The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (5 page)

Betsy stuck her head into the drawing room. “Should I serve dinner now?”

“Not just yet, Betsy,” the housekeeper replied. “The inspector needs to dry off a little before he goes into the dining room. It’s a bit drafty in there.”

The maid nodded. “I’ll ask Mrs. Goodge to hold it for fifteen minutes, will that do you?”

“That’ll be fine.” Mrs. Jeffries turned back to the inspector and gave him an encouraging smile. “Do go on, sir.”

His confidence restored, Witherspoon cleared his throat. “The victim was one Abigail Hodges, aged fifty-two. She was married and lived in one of those big houses in Camden Street, that’s just off the Queens Road. Very wealthy neighborhood, but not one that’s had many housebreakings lately. Unfortunately it looks as if the poor woman came home after an evening out and walked in on a thief. He shot her once in the head and once in the chest.”

“How appalling.” Mrs. Jeffries clucked her tongue appropriately. “Who found the body?”

“Her husband, Leonard Hodges.”

Mrs. Jeffries regarded him curiously. “I take it Mr. Hodges came home later than his wife? Or was he in the house when the shooting happened?”

“He wasn’t there. The house was empty when Mrs. Hodges came home. Poor Mr. Hodges didn’t find the body
until the next morning when his wife didn’t come down to breakfast on time.”

“Surely that’s unusual,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “The house being empty, I mean. Where were the servants?”

“They’d been given the evening off.” Witherspoon shrugged. “Mr. Hodges hadn’t a clue there was anything wrong until this morning. Poor fellow, blames himself, you know. Suspects that one of the servants let it be known the house was going to be empty and the robbers found out about it and came in.”

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Jeffries said thoughtfully. “I presume you’ve reasons for the assumption of murder committed during the course of a burglary.”

She knew this was a very important point.

“There’s absolutely no doubt about that. Even Mr. Hodges realized what must have happened. Mrs. Hodges’s jewelry box was upside down and emptied on the bed, all the drawers in the bedroom had been rifled and several expensive pieces of jewelry are now missing.” He took another sip of sherry. “Mrs. Hodges obviously surprised the thieves and she was shot to keep her from identifying them. We found a broken window in the kitchen where the thief or thieves had gained entry to the house.”

“I see,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She still needed to know exactly where Mr. Hodges had been while his wife was being murdered, but she’d get back to that point later. She wanted to get the actual murder scene set in her mind first. “Where was the body found?”

“At her house in Camden Street,” Witherspoon replied, giving her a doubtful look. “Haven’t I already mentioned that?”

“I mean where precisely in her house was the body found?”

“Why, her bedroom.” He cocked his head to one side. “I thought I’d said that too.”

“Perhaps you did, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him. “What I meant was, was the body in the doorway, or behind a
dressing screen or lying on the bed?”

“Oh, the body was lying in front of her dressing table. The sleeves on her dress were undone, and from the position of her arms it looks as if she were starting to, er”—he broke off and coughed delicately, his pale cheeks turning a bright pink—“undress herself.”

Mrs. Jeffries’s eyebrows drew together. “Really, sir? Now, that is peculiar. Let me make sure that I understand. Mrs. Hodges was standing in front of her dressing table getting ready for bed. Correct?”

“Er, yes.”

“Presumably the bedroom door was closed? Right?”

Witherspoon’s face puckered into a puzzled frown. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“So the thieves opened a closed door in an empty house and walked in and shot her? Is that how you think it happened?”

“That’s certainly how it appeared.” Witherspoon peered at her closely. “I mean, I don’t think the woman would have begun disrobing with the door open. Do you? Come now, Mrs. Jeffries, you obviously find something amiss here, what is it?”

“It’s really nothing, sir. It’s just that my late husband always maintained that most housebreakers go unarmed.” She smiled sweetly while that bit of information sank in. The late Mr. Jeffries had been a constable with the Yorkshire police for over twenty years.

“Well, yes, I quite understand that, but what’s that got to do with the bedroom door being closed?”

“Simple, sir. If Mrs. Hodges were inside her bedroom, why didn’t the burglars leave? Why commit murder when they could have slunk out the front door? Even if Mrs. Hodges had become aware of their presence, surely any burglar worth his salt could move faster than a fifty-two-year-old woman.”

“But if they’d done that, they wouldn’t have gotten the jewelry,” he explained. “And that obviously was why they
were in the Hodges house in the first place. Now, even I know it’s unusual for burglars to carry firearms, but these villains are obviously more ruthless than most. They came to steal and they were willing to murder anyone who got in their way.”

For the moment the inspector’s mind was made up. Mrs. Jeffries knew that at this stage of the investigation it would be useless to attempt to get him to consider another point of view. But she knew how to bide her time. He was only sticking like a burr to this burglary notion because he was still unsure of his own abilities.

“How are you going to approach this case, sir?” she asked.

“Naturally we’re going to try to trace the jewelry.”

“What jewels were actually stolen?”

“A string of pearls, an opal ring and a garnet brooch.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him in surprise. “That’s all? Pearls, an opal ring and a garnet pin? None of that sounds particularly valuable, not valuable enough to commit murder over, anyway.”

Witherspoon gave her a pitying look. “Dear Mrs. Jeffries, you’re so very innocent. Why, there are places in this city where a thief would cut your throat for two shillings.”

“But surely a wealthy house off Queens Road isn’t one of them.” She smiled briefly. “Did the thief empty the jewelry box?”

“Er, no.” Witherspoon had been puzzled over that himself. “There were several pieces he didn’t take. A gold necklace and a couple of rings, but Mr. Hodges assured us those things were merely baubles. Most of Mrs. Hodges’s really good jewelry is kept in a bank vault.”

“Hmmm,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “Where did you say the husband was last night?”

“He was at his club.” Witherspoon didn’t like the doubts Mrs. Jeffries had raised about the subject of burglars. But he comforted himself with the knowledge that there was a
first time for everything, including a housebreaker arming himself.

“And where had Mr. and Mrs. Hodges gone before the murder?”

“To visit a medium, a Mrs. Esme Popejoy.” Witherspoon gave her his man-of-the-world smile. “It seems Mrs. Hodges was a devotee of spiritualism and séances. I daresay it’s quite shocking what nonsense otherwise respectable people get up to, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t think that spending one’s money on a séance was any more ridiculous than most entertainments, but for the moment she’d keep her opinion to herself. She didn’t want the inspector’s mind to wander. “Quite. And after visiting this Mrs. Popejoy, Mr. Hodges went to his club, is that correct?”

“Not entirely. You see, Mrs. Popejoy had put poor Mr. Hodges in a bit of a spot.” The inspector dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “She’d asked Mr. Hodges to escort her to the train station. Mrs. Hodges was not pleased. That’s why Mr. Hodges went off to his club afterward instead of going home. He didn’t want to have to face Mrs. Hodges when her temper was up.”

“I see,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She saw that this “burglary” had more holes than a sieve and that the husband seemed to have an alibi. Mrs. Jeffries was very suspicious of people who had alibis. “I take it you’ve checked Mr. Hodges’s whereabouts at the time of the murder?”

“Of course, we did that right after we spoke to the poor man. He was at Truscott’s, all right. The club manager confirms that he arrived there by half past ten. Several other club members also saw Mr. Hodges arrive. We’ve also spoken to the other guests who were at Mrs. Popejoy’s last night. Everyone agrees that the séance was over by nine-thirty. Taking into account the time it would have taken Mr. Hodges to escort Mrs. Popejoy to the station, he’d hardly have had time to nip home, shoot his wife and get to Truscott’s by half past ten.”

“And you’ve confirmed with Mrs. Popejoy that Mr. Hodges actually escorted her to the station?” Mrs. Jeffries asked innocently.

“Well, er, no. As a matter of fact we haven’t. Mrs. Popejoy is still at her friend’s, in Southend. But the servants and one of the other guests told us they saw Mr. Hodges get into a hansom with Mrs. Popejoy.” He broke off and laughed. “Really, Mrs. Jeffries, you’ve a most suspicious mind. Why, anyone would think you didn’t believe this was a simple, straightforward burglary.”

“Of course it’s not a simple burglary,” Mrs. Jeffries insisted. She gazed at the faces staring at her from around the table. Mrs. Goodge’s head was nodding up and down in vigorous agreement, Betsy’s eyes were narrowed in concentration as she tried to take in every word Mrs. Jeffries had said and Smythe’s lips were curved in approval. Only Wiggins looked doubtful.

“But how can you be sure it weren’t just a thief?” he asked plaintively. “If the inspector says they was after jewels and the poor lady just ‘appened to walk in on ’em, how can you know for certain that ain’t what really ’appened?”

“Because she didn’t just happen to walk in on the thieves,” Mrs. Jeffries answered. “From what the inspector told me, she was standing in front of her dressing mirror getting ready for bed. That means the door to the bedroom was closed. Now, if you walk innocently into your own home, you’re not particularly quiet about it. Doors slam, dresses rustle, one doesn’t tiptoe up a staircase because one is alone. Therefore we can assume that Mrs. Hodges made a reasonable amount of noise when she entered the house.”

“All right, so the poor lady weren’t bein’ quiet,” Wiggins argued. “I still don’t see what you’re gettin’ at.”

“It’s very simple. She went into her room without spotting the burglars. Therefore we can assume she didn’t know they were there. But they probably knew she was home—she wasn’t being quiet, so why wouldn’t they have heard
her come into the house? Now, why would a couple of housebreakers, who rarely go armed, hotfoot it into Mrs. Hodges’s room and murder the woman when they could just as easily have slunk out the front door with no one being the wiser. Burglars just don’t take those kinds of risks.”

“Maybe they was in the bedroom when she walked in,” Mrs. Goodge put in helpfully.

Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “No. She’d already undone the buttons on the sleeves of her dress. She was getting ready for bed. That means the room was empty and the drawers and jewelry box were still untouched when she entered. She’d have hardly begun undressing if she’d found her room in disarray. Furthermore, there are several other odd aspects to this murder.” She paused for breath and then plunged into telling them the rest of the information she’d wormed out of the inspector over dinner. “The servants weren’t just given a few hours off last night, they were given the whole night off. The two housemaids, Ethel and Hilda Brown, went to visit their grandmother in the Whitechapel district and didn’t arrive home until early this morning. The footman, Peter, spent the night in Brixton with his father, and the housekeeper, Thomasina Trotter, visited her old nanny who lives in Fulham. And Mrs. Hodges’s niece, Felicity Marsden, who lives there too, was out at the ballet with some friends. She wasn’t home last night either.”

“Did the inspector check up on ’em?” Betsy asked.

Mrs. Jeffries nodded. “This afternoon. Mr. Hodges was supposedly too grief-stricken to answer many questions, so Constable Barnes and the inspector questioned the servants and then confirmed their whereabouts when the murder took place. None of the Hodges servants appear to be lying.”

“And Miss Marsden,” Smythe asked, “did he check on ‘er?”

“Not yet.” Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “The inspector’s planning on interviewing her tomorrow morning. But you know, it’s quite strange. It was Mr. Hodges who gave the
servants the night off, not Mrs. Hodges.”

“What’s so strange about that?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “The inspector gives us plenty of free time, maybe Mr. Hodges is as good a master as our inspector.”

“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Jeffries replied slowly. “Inspector Witherspoon mentioned he’d asked the housekeeper if it was usual for Mr. Hodges to give them additional free time. She said this was the first time it had ever happened. Furthermore, it was generally Mrs. Hodges who directed the servants and not her husband.”

Smythe leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table. “So where do we start?”

“Where we always start,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a smile. “With the victim.” She turned to the cook. “I think you know what to do, Mrs. Goodge.”

“Do you just want me to find out about Mrs. Hodges?” The cook pushed a lock of iron-gray hair off her plump face.

“Not just her. Find out anything you can about Mr. Leonard Hodges and Felicity Marsden. Miss Marsden was supposedly with a family named Plimpton last night. She spent the night at their house after the ballet.” Mrs. Jeffries started to turn to Betsy and then remembered something else. “And see what you can learn about the medium, Mrs. Esme Popejoy.”