Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Page 10

  “Well, this is kinda hard to admit and say out loud, but I’m not a spring chicken anymore. I’ve been thinking about what I’m goin’ to do with all my money when I go.”

  He immediately started to object. “Now, now, Luty, don’t say such things—”

  She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “You’re bein’ kind, Horatio, but we all know that once you git past a certain age, the grim reaper can track you down anytime he wants”—she smiled as she spoke—“and you know as well as I do that people shouldn’t leave these kinds of decisions to Her Majesty’s government or to a bunch of lawyers. Don’t get me wrong, Horatio: I know where I’m leavin’ the bulk of the estate. But, as you know, it’s pretty danged big, and I need your opinion about what to do with the remainder.”

  “Of course, Luty. Do you have any specific ideas or organizations in mind?”

  Luty was ready for this question. “There’s an organization across the river in Putney I had my eye on; as a matter of fact, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to ya. I’ve heard you know something about ’em. It’s the Angel Alms Society. One of my lawyers told me you used to be on their board of governors.”

  “That’s true, but I’m no longer associated with them.” He shrugged and gave her a rueful smile.

  “Why? Because one of their lady members got herself murdered? I heard that the poor woman that got her head bashed in and laid out on the ground all night was part of that organization. Her name was Margaret Starling. Is that the reason you quit?” Luty knew it wasn’t, but she didn’t want him going quiet on her now. Bringing up Margaret Starling was risky—she knew there had been gossip about her closeness to the Witherspoon household and his investigations—but dropping the dead woman’s name would either keep the banker talking or shut him up altogether.

  “Oh, no, I gave up my seat on the board several years ago,” he protested. “Mrs. Starling’s murder had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why’d ya quit then? Was they a bunch of crooks or flimflam artists?” She knew that she could get away with saying outrageous nonsense. People expected a certain level of bluntness from Americans and rich old ladies. Luckily, she was both.

  “No, no, the people on the board are very honorable individuals. As for Margaret Starling, I was acquainted with her. She was a very gracious and nice person. If the manner of her death is one of your concerns about leaving them a legacy, then you can put that notion to rest. I hope the police catch her killer quickly.”

  “So do I,” Luty agreed. “Uh, well, if it isn’t too personal, Horatio, can you tell me why you left them?”

  “It’s not particularly personal,” he admitted, “but it does involve someone else. Oh, dear, what am I saying? Of course you’ll treat what I’m going to tell you with discretion . . .”

  “I’d never betray your confidence.” She crossed her fingers in her lap as she fully intended to share what he told her at the afternoon meeting. However, she’d do it in a way that didn’t identify him.

  “I left the board because it was simply too awkward for me to continue to serve,” he sighed. “There was an incident, you see.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “It involved my nephew, a young man named Jasper Lewis. He’s my youngest sister’s only son. When I was on the board, they needed a clerk to work with the general manager, at that time a man named Ezra Travers. Ezra was and is a good friend of mine, and he knew that I was looking for a respectable position for my sister’s son—” He broke off and smiled nervously. “Oh, dear, I’m not sure how to say this; one doesn’t like to speak ill of one’s own family. But the truth is poor Jasper is one of those people who doesn’t quite understand that when one is working for someone else, that person has the right to make reasonable rules regarding how one does one’s job.”

  “That’s generally how most things in this world work,” Luty said. “Them that’s got the gold or the power get to make the rules. But go on, tell me the rest of it.”

  “Jasper did very well when Ezra Travers was the manager, but poor Ezra had a dreadful bout of pneumonia that impacted his health so badly, he had to give up his position. So the board of governors hired a new manager, a man named Graham McConnell. Mr. McConnell had far stricter requirements for his clerk than Ezra did, and Jasper simply wasn’t able to keep up properly. He’s a nice chap, but unfortunately he isn’t the brightest of young men. I suppose every family has one like that. He was sacked, and after that it was awkward for me to be on the board, so I resigned.”

  Luty thought for a moment and then asked the question that popped into her head. “Can you be a bit more specific here? Exactly what rule did your nephew break?”

  “I don’t know all the details. Jasper was embarrassed, of course, so he merely said he was sacked because Mr. McConnell didn’t like the way he worded the acknowledgments and thank-you correspondence to their donors. Apparently the new manager of the society felt that any mention of money was both gauche and ill-mannered. He only wanted the donors to be thanked for their generosity.”

  Luty nodded as if she understood, but she wondered why in the world anyone would be so fussy over a danged thank-you note!

  CHAPTER 5

  “Had you shown the letter to anyone?” Witherspoon asked.

  Pontefract closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “Yes, I’d shown the letter to the board of governors. Margaret had asked me not to show it to them nor to anyone else, and I tried my best to do as she asked; but as the weeks passed, I realized the accusations in the letter were of such a nature that I felt the board had to see it.”

  “We understand it was an anonymous letter,” Barnes said. “I’m surprised you took it seriously.”

  “Of course I took it seriously,” he protested. “The complaints against her were very much like the behavior I’d observed. She’d become quarrelsome, intrusive, and demanding, insisting the board take action on matters that didn’t concern her. I couldn’t just ignore it, although in all fairness to me I did try to do as Margaret asked and keep the matter between the two of us. But after the alms society meeting on November twenty-fourth, I realized I had no choice.”

  “What happened at that meeting?” Witherspoon asked.

  “She kept asking questions about all manner of nonsensical issues.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “She was only a member of the advisory board—she’d no right to keep interrupting the men—but she wouldn’t stay quiet. That behavior was bad enough, but then I overheard her speaking to Ezra Travers—he used to be the society’s general manager—and she was asking him the most ridiculous questions as well. That’s when I realized I had to take action—that I had to make the board understand that she was becoming either unbalanced or senile.”

  Barnes stopped writing. “What kind of questions?”

  “Silly ones—questions that didn’t make any sense!” he exclaimed. “She asked him what percentage of the society’s donations are made by notes and coin, rather than bank draft or checks. That is none of her concern, nor is it relevant to any of the advisory board’s purposes. They’re only supposed to advise the board about the specific needs in the community and to help with the day-to-day functioning of the society. They’re responsible for the housekeeping functions: sorting the donated clothes and parceling out the food and coal to families in distress. None of them are supposed to be questioning the men on the board.”

  “What did Ezra Travers tell her?” The constable started taking notes again.

  “I can’t recall his exact words but he said he didn’t know the exact amount, although it was a substantial portion of the annual giving.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Then she asked him if there were people outside the parish who contributed regularly. Well, of course there are—she should have known that—but she kept pestering poor Ezra for details. You do understand why I had to show them the letter? It was Margaret’s own actions that forced
me to do so.”

  “Where’s the letter now?” Witherspoon knew good and well it had been destroyed, but he was curious as to what the reverend would say about it. “Can we see it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Pontefract leaned back in his chair. “It disappeared from the top of my desk when I got called away by the verger. I’d been having a discussion about it with Olivia Huxton. When I returned, both Mrs. Huxton and the letter were gone.”

  “You knew that Margaret Starling had filed a lawsuit against Mrs. Huxton?” Witherspoon said.

  “It was no secret, Inspector,” he sighed, and then shrugged. “I showed Mrs. Starling the letter because I thought she had a right to know what was being said about her, but I fear my concern was misplaced and a mistake. The moment she read it, she told me she was filing a lawsuit against Olivia Huxton. She insisted she knew the handwriting in the letter was Mrs. Huxton’s. I tried to talk her out of it, of course, but she was adamant.” He paused with a puzzled frown. “What I don’t understand is who from the board would have told Margaret they’d seen the letter. I made it quite clear that she’d asked me not to show it to them or anyone else.”

  “Someone obviously told her,” Witherspoon said.

  “No, I don’t believe that.” Pontefract drummed his fingers on the desktop. “All of them promised to keep the fact that they’d seen the letter confidential. No one on the board wanted Margaret any more upset than she already was. She’d been disrupting meetings for the past six weeks and everyone was tired of her antics. Someone else must have told her, but for the life of me I can’t think who would have done it.” He glanced in the direction of the sanctuary. “Lancaster is capable of it, but he didn’t know I’d shown the letter to the board.”

  “These things have a way of getting out,” the constable murmured. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Starling?”

  “At the morning service on Sunday. Why?”

  “It’s a standard question,” Witherspoon interjected. “We’re trying to ascertain the movements of both the victim and those individuals that had conflicts with her.”

  “That hardly includes me.” Pontefract leapt to his feet. “We had a silly argument, not a conflict.”

  “But she was very upset about it, and according to what we’ve heard, you were upset enough that you threatened her,” Barnes said pointedly.

  “Surely you don’t believe what that liar Lancaster said,” he sputtered. “I most certainly didn’t threaten Margaret. Lancaster hates me because, unlike my predecessor, I expect him to do his job properly. He’ll say anything to put me in a bad light.”

  “Where were you on Sunday night?” Witherspoon asked quietly.

  Pontefract’s jaw dropped. “How dare you! I’m a priest in the Church of England and I will not be questioned or treated like a common criminal.”

  The constable fixed him with a cold stare. “So you’re refusing to account for your whereabouts on the night Mrs. Starling was murdered?”

  His hands clenched into fists. “Don’t be absurd, I’m offended you’re asking such questions at all. But if you must know, after I finished with the Evensong service, I ate dinner in the rectory, then retired to my study to work on my sermon.”

  “Your servants can verify that?” Barnes asked.

  He swallowed, his bulbous Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Actually, I was home alone. None of the servants live in the rectory; it’s too small. Not at all like what I was accustomed to at St. Peter’s Highgate Hill. But one goes where one is sent.”

  “What time do the servants leave?” Witherspoon asked.

  “At half past six. It’s a ridiculously early time for me to eat my dinner, but the custom of the servants leaving at half past six was set by my predecessor, and apparently it wasn’t subject to change.”

  “Did you have any visitors that evening?” the inspector asked.

  “No, I was alone.”

  Witherspoon glanced at Barnes, who gave him a barely perceptible nod indicating he had no more questions, then both policemen got to their feet.

  “Thank you for your time, Reverend,” Witherspoon said politely.

  Pontefract smiled cynically. “You’re welcome, Inspector. I hope you catch whoever killed Margaret Starling, but I assure you, my petty argument with her had nothing to do with her death.”

  Barnes and Witherspoon walked back to the sanctuary. The constable looked around carefully as they reached the center aisle and turned toward the narthex. “Lancaster has made himself scarce.”

  “I suspect he accomplished his goal,” Witherspoon said. “He made certain we knew about the vicar’s quarrel with the victim. He hates him.”

  “And the feeling is mutual.” Barnes grinned.

  “But if we’ve reason to speak to him again, we can come back. Let’s see if Graham McConnell is in the Angel Alms Society office.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Jeffries dropped her housekeeping ledger in the bottom drawer of the pine sideboard and closed it with her foot. “Mrs. Goodge, would you like me to make the tea?”

  “It’s made and everything else is ready as well. It’s four o’clock; the others should be here any minute now,” she replied just as they heard the back door open. Wiggins was the first to arrive, followed by Luty, who came in only a few moments before Hatchet and Ruth. Smythe and Betsy were the last to arrive.

  “Where’s my baby?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

  Betsy glanced at her husband. “I told you we should have brought her.”

  “And I say it’s too cold out there for ’er,” Smythe retorted. “I’m not one for coddlin’ a child, but the wind off the river is fierce.”

  “We’ll bring her tomorrow,” Betsy said. “I promise.” She knew that both Luty and Mrs. Goodge looked forward to playing with their godchild, especially at this time of the year.

  “Well, all right . . . I don’t want my Sweetness coming down with the sniffles.” Mrs. Goodge picked up the teapot and poured the tea into the waiting cups.

  Mrs. Jeffries took her seat at the head of the table. “Who would like to go first?”

  “I might as well,” Phyllis volunteered. “My report won’t take long. I didn’t find out anything.” She looked at Betsy. “I hope you had better luck with the local shops than I did.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To those shops along the Upper Richmond Road,” Phyllis said.

  “I went to the ones on the High Street,” Betsy said.

  “Then I went and tried to find someone from either the Huxton or the Starling house, but I didn’t see anyone and it was too cold to hang about very long.” Phyllis shrugged.

  Betsy smiled sympathetically. “My luck was a bit better than yours. But don’t worry, there’s always tomorrow.”

  “Don’t fret, lass,” Smythe said. “My day wasn’t anything to write ’ome about, either.” He glanced at Mrs. Jeffries, who indicated with a nod that he should go ahead with his report. “There’s two cab stands within a quarter mile of the Starling ’ome, but none of the drivers I spoke to ’ad a ruddy thing to say. No one can remember pickin’ up or droppin’ off a specific fare that night.”

  “What do ya mean?” Luty asked.

  “It was so miserable out, the few that I could find that ’ad actually been workin’ Sunday night ’ad plenty of fares, but none that went to Moran Place. Mind you, I didn’t ’ave a chance to speak to all the drivers that were doin’ the night shift, so I’m goin’ back to ’ave another go when this meeting’s over.”

  “Do you really have to?” Mrs. Jeffries asked with a worried frown. “It’s getting colder out there by the minute.”

  “I need to, Mrs. Jeffries. Otherwise we might miss somethin’ important and we’re runnin’ out of time. But it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “I’m out this evening as well,” Hatchet
announced. “My source isn’t often available during the day. But at least I’ll be inside.”

  Betsy looked at her husband. “What about the pubs? Any luck there?” She hoped he hadn’t tried the one where she and Annabelle Waverly had been.

  “I tried a couple along the Upper Richmond Road, but no one knew anythin’, and it was gettin’ so late, I didn’t want to miss our meetin’.”

  “Let’s hope you find out something useful, then.” Betsy patted his arm and then looked at the housekeeper. “Is it all right if I go next?” As soon as Mrs. Jeffries nodded, she plunged straight in. “I got lucky today and met someone who was working at the Huxton house yesterday.” She told them about her meeting with Annabelle Waverly, taking care to give them all the details about the encounter without mentioning that they’d been in a pub or that she’d ended up paying Annabelle a half crown. “But she didn’t think anything of what she’d seen on the night of the murder until she saw Olivia Huxton’s face the next day when the housemaid told them Mrs. Starling had been murdered.”

  “And she was sure it was Olivia Huxton she saw that night?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “That could be important.”

  “I know.” Betsy frowned, her expression thoughtful. “But there’s something about it that’s bothering me.”

  “What?” Ruth asked.

  “Just because my source saw Olivia Huxton, I don’t think we ought to jump to the conclusion that she committed the murder.”

  “Why do you say that?” Phyllis asked.

  “Because I got a good look at both the Huxton and the Starling house today. I had a look around, that’s how I managed to find Annabelle; she was coming out of the Huxton home and I followed her. The Huxton house and the Starling house are separated by a row of gooseberry bushes, and this time of year they’re bare,” she explained. “Annabelle said she saw Mrs. Huxton coming down the front stairs of the Starling house. It seems to me that if she had bashed her neighbor in the head, she’d have gone back to her own home by either slipping between those bushes or sneaking home along the back of the property. Why would she risk going to the front of the house, where someone could and did see her?”