The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (17 page)

“What’dya doin’ that fer?” Luty asked. “Ain’t we gonna take the gun to the inspector?”

“No, we’re going to put it back right where we found it and go back to Upper Edmonton Gardens,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “We’ve much to discuss before we tell the inspector anything.”

“Cor, Mrs. J,” Smythe said with a shake of his head. “Are you sure? I mean, this is hidin’ evidence.”

“It most certainly is not.” Mrs. Jeffries cast a quick glance to the back of the church. “We’re not hiding anything, we’re replacing it. And we must hurry. It’s getting late. I don’t want to have to explain our presence here to the vicar. Now stop worrying, all of you,” she said earnestly as she looked from one concerned face to another. “Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”

“We’re going to have another little chat with that Mr. Vogel today,” Inspector Witherspoon declared. He reached for another slice of toast from the rack and liberally smeared it with butter and marmalade. “Then we’re going to ask Miss Felicity Marsden to explain how that jewelry got into her room.”

“Perhaps Miss Marsden doesn’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested. “You know, it is possible the jewels were put there to throw suspicion on the young lady. After all, Miss Marsden was at the ballet that night.”

“Hmmm, I’m not so sure of that. I’m going to send Barnes around to the Plimpton house today to double-check Miss Marsden’s statement.”

“Really? Why?”

“Actually,” the inspector replied, “it was something you
said that got me to thinking we’d better have another look at Miss Marsden’s alleged movements on the night in question.”

“Something I said,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated innocently, though she was much relieved. She’d been dropping hints that everyone’s statements as to their whereabouts on the night of the murder should be double-checked.

“Certainly. You stated that once one was seated in a crowded dark theatre, it was jolly easy to slip out without anyone being any the wiser. Especially if one was seated next to an elderly woman who probably fell asleep as soon as the curtain came up.”

“Oh that,” she replied airily. “Well, I only said it because I remembered how my great-aunt Matilda used to doze off when we took her to the theatre in Yorkshire.” She laughed gaily. “But I must say, I’m very flattered that you took my little observations seriously.”

Witherspoon smiled. “You mustn’t be so modest, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said as soon as he’d swallowed his toast. “Why, you said it yourself, one of my characteristics as a detective is to take everything I hear seriously. Why, hearing your little bits about human nature seems to spark something in my own thoughts. Jolly good too; otherwise I’d never have been able to solve some of the difficult cases I’ve been given.”

“Are you going to examine Jonathan Felcher’s and Mr. Hodges’s movements as well?”

Witherspoon shrugged. “We’ve already double-checked Mr. Hodges. As I told you last night, Barnes got a statement from Miss Trainer that she’d seen Mr. Hodges escort Mrs. Popejoy to the door of the ladies’ waiting room.”

“So you did,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “How silly of me to forget.”

“You’re not in the least silly,” the inspector declared. “But I do believe we’ll double-check Mr. Felcher’s whereabouts and perhaps even that housekeeper, Mrs. Trotter. She’s an odd sort of person. Constable Barnes repeated
the most peculiar rumor about her yesterday.” He then proceeded to tell her what she’d already learned about Thomasina Trotter’s excursions into the streets of London.

“How very unusual,” she commented, when the inspector finished.

“Yes, isn’t it.” Witherspoon sighed. “But then lots of people have eccentric habits. It doesn’t necessarily make them murderers.”

Mrs. Jeffries waited until the inspector left before pouring herself another cup of tea. The house was very quiet. After they’d come back from St. John’s this morning, she had hastily given everyone another assignment and they were all out gathering information.

Betsy had gone to make contact with someone in Mrs. Popejoy’s establishment, though Mrs. Jeffries didn’t see that course of action as being particularly fruitful. Mrs. Popejoy and Leonard Hodges were the only two people involved in the case who had unshakable alibis. Smythe had gone to have another word with the driver who’d taken Mrs. Popejoy and Mr. Hodges to the train station, though again, that was probably a waste of time. Luty had decided to try to ferret out any gossip she could find about Mrs. Trotter, and Wiggins had announced he was off to find evidence that Miss Marsden was innocent.

Mrs. Jeffries sighed. This whole case was so muddled. No one was where they were supposed to be that night. Everyone seemed to loathe the victim, so there was no shortage of suspects, and now it looked like the evidence was pointing directly to the one suspect who had the most to gain by Abigail Hodges’s death. Felicity Marsden.

Or did she? The housekeeper tapped the side of her teacup. They still didn’t know for sure that Miss Marsden was going to inherit a large portion of the estate, and until the inspector got around to questioning the woman’s solicitor, they wouldn’t know. And Mrs. Jeffries didn’t like the manner in which this new evidence against the girl was being discovered. It was too tidy. Too neat. Almost as though
someone were directing the action from behind the scenes.

Someone who had sent the inspector that note about searching the house. Someone who had wanted those jewels found. Someone who, if Benjamin Vogel were to be believed, had taken the gun out of his room without his knowledge. Someone who wanted to implicate Felicity Marsden and her former fiancé. Or maybe, she thought, they had done the murder and staged the robbery. But surely, she argued silently, no one is stupid enough to have made all those mistakes.

Or were they? Mrs. Jeffries put her cup down.

She shook her head and decided to go over the reasons someone would want Abigail Hodges dead.

Felicity Marsden hated her aunt because she’d thwarted her relationship with Benjamin Vogel. But if that engagement was truly over, the two of them would hardly have conspired to fake a robbery and stage the murder. Mr. Vogel deeply resented Mrs. Hodges’s lies; that could be his motive. But if it were, it was pretty weak. And what about the nephew, Jonathan Felcher? He hated the woman because he wanted control of his own money and she wouldn’t give it to him. Then there was the housekeeper. Mrs. Jeffries shrugged. Who knew what on earth possessed Mrs. Trotter.

Mrs. Jeffries knew she needed to do something. But what? Suddenly she leaped to her feet.

Jonathan Felcher. No one had really taken a good look at him. She hurried to the backstairs and called to Mrs. Goodge that she was going out. It was time to take a closer look at Abigail Hodges’s nephew. And after that, it was time to have a chat with Felicity Marsden.

“We’d like to speak to Miss Marsden, if you don’t mind,” Inspector Witherspoon said to Leonard Hodges.

“Felicity? But she’s resting now,” Hodges replied. “Look, Inspector, I hardly think you need disturb the girl. She’s told you everything she knows.”

Witherspoon stared at him curiously. “But I’m afraid she hasn’t. You realize, of course, that finding the jewelry here in this house—more specifically, in Miss Marsden’s room—changes the entire nature of this investigation. We really must speak to her.”

Hodges nodded slightly in acknowledgment. “I can understand your reasoning, Inspector, but I’m not certain I entirely agree with it. Couldn’t the thieves have panicked when they murdered my wife and hidden the jewelry themselves?”

“If that were the case, I hardly think the miscreants would have bothered to hide the jewels! Why not simply take them along with them as they left?” Witherspoon suggested. “And even if you’re correct, pray remember where they were found, pinned inside the upper folds of the curtains. Hardly the actions of a person in an agitated state of mind, sir.”

Hodges sighed. “Yes, I see your point.” He stepped over to the bellpull and yanked the cord. When the maid appeared, he instructed her to fetch Miss Marsden.

Without being asked, Witherspoon sat down. “Mr. Hodges, I presume your late wife made a will?”

Hodges slowly turned his head and stared at the inspector. “Yes, she did.”

“Do you, by any chance, happen to have any idea as to how her estate was divided?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Hodges stated calmly. “Abigail wasn’t reticent about her plans. Everything she owned is divided equally between myself and Felicity.”

“What about Mr. Felcher?”

“He has his own property. Now that Abigail is gone, he’ll obtain control of his holdings.” Hodges brushed a piece of lint off the collar of his elegant black mourning coat. “Unlike most women, Abigail controlled her own property.”

“That’s most unusual, isn’t it?” the inspector asked. He wasn’t sure, but he’d always thought that once a woman married, her husband legally became the possessor of
everything she owned. Of course he could be mistaken, there was something going on in Parliament about a Married Woman’s Property Act, but he wasn’t sure it had passed. Or had it? Yes, by golly, he thought, he did remember reading about that in the newspapers. Something about a woman owning two hundred pounds of her own money…no, that didn’t sound right. Wasn’t there another act in the offing? One that entitled them to keep all their own money? Oh dear, he thought, politics were such a muddle, one couldn’t be expected to keep every little thing straight.

“Abigail was an unusual woman.” Hodges smiled sadly. “And as to the laws and customs of our great nation, they had no influence on her. Her money and holdings were in the United States and the laws and customs of that land are far different than here. Interesting place, actually. Women are accorded a great deal more freedom, I believe.”

The inspector immediately thought of Luty Belle Crookshank. “Er, yes,” he said with a smile. “You’re quite correct.”

“Abigail inherited substantial real-estate holdings in both New York and Baltimore from her first husband,” Hodges explained. “The property is administered by an American law firm and quarterly funds are drawn on bank drafts through the Bank of New York.”

The inspector wondered what was keeping Miss Marsden. He was most impressed by Mr. Hodges’s openness. Quite grateful, as a matter of fact. Now he wouldn’t have to have one of those tiresome conversations with Mrs. Hodges’s solicitor. He suddenly realized there was something very important he must ask. “Mr. Hodges,” he said cautiously, “did Miss Marsden know she was going to inherit half of her aunt’s fortune?”

“He drinks like a bloody fish, he does, and gambles too,” Elspeth Blodgett exclaimed. “I say, it’s right nice of you to bring me here. I’ve never been in one of these places. Tea shops, that’s what they call ’em. I know ‘cause one
of me lodgers is always meetin’ her young feller at the one in Piccadilly Circus. She’s one of them typewriter girls, has her own Remington, she does, claims she makes twenty-five shillings a week.”

Mrs. Jeffries waited patiently for Jonathan Felcher’s landlady to pause for a breath. It had taken only the barest hint that she was inquiring into Mr. Felcher’s character on behalf of the family of a young lady to loosen Elspeth Blodgett’s tongue. The woman certainly liked to talk.