The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (14 page)

“Yes, it is. I do hope all this rain isn’t hampering the others in the investigation. Are we having sausages for dinner?”

“No, I thought I’d do these for a late-night nibble—it’s chicken tonight for all of us. But sausages can come in handy when we’re all ‘round the table givin’ our news.”

“What a good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “And you do make such lovely sausages, so much better than the ones available at the butcher’s.”

“I should hope so,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “Lord knows what goes into those others. Wouldn’t have them in the house.” She finished grinding the last of the meat and wiped her hands on a towel. Mrs. Jeffries noticed her stretching her fingers and flexing them before she reached for the tin of sausage casings.

“Your rheumatism is bothering you today, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jeffries said, watching as the cook fumbled with the lid on the tin.

“Always does when it rains. But at least in this house a body can sit a spell when the pain gets too bad.” Mrs. Goodge put the tin down and plopped into a chair. “Not like some houses I’ve worked in. Now, that reminds me, I found out a bit about Mrs. Hodges and how she runs her house.” She gave an inelegant snort. “Real strict, she was. Made the servants pay for their tea and sugar every month, prayer gong every morning before breakfast, with the housekeeper leadin’ the prayers because Mr. and Mrs. Hodges couldn’t bother to stir themselves out of bed that early. And cold meat from the day before for the servants’ dinner at one o’clock. Sounds a right miserable place, doesn’t it?”

Surprised, Mrs. Jeffries gazed at the cook curiously. When she’d first taken up her post here, her own unorthodox way of running the household had caused Mrs. Goodge much alarm. She’d put an end to any silly divisions between the upper and lower servants, insisting that Smythe, Wiggins and Betsy be treated in the same manner as herself and the cook. She’d eliminated morning prayers with the comment that anyone who wanted could worship the Almighty in the privacy of their own room, and she’d informed them that as long as their duties were carried out, she had no need to supervise them directly. Meals were taken together with everyone waiting on themselves instead of expecting the lowest kitchen maid to do it all (not that they had a kitchen maid, but that onerous burden would normally have fallen to Betsy) and what was done on one’s own free time was
one’s own business. Mrs. Jeffries was well aware that her way of managing a household was unusual, but as long as the inspector was satisfied, she wasn’t concerned.

“Mrs. Hodges certainly seems to have run her household very strictly,” Mrs. Jeffries finally agreed, “but that’s not so unusual. Most households function in much the same manner.”

“More’s the pity,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. She stared off into the distance for a moment and then shook herself out of her reverie. “Well, we’ve not got all day, have we? I did just like you asked and found out a bit about that Mrs. Trotter.”

Mrs. Jeffries gazed at her in admiration. “Goodness, Mrs. Goodge, that’s very quick.”

“You might say I had a bit of luck. The grocer’s boy come by this mornin’. He delivers to the Hodges house too and he gave me a right earful about Thomasina Trotter.” Mrs. Goodge leaned forward on her elbow. “She’s a real strange one, she is.”

“Strange? How do you mean?”

Mrs. Goodge tapped her finger gently against her temple. “Up here,” she said, her voice hushed. “She’s touched. Not right in the head. The woman spends her free time out walking the streets.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at the cook in bewilderment. “Are you implying that Thomasina Trotter is a…a…prostitute?”

“No, no,” Mrs. Goodge said impatiently. “She’s not lookin’ for men, she’s lookin’ for women. She stares at young girls. Accosts them in the street. Goes right up and looks into their faces, studyin’ ’em like. Why, she’s gone as far as Whitechapel—and even worse, she’s done it at night. Can you imagine that? Being on the streets in the East End after dark. I tell you, the woman’s daft. Completely daft.”

“Goodness, that is most odd,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Were you able to find out why she does it?”

“No. I wasn’t. But I’ll keep at it. Just give us a few more
days. I’ve got me sources askin’ around.”

“You know,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully, “from what you’ve just told me about Mrs. Hodges having been so very strict with her servants, I’m amazed she allowed her housekeeper to do such a thing. Surely she must have known Mrs. Trotter was behaving rather oddly?”

“But she didn’t know about it.” Mrs. Goodge laughed. “For goodness’ sake, who’d tell Mrs. Hodges anything? The servants didn’t like her much and I’m sure she weren’t the kind to sit and natter with the tradespeople who delivered to the house. And for all her daft ways, Thomasina Trotter’s a bit of a sharp one. She obviously used to tell Mrs. Hodges she were goin’ to visit her old nanny.” She broke off and frowned. “Now, what was the woman’s name? Oh yes, Miss Bush. Anyways, after the grocer’s boy left this mornin’, I sent young Willie Spencer, the lad that works over the garden for Colonel Norcross, over to Fulham to have a gander at Mrs. Trotter’s nanny.”

“Why how very intelligent, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “How did Willie do?”

“The boy did well enough, I reckon.” Mrs. Goodge smiled smugly. “He spoke to Mrs. Bush herself. Mind you, nothin’ she said made any sense. Willie says the poor thing’s half out of her mind. She’s old, you know. Sometimes they get that way. So the way I figure is that Mrs. Trotter used to tell her mistress she was visiting with Miss Bush, who wouldn’t even know what day it was, let alone whether or not anyone had come calling, and then instead of actually goin’ to see her, Mrs. Trotter would wander the streets starin’ at young girls.” She shuddered. “Horrible, isn’t it?”

“If you’re right,” Mrs. Jeffries mused, “and there’s no reason to believe you aren’t, then that means Thomasina Trotter doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the murder.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’ too.”

“Gracious, this sheds a whole new light on the situation.”

“But why would Mrs. Trotter want to kill her mistress?”
Mrs. Goodge shook her head. “That’s the part I can’t understand. The woman might be a bit daft, but a murderess?”

“We don’t know that she did kill Mrs. Hodges, but then again, we don’t know that she didn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured thoughtfully. After a moment she smiled at the cook. “Keep digging, Mrs. Goodge. I think we might be onto something here. Tell the others we’ll meet back here after the inspector’s gone to bed this evening. Perhaps we’ll have even more pieces to add to this puzzle.”

As Mrs. Jeffries went back up the stairs to finish her linens, she made a mental note to urge the inspector to double-check Thomasina Trotter’s alibi. And just to make sure, she thought, I’ll send Betsy or Smythe around to talk to Miss Bush and her neighbors.

“Now, Constable Barnes,” Inspector Witherspoon said patiently, “we didn’t really have any grounds to arrest Mr. Vogel. A missing gun isn’t reason enough to take him down to the station to help us with our inquiries.”

Barnes pulled the door of the hansom shut. “Ladbroke Road Police Station,” he called to the driver before turning to the inspector. “Yes, sir, I know that. But what about his landlady? She claimed she never saw him come in that night.”

“Yes, but she also told us she doesn’t see him come in most evenings. Her rooms are at the back of the house,” the inspector replied tiredly. “Furthermore, we’ve no idea if his gun has anything at all to do with Mrs. Hodges.”

“She was shot with a revolver,” Barnes insisted. “And his revolver’s missin’. We know he needs money and we know he hated Abigail Hodges for interferin’ in his relationship with Miss Marsden. He knew the layout of the house, he could have found out that the Hodgeses was goin’ to be out that evening and he could have broke in just plannin’ on robbin’ them when Mrs. Hodges surprised him. That would explain why she was shot. Vogel knew she could identify him.”

“Then where is the jewelry?” Witherspoon asked. “As far as we know, it hasn’t turned up at any of the usual places and we know it wasn’t in his room. Mr. Vogel was quite within his rights to refuse to let us search, but he didn’t and the jewelry wasn’t there.”

“He could have hidden it somewhere,” Barnes suggested, but he didn’t sound very sure of himself. “I expect you’re right, sir. We didn’t have all that much evidence against the man.”

“Vogel’s not the only man in London who owns a revolver,” the inspector said.

“True, but most of them that owns guns can probably produce them,” Barnes muttered. “Still, I’m sure you know what you’re doin’, sir.”

Witherspoon hoped the constable was right. At this point he wasn’t all that sure he did know what he was doing. Perhaps he should have brought Mr. Vogel in—but then again, he hated making an arrest unless he was absolutely certain.

“But it’s still hard for me to believe it was professionals that broke into the Hodges house and killed that poor woman,” Barnes continued thoughtfully. “It just didn’t have the right feel, if you know what I mean, sir.”

“I do indeed, Constable. As a matter of fact, I’ve recently come to the same conclusion myself,” Witherspoon admitted. “There are simply too many peculiar circumstances in this case. I think we’ll just have to keep at it. Did the lads come up with anything useful from the neighbors?”

“Not really, sir.” Barnes reached for the door latch as the hansom pulled up in front of the station. As soon as the horses stopped, he opened the door and leaped out. The rain, which had started out as a drizzle when they’d left Vogel’s rooms in Paddington, was now a downpour. “Better make a run for it, Inspector,” Barnes called as he took care of the driver.

The Ladbroke Road Police Station was a large brick building with a paved yard in front. The larger and more
conspicuous of the two doors led into the front office with its constables behind the counter and the charge room, while the other, smaller door led to a main staircase, which in turn led to offices and the canteen.

It was this smaller door that Witherspoon made a dash for. Inside, he stopped and shook the water off his bowler. He was reaching for his spectacles when a uniformed constable appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the young policeman called down. “The station officer would like to see you. He says it’s urgent. He’s in the charge room, if you’d care to go in.”

Witherspoon, who’d hoped to get a cup of tea, stifled a sigh. He went through the connecting door into the front office. After nodding politely at the constable on duty behind the counter, he entered the charge room.

Witherspoon grimaced as he stepped inside. He hated this bleak place. There were no windows and the walls were painted a dull, ugly green. The hardwood floor was scarred and stained from years of heavy, weary feet. There was a plain wooden bench alongside one wall for the prisoners to sit on, a wooden table for them to turn out their usually meager personal effects and a tall desk for the station officer to sit at as he listed the charges against the prisoners in the crime book. At the end of the room was another door, which led to the detention room. All in all, Witherspoon found the whole place dreadfully depressing. Not at all like the records room at CID headquarters at Scotland Yard. He sighed wistfully at the thought of his former position and then straightened his shoulders, remembering his duty.

The door from the detention room opened and the station officer stepped inside. “Oh, good day, sir. I see you got my message. Sorry I wasn’t here,” he said politely, “but we’ve had a busy day. Two in lockup in the last hour.”

“That’s quite all right, Constable, er…”

“Kent, sir. Constable Kent. I was on my way in today when I was stopped by Constable Griffith. He’s got a
message for you about the Hodges case. They’ve found the stolen jewelry.”

“Really?” Witherspoon was genuinely surprised. He’d never expected those jewels to turn up.

“Yes, sir. Constable Griffith wanted me to make sure you stayed here until he arrived. He should be here anytime now.” Kent hurried over and stuck his head out of the door. “Can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”

“Goodness, did he say where the jewels were found?” Witherspoon fervently hoped the stolen items had been found at one of the shops in Shoreditch or St. Giles that the police knew solicited stolen merchandise.

“No, sir, he didn’t,” Kent said. “But here he is now, sir. Griffith,” he called across the front office. “Inspector Witherspoon’s in here.”

The inspector would have liked to have left this miserable room for the front office or, better yet, for the canteen, but he didn’t get the opportunity. Constable Griffith, all six feet two inches of him, was already inside the charge room. Barnes was right behind him.

“Sir,” Griffith exclaimed. “We’ve found the jewels.” He handed the inspector a black cloth bag.

Witherspoon opened the bag and spilled its contents onto the table. “Where did you find them, Constable?”

“At the Hodges house,” Griffith replied. “In Felicity Marsden’s bedroom. The bag was pinned to one of the folds in the curtains, up along the upper rails.”

“Looks like you were right, sir,” Barnes said. “This wasn’t a bloomin’ robbery. No thief in his right mind leaves the goods behind.”