The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (13 page)

“Only at the beginning,” Myrtle explained. “You see, I happened to notice that as soon as Georgianna Plimpton fell asleep, both young ladies slipped out of the box. Ada Plimpton came back a few minutes later. But the other girl didn’t come back until the last curtain call.”

Luty tried to appear unconcerned. “Reckon the girl must have gone and sat with someone else,” she replied casually.

“She most certainly did not,” Myrtle said archly. “I looked. I tell you that young woman left the theatre. She was gone for at least two hours.”

Remembering she was supposed to be playing a pitiful elderly lady, Luty pretended to be shocked. “Goodness gracious, where on earth do you think a young girl would be at that time of the evening?”

“Hmmph.” Myrtle snorted indelicately. “Where do you think she’d be? She was probably off meeting some man.”

“Get off with ya,” Wiggins whispered. He stared in exasperation at the shaggy, skinny, long-haired brown-and-black dog who gazed back at him with adoration. “You’ve served yer purpose, you silly hound, and I’ve given you a bit of bun, so scarper off.”

The dog sat down and rested his head on Wiggins’s foot.

“Blimey, it seemed a good idea at the time,” he muttered.

Upon arriving at Camden Street, Wiggins had been dismayed to find the quiet residential road devoid of traffic. And he couldn’t get to his usual hiding place because the butler from the house next to the Hodgeses’ was standing outside his ruddy door.

Wiggins hadn’t known what to do. Then, out of nowhere, this silly mutt showed up. The animal was very friendly, and took to the footman like a duck to water. He decided to pretend the dog was his. He’d spent the next ten minutes walking up and down the road with the dog trotting
obediently at his heels. He hadn’t had the Hodges house out of his sight in all that time, either.

Wiggins stamped his feet and pulled his coat tighter against the chill. The dog shivered. Wiggins sighed. Poor thing, you could see its ribs. When the butler finally disappeared, Wiggins had been able to dart into his usual hiding place, a narrow passageway between the two homes opposite the Hodges house. The dog had come with him.

“Look, boy,” he tried again, squatting down and patting the animal’s head. “Run along home now, I’ve got to keep watch and I don’t have any more currant buns.”

The dog whined and nudged his nose against Wiggins’s coat pocket.

“Oh, you’re still hungry, aren’t ya?” he said sympathetically. He wished now he’d given the poor animal all the currant buns and not just half of them.

Sighing, Wiggins glanced up just as the door of the Hodges house opened and Felicity Marsden stepped outside. She paused at the top of the stairs and turned her head quickly one way and then another before darting down the stairs. Under one arm she had a dark fur muff and she carried a small brown paper parcel.

Wiggins straightened up and dashed into the road behind the girl. The dog followed.

Felicity hurried up the quiet street, her high heels tapping rapidly against the paving stones. At the corner, she turned towards the Queens Road.

“Go on home,” Wiggins hissed at the dog again as he quickened his steps to avoid losing sight of his quarry. The dog woofed softly and bounced around his ankles, almost tripping him.

“This ina’ game.” He tried to push the furry bundle to one side without hurting the animal. “And if I lose ‘er, you’ll never get another crumb out of me, you silly cur.”

The dog wasn’t in the least intimidated. He continued to trail Wiggins as they moved rapidly up one street and down another. Several times Wiggins and the dog had to hide
behind a tree or a postbox to avoid being spotted, for Felicity Marsden frequently stopped and looked behind her.

Breathing hard, Wiggins tried to keep the young woman’s slim back in sight. As they turned onto the Uxbridge Road he almost lost her in the now crowded street, then he spotted her crossing to the opposite corner in front of the Uxbridge Road station.

Darting in front of an omnibus, Wiggins spared a worried glance at the dog and was relieved to see it keeping pace with him.

Felicity Marsden had turned onto Holland Road. Wiggins and friend followed. He wasn’t worried about getting lost. He knew this area well.

She stopped suddenly, turned to glance behind her and then slipped through a gate. Wiggins waited for a moment and hurried after her.

He frowned as he reached the spot where she’d disappeared. Felicity Marsden had gone into St. John’s Church. For a moment he wondered what to do, whether or not he should go in after her. The dog woofed softly. Wiggins made up his mind. He pushed open the gate and went into the churchyard.

“I ’eard that Mrs. Hodges broke up her poor niece’s engagement,” Betsy said to the young man. He was the footman from the Hodges household.

Peter Applegate smiled shyly and deftly plucked off his rather soiled porkpie hat. He dusted the park bench carefully and then motioned Betsy to sit down.

“Aye, that she did,” he said as he sat down beside her. “She didn’t think Mr. Vogel were good enough for Miss Fliss. But she were wrong. He’s a nice man, he is.”

Betsy gazed around the small park where the two of them were resting and stifled a twinge of conscience. She was investigating a murder here, she told herself sternly. All’s fair. But she felt bad about shamelessly flirting with the lad in order to loosen his tongue. He’d practically fallen over
his feet when she’d suggested a stroll in the park. And he was only a child. He couldn’t be more than fourteen.

“But being nice weren’t all that important, at least not to one like Mrs. Hodges,” Peter declared. “Look how she’s treated poor old Mrs. Trotter all these years and them two went to school together!”

“Really?” Betsy said, though she already knew that information. “You mean she weren’t very good to her servants?”

“Good!” He laughed harshly. “Mrs. Hodges didn’t know the meaning of the word. Worked us like dogs, she did.”

“Even Mrs. Trotter?” Betsy decided to pursue that line of inquiry.

“Especially Mrs. Trotter,” he declared. “Had her fetchin’ and carryin’ and doing all sorts of things no housekeeper I ever saw did.”

“Why did Mrs. Trotter put up with her? Surely she could have gotten a position somewhere else?” Betsy shrugged nonchalantly. “I once worked in a miserable place, but I didn’t put up with it. I took myself right off and got another position.”

Peter eyed Betsy slyly. “You’re askin’ an awful lot of questions. Why? What’s it to do with you?”

She racked her brain to come up with a reasonable excuse. Then she gave him a brilliant smile. “Well, if you must know, I work close by here”—she giggled—“and the truth is, my mistress is as nosy as all get-out. She sent me over here to learn what I could about the murder. I didn’t want to do it, mind you. But, well…” She broke off and dropped her gaze, fluttering her eyelashes in the process. “I’d seen you about and I figured comin’ ‘round would be a good excuse to talk to you.”

Peter stared at her incredulously for a moment and then he smiled. “Oh, well, that’s allright, then.”

She silently drew a long, breath of relief. Mrs. Goodge was right, she thought, a few honeyed words and a bit
of battin’ the eyelashes and a man will believe any load of old rubbish you tell ’im.

“Anyways,” she said shyly, “we was talkin’ about Mrs. Trotter. It’s real interestin’, I mean ’earin’ about others and ‘ow they live.” She deliberately began dropping her
h
s. “You never said why the woman was putting up with Mrs. Hodges.”

“Oh, that. Mrs. Trotter was hangin’ on because she wanted something from Mrs. Hodges.”

“What?”

“Don’t know. But I ’eard ’em talkin’ about it a few times. Once when I was takin’ coal to one of the upstairs fireplaces, I ’eard Mrs. Trotter beggin’ the old witch to tell her where someone was.”

“Who was she talkin’ about?” Betsy said, leaning closer.

“Never ’eard no name. Just Mrs. Trotter saying over and over, ‘Tell me where she is, tell me where she is.’” He shook his head. “It were right pitiful, old straitlaced Trotter begging like that.”

“Poor Mrs. Trotter.” Betsy shook her head sympathetically. “I reckon she’s right upset, what with Mrs. Hodges gettin’ ‘erself done in that way.”

“Upset!” Peter laughed. “Not bloomin’ likely. I don’t know who Trotter was on about that day, but I do know that since the old witch’s death, Mrs. Trotter’s been happier than I’ve ever seen her. Walks about the house hummin’ and smilin’ and talkin’ to herself. Barmy, if you ask me.”

Betsy wondered what to ask next. Then she wondered how on earth she was going to get rid of Peter. “Is Mr. Hodges a nice master, then?”

“He’s all right,” Peter replied. “Nicer than she was. Bit of a dandy, but other than always brushin’ lint off his sleeve or havin’ me put more polish on his boots, he’s not too bad.”

“I suppose Mr. Hodges wasn’t too happy about Mrs. Hodges wanting to go to séances?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Peter’s brows drew together.

“You mean it isn’t true?”

“‘Course it’s not true. Goin’ and tryin’ to talk to the spirit of Mrs. Hodges’s dead son were Mr. Hodges’s idea. He started talkin’ about it right after he and Mrs. Hodges got married. Mind you, that caused a bit of a stir.”

“Are you sayin’ it were Mr. Hodges that believes in spiritualism, then?” Betsy asked, just to be sure she understood him correctly.

“‘Course it were him. Mrs. Hodges didn’t believe in all that silly stuff.”

“How did Mrs. Hodges meet up with Mrs. Popejoy then?” Betsy asked.

Peter stared at her suspiciously and she quickly added, “I read about her in the papers. Caught me eye, it did. I’m interested in spiritualism myself. You never know, do you? Could be there’s lots the dead could tell us. And that Mrs. Popejoy did claim some spirit tried to warn poor Mrs. Hodges to be careful.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “She did say that, din’t she. But I don’t believe a word of it.”

“Well, Mrs. Hodges must of, she kept goin’ to see the woman.”

“Only because Mr. Hodges wanted ‘er to,” Peter declared. “Mr. Hodges claimed it would give Mrs. Hodges a bit o’ peace.”

“You never answered me question. ‘Ow did Mrs. Hodges meet up with Mrs. Popejoy?” Betsy asked quickly, now that she’d finally loosened Peter’s tongue again.

The boy gave her a slow, sly grin. “It were Mr. Hodges that introduced them. Fact of the matter is, I reckons Mr. Hodges knows Mrs. Popejoy from way back. They was old friends. Good friends too. If you get my meanin’.”

Mrs. Jeffries spent the afternoon sorting linens. The task freed her mind to concentrate on the case. She was convinced that the death of Abigail Hodges wasn’t a simple robbery gone wrong. It was murder. Premeditated murder. She could feel it in her bones. But there were still far too many unanswered questions for her to make any assumptions as to the identity of the killer.

Picking up an armload of tablecloths and napkins, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

“Hello, Mrs. Goodge,” she said brightly as she opened the door to the cupboard and slipped the linens inside.

“Good afternoon. Miserable day out, isn’t it.” The cook was standing at the table next to a large earthenware bowl filled with ground meat. Beside the bowl was a silver cast-iron sausage maker and a tin of sausage casings.