The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (3 page)

“I doubt that, sir,” Barnes put in dryly. “The way I see it, your missus was probably dead before she hit the floor.”

Witherspoon shot Barnes a frown. Really, sometimes his constable was so tactless.

“That’s no comfort,” Hodges moaned. “I’ll never forgive myself. Never. I should have come straight home from the station and checked on her.”

“Could you explain that a bit further, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

“We’d gone to see a medium, a Mrs. Esme Popejoy.” He shrugged. “I know that sounds rather absurd. I’m not a believer, but my wife is, or was. Mrs. Popejoy is quite well known, at least in some circles. When the séance was over, she asked me to escort her to the train station. She was going to visit a sick friend in Southend and she was rather frightened of going to the station by herself at that time of night. It was a decidedly awkward position. Well, I could hardly refuse the woman, and I thought Abigail would be perfectly safe coming home in a hansom. I didn’t really feel I could say no to Mrs. Popejoy’s request. At the time I thought it the only decent thing to do.” He frowned uneasily and looked away. “Abigail wasn’t pleased. We had words when I put her in the cab. That’s why I went to my club.”

“And what club might that be, sir?” Witherspoon asked.

Something that sounded very much like a sniffle accompanied Hodges’s reply. “Truscott’s, near St. James Park.”

Before Witherspoon could ask another question, Barnes stuck his oar in. “And what time did you arrive at your club, sir?”

Hodges sniffled again. “It was ten-thirty. I remember because the clock was chiming the half hour when I entered the lounge.” Suddenly his shoulders slumped and he lifted his hands to cover his face. Soft, quiet sobs racked him.

Witherspoon and Barnes stared helplessly at one another. Obviously the poor man was so overcome by grief he couldn’t answer any more questions.

Rising to his feet, the inspector said, “Perhaps, sir, it would be best if we continued the questioning at a later time.”

He and Constable Barnes quietly left the room. When they were in the hall, Witherspoon said, “Is someone taking a statement from the niece and the servants?”

“Miss Marsden isn’t here, sir. One of the housemaids told me that the girl had gone to the ballet with a friend and was
spending the night there. We’ve sent a constable ‘round to fetch her. And as for the servants”—Barnes snorted—“one of the lads has already told me we won’t get much out of them today. The housekeeper is the only one on the premises that isn’t havin’ hysterics. Do you want to talk to her now?”

The inspector sighed. “I suppose we’d better.”

“Should I have the lads start a house-to-house?”

“Wait until after Potter’s seen the body,” Witherspoon replied. “Perhaps he’ll be able to at least estimate the time of death. Asking questions is always so much easier when you can pinpoint the likely time the crime took place.”

Barnes looked doubtful. “But what if Potter can’t or won’t estimate the time? You know how he is, he won’t want to say a word before he does the autopsy. And you know as well as I, sir, that the longer we wait before questionin’ the neighbors, the worse everyone’s memory gets.”

“True,” Witherspoon admitted. “Then go ahead with the house-to-house now, have our lads ask the neighbors if they saw anything suspicious last night. Anything at all.”

“Do you think the inspector will be home on time for his dinner?” Mrs. Goodge asked. The cook cast a worried glance at the oven, where a nice bit of lamb was roasting.

“I expect so,” Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, replied. The servants at Upper Edmonton Gardens, home of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, had just finished their evening meal. “He’s not involved in any important cases now, so I don’t see why he shouldn’t be here at his usual time.”

“More’s the pity,” the maid, Betsy, added. “He hasn’t had a good case since November. I tell ya, it’s right borin’.”

“I don’t think it’s borin’,” Wiggins the footman said. A wide, cheerful grin spread across his round face. “I think it’s nice. Restful like, gives a body time for other things in life.”

“Hmmph,” Betsy said. “You’re just happy the inspector’s not on a murder, so ya don’t have to give up none of your
courtin’ time. Not that it’s done ya much good. That Sarah Trippett still ain’t givin’ you the time of day.”

“Now, now, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries admonished. “Let’s not tease Wiggins. He’s got a right to privacy.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “I wonder where Smythe is this evening? He’s late.”

Smythe, the inspector’s coachman, for all his independent ways, might be late for a meal, but he rarely missed one completely.

“’E didn’t say nothin’ about bein’ late this evenin’,” the cook muttered. She shoved her empty plate to one side, rested her plump arms on the table and gazed thoughtfully at Betsy. “But then again, he were a bit miffed when he left this mornin’. I could hear the two of you havin’ a go at each other. What were that all about?”

Everyone looked at Betsy. She stared fixedly at her lap as a bright blush spread over her cheeks. Mrs. Jeffries sighed. Really, this was becoming tiresome. For the past few months Betsy and Smythe seemed to be at odds every time one turned around. “Oh dear. Did you and Smythe have words again this morning?”

Betsy raised her chin and tossed her head, sending one long blond curl over her shoulder. Her blue eyes flashed defiantly. “It weren’t my fault this time,” she said. “I don’t know what’s got into that man. He walks around ‘ere with a long face, snarlin’ and snappin’ at people and stickin’ ‘is nose into where it don’t belong. Well, this mornin’ I got fed up and told him to mind his own bloomin’ business.”

“Admittedly Smythe hasn’t been in the best of moods lately,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed thoughtfully. She’d assumed that Smythe, like the rest of them, had a bad case of the winter doldrums. The weather hadn’t been very good, the excitement of Christmas was over and, even worse, the inspector hadn’t had a good case for them to snoop about in since November. But as she gazed at Betsy’s stubborn expression she wondered if perhaps there might be more to Smythe’s bad temper than a prolonged case of boredom.
“But I am surprised he actually missed his meal. He must be very annoyed with you, Betsy. Would you like to tell us why? Perhaps we can help.”

Betsy sighed. “Oh, all right. Smythe’s got a flea in ‘is ear over me goin’ to that spiritualist tomorrow night with Luty Belle.”

Mrs. Goodge snorted. “I don’t think it’s Luty Belle that he objects to,” she said. “More like that young man who’s escortin’ the two of you.”

“And who might that be?” Mrs. Jeffries was curious. Though most households made young female servants account for every moment of their free time, she’d always made it a policy not to interfere.

Betsy went back to staring at her lap. “Edmund Kessler,” she mumbled. She raised her chin. “But it’s all quite respectable. Luty’s goin’ too. It’s not like I’m goin’ out and about with ‘im on my own. Edmund’s just a friend.”

Wiggins snickered. Mrs. Goodge snorted again and even Mrs. Jeffries raised an eyebrow. Edmund Kessler had been hanging about now for two months. No wonder Smythe was annoyed, the housekeeper thought. Every time one turned around, Edmund was underfoot—ever since they’d met the young man two months ago at a music hall. Luty Belle Crookshank, a rather elderly, wealthy and eccentric American, had taken them all on the outing in gratitude for the help they’d given her in finding a young friend of hers who’d turned up missing. During the course of that investigation, the servants of Upper Edmonton Gardens had also helped solve a rather nasty double murder, not that one ever let on to anyone that one did such things, Mrs. Jeffries thought.

Save for a few trusted friends who were privy to their investigations on the inspector’s behalf, it was a decidedly well-kept secret. Their dear employer, whom they all liked and admired tremendously, was completely in the dark about their activities. And they were committed to keeping him in the dark as well.

But unfortunately one of the results of their lovely outing to the music hall had been that Mr. Edmund Kessler, bank clerk, had become smitten with their Betsy. He’d also become a bit of a nuisance.

Edmund had contrived excuse after excuse for seeing the girl. He brought Mrs. Goodge recipes, he kept them apprised of where the best bargains for household linens were to be had and he’d even gone so far as to help Wiggins wash the front windows. But Mrs. Jeffries knew that the girl wasn’t really interested in the poor lad. Why, she was actually quite surprised that Betsy had even agreed to go to a séance with him. It wasn’t like the maid to lead the boy on. Betsy must really want to go to that séance.

“Well,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “I expect Smythe is over his bad temper by now. He’ll come home in his own good time.”

The words were no sooner out of her mouth than they heard the backdoor opening and the subject of their conversation stepped inside.

Smythe was a tall, powerfully built, dark-haired man with heavy, almost brutal features usually softened by a generous smile and a pair of twinkling deep brown eyes fringed with long lashes.

He was not smiling tonight, nor was there a cocky grin on his face.

“It’s bloomin’ cold out there,” he said, shrugging off his overcoat and hanging it on the oak coat tree. “Almost as bad as last year.”

He walked to the table, his big body moving almost silently despite his being such a large man. Under his arm he carried a folded-up newspaper. Smythe’s heavy dark brows came together in a scowl when his gaze fell on Betsy. She refrained from looking at him. Instead, as he tossed the evening paper down at his place at the table, she snatched it up and opened it.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, easing himself into a chair and ignoring the fact that Betsy had pinched his newspaper.

“That’s quite all right, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries assured him, “we’ve already eaten, but Mrs. Goodge has your supper warming in the oven.”

The cook started to heave her considerable bulk to her feet, but the coachman stopped her. “Don’t trouble yerself gettin’ up,” he told her. “I can wait a bit fer me dinner and I can get it myself.”

“We were having a nice natter about Betsy goin’ to that spiritualist,” Wiggins said innocently.

Smythe’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing. The footman didn’t appear to notice.

“I’m only goin’ ‘cause it might be interestin,’” Betsy said. She put the paper down. “Not like we’ve got much else to do.”

“I don’t see what’s so excitin’ about wantin’ to talk to a lot of dead people.” Wiggins helped himself to another currant bun. “Let the dead rest in peace, that’s what I always say. I mean, how do they know what’s goin’ to ‘appen in the future.”

“You don’t go to a spiritualist to find out about the future,” Betsy argued.

“Then why do you go?” Smythe asked quietly. He reached for the pot of tea and poured some into his mug.

“Lots of reasons,” Betsy replied. “It’s interestin’; it’s different.”

“It’s silly,” Smythe said, and smiled at Betsy’s outraged gasp. “For once, the lad is right. Spiritualism and séances are a right old load of rubbish. The only people who take notice of such stupid carryin’s-on are gullible old ladies and stupid twits.”

“Are you calling me a twit and Luty Belle stupid!”

“If the shoe fits, wear it.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew she really should intervene. This was getting out of hand. “Now really, this must stop. Calling one another names is vulgar. And I do believe that however the rest of us feel about spiritualism, Betsy and Luty Belle have
a perfect right to investigate any…er…philosophical avenue they choose.”

“I don’t reckon it’s the girl that’s so eager to go as it is Luty Belle,” Mrs. Goodge commented. “Frightening though it is, I’m forced to agree with Wiggins. Let the dead stay dead and buried. Seems to me if you keep botherin’ ’em with a lot of tomfool questions, they’ll get right annoyed! Probably tell a packet of lies just so you’ll leave ’em be.”

“Leave off it,” Smythe snapped. “You’re all talkin’ about it like it were real. Spiritualists are nothin’ but a bunch of thieves takin’ hard-earned money off the likes of gullible girls like Betsy and old women like Luty.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave up. She might as well let them argue.

“A fat lot you know about it,” Betsy responded. “You’ve never been to one.”

“And I’ve got too much sense to go to one too.”

Oh well, Mrs. Jeffries thought as the debate raged around the table, there was nothing wrong with a free exchange of ideas and opinions. Her gaze fell on the newspaper. She scanned the page quickly, and a small article at the bottom of the front page caught her eye. She snatched the paper up and hurriedly read it.

“You’ve just got a closed mind,” she heard Betsy snap.

“And I intend to keep it closed to bloomin’ rubbish like that,” Smythe shot back.

“Why does anyone think the dead wants anyone talkin’ to ’em?” Wiggins asked.

“This is quite an interesting article,” Mrs. Jeffries began. Everyone ignored her.

“You can get advice from ’em,” Betsy said heatedly. “They’re on the other side, they can keep you from makin’ terrible mistakes, help you with your investments and such.”