Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel Read online

  “The Angel Alms Society advisory board?” Barnes interjected, seeking clarification.

  “That’s correct. Margaret saw me standing there and had the good grace to look embarrassed.”

  “Did you ask her why you’d not been invited?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Of course, Inspector, and at first she tried to insist that it wasn’t a garden party, merely a small gathering of the other advisers.” Mrs. Huxton looked skeptical. “But when I mentioned that I could clearly see she was serving champagne and canapés, she then had the audacity to tell me that it was because she had something ‘confidential’ to tell the board. I pressed her, of course, reminding her that I was a member of the advisory board, but she told me it wasn’t ‘necessary’ that I be included.”

  “Do you have any idea what the confidential matter might have been?” The inspector unbuttoned his overcoat.

  “I do. I found out about it from Steven Marshall; he’s on the board of governors. His wife is on the advisory board as well, and she was at the party—”

  “Excuse me,” Barnes interrupted, “but there’s a difference between the advisory board and the governing body?”

  Witherspoon winced inwardly as he realized he’d forgotten to tell the constable everything Mrs. Wheaton had told him about the matter.

  “Certainly. Women make up the advisory board, while it’s men who are on the board of governors. But one of the things we’ve been pressing for is to allow women to be governors, and we’d have won that battle if it hadn’t been for that silly Reverend Pontefract. He’s the vicar at St. Andrew’s Church.”

  “We’ve been told he’s on the board of governors,” Witherspoon said.

  “That’s correct. The society is unofficially affiliated with St. Andrew’s. The alms offices are located in the building next to the church—which, by the way, the church owns and lets to the society for far less than it’s worth. But that’s another issue we have with the vicar. But because of the affiliation, and because he’s one of the governors and essentially our landlord, he’s very influential. That was one of the few things Margaret and I agreed upon recently: that we were still going to push to get the society to accept women as governors.” She sat back and folded her hands in her lap again.

  “You’ve told us about one incident, Mrs. Huxton. Surely that can’t be the only reason you and Mrs. Starling had become estranged,” Witherspoon pressed.

  “Of course it wasn’t.” Olivia Huxton smiled ruefully. “It was only the beginning. I felt wronged and very hurt, so I had a garden party of my own and I didn’t invite her. After that, things got increasingly stupid and petty. I chased off her silly cat and she came around and accused me of hitting the animal. That’s absurd, that fat Gladstone regularly attacks my BooBoo. He’s a sweet spaniel and wouldn’t hurt a fly. We stopped speaking, and right about then I heard a rumor that she was pressing the vicar to ask me to leave the advisory board.”

  Barnes stopped writing and looked at her. “Would he have done what she asked?”

  “Probably. Margaret gave more money to St. Andrew’s than I did, and there’s nothing that Reginald Pontefract loves more than filling the church’s coffers. What’s more, he didn’t approve of the art here in my home or of my political views. But that silly man’s medieval ideas aren’t important.” She stopped. “Sorry, I still can’t believe she’s dead, and I never had a chance to apologize to her for what I did.”

  Witherspoon looked at her sympathetically. “What did you do?”

  “I let pride dictate my actions and did something very, very stupid.” Her eyes filled with tears. “God, I would give anything to take back that foolish letter.” She sniffed, pulled a pristine white handkerchief out of her skirt pocket, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. “I wrote an anonymous letter to the Reverend Pontefract.”

  “What did this letter say?”

  “Stupid things, foolish things, exaggerations about Margaret’s recent behavior.” She sighed heavily and shook her head. “They weren’t complete lies, but it wasn’t the truth, either. I accused her of drinking too much, which, as I’ve already said, wasn’t completely a lie. Sometimes she did drink to excess. I also said that she was making up stories about men on the board of governors and hinting that there was impropriety in financial affairs.”

  “Did you make that up?” Barnes asked bluntly.

  “Not completely.” She gave a harsh, ugly laugh. “That’s why the letter was so believable. Margaret had told people she thought there was something going wrong with the finances and she had been acting erratic. But none of it was true enough for me to have written that stupid, stupid letter. I’m so ashamed of myself. It has caused no end of grief.”

  “But now that she’s dead, she can’t sue you for slander.” Barnes watched her carefully as he spoke.

  “I know, but she’d have lost the lawsuit anyway. The only proof she had that I wrote the letter was that she’d seen it when that idiot Pontefract showed it to her and she insisted it was my handwriting.”

  “Handwriting can be very distinctive,” Witherspoon remarked, “and the courts have used it to prove the identity of the author.”

  She snorted delicately. “Oh, please, Inspector. If my writing looked like Graham McConnell’s, I’d agree with you; his penmanship is so elaborate it’s unreadable. But mine looks like the handwriting of any other woman who has been educated at St. Anne’s School for Girls—a place where conformity in all things was not only encouraged but the only way to avoid getting one’s hand smacked with a birch rod.”

  “Did you ever admit to her or anyone else that you were the author of the letter?” Witherspoon asked.

  “I’m not a complete fool, Inspector. I never admitted it to anyone.”

  “But despite your assertion that your handwriting is similar to that of many other women of your class, if the letter is in your handwriting, simple comparisons to other things you’ve written should be easy enough to prove in a court of law,” Barnes said. “All the judge and jury would need to see is a sample of your handwriting to compare to the letter.”

  “Which means that you could risk losing everything if Mrs. Starling had gone through with her court case,” the inspector added.

  “Not really,” she replied. “The letter no longer exists. I made sure of that.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Betsy stopped on the corner and surveyed the busy High Street. Traffic was heavy in both directions and the pavement was crowded with pedestrians. Drat, that wasn’t good. Shop clerks didn’t waste their time chatting when they were busy. But she was here now and she’d agreed to see what she could learn about Olivia Huxton. She started down the street, moving quickly and peering into each shop window as she passed. At the baker’s, there were half a dozen people waiting to be served and an even longer line of shoppers at the butcher’s. She reached the greengrocer’s and almost went in but then two women wielding shopping baskets shoved past her and got there first. The same situation prevailed at the fishmonger’s, another butcher shop, and a chemist’s. She’d reached the end of the street and didn’t hold out much hope that it might be useful, because it was a grocer’s shop, which meant it was generally filled with customers; but when she peered in the window, there was only one person inside. She opened the door and stepped inside.

  “May I help you, miss?” the clerk asked as he handed a paper-wrapped bundle across the counter to a middle-aged matron.

  Betsy walked slowly toward him, giving the matron time to leave. It was much easier getting young men to talk when they were on their own.

  She smiled brightly as she neared the counter. He was a slender, dark-haired young lad with a narrow face and heavy eyebrows. “I do hope you can assist me. I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I’m afraid I’m lost.”

  “If I can, miss. Where are you going?”

  “You’ll think me an idiot,
I’m afraid. But my neighbor asked me to do her a favor when she found out I was coming here to shop, and she gave me a note for a Mrs. Huxton who lives in the area. But I’ve lost the slip of paper that had her address on it. I’m hoping that her household shops here.”

  His thick brows drew together and he shook his head. “Sorry, miss, I’ve never heard of the lady. But if she lives in this neighborhood, you might try the dressmaker’s around the corner. I understand it’s quite a popular shop with the ladies.”

  Betsy smiled graciously, thanked him, and hurried off to find the dressmaker’s. But her luck was just as bad there as it was at the grocer’s shop. She tried the greengrocer’s, the butcher’s, and the fishmonger’s but found out nothing. By the time she wandered back to the baker’s, she was tired, hungry, and depressed. No one had heard of Olivia Huxton, and what’s more, now that she’d bandied that name about, she couldn’t use the same sad tale to find out about Margaret Starling. Maybe Wiggins had got it wrong or maybe the gossip he’d heard at the pub yesterday was nothing more than idle talk.

  She stopped outside the baker’s and peered into the shop window. This late in the day, they’d sold most of their goods, so there was only one other person in the shop. Pulling open the door, she stepped inside and walked to the counter. She didn’t even bother to wait until the place was empty before she spoke, asking for what seemed the hundredth time if the clerk knew the address of one Olivia Huxton. But once again she was disappointed. He’d never heard the name.

  Betsy stepped outside and shivered as a cold wind from the river blasted into her. She was back where she’d started, so she decided to take a look at the Huxton house and perhaps see if there was anything interesting at the Starling home next door. It should be fine—none of the constables here knew her by sight, and she’d take care to avoid anyone from the Ladbroke Road Police Station. Besides, she told herself, it was too late to go anywhere else this afternoon. Crossing the river to Putney was a lot more time-consuming than their investigations closer to home.

  She turned onto Moran Place and surveyed the posh neighborhood, moving carefully and getting ready to flick the hood of her cloak up in case Inspector Witherspoon or Constable Griffiths suddenly appeared. But her luck seemed to have changed, and the only constables she spied were two that she didn’t recognize. She passed the Starling house and was almost in front of the Huxton house when a woman wearing an oversized black mantle stepped out the side door and hurried down the short stone walkway to the street.

  Slowing her steps, Betsy gave the woman time to stay a dozen feet in front of her. She saw that beneath the woman’s garment was a black bombazine skirt. Maybe the lady was a housekeeper? Maybe she was Olivia Huxton’s housekeeper? She studied her quarry more closely and saw that the mantle was frayed along the hemline. Suddenly the woman sped up as she came to the end of the street.

  Betsy walked faster and she got to the corner just in time to see the woman disappearing through a doorway. She raced after her and skidded to a stop as she realized it was a pub.

  “Oh, blast a Spaniard.” She hesitated, unsure of what to do. Her husband wouldn’t be happy that she went into a pub on her own; on the other hand, she was on the hunt and he went into pubs when necessary. What was good for the goose was good for the gander, she told herself. Yanking open the door, she stepped inside.

  The pub wasn’t crowded; only a couple of men in flat caps sat at one of the tables, and the woman she’d followed stood by herself at the bar. Holding her head high, Betsy strode across the small space.

  The woman turned as she approached. Her face was lined, her nose a bright red, and beneath her cap her thin hair was more gray than brown. “Why have you been followin’ me?”

  Betsy saw that her quarry was drinking a shot of gin. She cocked her head to one side and smiled. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I’d like to speak with you.”

  The woman eyed her warily. “I’ve never seen you ’round here before. Do I know you?”

  “What’ll it be, miss?” The burly barman slapped a wet tea towel onto the counter and gave it a scrub.

  “I’ll have a gin and another for this lady here.” Betsy jerked her chin toward the woman as she tugged off her gloves and put them on the counter.

  “If you’re buyin’ me a drink, I guess I do know ya,” the woman cackled.

  “I’m a private inquiry agent,” Betsy began.

  “Stop lyin’. You’re a bloomin’ housemaid.” She pointed toward the plain lavender dress peeking out from beneath Betsy’s cloak.

  Before she’d set off, she’d debated what to wear, and now she was glad she’d decided to wear her old housemaid’s uniform and an old-fashioned brown cloak instead of one of her nicer outfits. “I’m dressed as a housemaid because I’m working—” She broke off as the barkeep brought their drinks.

  Pulling some coins out of her cloak pocket, Betsy paid for the gin and then waited till the barman had moved away before turning back to the woman. “As I said, I’m dressed this way because I’m on an investigation. It’s an important matter, and if you can answer a few of my questions, I’ll be happy to buy you another gin.” She’d learned this technique from Phyllis and hoped it would work, but as her gaze moved over the bloodshot eyes and red nose of her companion, she began to have doubts. The woman liked her drink; the question was: Did she like it well enough to talk freely. There was only one way to find out. “My name is Barbara Clark. What’s yours?”

  The woman said nothing for a few moments; she simply stared at Betsy out of watery blue eyes. But then she smiled slyly. “I’m Annabelle Waverly, and as long as you’re buyin’, I’ve time for a chat.”

  Betsy realized she’d blundered. Annabelle Waverly’s smile, if that was really her name, gave the game away. The lady was one of those poor souls who couldn’t stop drinking once they poured that first one down their throats. Drat, she’d known a lot of women like her from her childhood days in the East End. But as she was here, she might as well see if she could find out something. The worst that could happen was the woman would tell her a load of nonsense.

  “Do you work at that house I saw you come out of?” She wasn’t going to mention any names as yet. She took a sip from her glass.

  “You mean the Huxton house? I work there, but I’m not one of their servants. I’m just helpin’ out with the heavy cleanin’. Mrs. Huxton’s havin’ a fancy Christmas party. I work from half eight in the mornings till half past one. They give me a decent lunch there. The police were there this mornin’,” she cackled. “You shoulda seen the housemaids, twitterin’ like a tree full of birds, they were.”

  Betsy felt a bit better. At least she knew the right name. “Why were the police there?”

  Annabelle looked at her, her expression cynical. “Why do you think? Her next-door neighbor that she’s been feudin’ with was murdered. Isn’t that why you followed me here?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” Betsy replied.

  “Mind you, Mrs. Huxton is in a real state today; you should have seen her face after she saw all them police in Mrs. Starling’s back garden.” Her eyes narrowed shrewdly as she lifted her glass halfway to her mouth. “Come on, tell us the truth: That’s why you’re wantin’ to ask me questions?”

  “I’ve told you, I’m not at liberty to say, but I would like to ask you some questions about Mrs. Huxton.” She paused and took another quick sip of her gin. It tasted awful.

  “Ask ’em, then, unless you’re wantin’ to spend the rest of the afternoon here buyin’ me gin.” She laughed, drained her drink, and waved the empty glass at the barman.

  Betsy wasn’t sure this was a good idea, the woman was probably going to lie her head off just to keep the gin flowing. Still, this was the closest she’d come today to finding out anything. “Right, then: Why was she in such a state about Mrs. Starling’s murder?”

  “Because they us
ed to be friends, and when she found out the woman had been murdered, her face turned white. We all saw it—the housekeeper and both the downstairs maids. We were in the big pantry off the dining room, polishing the silver and scrubbing the dust off the platters and the servin’ bowls, when the scullery maid come in and announced that Mrs. Starling had been coshed in the head and was dead.” She snorted. “That tossed her nibs off her high horse. She’d been bossing us, pickin’ at every little thing, but when she heard the news, she looked like she’d been punched in the gut. Her face turned whiter than the table linens, and she had to steady herself against one of the chairs.”

  “So she looked surprised and shocked?”

  “She tried to make it seem that way, but I was watchin’ her eyes, and it wasn’t shock I saw in them; it was fear.” Annabelle snickered. “She’s right to be scared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Annabelle drew back, her expression calculating. “This person who hired you—is he willin’ to pay for information?”

  Betsy had plenty of money; Smythe always made certain she had both coins and notes in her pocket or purse before she walked out the front door. She was quite willing to spend a bit to find out something useful, but she wasn’t altogether certain Annabelle Waverly wasn’t making it up as she went along. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  Betsy gave her a cool smile. “On whether what you’ve got to tell is worth anything,”

  “It’s worth plenty.” Annabelle drained her glass and slammed it down. “Plenty, I tell you.”

  “You wantin’ another?” the barman yelled from the far end of the bar.

  “No, but bring one for her,” Betsy answered, and nodded at Annabelle Waverly. “You do want another one, right?”

  “Don’t be daft. As long as you’re payin’, I’ll drink.”

  “I thought you might,” Betsy said. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you know and then I’ll decide if it’s worth anything.”