The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (25 page)

“By all means, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, hastily putting his fork down next to his plate. “Do tell.”

“Supposedly Mrs. Trotter has been walking the streets of London looking for her daughter.” She gave an embarrassed smile. “Twenty years ago Mrs. Trotter had an illegitimate child. Mrs. Hodges helped to adopt the child out. I’ve heard that Mrs. Trotter wanted the child back. But Mrs. Hodges refused to tell her where the girl was. She promised Mrs. Trotter that upon her death, she’d leave a letter naming the adoptive parents of the child.”

Witherspoon looked shocked. “How very strange.” He started eating again.

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him. “But, sir,” she finally said, when he continued shoving peas in his mouth, “don’t you see, that means Mrs. Trotter had a motive for Mrs. Hodges’s death.”

“Oh yes,” the inspector replied. “No doubt Mrs. Trotter is a tad peculiar in her habits, but as it happens, we know she had nothing to do with the murder.”

Now it was Mrs. Jeffries’s turn to be surprised. “How do you know?”

“Because of her habit of walking the streets.” He smiled knowingly. “She’s known to many of our lads, you see. She was seen on the night of the murder by one of our constables. Mrs. Trotter was hanging about Waterloo Bridge for hours that night. She was seen getting into a hansom cab around eleven. Another constable saw her in the area near Mrs. Bush’s house less than half an hour later, so whatever motive she may have had, however odd the woman is, she couldn’t have committed the murder. She hadn’t time.”

“I see,” Mrs. Jeffries commented. “Your constables have obviously been very busy.” She knew perfectly well Thomasina Trotter wasn’t the killer, but she had hoped
to muddy the waters a bit and get the inspector’s mind off Felicity Marsden and Benjamin Vogel.

“We do our best,” he replied proudly. “I say, is there any pudding tonight?”

“There’s a Royal Victoria.”

“Ah, delightful. Her Majesty’s favorite.” He chuckled. “And mine too. Will you share some with me?”

“No, thank you, I’ve already eaten.” Mrs. Jeffries decided to try a different approach. “You know, sir, I’ve been thinking about something you said. You once told me that appearances are often deceiving.”

“Really? I said that?”

“Yes, sir. It was during those horrible Kensington High Street Murders.…”

The inspector shuddered. “Please, Mrs. Jeffries, not while I’m eating. That case was absolutely dreadful.”

“I know, sir, but you solved it.”

“Of course I solved it,” he said, “but to be perfectly honest, I can’t quite remember how.”

“You did it by not being deceived by appearances, sir,” she replied.

“You’ve a remarkable memory, Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Not as good as yours, sir,” she shot back quickly. “Well, I was thinking about something else you mentioned about the Hodges case, and naturally the two ideas began to flow into one in my mind.”

He gazed at her quizzically. “I don’t believe I understand what you’re getting at. What specifically are you referring to about the Hodges murder?”

Mrs. Jeffries knew she had to tread carefully here. “Appearances, sir. That’s what I’m getting at. Mr. Hodges and Mrs. Popejoy appear to have an alibi.…”

“But of course they do,” he protested. “We double-checked with Mrs. Popejoy’s friend. She saw them together at the train station.”

“Yes, but did she really see them, or did she only think she saw Mr. Hodges? You’ve said it yourself, sir. Sometimes
eyewitness evidence is the least reliable. Ten people will see the same incident, and if you ask them to describe what they saw, they’ll each describe something different. And what about Mr. Felcher? Was he really in his rooms, or did he only make it look like he was there in order to fool his landlady into saying he was?” She spoke quickly, earnestly; she had to get the inspector to start looking beyond the obvious.

He frowned in confusion. “I’m not really sure I understand.”

She forced herself to laugh. “Now, sir, you know very well what I’m doing. You’re just up to your old tricks and teasing me a bit. Why I’m repeating your own advice to you and you’re sitting there letting me go on and on.”

Witherspoon laughed as well. But she could still see the uncertainty in his eyes. He really had no idea what she was getting at. “Perhaps I am, Mrs. Jeffries. Er, what do you think I’m going to do next?”

“That’s an easy one.” She smiled smugly. “You’re going to do what you always do and double-check everyone’s alibi. You’re going to send some constables out to have a word with the hansom drivers in the area and see what else you can discover. You’re going to continue searching for Miss Marsden and Mr. Vogel, and once you find them, you’re going to ascertain if their flight was caused by panic or by guilt. And last but not least, you’re going to confirm that Mr. Felcher really was in his rooms.” She sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “You can’t fool me, sir. I know how that brilliant brain of yours works. You’ve been planning on doing this all along.”

The inspector didn’t retire for the night until after 9:30. Mrs. Jeffries, who’d been keeping an eye on the clock, hurried down to the kitchen.

She was greatly relieved to see Betsy sitting safely next to Mrs. Goodge. “Thank goodness, you’re back. Has Wiggins come back yet?”

“He come in a half hour ago, dropped that bundle of clothes on the floor,” Mrs. Goodge replied, pointing to a paper-wrapped parcel lying by the dish cupboard, “and then he went up to bed.”

“Good.” Mrs. Jeffries walked over and picked up the parcel. She came back to the table, sat down and turned to Betsy. “Were you successful?”

“Everything went right as rain,” Betsy announced. “I did just like you said. The shop was still open when I got there, so I went in and got a good look at him. Then I waited for him to come out. I saw him wearin’ his hat and coat.”

Mrs. Jeffries untied the string and pushed the brown paper aside. Standing up, she shook out a man’s coat. “Now, think carefully,” she instructed Betsy, “was the coat Mr. Phipps was wearing like this one?”

“That’s it, all right.” Betsy pointed to the slightly flattened bowler. “And he had on a hat like that one too. I also got friendly with a girl who works for Mr. Phipps. She’s a right little chatterbox, too. Told me all sorts of things about Mr. Phipps.”

“’Ere, don’t I get a turn?” Mrs. Goodge chimed in. “It’s gettin’ late and I’ve got to be up early if I’m going to have a word with the milkman.”

“Let Mrs. Goodge go ahead,” Betsy said magnanimously. “The rest of what I’ve found out isn’t much more than gossip. It can wait a bit.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I found out a bit of what you wanted. I wasn’t able to learn if Mrs. Popejoy was anywhere near the Lake District when the first Mrs. Hodges drowned, but I did find out that she and Mr. Hodges have known each other a lot longer than they let on.”

“Peter was right, then,” Betsy interjected.

Mrs. Goodge nodded. “He certainly was.” She gazed at Mrs. Jeffries. “Remember when we heard that Madame Natalia claimed that Mrs. Popejoy weren’t a real medium and had probably worked in the music halls?”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded.

“As luck would have it, my sister’s husband’s cousin works in one of them music halls, has for years. Knows everyone and everything that goes on. Well, I sent him a note as soon as we were finished this afternoon, and while you and the inspector was at dinner, Ernest—that’s the cousin—he dropped ‘round. He told me that Esme Popejoy used to work in a theatre in Leeds. A real ratty place, didn’t do much business and had the worst acts you’ve ever seen. Mrs. Popejoy used to do a mind-readin’ act. But you’ll never guess who owned the theatre.”

“Leonard Hodges?” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

“That’s right. It were one of his investments.” Mrs. Goodge smiled triumphantly. “Now can you tell us who the killer is?”

“Not yet, Mrs. Goodge,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I really need to speak to Smythe before I make an accusation. Betsy, did Mr. Phipps remind you of anyone?” She wanted to make sure she didn’t plant the suggestion in the girl’s mind. If her theory was correct, there was only one person that Ashley Phipps could resemble.

Betsy hesitated. Mrs. Jeffries’s heart plummeted to her toes. Oh dear, what if she was wrong?

“He didn’t act like him much, Mr. Phipps is a right nervous, rabbity sort of feller, but from a distance he looks an awful lot like Leonard Hodges.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t get much sleep that night. She was absolutely sure she knew what had happened on the night of the murder, but she was having a difficult time thinking of a way to get Inspector Witherspoon to come to the same conclusion. She wasn’t so terribly sure that sending Luty Belle to a séance at the Popejoy house was going to accomplish her goal.

By five o’clock, she decided that trying to sleep was pointless. She got up, lit a lamp and walked over to her desk. She might as well write everything out—perhaps
putting pen to paper would help her tune the finer points of her plan.

Sitting down, she reached for her letter box. She reached in to get some paper when suddenly her fingers stilled. Of course, she thought, notes. Why, it would fit right in. It would work perfectly if the timing were right. And, of course, if Smythe confirmed the last bit of evidence she had to have.

Luty Belle and Hatchet arrived just after the inspector had left for the morning. Mrs. Jeffries hurried them into the kitchen. Smythe, Betsy, Mrs. Goodge, Wiggins and Fred were waiting.

Smythe gave them a bleary-eyed glance and then rubbed his hand across the stubble on his cheek. “Cor, it’s been a long night. Let me say my piece so I can get a bit of sleep.”

“By all means, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly, “speak right up. You’ll need a bit of rest. We’re not through with this case yet and I fear I shall have you running about even more before today’s over.”

He yawned. “Right. I went to Southend, just like you told me. Miss Trainer’s ‘ouse is just down from a pub, so I tried there first. But I didn’t have much luck, none of her servants was in that night and no one knew much about ‘er. Spinster lady, keeps to ‘erself mostly.”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said.

“Don’t fret, Mrs. J. I didn’t let that stop me.” He suddenly grinned. “There’s more than one pub in Southend. The third one I tried, I got lucky. There was a lad in there that does odd jobs for the lady. He knows all about ‘er. Said she were a silly, nervous woman it’d be dead easy to fool. He also told me she’s very shortsighted, but she won’t wear her spectacles.”

“Excellent, Smythe.” Mrs. Jeffries turned to Luty. “Were you able to arrange things for tonight?”

“Edmund’s goin’ ‘round to see Mrs. Popejoy this mornin’.
I told him to fix it for seven o’clock.” Luty cocked her head to one side. “Are you gonna tell us who done it?”

“In good time, madam,” Hatchet interrupted, “in good time. We haven’t heard what Miss Betsy has to say yet.”

“Thank you, Hatchet,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She smiled at Betsy. “I believe it’s your turn now.”

“Like I told Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge last night, I saw this Ashley Phipps fellow,” Betsy began. “And I also did a spot of diggin’ about him. He was gone on the night of the murder, and even better, he’s been in love with Mrs. Esme Popejoy for ages.”