The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries (8 page)

“I see.” She smiled slightly. “Well, in that case, I shall answer the question. I’ve worked for Mrs. Hodges for twenty years, and as it happens, I did see a stranger in the neighborhood on the night she died.”

“Before you go into that,” Witherspoon interrupted. He’d suddenly remembered there were several basic questions concerning this household that he hadn’t asked. “Could you please tell us precisely what everyone in the household was doing prior to being given the evening off?” He was quite
proud of himself for thinking of that line of inquiry.

Surprised, Mrs. Trotter stared at him. “How on earth is knowing our movements going to help?” She shrugged. “But I assume you should know your business.” She made it clear from her tone that she didn’t believe this for one minute.

“Just tell us what everyone in the house was doing from,” he said slowly, “er, five o’clock onward.”

“Everyone with the exception of myself was eating their supper here in the servants’ hall. We’d already been told Mr. and Mrs. Hodges were going out for the evening.”

“They weren’t planning on dining at home?” Witherspoon asked.

“No. They were dining with Mrs. Hodges’s nephew, Jonathan Felcher. He’d offered to take them out to dinner and they’d accepted.” She laughed harshly. “They were so stunned to actually receive an invitation from him! He’s usually around here cadging meals off them. But that’s neither here nor there. At half past five, the maids cleared up the dishes and cleaned the hall. Cook left to go visit her half sister in Notting Hill.”

“So you knew by this time that Mr. Hodges was giving you the evening free?” the inspector said quickly.

“Oh no. Cook always went to her half sister’s on Wednesday evening,” Mrs. Trotter replied. “Mr. Hodges didn’t tell us we had the evening free until well after cook had left. It was probably close to six o’clock. The maids—they’re sisters—immediately left to catch the late train. Peter, the footman, disappeared, probably to go to his father’s, and I gathered my things and went to visit my old nanny in Fulham.”

The inspector’s head was spinning. He took a deep breath and tried to think of the next reasonable question. “May we have the lady’s name and address?”

“Wouldn’t you rather I tell you about the strange person I saw hanging about?”

“Er, uh, yes.” Witherspoon decided he could wait a few moments for the nanny’s address. He hated being rude.

“It was a woman. She was standing just at the corner and I happened to notice her because she was completely veiled.”

“Perhaps she was in mourning,” Witherspoon suggested.

“In a red veil?” Mrs. Trotter replied. “No, this woman was standing at the end of the street. Just standing there. It didn’t strike me as odd at the time; I thought perhaps she was waiting for someone. But given what happened, it seems to me she was watching the house.”

Beside him, Witherspoon heard Constable Barnes sigh softly and he knew what that meant. This evidence, if evidence it even was, was utterly useless.
After
a crime had been committed, people could always remember a suspicious character or two in the neighborhood. However, none of these people were ever suspicious enough
before
a crime was committed to warrant anyone even mentioning them to a policeman! And finding a lone woman who’d happened to be standing on the same street as the Hodges home on the day of the murder would be an impossible task. And on top of that, the woman probably had absolutely nothing to do with the crime.

Mrs. Jeffries paused at the corner and gazed at her surroundings, looking for a likely hiding place in the event that Inspector Witherspoon or one of his constables happened to come out of the Hodges house. She could hardly claim she’d come to return his glasses or his watch. The inspector had slipped out this morning before she’d had an opportunity to appropriate either item from his coat pockets. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her. It was imperative she see the house and, if possible, the scene of the crime itself.

Camden Street came off the busy thoroughfare of the Queens Road. The Hodges house was a large red-brick Georgian at the end of the street. It was separated from its neighbor by a large stretch of garden on one side and enclosed by a six-foot stone wall on the other side.

She hurried to the corner and came alongside the ivy-covered stone wall. Her footsteps seemed inordinately loud as she walked along the pavement stones searching for a gate. When she found the gate, it was locked. She glanced up and saw the tradesmen’s bell and, for one long moment, seriously considered giving it a good yank. But she immediately discarded that idea. It was far too likely that a policeman might answer that summons.

Thinking hard, she continued walking, her hand trailing idly against the wall, her fingers skimming over the leaves and brushing lightly against the stone. Suddenly her fingers stilled and she stopped. Leaning close, she saw that there was another, smaller, wooden gate set in the wall. Because of the heavy foliage, it wasn’t noticeable. She pushed slightly against the wood and smiled as it silently swung open a few inches. Peeking inside, she saw that the latch was gone and the gate had been held shut merely by the connecting strands of ivy. She shoved again and managed to open up a space big enough to squeeze through.

Once inside, she stood stock-still and examined the area.

The ivy extended for a distance of about eight feet. Mrs. Jeffries could see that only inches from where she stood, the plants had been trampled. A vague but direct line of trampled vines led from the gate to the grass. She suspected she knew now how the killer had made his escape. Turning, she looked at the gate again and shook her head. If her fingers hadn’t been brushing that wall as she passed, she’d have missed it completely.

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t usually leap to conclusions. However, in this case she made an exception. If, indeed, the killer was the one who’d made those faint tracks through the ivy to get away, then that person was someone who knew this garden well. That gate was too well hidden to be discovered by a casual thief.

Mrs. Jeffries wasted no time. Keeping her head down and dodging from one low-lying clump of bush to another, she was making her way to the Hodges house when the
backdoor opened and a man and woman came outside.

The woman was dressed in an elegant, long-sleeved mourning dress and the man was wearing a well-cut suit. She didn’t think they were servants.

Praying they were too preoccupied with one another to notice her, she treaded softly across the grass to the only available hiding place, a giant oak tree. In front of the tree was a bench. Mrs. Jeffries made it to the other side of the trunk only seconds before the two stepped off the path and onto the grass verge leading to the bench.

“Well, my dear cousin,” the man said as soon as the woman had seated herself. “Don’t you think wearing mourning is a mite hypocritical or did you and dear Aunt Abigail manage to settle your differences?”

“We had no differences,” the woman replied. “Furthermore, I’m of age. Aunt Abigail couldn’t stop me from doing as I chose.”

He laughed. “Come, come now. This is Cousin Jonathan you’re talking to, remember. We both know you’d never risk your comfortable life here by offending our late, sainted aunt.”

“Don’t be disgusting, Jon,” she snapped. “Abigail’s dead. Can’t you let her rest in peace.”

“My, my, little cousin,” he said. “Have we had a change of heart now that she’s gone? Or could it be that now that you’re set to inherit half of everything, you’re inclined to be generous?”

Mrs. Jeffries held her breath and flattened herself closer to the tree. She prayed that neither of them suddenly got the urge to get up.

“I’m not interested in Abigail’s money,” the woman cried passionately.

“Aren’t you?” he replied, his voice so low that Mrs. Jeffries had to strain to hear. “Aren’t you in the least interested in money, my dear cousin? Now that she’s gone, you can marry that poor clerk you’re in love with. Isn’t it fortunate how things work out.”

“I’m not in love with anyone,” she cried. “And if you’re implying I had anything to do with Abigail’s death, you’re wrong. You’ve more reason to want her dead than me. You hated her, remember.”

“I remember,” he replied grimly. “And unlike you, I won’t play the hypocrite. I’m glad she’s dead. With her gone, I shall have control over my father’s estate.”

“What makes you think so?” she said cattily. “You’ve no reason to think that Leonard will instruct the solicitors any differently than she did for all those years.”

He sighed. “Oh Felicity, you’re so very naive. Dear Uncle Leonard doesn’t give a toss about my piddly little trust. He’s getting the other half of Abigail’s estate. Other than money, Leonard’s only interested in one thing, and it isn’t business.”

“You’re being revolting again.”

“I’m being truthful. Now that Abigail’s out of the way, he’ll have even less reason for being discreet. I’m sure with the proper persuasion I can convince Leonard to let me have control of my trust. Why not? I’m thirty years old.” He laughed again. “You’re the one with the problem, my dear. Last I heard, that clerk of yours had other fish to fry. Even with half of Abigail’s money, it may be too late.”

She jumped to her feet. “You really are revolting. Benjamin loves me, and if it hadn’t been for Abigail’s wretched interference, we’d have been married by now.”

“Calm down, calm down,” the man said soothingly. “You’re right, I’m being dreadfully rude. Forgive me, despite my cavalier attitude, hearing about Abigail’s murder has upset me. After all, I was one of the last people to see her before she died.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” the woman replied. “Leonard told me that after they left you at the restaurant, they went on to the stupid séance. There were at least seven other guests. By the way, how did you come up with the money to take them out for a meal?”

“I had a spot of luck on a horse and decided to repay my dear aunt’s many kindnesses to me,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You mean you wanted to trap her long enough so she’d have to listen to another one of your silly business schemes.”

“They aren’t silly,” Jonathan snapped vehemently. “If the old witch had given me my money when I wanted it last year, I’d be a rich man now. Do you have any idea how much silver that mine has produced?”

Mrs. Jeffries straightened nervously as she heard the sound of footsteps pounding across the grass.

“Excuse me, sir,” an excited female voice exclaimed, “but the inspector from Scotland Yard would like to have a word with you now.”

As soon as the twosome had followed the maid back into the house, Mrs. Jeffries peered out from behind the tree to make sure the coast was clear.

Keeping her head low, she crept closer. A series of steps led from the edge of the garden onto a low-walled terrace that opened from what looked like the drawing room. Ducking down, Mrs. Jeffries made her way to the other side of the terrace and the small backdoor that led off the flat, rough-stone service porch.

She studied the area carefully. The first thing she noticed was the service door didn’t have a keyhole, which meant that it latched from the inside. Next to the door was a long, rectangular pane of glass, and beside that, the broken shell of a larger window that had had all its glass knocked out. Mrs. Jeffries frowned. Why hadn’t the burglar knocked out the small window and then reached inside and unlatched the door? Why take the risk of someone hearing the shattering of a large pane of glass when one could just as easily have knocked out the small one and gained entry through the door?

Suddenly she heard the inspector’s voice from deep inside the house. She quickly crept back behind the wall surrounding
the terrace and hurried back the way she’d come.

As she walked towards the Queens Road Mrs. Jeffries realized she’d learned an enormous amount of information. Now she had to think of a way to ensure that Inspector Witherspoon learned it as well.

But there were two very important facts that were uppermost in her mind. First, Abigail Hodges had not been much loved, and second, whoever killed her was either the worst kind of bungling burglar or a very clever murderer.