The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (24 page)

“’E’s ‘ere,” Wiggins cried. He sprang to his feet and Fred, who probably thought it was time to go for a walk, leaped up as well.

“Sorry I’m late,” Smythe said, reaching down to pet Fred, “but it took a bit o’ time to track that driver down. I found ‘im, though, and I did just like you said, Mrs. Jeffries. You was right, you know.”

Mrs. Jeffries closed her eyes briefly in relief. This was the first real confirmation of what had been nothing more than a rather farfetched theory on her part. Yet if one looked at the matter rationally, it was the only sequence of events that made sense. “So the driver did make a stop that night.”

“Yup, I ‘ad the bloke take me to the exact spot too,” Smythe explained. “That’s what took us so long, you see. The driver ‘ad a bit of trouble backtrackin’ the route he took to the train station. It were so foggy that night the poor feller could barely see the backside of his ‘orse.”

“But he was able to find the place again?” Betsy asked anxiously.

The coachman grinned. “He remembered just fine once we were on our way.” His smile faded and his expression sobered as he turned his attention to Mrs. Jeffries. “And he’s prepared to swear to it in court too, if that’s of any importance.”

“It is, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries replied fervently. “It’s of the utmost importance. Now tell us all the details.”

“Like I said, it were foggy that night and the driver was thinkin’ of haulin’ in and quittin’ for the evenin’ when he gets this fare from Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy. They get in the cab and direct ‘im to take them to the railway station, but they hadn’t been movin’ for more than ten minutes before Mr. Hodges is shoutin’ at him to go another way. Said he wanted to make a quick stop.” Smythe made a wry face. “This didn’t set too well with the driver, I can tell you that. He was right narked about it. But they was payin’ good money, so ‘e did as ‘e was told. Mr. Hodges finally called for him to halt just as they were goin’ down Lewis Road. Then Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy nips out of the hansom, tells the driver to wait
and disappears into the fog. A few minutes later they was back. They climbed in and Mrs. Popejoy shouted for ‘im to drive on.”

“Let me make sure I’ve got this correct,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “When they entered the hansom the second time, it was Mrs. Popejoy who spoke to the driver, not Mr. Hodges.”

“That’s what ‘e said.”

“Hmmm,” she murmured softly as they all stared at her. “That certainly makes sense.” Mrs. Jeffries gazed at Smythe. “Now tell me exactly what you saw when the driver took you to the spot he’d stopped at on the night of the murder.”

“Just a minute, Hepzibah,” Luty interjected. “I’ve got a question. How long did they stay stopped?”

“‘Course the driver couldn’t be too certain about that, ‘e weren’t lookin’ at ‘is watch. But as close as ‘e can figure, it were about five minutes,” Smythe replied.

“Five minutes isn’t enough time for ‘im to have nipped ‘ome and done in ‘is missus,” Wiggins put in. “Not unless this Lewis Road is just around the corner from the Hodges ‘ouse. Was it?”

“No, the road’s a good distance away,” Smythe admitted. He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “Despite the fog bein’ thicker than clotted cream, once we was in the neighborhood, the driver remembered everythin’. He’d stopped in front of a pub, a place called the Red Lion. ‘E pulled up right under the sign and waited. Now, next to this pub is a couple of shops—”

“What kind of shops?” Mrs. Jeffries asked quickly. She needed details.

“A Frieman’s Butcher Shop and the Lewis Road Fishmongers. Across the road is Phipps Chemists, and next to that a small hotel called Billson’s.” He tilted his head to one side. “Funny, though, the name on the chemist’s shop was right familiar to me. I know I’ve ’eard it before.”

“It sounds familiar to me too,” Mrs. Goodge muttered.

Smythe frowned. “I wish I could remember where I’d heard it before.”

“I can,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She stood up and pulled a small black purse out of the pocket of her dress. “But before I explain, you’ve all got pressing matters to attend to immediately, before the inspector gets home for dinner tonight. If my assumptions about this murder are correct—and after hearing Smythe’s information, I’m sure they are—then we’ll have this murder solved within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Who done it then?” Luty asked eagerly.

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you, not just yet. I need a bit more evidence. And if everyone is successful with their tasks this evening, I’ll know for sure.” Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t being coy, but before she accused anyone of murder, even here in the privacy of the kitchen, she wanted to make absolutely certain she was right.

Not giving those around the table time to do anything but look surprised, she began issuing instructions.

“Wiggins,” she ordered briskly, “you’ve got to get to St. James Church. According to what Betsy told us, Mr. Hodges gave a bundle of clothes to the vicar to be distributed to the poor.”

“What now?” Wiggins moaned. “Ahh. It’s bad enough you won’t tell us who the killer is, but if I nip all the way over to that church, I’ll miss me supper.”

“Stop yer moanin’, boy,” Luty said kindly. “If you’re hungry, you kin chew on a bun as you go, but this here’s more important than missin’ a meal or two.”

Wiggins blushed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Guess you’re right. Now, what do you want me to do, Mrs. Jeffries?”

She drew out a pound note and handed it to the footman. “It’s imperative we get our hands on those clothes. If you have to, buy them.” She glanced anxiously towards the window, frowning at the darkening sky, and then looked at Luty. “I hate to interfere with your plans for this afternoon.…”

“Don’t worry about that, madam,” Hatchet said cheerfully. “The plans are of no importance. Mrs. Crookshank and I are always delighted to be of service to the cause of justice. What do you want us to do?”

“That’s mighty good of you, Hatchet,” Luty muttered dryly. “But I thought you was frettin’ over me missin’ that tea party.”

“Not at all, madam,” he replied smoothly. “I was merely reminding you of the engagement. It’s hardly my place to interfere in your decisions.”

Luty snorted. “All right, Hepzibah, give us our orders and we’ll get to it.”

“I want you to contact Edmund Kessler,” she said. “Betsy can give you his address. Supposedly that young man is well known in spiritualist circles. You must get him to arrange a séance at Mrs. Popejoy’s for tomorrow night.” She started to open the purse again.

“Don’t bother reachin’ fer any money,” Luty commanded. “I’ll take care of greasin’ any palms that’s needed to git that woman to see us.”

“Really, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said, feeling her cheeks turn pink. “That’s not necessary.…”

“Don’t be silly, Hepzibah, I’ve got more money than I’ll ever spend—”

“That she does, madam,” Hatchet interrupted, “that she does.”

“Pipe down, man,” Luty said, exasperated. “And I don’t mind spendin’ some of it to catch a killer. Besides, I owe you all.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave in. She knew that Luty Belle Crookshank could be one stubborn woman. “Thank you, Luty.”

“What if Kessler’s full of hot air?” Smythe suggested, carefully avoiding Betsy’s eye. “What if he can’t make the arrangements? Didn’t we ‘ear that this Mrs. Popejoy don’t just see anybody?”

“Edmund’s not full of hot air,” Betsy said defensively. “You just wait, he’ll be able to fix it up.”

Seeing another argument in the making, Mrs. Jeffries quickly intervened. “I’m sure that if Mr. Kessler fails us, Luty will be quite able to use her considerable connections to ensure Mrs. Popejoy is amenable to our plans.”

“Yup, much as I hate to admit it, money can jus’ about buy anything,” Luty said.

“Will you be wantin’ me to do anything?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She tried to sound unconcerned, but Mrs. Jeffries could hear the hopeful note in her voice.

“Of course I do,” the housekeeper assured her. “But it might be very difficult.”

“You just tell me what you need, I’ll take care of it.” The cook’s ample bosom swelled with pride. “I’ve never run from difficulties in my life and I don’t intend to start now.”

“It’s rather old gossip, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Jeffries began. “But I’m confident that if anyone can dig up the information we need, you can. Find out exactly how long Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy have known each other, and most importantly, find out if Mrs. Popejoy was anywhere near the Lake District when the first Mrs. Hodges accidentally drowned.”

“Hmmm,” the cook mused, then her broad face broke into a wide grin. “It won’t be easy, but it should be fun. I always did love a bit of a challenge. I’ll get you somethin’. How much time have I got?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. If my plan’s going to work, I’ll need some answers by tomorrow, the earlier in the day, the better.” Mrs. Jeffries turned her attention to Betsy. “I’ve a task for you, of course, but I’m not certain you can do it this evening.”

“Why couldn’t I do it now?” Betsy asked. “It’s not gone four o’clock yet.”

“Yes, but it’s getting dark outside. Dreadful, these winter evenings, the night falls so early. I’m not sure it’s safe for you to be out and about.”

“Can I go with the lass?” Smythe asked. He carefully avoided looking at Betsy.

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I need you for another task.” She glanced uncertainly at the maid. “Oh dear, I really don’t want you out alone.…”

“Come on, Mrs. Jeffries,” Betsy pleaded. “I know how to take care of myself. I’ll be very careful. If Smythe can’t go with me, maybe we can get one of his cabbie friends to drive me. Where do you want me to go?”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it for a moment. “That’s a good idea. Now, I want your word of honor that if you aren’t successful in getting the information we need by nine o’clock, you’ll come right home. Furthermore, you’re to use a hansom cab and not be walking about on the streets. Smythe can take you out when he leaves, and make sure he puts you in a cab with someone he trusts.” Mrs. Jeffries then spent ten minutes giving Betsy her instructions.

As the housekeeper told the maid what she wanted her to do, Smythe’s mouth flattened into a grim, disapproving line. “Hey, now. I don’t rightly think the lass is up to all that,” he objected, when Mrs. Jeffries had finished. “This feller might be in cahoots with the murderers.”

“I quite agree, Smythe. He may well be,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly, “but if Betsy is driven there by your friend Jeremiah and he keeps her in sight the whole time, I do believe she’ll be all right.”

“I will, I promise,” Betsy said. “And you’ve said yourself, Smythe, Jeremiah’s a good bloke. He’ll keep an eye on me.”

“I don’t see why I can’t take her,” Smythe insisted. He scowled at Mrs. Jeffries. “Whatever you’ve got in mind for me, can’t it wait till later?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “You need to leave right away. You’ll be gone most of the night.”

“Cor, all night?” Smythe’s eyebrows drew together. “Where ya sendin’ me? Scotland?”

“Not quite that far,” she said kindly. She knew the coachman wasn’t trying to shirk his duty. His objections to going out this evening were solely because he was worried about
Betsy. Mrs. Jeffries understood his concern. She was worried herself, but she had to have more information. And Betsy was the best person available to obtain it. Smythe’s special talents were needed for another purpose.

“Then where am I goin’?” he said impatiently.

“You’re going to Southend.”

“I say,” Inspector Witherspoon said as he glanced around the dining room, “it’s jolly quiet tonight. Where is everybody?”

Mrs. Jeffries laid a second pork chop on the inspector’s plate and put it in front of him. “Mrs. Goodge is where she always is—the kitchen. I didn’t think you’d mind, but I sent Betsy over to Mrs. Crookshank’s for the evening. Everyone’s got the flu and they needed an extra hand.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Witherspoon replied. “I was merely curious. It’s not often the house is this quiet. I say, did you tell me this morning that we’d got a dog?”

“Yes, a stray. Wiggins found the poor thing in the street. He’s out walking it now. Again”—she smiled brightly—“knowing how kindhearted you are and how much you love animals, I didn’t think you’d object if we kept the animal. Dogs do help keep the rodents away.”

“That’s all right then. Have Wiggins bring the dog in when he gets back. I’d like to meet him. What’s his name?”

“Fred,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “Now, sir, how is the investigation going?”

“Not well.” He sighed and began cutting his chop. “As I told you earlier, our chief suspects have disappeared.”

“Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel?” Mrs. Jeffries said innocently. She knew perfectly well who the suspects were, but she knew they were innocent. Now she had to concentrate on getting the inspector to learn the same thing. “You know, sir, this morning you told me about Mrs. Trotter.”

“Yes, I remember. What about her?”

“Well, after you left, I heard the most extraordinary gossip about her. I wonder if it has any bearing on your case?”

Witherspoon’s fork halted halfway to his mouth.

“You know how I abhor gossip, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries continued quickly, “but I really felt it was my duty to listen, seeing as how you’re investigating this terrible crime.”