The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (20 page)

“Now, now, Constable,” Witherspoon replied cautiously. “We mustn’t jump to conclusions.”

“But, sir, the landlady said that Vogel left with a young woman not more than half an hour ago. It were obviously Miss Marsden he left with and they’ve obviously decided to make a run for it. Do you want me to have some lads watch the railways and the liveries?”

Witherspoon thought carefully before answering. He couldn’t stop thinking about what his housekeeper had said. Despite her assertion that she was just being “silly,” he knew that Mrs. Jeffries had a valid point. That wretched note had to have been written by someone. And now that he’d had time to think about it, he didn’t think it was Hilda Brown. Drat. But who had written it? And despite the fact that now two of their prime suspects in the case seemed to have disappeared, he didn’t think either of them was the author. Why would they have written it?

The note had certainly tightened the noose around Felicity Marsden’s throat and that fact, on top of Mr. Vogel’s gun being missing, could certainly lead the police into making a good case against the two of them. Especially now that they had evidence that Mr. Vogel had not broken off his relationship with Miss Marsden.

Witherspoon’s head began to throb. Drat. Why couldn’t it have been a simple burglary? Why did every case he was assigned end up being so complicated?

“Sir?” Barnes said impatiently. “Did you hear me?”

“Er, yes, Constable.” Witherspoon made a decision. He wasn’t going to chase Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel. Not yet at any rate. Much as he hated to consider the possibility, it did, indeed, appear as though someone wanted the police to think the two fleeing young people were guilty. But he refused to be manipulated.

“It won’t be necessary to send our lads to the liveries or train stations. I’m sure neither Miss Marsden nor Mr.
Vogel has left the city.” He infused his voice with as much authority as he could. He hadn’t the faintest idea whether they’d left the city or not, but if he himself was trying to avoid the police, the last thing he’d do is leave a big, crowded city like London and go somewhere where one stuck out like a sore thumb.

By later that afternoon, Mrs. Jeffries had refined her plan of action. Everyone, except for Wiggins, had gathered back in the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens.

“Have another cup of tea, Hatchet,” Luty commanded her butler. “Yer still lookin’ a mite blue around the gills.”

“Thank you, madam,” Hatchet replied. He helped himself to a second cup. “It was rather cold in the carriage and you were gone quite a long time.”

“Yup, reckon I was,” Luty agreed, “but ya can’t rush these things. Specially when yer tryin’ to make sense outta the ramblin’s of an old woman like Mrs. Bush. Lord A’mighty, I sure hope I don’t end up like that poor thing. Unwanted, alone, half-mad and barely able to git around.” She shuddered slightly. “I’d rather someone jes’ put a gun to my head and put me out of my misery before endin’ up like her.”

“I take it that means you weren’t able to find out anything useful from Mrs. Bush,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“Oh, I found out lots, but I ain’t sure if I found out anything that was true,” Luty stated. “Mrs. Bush spins a right good yarn, but now whether or not what she told me really happened, or whether or not she’s jes’ tellin’ tales, that’s the part I can’t figure.”

“Why don’t you tell us what she said,” Mrs. Goodge suggested, “and we’ll see if it fits with the other bits and pieces we’ve picked up.”

Luty put down her teacup and leaned forward on her elbows. “From what I could make of what she was sayin’, Mrs. Bush claims that Thomasina Trotter had an illegitimate child.”

“How long ago?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. The more facts they had, the better.

“Twenty years ago.”

There was a gasp of surprise from Betsy, Mrs. Goodge’s jaw dropped, Smythe raised his eyebrows and even Mrs. Jeffries looked stunned.

“Yup, that’s right, twenty years,” Luty continued with a wide grin. “That means Mrs. Trotter weren’t no young girl when she got into trouble. She’s close to the same age as Mrs. Hodges was, so that would put her about fifty-two now.”

“But that means she had the baby when she was thirty-two,” Betsy said with a shake of her head.

“That’s right,” Luty said. “Her family disowned her when they discovered she was with child and the man responsible did like a lot of men—he run like a scared rabbit rather than own up to what he’d done. Mrs. Trotter had no one to turn to ‘ceptin’ her old friend Abigail. Anyhow, Abigail took her in, took care of her doctor bills and arranged for the baby to be adopted out.”

“So Mrs. Trotter has been working for Mrs. Hodges ever since?” Smythe asked.

Luty shook her head. “No, after she had the baby, her daddy died and she went back and lived with her mother. A few years later the mother died. But Thomasina didn’t inherit one dime, wasn’t nothing left. So then she went to work for Abigail.”

Betsy sighed. “It’s a good story, but I don’t see how it has anything to do with Mrs. Hodges’s murder.”

“Now hold yer horses, girl, I ain’t finished,” Luty said impatiently. “There’s a few things I ain’t told ya yet. Seems like Mrs. Trotter began to think she made a mistake in givin’ her baby up just a few months after she’d had the child. She got some idea in her head that if she could find the baby, she could get her back and take her away somewhere’s like Canada or the United States. Only Mrs. Hodges wouldn’t hear of it, told Mrs. Trotter she was a
fool and a dreamer and she wouldn’t tell her where the girl was.” Luty paused and took a deep breath. “Then, after Mrs. Trotter’s mother died, Mrs. Hodges changed her tune a bit, started saying that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Mrs. Trotter did find her daughter. Strung the poor woman on fer years, promising to tell her and promising to leave her some money in her will so she and the girl could go off and start a new life. But she never did. Never told her.” Luty broke off and sighed. “Then, a few years ago, Mrs. Trotter started walkin’ the streets—lookin’ for the girl, she was. It was a mad thing to do, but I think that by then, the poor woman was mad.” She smiled sadly.

“But how can she be so…so…lunatic and still keep workin’ for the Hodgeses?” Betsy interjected. “Didn’t they notice there was somethin’ not right with the woman?”

“There’s all kinds of madness,” Luty said softly. “It ain’t all rantin’ and ravin’.”

“So with Mrs. Hodges dead, Mrs. Trotter will never have any hopes of finding the girl,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted.

“Poor thing,” Betsy murmured.

“I wish you’d all give me a chance to finish,” Luty complained.

“Perhaps they would, madam,” Hatchet said quickly, “if you didn’t stop speaking at the more melodramatic points in the story.”

“That’s the best way to tell a tale,” Luty exclaimed indignantly. She glared at her butler.

“True, madam,” he replied smoothly, “but as I understand it, you ought not to be telling tales here, you ought to be stating facts.”

“Oh, don’t be such a stuffed shirt, Hatchet,” Luty snorted. “What’s the good of a bunch of dry old facts when you can string ’em out into a right good story.”

“That’s true, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries said hastily. “But perhaps you’d better conclude, we’ve an awful lot of information to pass along here this afternoon.”

“Oh, all right. The point is, Mrs. Trotter is going to find out who adopted her child.” Luty surveyed their stunned expressions with satisfaction. “Abigail left a letter with the solicitor. Upon her death the letter is to be given to Thomasina Trotter and it contains the name of the couple who adopted her child.”

“Cor,” Smythe said thoughtfully, “that’s a pretty good motive.”

“Yes, but why now?” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Why wait twenty years to kill someone?”

Again Luty smirked in satisfaction. “Because Mrs. Hodges only recently told Mrs. Trotter about the letter. That’s right, it was after she started goin’ to them séances that her conscience seemed to start workin’. Mrs. Bush told me that it wasn’t more than a month ago that Mrs. Trotter come in all excited like and said that Mrs. Hodges had written this letter and given it to her lawyer.”

Mrs. Jeffries cocked her head to one side. “Do you think Mrs. Bush was telling the truth?”

“She’s got no reason to lie,” Luty replied thoughtfully. “I don’t think she really knew who I was or what I was doin’ there, but once she started on about Mrs. Hodges and Mrs. Trotter, she sounded right sure of herself.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hands. “But I reckon it could jes’ be a story. The poor old thing’s not right in the head.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see how your information fits in with other facts as we go along, won’t we?” Mrs. Jeffries gave Luty a wide smile. “You’ve done a remarkably good job.”

“Better than I have,” Betsy chimed in. “I didn’t learn nothing today.”

Mrs. Jeffries patted the girl on the arm. “That’s all right, dear. You’ve certainly done more than your fair share in the past. By the way, does anyone know what’s keeping Wiggins?”

Mrs. Goodge frowned darkly. “He’s probably out chasin’ after that Sarah Trippett and forgettin’ he was supposed to be back here.”

“If not Miss Trippett,” Betsy said, “then some other girl. Honestly sometimes that lad gets his head turned by nothing more than a hint of a smile.”

Smythe snorted. “’E’s not the only one.”

“What do you mean by that?” Betsy demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at the coachman.

“I expect my meanin’s clear enough,” he replied. “You’ve got no call to always be on about Wiggins when you’re no better than ‘e is. All that Edmund has to do is crook ‘is little finger and you go runnin’.”

“That’s a bloomin’ lie.” Betsy leaped to her feet, her blue eyes blazing fire.

“Now, now, you two,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “Stop it this instant. We’ve enough problems on our plate just now without the two of you quarreling.” She turned her head and gazed sternly at Smythe. “I do believe you owe Betsy an apology for that last remark,” she said firmly.

Smythe’s lips flattened to a thin, mutinous line.

“And,” Mrs. Jeffries continued, turning her gaze to the maid, “I believe Smythe does have a point. None of us has the right to constantly assume Wiggins shirks his duty because of a pretty face.”

Betsy dropped her gaze and slipped back into her chair. “All right, I’m sorry for what I said about the lad.”

“Sorry, Betsy,” Smythe mumbled.

Everyone turned and looked at Mrs. Goodge. She sighed. “Oh, all right, I shouldn’t have said what I did either. Now, is everyone happy? Can we get on with this?”

“Indeed we can,” Mrs. Jeffries stated firmly. She told them all about her visit with Elspeth Blodgett, stressing the fact that Mrs. Blodgett claimed the police had never bothered to ask her whether or not Jonathan Felcher had been home on the night of the murder.

“That don’t sound right,” Mrs. Goodge said. She sliced off another slab of seedcake and put it onto her plate.

“I know,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. “It certainly is peculiar. The police are generally very thorough in their investigations.”

“Do you think this Mrs. Blodgett could be lyin’?” Smythe asked.

Mrs. Jeffries thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think she’s necessarily lying, but I do think it’s possible she’s made a mistake.”

“Mistake?” Luty asked. “Hepzibah, no offense meant, but the way the law dresses in this country, it’s purty danged hard to mistake them for anything other than what they are.”

“I quite understand your point, Luty,” Mrs. Jeffries explained, “but what I’m saying is that I don’t think that the police neglected to go ‘round to Mr. Felcher’s lodging house and ask about his whereabouts, but I do think it’s likely that they didn’t speak to Mrs. Blodgett. They probably spoke to her hired girl. Mrs. Blodgett seems to spend a good deal of her day out of the house.”

“But why would the hired girl lie for Mr. Felcher?” Betsy asked.

“I don’t think she did. But she’s Russian. Mrs. Blodgett told me herself that the girl can barely speak English.” Mrs. Jeffries stared thoughtfully at Luty. “With all your connections, Luty, do you happen to know anyone who speaks Russian?”

“Russian, huh?” Luty’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “Don’t think I can help you much there. Now, if you were lookin’ for some Germans, I could find you a couple of them faster than hot beer down a hog’s gullet.”

“I know some Russians,” Hatchet announced.

They all stared at him in surprise.

“I’ve several acquaintances from Russia,” he continued, ignoring their incredulous expressions. “And if it would be helpful, I’ll be happy to take one to Mrs. Blodgett’s lodging
house and see if the girl did indeed speak to the police.”

“Why, thank you, Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “That would be very helpful indeed.”

“Why?” Luty asked. “What difference does it make? We already know that Mrs. Blodgett said Felcher wasn’t there that night.”

“True, but I’d like to know why the police have given up their investigation into Mr. Felcher’s movements,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “And furthermore, Mrs. Blodgett has a bit of a grudge against Mr. Felcher. She seems most put out that he’s leaving the country next week. I don’t think she’d be above trying to get him into a bit of trouble by spreading the rumor that he wasn’t where he claimed to be that night. And we do need to know for certain.”