The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (12 page)

Mrs. Jeffries heaved a silent sigh of relief. Luty’s chore wasn’t really needed. The inspector had already confirmed that the Plimptons had taken Felicity out that evening. But it was important that she be made to feel wanted and useful.

“Now, I believe we’d all better get some rest.” Mrs. Jeffries stood up. “Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.”

Jonathan Vogel lived in a ground-floor room in a rundown lodging house in Paddington. Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes arrived before nine in the morning, hoping to catch the young man before he left for his employment.

Barnes rapped lightly on the door and it was opened a moment later by a tall, blond-haired young man dressed in a white shirt, tie and brown trousers.

“Yes,” he asked cautiously, eyeing Barnes’s police uniform warily. “What do you want?”

Despite the man’s careful diction, the inspector could faintly hear the flat, nasal accent of east London working class. The young man might be respectably dressed and well educated, but he wasn’t all that many years out of Whitechapel.

“Are you Mr. Benjamin Vogel?” the inspector asked.

“I am, and who might you be?”

“Inspector Witherspoon of Scotland Yard. This is Constable Barnes. We’d like to have a word with you, sir.”

Vogel opened the door wider and motioned for them to step inside. The room was small, ugly and crowded with mismatched furniture. There was a bed covered with a
mustard-colored bedspread, a wardrobe with two of the knobs missing from the bottom drawers, a threadbare green-and-brown carpet and a pair of limp-looking dull brown curtains at the one dirty window. Opposite the bed was a cracked leather divan and next to that a scarred table and a single cane-back chair. On the floor beside the table were several stacks of books.

“Now, what’s all this about, inspector?” Vogel asked. He didn’t invite either man to sit down. “I’m a bit short on time. I don’t want to be late for work.”

Witherspoon could understand that. “We won’t keep you long, Mr. Vogel. Could you please tell us where you were on the night of January fourth?”

Vogel’s light eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. “January fourth? Well, let me see. I’m not all that sure I can remember.”

“It was only three days ago, sir,” Constable Barnes stated.

Vogel drew a deep breath. “Oh? Well, I was probably right here. Where else would I be? Yes, that’s right. I came straight home from work and spent the evening reading.”

“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Abigail Hodges and Miss Felicity Marsden?” Witherspoon asked. He could see Vogel stiffen.

“Yes.”

The inspector watched him carefully. “Were you aware that Mrs. Hodges was murdered on January fourth?”

Vogel’s eyes widened. “Good Lord. Really, no, I must say I hadn’t heard.”

Witherspoon didn’t believe the man. There was something very theatrical about Vogel’s reaction, he thought. The inspector was quite pleased with himself. “Theatrical” was a word he’d heard his chief use more than once when he was describing a suspect’s expression.

“You didn’t read about it in the papers, sir?” Barnes said softly.

“Newspapers are useless,” Vogel declared firmly. “I never waste my time on them. How was Mrs. Hodges killed?”

The inspector glanced at the constable. Barnes shook his head ever so slightly, indicating that he didn’t believe one word Benjamin Vogel was saying.

Witherspoon sighed silently. Really, Vogel was a terrible actor. The man’s tone, his manner, his expression. Goodness, his act was so patently false a two-year-old could see through it.

“She was shot,” the inspector replied slowly. “Twice. Once in the head and once in the heart. It happened during the course of a robbery.”

“That’s dreadful.” The Adam’s apple in Vogel’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. “Appalling.”

“Were you engaged to Miss Felicity Marsden?” Witherspoon cocked his head to one side.

“I was,” Vogel admitted. A dull red crept up his cheeks. “But Miss Marsden and I ended our engagement over two months ago. I haven’t heard from or seen her or anyone else in her family since then.”

The inspector hoped the next question would take the man by surprise. Really, he so hated it when people tried to lie to the police. “Didn’t Mrs. Hodges help to end that engagement? Didn’t she pay you a great deal of money not to marry her niece?”

“That’s a lie,” Vogel snapped. He clenched both his hands into fists. “A filthy disgusting lie. I love Fliss, I wouldn’t have taken all the money in the world to break our engagement.”

Startled, Witherspoon blinked. Benjamin Vogel sounded like he was telling the truth.

“But we have it on good authority that Mrs. Hodges did pay you to break your engagement to her niece.” The inspector phrased his question carefully. “Are you denying it’s true?”

Vogel laughed harshly. “Of course I’m denying it. No doubt you’ve heard all sorts of nasty gossip about me. Mrs. Hodges made sure that everyone including Fliss would
believe the worst about my character. The old harridan even tried to get me sacked. Oh, I don’t deny that she came around here offering me money, but I refused to take it. I threw her out. Somehow, though, she convinced Fliss that I had taken money not to see her anymore. She sent the ring back.”

“So you’ve had nothing to do with the Hodges household since Miss Marsden returned your engagement ring?” Witherspoon asked.

“That’s right,” Vogel answered.

“Where’s the engagement ring that Miss Hodges returned?” Witherspoon asked. He was quite proud of that question. Surely if Mr. Vogel were telling the truth about his association with Felicity Marsden, he’d be able to produce the evidence of his broken engagement.

“I didn’t keep it,” Vogel replied harshly. “I’m not a rich man. When Fliss sent the ring back, I sold it. What did you expect, that I’d keep it for sentimental reasons?” He laughed bitterly. “Between Abigail Hodges and Felicity they managed to kill any tender feelings I might have once had. If you want to see that ring, Inspector, you can take yourself down to Webster’s on the Kensington High Street and buy it yourself.”

The inspector was suddenly embarrassed. The anger and pain in Vogel’s voice were real. “I, er, don’t think that will be necessary.” He would, however, send a constable to check Vogel’s story.

“So you’ve had nothing to do with anyone in the Hodges household in two months?” Barnes persisted.

“As I’ve already told you, no.” Vogel sighed deeply. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish dressing for work.”

“Just one more thing, sir.” The inspector had suddenly remembered Mrs. Popejoy’s wild assertion. Naturally he didn’t believe much of what she’d told him. Certainly he didn’t for one moment believe in gaslight spirits warning victims of their intended deaths, but he couldn’t
in good conscience ignore the one fact that might be of importance.

“Please, Inspector,” Vogel replied, heading for the wardrobe. “Do make it quick. I mustn’t be late.”

“Do you have a gun?”

Vogel stopped in his tracks and whirled around. “A gun? Why on earth do you think I’ve a gun?”

“Never mind why, sir,” Constable Barnes interjected. “Just answer the question.”

Vogel cleared his throat and cast one quick, nervous glance towards the wardrobe. He looked like he was trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth. “Yes. I do. It’s a—”

Witherspoon cut him off. “May we see it, sir?”

Constable Barnes had put his notebook away and now watched Benjamin Vogel carefully as the man hesitated.

“Yes, of course.” Vogel went to the wardrobe, pulled open the door and yanked a small, square case off the top shelf.

Taking the case to the table, he slammed it down and turned to stare belligerently at the two policemen who were right behind him.

“You’ve not got a warrant, have you?” Vogel said. His voice cracked ever so slightly.

“No, Mr. Vogel,” the inspector replied. “We haven’t. You’d be well within your rights to refuse to show us the gun.” Actually Witherspoon wasn’t terribly sure about that; he’d dozed off during the lecture on legal search procedures.

Vogel took a deep breath and shook his head. “I do want it noted that I’m cooperating with the police of my own free will.”

“That’ll be noted, sir,” Barnes assured him dryly.

He unlatched the clasp and lifted the lid. “My God,” he exclaimed. “What on earth…”

Witherspoon and Barnes looked into the case.

The gun was gone.

“But of course I was at the ballet,” Miss Myrtle Buxton exclaimed. “Why, everyone was there that night.”

Luty hid her satisfied smile by taking a sip of the fine Indian tea Miss Buxton had so thoughtfully provided. Myrtle Buxton, wealthy, single and well past sixty, lived across the road from Luty’s own Knightsbridge home. Myrtle wore a pale rose day dress that blended perfectly with the pink overstuffed settee and dark burgundy carpet. Her silver-gray hair was arranged in tight curls, her eyes were a vivid blue and Luty was sure the woman had on a bit of rouge. No one Myrtle’s age had cheeks that bright. Not that Luty cared. If she wanted to paint her face, it was her business.

The important thing was, Myrtle devoted practically every waking moment to her social life. A notorious gossip, Myrtle Buxton had developed an eagle eye for noting who was where and with whom. Luty knew she’d come to the right woman.

“Too bad I missed goin’,” Luty replied. “But I’ve been kinda busy lately. Some friends of mine was there that night, though—the Plimptons. Did ya happen to see ’em?”

Myrtle waggled her ring-bedecked fingers coquettishly. “I saw
everybody
,” she declared proudly. “Of course I saw the Plimptons. But I didn’t know they were friends of yours. Gracious, I wouldn’t have thought you’d know that family. They are a very stuffy bunch.”

“Er, uh, I met ’em at a party last month,” Luty lied.

“Rather conventional people,” Myrtle mused. “Not your sort at all, Luty. They’ve a box at the theatre, you know.”

“Was the whole family there?”

“Goodness no! Horace Plimpton wouldn’t go near the ballet if his life depended on it and Henrietta Plimpton’s one of those women who continually fancy themselves as ill. No doubt she’d taken to her bed for the evening. It’s old Mrs. Plimpton, Georgianna, who’s the social one in that family. She, her granddaughter and another young woman were in the box that night.” She paused and shook
her head. “Not that I understand why Georgianna bothers. She fell asleep the minute she sat down. Dreadful habit, falling asleep in public. Her mouth actually
gaped
open. It stayed that way through the whole performance. I must say, she makes a spectacle of herself. Still, if it wasn’t for Georgianna, I don’t suppose poor Ada Plimpton would have any social life at all.” Myrtle broke off and gazed at her friend curiously. “Why are you asking?”

“No particular reason,” Luty replied with a casual shrug. “I just happened to hear they was all there that night and I wondered how that could be? Ya see, I had an argument with a friend of mine who claimed that I was gettin’ so old I couldn’t see straight. I thought fer sure I saw Miss Plimpton and another young woman leavin’ the theatre before the ballet even started. Well, Hepzibah—that’s my friend—she claimed I was seein’ things and that a decent young girl wouldn’t be out on the streets at that time of night gettin’ into hansom cabs.” She paused and smiled apologetically. “I reckon she must be right, I couldn’t of seen her if they was sittin’ in the Plimpton box. Guess I’ll have to tell Hepzibah she was right. I tell ya, Myrtle, it’s hard gettin’ old.” She lowered her head and sniffled pathetically.

“Nonsense.” Myrtle was instantly sympathetic. She reached across and patted Luty on the hand. “You’re not old at all and you most certainly could have seen Miss Plimpton and another young lady outside the theatre. Though I must agree with your friend, it isn’t the sort of behavior decent young women should indulge in. But that’s becoming the way of the world these days. Women wanting the vote, wanting equality and even going out to work…shocking. Not at all like in my day.”

Luty bit her tongue to keep from telling Myrtle that she thought women should vote, work and do anything else they danged well pleased. “But I thought you just said you saw the girls sittin’ with Mrs. Plimpton?”