrs. Popejoy was on her way to the station or on a train to Southend when the murder was committed. She may well be an unprincipled person or a trickster, but if what Madame Natalia told us is true, she’d be the last person to want Abigail Hodges dead. One can’t extort money from a corpse.”

No one had an answer to that. They sat silently, all of them trying to understand the separate pieces of the puzzle they’d each brought to the table.

“Hmmph,” Luty finally said. “I was lookin’ forward to havin’ Edmund fix us up a séance with Mrs. Popejoy. Be fun to let her try her tricks on me. But you’re right, Hepzibah. She wouldn’t have no reason fer wantin’ Abigail Hodges dead, so I expect we’d better concentrate on someone who would.” Birdlike, she cocked her head to one side. “Who’s gonna git her money?”

“Well, from the conversation I overheard this morning between Jonathan Felcher and Felicity Marsden, I think we can assume Mrs. Hodges’s estate is going to be divided between her husband and her niece.”

“I know what you overheard, but jus’ because someone thinks they’re gonna inherit somethin’ don’t make it a fact. I remember ol’ Cyrus Plummer back home, he was always tellin’ everyone he was gonna get his great-aunt Polly’s farm, but when Polly died, she’d up and left the farm to Norman Heckler. Made ol’ Cyrus madder than hell, but weren’t nothin’ he could do about it. No one knows who’s
gonna get what until the will is read.”

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “You may be right. But we won’t know who stands to benefit financially from Mrs. Hodges’s death unless the inspector speaks to her solicitor. And until the inspector determines that this case is murder and not robbery, I don’t suppose he’ll pursue that line of inquiry.”

“You mean he’s still thinkin’ this was just a robbery?” Smythe asked incredulously.

Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “I’m afraid so, even though they haven’t had any success in tracing the stolen jewelry.” She paused and drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “You know,” she finally said, addressing the group at large, “the more I think about it, the more I realize Luty’s right. It’s imperative we find out who benefits from Abigail Hodges’s will.”

“’Ow can we do that?” Wiggins said as he stifled another yawn. “Mrs. Hodges’s solicitors in’n likely to tell us.”

“But that shouldn’t stop us from tryin’,” Smythe argued. “Seems to me if we start askin’ around, we can at least find out who was likely to inherit. Maybe it really is Mr. Hodges and Miss Marsden.”

“That’s precisely what I had in mind,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “From what I’ve heard of Mrs. Hodges’s character, it wouldn’t surprise me if she wasn’t one of those persons who is quite vocal about the intended disbursement of her worldly goods.”

Wiggins frowned. “Huh?”

“She means the old woman might be one of them that’s always threatenin’ their nearest and dearest with bein’ disinherited,” Luty explained.

“Exactly,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “But that isn’t all we must do. We’ve also got to ascertain if Jonathan Felcher, Felicity Marsden and Thomasina Trotter were where they said they were when Mrs. Hodges was murdered.”

“Why the housekeeper?” Betsy asked. “Why not the rest of the servants too?”

“Because none of them had gone to school with Mrs. Hodges. According to the inspector, Thomasina Trotter was once of the same social class as her employer. Then she ended up working for her. Something about that doesn’t seem right. So it’s very important we confirm her whereabouts,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. She wasn’t sure what she was after here, but she knew they still didn’t have near enough information. “Now, Wiggins, did you have any luck with Peter the footman today?”

Wiggins shook his head. “No, I hung about the ‘ouse for the better part of the day, but ‘e didn’t come out.”

“You didn’t happen to notice anything else interesting, did you?” Mrs. Jeffries asked kindly. She didn’t want him to feel as though he’d failed.

“I didn’t see anything,” Wiggins said eagerly, “but I ’eard somethin’ that might be useful. One of the housemaids from across the road from the Hodges place told me the lights was lit at the Hodges house.” He leaned forward eagerly, putting his elbows on the table. “But the funny part is—and Nellie saw this with her own eyes; she’s got a room on the top floor and she could see right across the road to the house—that around ten o’clock, all the lamps started goin’ out. One by one. She watched it go from room to room, candles and lamps and even the gaslights were put out.”

“All right,” Mrs. Goodge put in, “so the killer turned off the lights. That doesn’t tell us anything.”

Wiggins looked crestfallen. Mrs. Jeffries hastily intervened. “Thank you, Wiggins. That particular fact may be very important eventually.” She rather agreed with Mrs. Goodge, but she didn’t want to say so. “Are you up to more footwork tomorrow, lad?”

“’Course I am. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to keep an eye on Felicity Marsden tomorrow. Keep watch on the house, and if she leaves, be sure and follow her.” Mrs. Jeffries thought that was a safe enough task for the boy. She’d send Betsy to have another go at talking with the Hodgeses’ footman.

“Is she pretty?” Wiggins asked hopefully.

“What difference does it make what she looks like?” Smythe snapped. “She might be a murderess, so make sure she don’t spot you.”

The coachman looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “Do you still want me to try and find the driver that brought Mrs. Hodges ‘ome that night?”

“Yes, I’d like to know why she was so angry with him.” Mrs. Jeffries cocked her head to one side. “But I’d also like you to see if you can find out any information about Jonathan Felcher. Double-check his whereabouts the night of the murder and find out as much as you can about his character.” Mrs. Jeffries turned her attention to Betsy and Luty Belle. “Betsy, I think you need to try to make contact with someone from the Hodges household. A maid or a footman, perhaps you can find that young boy Peter. Find out anything you can about Felicity Marsden’s broken engagement and also whether or not it’s true that Mrs. Hodges paid Benjamin Vogel not to marry her niece.”

“What about me?” Luty asked.

Mrs. Jeffries gazed at her helplessly. The others were young and strong and could easily take care of themselves. But she didn’t want Luty Belle Crookshank lurking in passageways or trying to pry a few words out of servants. She was too old for that. Yet she couldn’t come right out and say so. Luty would be mortally offended.

“Come now, Hepzibah,” Luty said tartly. “I ain’t askin’ to follow anyone or some such foolishness as that, I knows what I’m capable of doin’. But surely I can do somethin’?”

“Of course you can,” Mrs. Jeffries assured her. “You’re a valuable asset to our inquiries.” She broke off, still trying to think of something for Luty to do, when inspiration struck. “I’ve just the thing. Gracious, why didn’t I think of it before? Felicity Marsden was allegedly with the Plimptons on the night of the murder. Try to find out if she actually was at Sadler’s Wells watching the ballet. And more importantly, can you find someone who
will confirm that Felicity Marsden was with them all evening?”

Luty nodded eagerly, her dark eyes flashing with enthusiasm. “That oughta be easier than shootin’ fish in a barrel. I know plenty of folks who’s always goin’ off to the ballet. I can find someone who was there that night.”