Mrs. Jeffries & the Silent Knight by Emily Brightwell (black female authors .TXT) 📕

suddenly brightened. “But then again, it’s better than sittin’ ‘ere with Fred waiting for

everyone else to come back.”

C H A P T E R 3

�� ��

Barnes and Witherspoon waited until Miss Nina Braxton

had left them before they opened the door to Sir George’s

room and stepped inside.

The room overlooked the terrace. Against the wall in the

center of the room was a large bed with a canopy and dark

maroon side curtains tied back against the side rail. It had

been made properly, with the maroon bedspread pulled up

over a mountain of pillows against the ornately carved

wooden headboard. Next to the bed was a side table with

curved legs, on top of which stood a brass lamp and a copy

of the Times. On the far side of the room was a fireplace with

the same dark marble as in the drawing room. Over it was a

portrait of an elderly gray-haired woman wearing a blue

Empire-style ball gown. Two overstuffed chairs were in

front of the fireplace. A set of cut-glass whiskey carafes

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Emily Brightwell

stood on the top of cabinet next to one of the chairs. The

walls were done in an ugly gray-and-blue striped wallpaper.

“Blast,” Barnes muttered. “The room has been tidied up.

You’d think these people would have enough sense to let

things alone when there’s been a murder in the house.”

“It does muck about a bit with the evidence,” Witherspoon agreed. “But perhaps we’d best make sure. I mean, just because the bed has been made doesn’t mean that the room’s

been put right. Perhaps Sir George never got in the bed, in

which case, we’d best rethink some of our assumptions.”

“I’ll go and check, sir.”

While he waited for the constable to return, Witherspoon continued to study the room. The bed faced a set of double French doors that opened directly onto the terrace.

He wandered over to the doors and examined the area

around the lock. The paint was a dull gray color, done to

match to walls, but there were no scratches around the lock

nor any sign of splintered wood.

Barnes slipped back into the room. “Mrs. Merryhill says

the maid cleaned in here this morning. No one thought to

tell the girl to leave the room alone.”

Witherspoon turned the brass handle. It was good and

sturdy. “This appears to be in good working order. I don’t

think the lock has been forced. Did the housekeeper say

whether or not the door was open or closed this morning?”

“It was closed, sir. I asked that question straightaway. So

it looks like he went outside on his own and had the foresight to close the door behind him.” Barnes frowned. “Now why would an elderly man go out in the middle of the night

like that? The weather was miserable, and it was snowing.”

“I don’t know, Constable,” Witherspoon said softly. “But

this seems a very strange household. His daughters seem to

barely notice the poor man is dead, and getting a reasonable

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

47

answer out of anyone is almost impossible.” He had the feeling this might turn into a really unsettling case. “And I suspect the local lads resent us. I’m not sure that I blame them all that much, either.”

“Don’t let it worry you, sir,” Barnes turned in a slow circle, examining the room for clues. “They’ll come around. At least we’ve not got Inspector Nivens dogging our footsteps,

sir. This would be just his sort of case, he likes the ones that

get the most press coverage.” The moment the words were

out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back.

Barnes wasn’t an unduly superstitious person, but he had a

sudden feeling that he shouldn’t have even breathed Nivens’

name. But he shook the silly superstition off, Chief Inspector Barrows wouldn’t let someone as incompetent as Nivens near a murder case like this one.

Witherspoon walked over to the bed and scanned the top

of the bedside table. The newspaper was dated December

eighteenth, so it was yesterday’s, but that told him nothing

except that Sir George had read the paper. He yanked open

the drawer and rummaged inside, but he found only a tobacco pouch, a coin purse with a broken clasp, and an 1890

copy of Wisden’s Cricketer’s Almanack.

“He must have been keen on cricket,” Witherspoon murmured. He picked up the heavy book and fanned the pages.

But nothing fell out.

Barnes had gone to the tall wardrobe and pulled open the

double doors. The constable reached inside and pulled out

the first garment. It was an old-fashioned frock coat. He laid

it across the bed and began to methodically check the pockets. The inspector went to the bookcase, pulled out the first volume on the top shelf, and fanned the pages.

They spent the next hour searching the room but found

nothing that could constitute a clue. Witherspoon sighed as

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Emily Brightwell

they stepped out into the hall. “Let’s go talk to the servants,

Constable. Perhaps someone saw or heard something that

might be useful. We’ll start with the gardener and see what

he has to say. Then we’ll speak to the houseguests and

Cousin Clarence.”

Ten minutes later, they were in the butler’s pantry. A

slender, brown-haired man wearing a navy coat, workboots,

and carrying a workman’s cap in his chapped hands stepped

inside the room. “Mr. Clark said you wanted to see me.”

“Are you the gardener, the one who found the body?”

He nodded.

Witherspoon gestured at the empty chair on the other

side of the scratched table. “Please sit down. Could you

please tell us your full name and how long you’ve been employed here?”

“Name’s Randall Grantham, and I’ve been here about

three months,” he replied as he took a seat. He looked down

at the tabletop and began running his index finger over the

deep scratch marks in the wood. “I started on September

twenty-fifth.”

“And you’re the gardener?” Barnes clarified. He looked

up from his notebook. There was something about the man

that sent his copper’s whiskers bristling. Had he seen him

before?

Grantham snorted and jerked his attention away from

the tabletop. “If you can call it that,” he said sullenly.

“That’s what I’m supposed to be doin’, but Mr. Clark, he

fancies himself one of them naturalists or botanists or some

such thing. He generally has me fetchin’ and carryin’ and

doin’ for him out in that conservatory of his. Then I catch