Free The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries by Emily Brightwell Page A

hansom.”
    “Did your aunt tell you where they were going?” Really, the inspector thought, the man acted as if he were bored. Wasn’t he in the least concerned with helping to catch his aunt’s killer?
    Felcher gave a condescending smile. “No, but Leonard did. Abigail had the good sense to be embarrassed by her foolishness. But her dear husband isn’t anywhere near as discreet! He let the cat out of the bag.” He broke off and laughed. “I don’t know who she thought she was fooling. Everyone knew she was always trotting off to mediums and spiritualists or whatever it is those people call themselves.”
    “So you knew she had an appointment with Mrs. Popejoy?”
    “But of course. Madame Esme Popejoy is the newest rage in some circles. Once Abigail heard of her, she didn’t rest until she’d badgered Leonard into wangling an introduction.”
    “Why did your aunt have such an interest in spiritualism?” Witherspoon asked curiously.
    “My late aunt was obsessed with communicating with the spirit of her son.” He yawned exaggeratedly. “A ratherpointless exercise if you ask me. The boy died when he was five. The lad could hardly be expected to have much to say.”
    Witherspoon stifled a sigh. This was getting him nowhere. What could Mrs. Hodges’s interest in spiritualism have to do with her murder?
    “Yes, yes, I’m sure that’s probably quite true,” the inspector muttered. He searched his mind for another pertinent question. “Did Mr. Hodges happen to mention to you that he’d given the servants the evening off?”
    Felcher’s eyebrows shot up. “Certainly not. Why would he tell me? I’m hardly likely to care one way or another.”
    “That is as it may be,” the inspector replied, refusing to give up, “but there is always the possibility he did mention it to you and you inadvertently mentioned that fact to the wrong person.”
    “The wrong person?” Felcher snapped, half rising from his chair. “Now, see here, I’m not sure I like your implication, sir.”
    “I’m implying nothing, Mr. Felcher. I’m merely trying to determine how the miscreants that robbed and murdered your aunt could have known the house was going to be unattended that evening.”
    Felcher relaxed back into his seat, his bluster dying as quickly as it had come. “Well, no one heard that information from me! I didn’t even know about it. I’m hardly privy to my aunt’s domestic arrangements.”
    “After you and the Hodgeses had finished your meal,” Witherspoon asked, “what did you do for the rest of the evening?”
    “What did I do?” Felcher stared at Witherspoon incredulously. “That’s hardly any of the police’s concern. Look here, I thought my aunt was murdered by a burglar. What’s that got to do with me? What’s that got to do with how I spent my evening?”
    “Calm yourself, Mr. Felcher,” Witherspoon said firmly. “Our questions are merely routine. You mustn’t readanything sinister into them. We’re asking everyone who saw Mrs. Hodges on the evening of her death the same thing.”
    Felcher didn’t look convinced. But he answered the question. “As soon as I put Abigail and Leonard into the cab, I went back to my lodgings. I stayed there for the rest of the evening. My landlady can confirm that.”

    It was midafternoon when Mrs. Jeffries arrived back at Upper Edmonton Gardens. The house was very quiet. Wiggins, Smythe and Betsy were still out.
    Mrs. Jeffries paused at the top of the backstairs. She heard the low murmur of voices. Quietly she tiptoed downstairs and peeked into the kitchen. She saw the cook sipping tea and chatting with the butcher’s boy and a man from the gasworks. Obviously Mrs. Goodge had gotten busy.
    She went back upstairs and pulled a feather duster out of the cupboard. As she dusted the drawing room Mrs. Jeffries thought about what she’d learned so far. She no longer had any doubts about this crime. It certainly hadn’t been a burglary gone bad.
    From what