The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (7 page)

Witherspoon nodded absently and stepped into the hall. He fixed his gaze at the floor, a frown creasing his face. He really didn’t know how to approach this case anymore. Much as he wanted to believe this had been a simple robbery with most tragic results, he wasn’t sure he could any longer. Mrs. Jeffries had been right when she’d mentioned that housebreakers didn’t generally go armed. And now that Barnes had told him about the broken glass being on the wrong side of the window, well, he just wasn’t certain how to proceed. Much as Witherspoon wanted to ignore this new evidence, his conscience wouldn’t let him.

He heard the approaching footsteps of the maid as she returned, and lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. He’d investigate this foul crime precisely as he’d investigated his other cases. With resolve, determination and perseverance.

They followed the girl down a long hallway and into the study. The room was dismal despite the fire blazing in the hearth. The heavy bronze curtains were drawn against the pale light from the overcast day, the ticking of a mantel clock seemed overly loud in the gloomy silence and the
massive, dark furniture lent an air of depression to the whole room.

Leonard Hodges rose from the settee as they were ushered inside.

“Inspector Witherspoon,” he said politely. He gestured to the young woman sitting in a chair next to the fire. “Please allow me to present my late wife’s niece, Felicity Marsden.”

“Good day, Miss Marsden,” the inspector replied. He introduced Constable Barnes.

Felicity Marsden smiled nervously. “Good day, gentlemen,” she murmured.

The inspector gazed at the young woman, seeing in her a distinct resemblance to her late aunt. She had the same dark hair, but in her case the curls were soft and drawn back with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her skin was a pale ivory and her nose strong without being large. Her face was more refined, more delicate than Abigail Hodges’s, her cheekbones high and her brows perfectly arched black wings over the darkest, biggest brown eyes the inspector had ever seen. Beside him, he heard Barnes cough lightly.

Witherspoon realized he was staring. “I’m dreadfully sorry to have to intrude upon you,” he began.

“That’s quite all right,” she replied. “I realize it’s necessary.”

“We’ve a few questions that need to be asked”—the inspector deliberately tried to make his tone kind and gentle—“and I assure you, we’ll do our very best to make them as brief as possible.”

“Thank you.” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “I expect you want to know where I was on the night my aunt was…” She faltered and then quickly recovered. “On the night it happened.”

The maid who’d announced them suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Would you like tea, ma’am,” the girl asked.

Though the maid had directed the question to Miss Marsden, it was Leonard Hodges who answered. “That won’t be necessary, Hilda,” he replied. “This is hardly a social call. I don’t expect these gentlemen will be here very long.” He smiled briefly at the inspector. “That’s correct, isn’t it?”

Taken aback, Witherspoon blinked. “Er, yes.”

“Inspector.” Miss Marsden’s husky voice drew his attention. “I was at the ballet. I was with my friends the Plimptons. We had supper together and then went to the theatre. Afterward, I spent the night there.” She unclasped her hands and drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else to tell you. The first I heard of the…tragedy was when a police constable fetched me from the Plimpton house.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure it was a dreadful shock for you, Miss Marsden,” Witherspoon said sympathetically. “But even though you weren’t here, you may be able to help us.”

“I don’t see how.” She began to fidget with the buttons on the sleeve of her black mourning dress. “My aunt was killed by burglars. How could I possibly know anything about that? I really don’t understand why you’re here. Surely you don’t think any of us had anything to do with Abigail’s death? Why aren’t you trying to catch the thieves?” Her voice rose. “I don’t understand this, I don’t understand why you’re asking us all these questions.”

Witherspoon stared at her in alarm. He hoped she wouldn’t become hysterical. Certainly she was still in somewhat of a state of shock and no doubt very upset, but really she was decidedly overreacting here. He didn’t think he had asked all that many questions in the first place.

“Please, Felicity,” Leonard Hodges said firmly, “the inspector is only trying to do his job. Naturally this tragedy has deeply distressed you, it’s deeply upset everyone in the household, but we must cooperate in any way we can.” He paused and gave her a slow, sad smile. “Now please, get a
hold of yourself. You do want your aunt’s murderers brought to justice, don’t you?”

She bit her lip and nodded. Hodges turned to the inspector. “By all means, sir. Ask anything you like.”

“My apologies, Inspector Witherspoon,” Miss Marsden murmured. “Please continue with your questions.”

From the corner of his eye, Witherspoon saw Barnes whip out his notebook. “It would be most helpful if you could tell us exactly what time you left the house,” the inspector said.

“It was early,” Felicity answered slowly. “I wanted to have time to visit with Ada’s mother before we had supper, so I expect it was about five.”

“You went alone?” Witherspoon wasn’t sure that was useful information, but he felt compelled to ask anyway. He wasn’t certain whether or not it was common for young women to travel out and about on their own at that time of the day. His housekeeper did, but then she wasn’t a young woman.

She nodded. “Peter went to the corner and got a hansom cab.”

“And you took the cab directly to the Plimptons’ home?”

Again Felicity nodded. “Yes. It had just gone half past five when I arrived.”

“Did you happen to mention to anyone at the Plimpton residence that this house was going to be empty that evening?” Witherspoon asked quickly.

“How could I?” Felicity said earnestly. “I didn’t know that Uncle Leonard had given the servants the night out until I arrived home the next day.” She tilted her chin and looked directly at Leonard Hodges. “I must say, I was surprised by that.”

Leonard arched one eyebrow. “Surprised; why? I felt that after what had happened last Sunday, the servants deserved some free time.”

“What happened last Sunday?” Witherspoon blurted.

Hodges stared at him coldly. “It has nothing to do with this, Inspector. Nothing whatsoever.”

The inspector suddenly didn’t know what to do. He didn’t wish to interfere in anyone’s domestic affairs, but on the other hand, he felt he really should be in possession of any facts relating to servants and their time away from the house. Servants were notorious gossips. One of them could easily have let it slip that the house was empty. He was saved from having to argue with Mr. Hodges by the intervention of Constable Barnes.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the constable said calmly. “But you really should answer the question. The inspector needs to know if any of your servants might have had a reason to be angry with Mrs. Hodges.”

His implication was obvious.

“Oh, all right,” Hodges replied grudgingly. “Last Sunday my wife didn’t let the servants have their usual afternoon off. She was annoyed with them. A few minor tasks had been left undone and Abigail got very angry. I felt badly for the staff and so I gave them all the evening off. That’s all there is to it.”

Witherspoon stared at him incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” he asked. “Gracious, if the servants were angry with your wife, then any one of them could have deliberately passed the information that your home was going to be empty that night.”

“Surely that’s a bit farfetched,” Hodges muttered. He looked embarrassed. “And I didn’t mention this before because I didn’t want anyone thinking less of Abigail. She occasionally lost her temper, but she was a good woman. I won’t have anyone saying any different.”

“We wouldn’t think of it, sir,” Witherspoon assured him. He glanced at Felicity Marsden. She was watching her uncle with an unreadable expression on her exquisite face. He suddenly remembered he’d been in the process of questioning her when he’d become distracted.

“Now, Miss Marsden,” he began briskly. “You went to the ballet with your friends, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what theatre would that have been?” Barnes asked softly.

“Sadler’s Wells Theatre,” she replied.

“And you were with the Plimpton family the whole time?” Witherspoon asked. He saw a blotchy red color bloom in the woman’s cheeks.

“Of course I was,” she replied. “They’ve a box at the theatre. We were together the whole time.”

“Oh, come now, Felicity,” Leonard Hodges interjected, “surely you’re mistaken. Why, I saw Horace Plimpton at Truscott’s. He’d been there the whole evening.”

“I meant, Mrs. Georgianna Plimpton and Ada and I were together.”

“Mrs. Georgianna Plimpton is Ada Plimpton’s grandmother,” Hodges explained to the policemen. “So it was only the three of you ladies who went to the ballet? Ada didn’t have a gentleman in tow to act as escort?”

“Mr. Plimpton sent the footman with the carriage,” Felicity replied defensively. “Don’t be so old-fashioned, Uncle. The evening was quite respectable.”

Witherspoon was getting confused, but he struggled not to let it show. Clearing his throat, he said, “May I have the Plimptons’ address?”

“Number fourteen Tavistock Street,” Felicity replied. She suddenly got to her feet. She was small and slim and very delicate looking in the heavy black mourning dress. The inspector felt such pity for the poor girl. Her aunt’s death had been a terrible shock. Why, merely talking about the night it had happened had caused her to go completely pale. He noticed her hands were trembling as well.

She looked at him with a dazed, stricken expression of pain. “Inspector, if you don’t mind, I must retire. This has all been a dreadful experience. I must go rest. If you’ve any more questions, you’ll have to ask them later.” With
that, she hurried to the door and disappeared.

“I say,” Hodges said, “I’m most dreadfully sorry. Felicity isn’t herself today.”

“No apologies are needed,” the inspector said quickly. “I can see that your niece is terribly upset. Sometimes one forgets what delicate creatures women are.”

“Thank you for being so understanding,” Hodges said. “Now, if you’ve no more questions for me, I really must be going. The vicar is waiting for me.”

“Ah yes, the funeral arrangements.” Witherspoon knew there were one or two more questions he should ask, but he couldn’t think just what they were. Something that Mrs. Jeffries had mentioned this morning at breakfast. Something to do with…He sighed, he simply couldn’t remember what it was. Perhaps it would come to him later. Aware that the man was watching him expectantly, he said, “Is it possible for us to have a word with the housekeeper now?”

Hodges looked surprised. “Of course, but I thought you spoke with Mrs. Trotter yesterday.”

“We’ve a few more questions, sir,” Barnes said firmly. “Mrs. Trotter wasn’t in the best of states yesterday.”

Thomasina Trotter had completely recovered. Tall, grim-faced, gray-haired and ramrod thin, she walked imperiously into the servants’ hall and stared at the two policemen with the same suspicious expression she reserved for tradesmen and shopkeepers trying to cheat her. “You wanted to see me?”

The inspector swallowed. This woman definitely didn’t have the deferential manner one associated with a servant. As a matter of fact, with her regal bearing and distinct upper-class accent, he found her somewhat intimidating. “Yes, Mrs. Trotter, we did. We’re hoping you can help us.”

“If you’re referring to the robbery and murder of Mrs. Hodges, then I’m afraid you’re wasting both of our time.
As I told your man yesterday, I wasn’t even here. As you know, Mr. Hodges gave us the night off. From six o’clock onward, I was in Fulham.”

Witherspoon refused to be cowed. He was serving the interests of justice here. “Visiting your old nanny, I understand. A Miss Adelaide Bush. Is that correct?”

“As I told the police yesterday, that is correct.”

“Did you, by any chance, happen to mention to anyone that the house was going to be empty?” Witherspoon asked. “Perhaps you may have mentioned it to someone on your way to Fulham, someone on the tram or the train?”

“I’m hardly in the habit of confiding in complete strangers,” Mrs. Trotter said. “Furthermore, though I may be forced by circumstances to use common public conveyances, I certainly don’t speak to anyone.”

Witherspoon was suddenly curious. Thomasina Trotter had definitely known better days. “How long have you worked for Mr. and Mrs. Hodges?”

Mrs. Trotter’s thin eyebrows rose. “The terms and conditions of my employment in the Hodges household haven’t anything to do with this crime. Therefore it is hardly the business of the police.”

The inspector tried to think of a reasonable reply. He was saved again by Constable Barnes.

“We’re askin’, ma’am,” Barnes said quietly, “because if you’ve been here awhile and you know the neighborhood, you just might be able to tell us if you saw any strangers hangin’ about afore you left?”