The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (18 page)

Immediately Mrs. Jeffries had known that if she could get a cup of tea in front of the landlady, she’d have a veritable gold mine of information. As Mrs. Blodgett was on her way to do the shopping, it was quite easy to convince her to make a quick detour into a very convenient ABC Tea Shop.

A waiter pushing a trolley topped with seedcake, currant buns, digestive biscuits and meringues stopped beside their table.

Mrs. Blodgett broke off in midsentence. Her eyes narrowed and she licked her lips as she stared at the tray of sweets.

“Oh please, order anything you like,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “On a chilly day like today, a cup of tea just isn’t enough. And it’s so very good of you to help me in my inquiries.”

“Thank you, I don’t mind if I do.” She pointed a chubby, rather dirty finger at the plate of meringues. “I’ll take a couple of those and two of them digestive biscuits as well.”

Though she wasn’t hungry, Mrs. Jeffries was determined to be sociable and keep the woman talking. She ordered a currant bun and more tea.

“Now,” she continued, when the waiter had left, “about Mr. Felcher? You were saying?”

“He’s a rotter and a rogue, he is,” Mrs. Blodgett said as she dipped a biscuit into her tea. “But that don’t keep
the ladies away, if you get me meaning. Not much of a worker, always takin’ time off in the afternoons and holds on to his job by the skin of his teeth. He ain’t above nickin’ a few bits and pieces ‘ere and there, neither.”

“Gracious.” Mrs. Jeffries deliberately pretended to be shocked. “Why on earth do you allow such a monster to stay on in your lodging house?”

“I’m no starry-eyed girl. He don’t steal from me, I makes sure of that.” Mrs. Blodgett cackled. “He may be a rotter, but he pays his rent, and on time too. Besides, it’s all the same to me. If that silly aunt of his wants to let him steal her blind, that’s her business.”

“You mean he steals from his own relatives!”

“‘Course he does. I seen it with me own eyes.” Mrs. Blodgett pushed a strand of dirty gray hair out of her eyes and tried to tuck it back beneath an equally dirty gray cap. “I’ve seen him open her purse and help himself when she ain’t lookin’.”

“How appalling,” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. Obviously Mrs. Blodgett didn’t think it unethical to spy on her lodgers. “How did you see Mr. Felcher steal? It’s rather important. I mean it’s my duty to warn Elizabeth’s family that the young man who has been paying court to their only daughter isn’t to be trusted.”

“We’ve all got to do our duty,” Mrs. Blodgett seconded. “Well, like I was sayin’, this here aunt of his used to come by occasionally and give Felcher a dressin’-down. Whenever she’d finish, she’d nip into the back room to put on her hat and coat. Felcher used to open her purse and help himself. Got right quick at it too. Her name was Abigail Hodges.”

“The woman who was murdered a few days ago?”

“That’s the one, all right. Had lots of money, she did. Felcher was always lickin’ her boots and tryin’ to get on her good side, but I reckon she had him sussed out well enough.” Elspeth smiled slyly. “She never paid no mind to
his grovelin’ and wheedlin’. But she sure kept him at her beck and call all the time, she did.”

“Perhaps Mr. Felcher hoped to eventually inherit something from her estate,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

Mrs. Blodgett shook her head. “Maybe, or maybe he was always dancin’ to her tune ‘cause if he didn’t she’d tell his employer about Mr. Felcher playin’ about with Mr. Macklin’s wife.”

This time Mrs. Jeffries didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re saying?”

“I’m sayin’ that Mr. Felcher was playin’ about with Mrs. Macklin, his boss’s wife. Mrs. Hodges caught ’em together one afternoon. She’s had Felcher under her thumb ever since. He’s told me more than once ‘e wished Mrs. Hodges was dead. Looks like he finally got his wish.”

“Jonathan Felcher took them to dinner on the night that the murder occurred,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully.

She spoke too soon, because Elspeth Blodgett suddenly sat back and gazed at her suspiciously. “How do ya know that?”

“It was in the papers,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly, hoping that Mrs. Blodgett hadn’t followed the case in the dailies.

“Oh. For once Felcher were tellin’ the truth. He did take ’em to dinner that night. Claimed he had a big win at the races.” She snorted. “More like one of his women had greased his palm with a bit of cash, if you ask me. Mrs. Macklin wasn’t the only rich woman he was spendin’ his time with.”

“According to the papers, Mr. and Mrs. Hodges then went on to another engagement and Mr. Felcher returned home. I wonder if that’s true.”

“‘Course it in’t true. Felcher never come home that night at all.”

Mrs. Jeffries weighed her next words carefully. “Have you told the police that he didn’t come home?”

Mrs. Blodgett shrugged. “They haven’t asked me. But if they did, I’ve got no reason to lie to save the likes of him. Why should I? Now that Mrs. Hodges has up and died, he’s give his notice. He’ll be leavin’ at the end of the week. Goin’ to America.”

“I think, madam, I really ought to come inside with you.” Hatchet helped Luty Belle Crookshank out of the carriage and then turned to survey the area. He arched one silver brow disdainfully at the row of dingy gray houses, the unpaved road, the hordes of ill-kempt children playing in the mud and the unremitting stench from the poultry yard directly across from the home of Mrs. Bush.

“Don’t be silly, Hatchet,” Luty replied as she brushed off his arm and headed up the broken walkway. “You’ll be of a lot more use out here.” She jerked her head toward the children, several of whom were eyeing her carriage. “I can handle one old lady. All I want to do is talk to the woman. But if it eases yer mind, stay close to the door and I’ll give a shout if I need any help.”

Leaving Hatchet muttering under his breath, Luty banged on the door. Several blotches of paint fell off onto the ground. From inside, she heard a shuffling noise, and several moments later the door slowly opened and a quavery voice said, “Who’s there? What do you want?”

“My name is Luty Belle Crookshank,” she replied. “I’m a friend of Thomasina Trotter’s. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Bush.” Luty sincerely hoped that Mrs. Bush wouldn’t remember this little visit and mention it to Mrs. Trotter.

The opening widened and a shriveled-up woman leaning heavily on a cane appeared. Her white hair had thinned so much there were bald spots on the crown. Her face was a mass of wrinkles and her eyes were dull and glazed. “Tommy?” she said in a singsong voice. “Are you my angel? My Tommy?”

Luty wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. Mrs. Bush wasn’t just elderly and a mite forgetful, she was completely
loco. Then she was ashamed of herself as she saw the dazed eyes clear.

“Have you come to visit me?” The old woman smiled hopefully.

“Yes, ma’am, I surely have,” Luty replied. “May I come in?” she asked, feeling a wave of pity wash over her.

“But of course you can.” Mrs. Bush turned and shuffled down a darkened hallway, leaving Luty to follow after her. “I don’t get so many visitors these days. Gets lonely, you know. I’d offer you tea, but…but”—she broke off as they came into the parlor.

Luty, who wasn’t fussy about cleanliness, resisted the urge to hold her nose. The room smelled as though something had died in it. There were huge patches of damp on the walls and ceiling, the wallpaper was gone in spots and the furniture was moth-eaten and covered in dust.

Mrs. Bush lowered herself into a chair and motioned to Luty to take the one opposite her. “Where’s Tommy?”

“Well, she’s busy right now,” Luty explained gently, “but she sent me to visit with you a spell.”

“Is she coming soon?” Mrs. Bush asked hopefully. For a moment her gaze sharpened again and she looked at Luty carefully, then her eyes dulled and she sighed. “Did you say you’d stay for tea?”

“That’d be right nice,” Luty began, but Mrs. Bush didn’t seem to hear her.

“Poor Tommy,” she moaned. “She never gets to come and see me anymore.”

“I expect she’s busy what with her workin’ fer Mrs. Hodges and all.”

Mrs. Bush paid no attention to her; she rambled on and Luty quickly shut up. She was afraid she’d miss something important.

“She never gets to rest.” Mrs. Bush shook her head from side to side. “Day in, day out, she spends every waking moment looking for the girl. Does all the errands for that wicked woman, all of them. Always on the streets, always
looking. Never gets to rest. Oh, my poor angel.”

“That’s right, she never gets to rest,” Luty repeated as she decided to change tactics. She reached over and patted Mrs. Bush’s hand. “But why don’t you tell me a bit about your Tommy?”

A slow, dreamy smile spread across the old woman’s face. “She was such a pretty child, such a sweet thing. And she was all mine, practically from the day she was born. Her mother was ill, you know. I raised her.” Mrs. Bush suddenly giggled. “But then again, if she hadn’t been so pretty, she wouldn’t have had all that trouble. I always used to tell her, pretty is as pretty does, but she’d never listen. Willful, that’s what she was.”

“What kind of trouble did she have?” Luty asked softly.

Mrs. Bush moaned. “Trouble, always trouble. First the money gone and then him!”

“What kind of trouble?” Luty repeated. “What ‘him’ are you talking about?”

Suddenly Mrs. Bush banged her cane against the floor. Luty jumped.

“There was no Mr. Trotter, you know.” Mrs. Bush leaned over and wrapped a clawlike hand around Luty’s arm. “He left. But Tommy always pretended there was, always pretended he was coming back to her, and then she’d find the child and the three of them would be together.”

“What child?”

Mrs. Bush ignored her. “Tommy could have been happy, you know. But that wicked woman wouldn’t let her. They could have come here, but Tommy wouldn’t have it, wouldn’t have the baby marked like that. She went to her instead. Stole the baby, she did, pretended she was doing it for Tommy, but she wasn’t. Wicked she was, so wicked.”

“What woman?”

“Told Tommy she was a fool, that kind of wickedness never repents.” Mrs. Bush sighed. “But she was always so willful. She insisted, insisted she did, that Abigail would
tell her the truth. Now she can’t. Gone she is, gone to the dead.” Mrs. Bush’s eyes flashed fire. “Gone to hell.”

“I say, Mr. Hodges,” Witherspoon said as he glanced at his watch. “Do you think perhaps you could send one of the servants to see what’s taking Miss Marsden so long?”

Hodges looked surprised by the suggestion. “I don’t think it’s been all that long, Inspector,” he said, reaching for the bellpull to summon the parlor maid, “but if you insist, I’ll send Hilda up again.”

The girl appeared in the doorway.

“Did you tell Miss Marsden we’re waiting for her?” Hodges asked.

“I did, sir,” the maid replied. “She were in the bathroom when I went up, so I rapped on the door and told her you and the gentleman from Scotland Yard wanted to see her.”

“Well, go and see what’s taking her so long,” Hodges said impatiently. “Perhaps she needs help getting dressed.” He turned to the inspector. “You’ll be gentle with Felicity, won’t you? This whole situation has upset her dreadfully.”

“We are not bullies, sir,” Witherspoon answered. Really, the way some of these people went on; why, one would think the police were barbaric monsters! “Miss Marsden will be treated with all due courtesy and respect. However, you must be aware that Miss Marsden is in a very precarious position.” He broke off as Mrs. Trotter ushered Constable Barnes into the room.

Barnes didn’t waste any time. He motioned for the inspector to step closer and then whispered, “You were right, sir. Miss Marsden did leave the theatre. The lady who accompanied Miss Marsden and Miss Plimpton was old and she fell asleep. Miss Plimpton’s confessed that her original statement was a lie and she was covering for Miss Marsden.”

“Oh dear,” the inspector said quietly, “that doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Has something happened, Inspector?” Hodges asked. “What’s all this whispering about? I demand to know
what’s happened. I am an interested party; it was my wife that was murdered.”

“I’m afraid, sir, I must insist that you bring Miss Marsden down immediately,” Witherspoon replied gravely.