The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (15 page)

Witherspoon’s spirits sank. Drat. The murderer was far too clever for his liking.

“Took us a while to find them,” Griffith continued proudly. “I almost missed them too, but then I noticed one of the curtain rings was angled crooked and there was a funny bulge in the fabric right below it.”

Witherspoon dragged his gaze from the jewels and stared
at Constable Griffith. “Why on earth did you search Miss Marsden’s bedroom?” he asked.

Constable Griffith’s bright smile faded. “But, sir, you told me to. At least you sent me a note.”

“I most certainly did not,” the inspector protested. He thought back on everything he’d done that day and he was absolutely sure he hadn’t sent Constable Griffith a message to search the Hodges home. Witherspoon knew perfectly well that he occasionally got a bit muddled, but even he’d remember writing a note.

“But, sir,” Griffiths pleaded. He stared at his superior in panic. “I’ve got the note right here.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he immediately thrust into Witherspoon’s outstretched hand.

Opening the folded paper, Witherspoon frowned as he scanned the contents. “My apologies, Constable,” he said, looking up. “This is indeed instructions from me authorizing you to search the house.”

Griffith sighed in relief.

“But I didn’t write it. How was it delivered?”

“A young lad brought it to me as I was leaving the house across from the Hodges home,” Griffith explained slowly. He looked terribly confused by this turn of events. “We were finishin’ up the house-to-house, trying to talk to all the neighbors. The boy, he was just one of them street arabs, sir, couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, he told me it had been given to him by Inspector Witherspoon.”

“I do believe, sir, that I really should get you a headache powder,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the inspector. The poor man looked positively dreadful. He’d come home with his shoulders slumped and rain pouring off the rim of his hat. She’d immediately ushered him into the drawing room, put him in his favorite chair and poured a nice glass of sherry. She’d then sat down and listened to his tale of woe.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Jeffries. As soon as I’ve
had a bite to eat, I’m sure I’ll feel much better.” He took another sip of his drink. “It’s just, well, one gets embarrassed when one’s been made to look a fool.”

“Now, sir. Don’t be ridiculous. How could you possibly have been made to look foolish?” She clucked her tongue. “It’s hardly your fault that someone forged your signature onto a note.”

“It’s good of you to say so, but that’s not the only reason I feel badly,” he confessed. He stared morosely at his sherry. “I think perhaps I should have listened to Constable Barnes. He wanted to bring Mr. Vogel into the station for questioning and I didn’t think we had sufficient evidence.”

Mrs. Jeffries clucked her tongue again. “Now, now, sir. I’m sure you made the right decision. Why don’t you tell me everything that happened today. It’ll do you good to get it off your chest.”

She straightened as she heard a harsh, muffled rumble that sounded like it was coming from belowstairs. The inspector heard it too.

“I say, did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yes. It was probably something falling off the back of a cart.” She didn’t care what the sound was. Unless the house was on fire, she wanted nothing to distract the inspector from telling her what had transpired that day.

“Thought it sounded like a dog,” he murmured. Then he took a deep breath and told his dear housekeeper all about his utterly dreadful day.

Mrs. Jeffries listened very carefully.

The inspector retired early that night. Mrs. Jeffries waited until he’d disappeared up the stairs and she heard his bedroom door close before she hurried down to the kitchen.

For once, everyone was there. Even Luty Belle had managed to come.

“Hatchet said he’ll be back fer me in an hour,” Luty said, referring to her butler. “His nose is out of joint on account of havin’ to go out in the wet, but he’ll git over it. I couldn’t
wait till tomorrow. I’ve found out some information that’s gonna set your hair on fire.”

There was another muffled rumble sound and everyone started in surprise.

“What was that?” Betsy asked.

“Sounded like a dog,” Mrs. Goodge replied.

“I heard the same sound a while ago,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“It’s thunder,” Wiggins put in.

“Thunder?” Smythe exclaimed. “It weren’t a bit like thunder. You’d better get the muck out of yer ears, boy.”

“And I’d better get them sausages,” Mrs. Goodge said as she stood up and bustled down the hallway towards the cooling pantry. “Don’t anyone start until I get back.”

They all waited patiently, sipping at the cocoa the cook had put in a pot on the table. Mrs. Jeffries could tell from their faces that each of them had something to report.

“Arrg!” Mrs. Goodge screamed. Despite her rheumatism, she fairly flew down the hall, clutching an empty platter in her hands.

Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries and Smythe both jumped to their feet. Betsy scooted back from the table to get a better view, Wiggins sank into his chair and Luty pulled a pistol out of her fur muff.

“For goodness’ sakes, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries cried when she saw the gun, “put that thing away before you shoot someone.”

“I’ll put this away when I know why Mrs. Goodge is howling her head off,” Luty retorted.

“Me sausages,” the cook yelped. She slammed the empty platter onto the table. “They’re gone.”

“Is that what all the shoutin’s about?” Smythe said in disgust. “For pity sakes, Mrs. Goodge, someone probably ate them.”

“But they was there less than ten minutes ago,” Mrs. Goodge insisted. “And I’ve been hearin’ strange noises all evenin’. I tell you somethin’s in the house.”

Another rumble exploded from the back of the hall.

“Now I know that weren’t thunder,” Luty said. She aimed the pistol at the dimly lit passage and got to her feet.

Wiggins leaped up. “Don’t shoot,” he shouted. “’E’s only a puppy.” He threw himself in front of Luty. “Please, put that gun away. ‘E was hungry. ‘E followed me home and I didn’t have the heart to turn ‘im out. He’s a good dog, Fred is.”

Wiggins turned and rushed down the hallway towards the small, rarely used storage room. A few moments later he returned with the dog in tow.

“Fred’s sorry ‘e ate the sausages,” Wiggins said apologetically to Mrs. Goodge. The animal looked at Mrs. Goodge and licked his chops. “But it were an accident. The door to the cooling pantry was open when I was bringin’ ‘im down the hall and the poor mite was so hungry that when ‘e smelled that meat, ‘e couldn’t ‘elp hisself.”

Surprised by this turn of events, they all stared at the footman and the dog. Fred wagged his tail.

Mrs. Jeffries cleared her throat, Smythe chuckled, Mrs. Goodge snorted, Betsy grinned and Luty put her gun away.

“Can ‘e stay?” Wiggins asked as he knelt by the animal and started stroking his rather mangy coat. “’E’s got nowheres to go and we can’t just turn ‘im out. ‘E’ll starve.”

“But, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said gently, “what will the inspector say?”

Still wagging his tail, Fred stepped closer to the table. Smythe tentatively put his hand out and the dog licked it. Then he went to Betsy and nuzzled his head against her chair.

“We can talk ‘im into it,” Wiggins insisted. “Our inspector’s a kind’earted gentleman, ‘e wouldn’t want to see the poor little pup turned out in the cold.”

“Let’s have a go at it,” the coachman put in. “I don’t mind sharing me room with a dog. As long as Wiggins agrees to keep ‘im clean.”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries said hesitantly.

“Oh please.” Betsy added her voice to the chorus. “I like dogs and this one looks like he’s right friendly.” Fred bumped his nose against her knee.

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t believe in dithering. She made a decision. “All right, we’ll ask the inspector if we can keep the dog. But, Wiggins, the animal will be your responsibility. You must treat him kindly, keep him clean and ensure that he’s walked properly.”

“You won’t regret it, Mrs. Jeffries,” the footman promised. “’E’s a good dog, is Fred. ‘E’ll even come in ‘andy on our investigations. Why, with proper trainin’ and such ‘e can probably learn to pick up the scent and follow the trail.”

Fred chose that moment to flop down flat on the floor and go to sleep. Everyone laughed.

“Mind you keep his nose off the trail of my sausages in the future,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. But she smiled at the animal as she said it.

“Now that that’s settled,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a worried glance at Fred, “let’s find out what each of us has learned today. Luty, why don’t you go first. We don’t want to annoy Hatchet any more than necessary.”

Luty told them all about her visit to Myrtle Buxton. She was a good storyteller, and when she got to the part about Felicity Marsden leaving the ballet, everyone was leaning towards her, their faces alight with interest.

“Cor,” Smythe said when she’d finished. “That means that Miss Marsden don’t have an alibi.”

“True,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “but it doesn’t mean she murdered her aunt. It could just as easily mean she wanted a chance to see her young man.”

“Thomasina Trotter don’t really have an alibi either,” Mrs. Goodge interjected. She told them what she’d heard from her sources that day as well.

“Well, I’ve learned something important too,” Betsy said when the cook had finished. She told them about her conversation with Peter Applegate.

“Are you tellin’ us that it were Mr. Hodges that introduced Mrs. Popejoy to his wife?” Luty asked.

Betsy nodded. “And that’s not the half of it, accordin’ to Peter. He thinks that Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy knew each other from a long time ago.”

“Was he just guessing or does he know that for a fact?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“He weren’t really sure,” Betsy said cautiously. “But a couple of months back, right after Mrs. Popejoy had been ‘round the Hodges house the first time, Peter claims he saw Mrs. Popejoy and Mr. Hodges together driving in a carriage down Oxford Street. But when Peter happened to mention it to Mr. Hodges, Mr. Hodges acted like he didn’t know what he was on about.”

“I’m gettin’ confused,” Wiggins said. “Was the man Mr. Hodges, then?”

“Hold yer horses, boy,” Luty interjected. “She’s gettin’ to it. Go on, Betsy, what happened then?”

“Peter says he didn’t think much about it, he just thought he’d made a mistake. But the very next day Mr. Hodges left the house and forgot his walkin’ stick. Well, Mrs. Hodges gives Peter the stick and tells him he can probably catch up with her husband at Holland Park.” Betsy paused dramatically. “But when Peter reached the park, he didn’t just find Mr. Hodges. He saw Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy together and they was huddlin’ under a tree. They didn’t hear Peter comin’, so they weren’t careful with what they were sayin’ to one another.”

“What did Peter hear?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly.

“He heard Mr. Hodges sayin’ that Mrs. Popejoy had better be careful, that they wouldn’t like it to be like the last time. Then he laughed like and said, ‘Remember what happened three years ago.’”

Wiggins shook his head. “I still don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” mumbled Mrs. Goodge.

“Don’t you see, if he’s referrin’ to something that happened three years ago, something they both knew about,
that proves he knew Mrs. Popejoy three years ago.”

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Perhaps, or perhaps not. Mr. Hodges could have been referring to a social or political event that
everyone
knew about. Something that was in the papers and was common knowledge, or he could have been chatting about something like last winter’s weather. We’ve all commented that 1886 was the coldest winter anyone could remember. Mr. Hodges could just as easily have been having a polite conversation with Mrs. Popejoy.” She shook her head. “Mr. Hodges just isn’t a reasonable suspect in this case. When Inspector Witherspoon was interviewing Mrs. Popejoy yesterday, she mentioned a friend of hers, Harriet Trainer, was sitting in the ladies’ waiting room when she arrived at the station with Mr. Hodges. The inspector told me today that they’d confirmed Mrs. Popejoy’s story. Harriet Trainer positively identified Leonard Hodges as the man who accompanied Mrs. Popejoy to the station. And several witnesses saw him at his club not long after.”

“So it doesn’t matter if they knew each other or not before Mr. Hodges married Mrs. Hodges,” Betsy said glumly. “And Peter were ever so sure they did. Said it wasn’t just that incident in the park, it were other things too. Like the way they look at each other.”

“Huh?” Wiggins scratched his head.

“Like the way you look at Sarah Trippett, lad,” Smythe said, and Wiggins blushed.

Mrs. Jeffries tapped her fingers against the table. They’d learned much so far. Felicity Marsden didn’t have an alibi, Mrs. Popejoy may have known Mr. Hodges longer than anyone had thought and he’d been the one to encourage his wife to go to a spiritualist. But she still didn’t have enough information. She smiled at Smythe. “I believe it’s your turn now.”

The coachman shrugged. “My news isn’t all that interestin’,” he confessed. “But I did track down the hansom driver that brought Mrs. Hodges home. He claims she were angry because he’d driven her home by way of
the Strand instead of the quieter streets. Said the woman was shoutin’ so loud he never got a word in edgewise, otherwise ‘e’d of told ‘er it were ‘er own husband who’d instructed him to take the long route.”