The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (21 page)

“You’ve found out quite a lot today,” Betsy said in admiration.

“More than you know, my dear,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She then went on to tell them about her meeting with Inspector Witherspoon in front of the Hodges home. She told them about Miss Marsden’s disappearance and about both the girl and Leonard Hodges being the sole beneficiaries to Abigail Hodges’s will.

“Then it’s got to be Miss Marsden that done it,” Mrs. Goodge said. “She were the one that buried that gun, she’s the one that’s gettin’ the money and she’s the one that’s disappeared.”

“Mr. Hodges inherits half the estate,” Mrs. Jeffries reminded them. “And with Abigail Hodges gone, Thomasina Trotter will learn the whereabouts of the child she gave up and Jonathan Felcher will gain control of his own property. So Miss Marsden isn’t the only one with a motive.”

“My money’s on Thomasina Trotter,” Luty declared. “I think that findin’ out about that letter finally pushed her mind too far. She decided she didn’t want to wait anymore, so she killed the old girl.”

“I reckon it were that Mr. Felcher,” Mrs. Goodge said.

“Drinkin’ and gamblin’, they always lead to trouble. Besides, makin’ it look like a robbery is the kind of silly theatrics a man would come up with. Women’s got more sense.”

“Truth is,” Smythe added, “we don’t know who done it. Mr. Hodges has got just as much motive as the rest of them.”

“But he’s a nice man,” Betsy protested. “I’m sure he’s not the killer. Why, today he took a bundle of clothes over to St. James Church to give to the vicar. They was newish things too, a good coat and hat that look like they’d never been worn. I know ‘cause I followed him. Besides, ‘e’s the only one who couldn’t have done it—he’s the only one with an alibi.”

“I thought you were going to make contact with someone from the Popejoy household,” Mrs. Jeffries asked Betsy.

“Oh, I did,” she replied. “But after I finished, I thought I’d nip over to the Hodges house and see if I could find out anythin’. Mr. Hodges was comin’ out the front door when I got there, so I followed him. Didn’t have much else to do, the only thing I heard over at the Popejoy house was that some old admirer of Mrs. Popejoy’s was pesterin’ her again. But I reckoned that didn’t have nothin’ to do with the murder. Mrs. Popejoy stopped seein’ this Mr. Phipps months ago.” Betsy shrugged and laughed. “From what Peter tells me, Mrs. Popejoy’s a bit of a flirt, always has been. She kept this poor Mr. Phipps dancin’ to her tune for months before she got tired of him.”

“We know it weren’t her,” Mrs. Goodge said impatiently. “What I want to know is how come this Mr. Felcher’s up and leavin’ the country all of a sudden.”

“‘Cause his aunt’s dead, that’s why,” Luty said tartly. “I think one of us ought to keep watch on Mrs. Trotter. No tellin’ what she’ll do next.”

They all began arguing for their various candidates in the role of murderer. Hoping the free flow of ideas would spark something in her own mind, Mrs. Jeffries didn’t
interrupt. She listened. But after a few moments she realized they were doing nothing but going over every detail they’d already learned. She glanced up at the window and noticed that night was falling even though it was barely five o’clock.

“I say,” Mrs. Jeffries said loudly, “did Wiggins happen to mention precisely what he would be doing this afternoon?”

“I can’t think what’s keepin’ the boy,” Mrs. Goodge said, “but I’ll save him a bit of cake. He’ll be hungry when he gets home.”

“I’d hoped he’d be here by now,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “For you see, there’s something else we must do and we must do it quickly. We’ve got to locate Felicity Marsden before the police do.”

“Why?” Betsy asked.

“Because I don’t think she’s guilty. If the police find her and Mr. Vogel, they’ll arrest them. You’ve all forgotten one of the most important clues in this investigation. The note. Someone wrote that note to Constable Griffith ordering him to search the Hodges home. That someone is probably the person who planned and executed the plot to murder Mrs. Hodges.”

“How can we find the girl?” Mrs. Goodge asked cautiously.

“Come now, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “With your sources of information, you can probably find anyone in London. But for the rest of us, we’ll have to rely on our feet and our good sense.”

“You mean you want us to wander the streets searchin’ for the lass?” Smythe asked. He looked horrified. “But we don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Besides, if the girl’s got any sense, she’s long gone by now. What if she’s left the city?” Luty added.

“It’ll take days,” Betsy complained.

“Of course it won’t,” Mrs. Jeffries declared. “You’re all forgetting yourselves. You’re all forgetting just how good
you are once you set your mind to a task. Betsy, you can easily keep an eye on Miss Plimpton. She’s a friend of Miss Marsden’s. She actually lied to protect her, so it’s safe to assume that if Miss Marsden is in difficulties, she might try to contact Miss Plimpton. Smythe, you can talk to the liveries and cabbies around the area. Someone must have picked Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel up. Remember, they were in a hurry. They wouldn’t have hung about the neighborhood waiting for a tram or an omnibus. Luty, you’ve acquaintances all over the city, many of whom travel in the same social circles as Miss Marsden. You can ask about and see if anyone’s spotted her.”

There was a general murmur of agreement around the table. Mrs. Jeffries leaned back and smiled. “Good, then it’s all settled. Our first priority is to find Felicity Marsden.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Wiggins’s voice piped in. Everyone turned and looked. Wiggins and a tail-wagging Fred were standing in the doorway.

“It’s about time the two of you come home,” Mrs. Goodge said. She stood up and headed for the cooling pantry. “Poor Fred hasn’t had a bite to eat all day.”

“What about me, then?” Wiggins exclaimed. “I haven’t ‘ad me tea, either.”

Mrs. Goodge returned with a plateful of scraps, and Fred, who’d been butting his head against Betsy’s knees, deserted her instantly.

“Sit down and have something,” Mrs. Jeffries told the boy. “And then tell us what on earth you meant by that provocative statement.”

Wiggins poured himself a mug of tea and cut a huge slice of cake. “Huh?” He stuffed a huge bite into his mouth.

“She means what did you mean when you said we didn’t have to do that,” Betsy explained. “What were you on about?”

“Felicity Marsden.” While they all waited he picked up his mug and downed a mouthful of the strong brew. “You don’t have to go huntin’ for her.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “does that mean the police have found her?” She thought perhaps Wiggins had run into the inspector.

Wiggins started to reach for his fork, but Luty snatched it out from under his fingers. “Boy,” she said tartly, “some of us ain’t as young as you are. I’d sure as shootin’ like to know what you was talkin’ about before I die of old age.”

“I’m trying to tell you I’ve found Felicity Marsden.” Wiggins grinned triumphantly. “You’ll never guess where she is. Me and Fred were ever so clever. I told you I’d find out she weren’t guilty. I just knew a pretty lass like her couldn’t have done such a terrible thing.”

As the footman rambled on, Luty rolled her eyes, Mrs. Goodge sighed, Smythe scowled and even Hatchet pursed his lips together.

Wiggins’s cocky grin faded as he stared at the faces surrounding him. “She’s staying at Jonathan Felcher’s lodging house,” he blurted. “And so is Mr. Vogel.”

“How on earth did you manage to find out where Felicity Marsden went?” Luty exclaimed. “We only jes’ found out she’d flown the coop.”

“I followed the lass,” Wiggins announced. “Fred and me was walkin’ in the road ‘round the corner, tryin’ to suss out who to talk to next. All of a sudden this gate opens and Miss Marsden comes flyin’ out like the ‘ounds from ‘ell was on her ‘eels. I could see she had a carpetbag with ‘er, so I figured she weren’t doing her shoppin’. As soon as she walks past, me and Fred were right behind ‘er.”

“Did she see you?” Smythe asked.

Wiggins shook his head. “No, the lass were in such a state she wouldn’t ‘ave noticed a bloomin’ elephant doggin’ her footsteps. She were right upset. White as a sheet she was, movin’ so fast she kept trippin’ over her own feet. Why she almost ran in front of an omnibus. I trailed her to a lodgin’ ‘ouse and then she and this bloke come out. There was a boy sweepin’ in front of the ‘ouse next door, so I asked the lad who the bloke was. He told me it were Benjamin Vogel. So naturally I took off after the two of ’em.”

“You’ve done very well, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Knowing Miss Marsden’s whereabouts will certainly make our investigation easier.”

“What are we going to do, then?” Betsy asked eagerly.

“Tomorrow morning we’re going to confront Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel,” Mrs. Jeffries stated firmly, “and then we’re going to get to the bottom of this case once and for all.”

“Tatty-lookin’ place, isn’t it?” Wiggins clucked his tongue. “Imagine a lady like Miss Marsden hidin’ out in a miserable hole like this.”

“Perhaps it’s cleaner on the inside than on the outside,” Mrs. Jeffries said doubtfully.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Smythe muttered.

They stood on the pavement outside Mrs. Blodgett’s lodging house and eyed the place warily. The building had once been white, but was now a uniformly dirty, dingy gray, matching perfectly the leaden dull skies overhead. The walkway leading to the porch was broken and uneven, the windows were dirty and there was black peeling paint on the doors and ledges. A gang of noisy boys ran back and forth across the road, chasing a ball, and in the house next door to Mrs. Blodgett’s a slovenly man with red, watery eyes watched them apathetically.

“How very sad this place is,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she led the way to the house. She pursed her lips, knowing this neighborhood was actually far better than many areas of London. At least here the children didn’t look as though they were starving, the windows weren’t broken and the road wasn’t littered with garbage and trash.

Gingerly she banged the green-scaled brass knocker and then waited. A few moments later the door was opened by a stocky, dark-haired young woman who stared at them with a blank, incurious expression on her face.

Mrs. Jeffries was grateful that Elspeth Blodgett hadn’t answered the door. She smiled at the girl and said, “Good morning.”

The girl bobbed a brief curtsy and nodded.

“We’d like to see”—she hesitated for a moment—“the young couple who arrived yesterday.” She was fairly certain Vogel hadn’t given his real name when renting the lodgings.

The maid frowned in confusion.

Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand and pointed to her wedding ring. “Yesterday,” she said slowly, “the new lodgers. A man and woman.”

“Ah.” A smile crossed the girl’s face, transforming her blank features and making her rather pretty. “The Mr. and Mrs. Brown. They come.
Da, da
.” She opened the door and pointed to a narrow, dark staircase. “Room is at the high of the stairs.”

“Huh?” Wiggins whispered. “What’d she say?”

“She means the top of the stairs,” Smythe explained. He darted ahead of Mrs. Jeffries. “Let me go first, these stairs don’t look all that safe.”

The stairs didn’t sound particularly safe either. The banister was rickety and covered in a layer of dust. And the stairs creaked and groaned as the three of them made their way to the top-floor landing.

“Why would someone like Miss Marsden want to come to a place like this?” Wiggins asked again, shaking his head in disgust.

“‘Cause it’s the kind of ‘ouse where no one asks any questions as long as you can pay the price of a room,” Smythe replied. He looked at Mrs. Jeffries. “You want me to knock?”

She nodded and the coachman rapped lightly against the thin wood.

The door opened a crack. “Yes, who is it?”

Smythe wedged the toe of his boot into the crack. Mrs. Jeffries summoned her most charming smile. “Mr. Vogel, my name is Hepzibah Jeffries and I must speak with you.”

“You’ve got the wrong man, the name’s Brown. I’ve never heard of this Mr. Vogel. Go away and don’t bother us.”

He tried to close the door but couldn’t. “Now see here,” he sputtered angrily, glaring at Smythe’s toe.