Author: Emily Brightwell

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many as you’d see on a London high street. A weak sun peeked through an overcast sky, so it wouldn’t be bad weather keeping shoppers at home.

This was simply a much quieter neighborhood than the

ones in London. She’d have to be a bit more careful here.

Betsy studied the area, trying to determine where she

ought to go first. There was a greengrocer’s, a butcher’s, a

chemist’s and a baker’s. She’d developed a kind of “feel” for

which shop to go into and which shop to avoid. She watched

as two well-dressed matrons carrying shopping baskets

went into the grocer’s. That wasn’t the place to go, not yet.

Next, she saw an elderly woman wearing a heavy green wool

cloak shuffle into the chemist’s, and a moment later, she saw

a young maid dressed in a short, brown plaid jacket hurry

into the baker’s shop. Betsy headed for the baker’s.

As she stepped through the door, she was enveloped by

the scent of yeast and cinnamon. On the wall behind the

counter, row upon row of breads, cakes, pies, and buns filled

the shelves. The maid was at the counter, pointing at a loaf

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

of bread. “Cook needs another loaf, and she wants it put on

account, please.”

“Certainly, that’s one loaf for the Hadley account.” The

plump, middle-aged woman behind the counter pulled the

bread off the shelf and wrapped it in a sheet of brown paper.

“Anything else? We’ve some nice mince pies today, they’re

always nice this time of year. You might tell Mrs. Hadley

we’re running a special between now and Christmas.”

“I’ll tell her. Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett, that will be all for

now. But knowing Mrs. Hadley, she’ll have forgotten something, so you’ll probably see me later this afternoon as well,” the girl grinned. “Maybe she’ll even order us a mince

pie. That would be nice.”

“There was a lot of police down your way this morning,

Abigail,” Mrs. Bartlett continued as she handed the maid

the loaf. “I heard there was some trouble.”

“It was ever so exciting,” Abigail replied eagerly. “Sir

George Braxton’s got murdered. We weren’t supposed to

notice, Mrs. Hadley kept chasing us away from windows

sayin’ it wasn’t proper to see such things and murder wasn’t

supposed to happen in our neighborhood. But Lizzie and I

managed a few peeks, and we saw what was what. There

were police all over the place, and they were searchin’ everywhere.” She broke off and giggled. “Mind you, Mrs. Hadley doesn’t know it, but Lizzie and I saw her taking more than

one peek out the upstairs windows.”

“That’s terrible.” Mrs. Bartlett flicked a quick glance at

Betsy, assessed her dress in a split second and then went on

talking to Abigail. “Do they have any idea who did it?”

Betsy wasn’t offended. She’d worn her old gray jacket

and her plain black wool hat for just such a situation as this.

She’d found in the past that the lower down you looked to

be on the social ladder, the more people were apt to speak

Emily Brightwell

freely in front of you. In their past investigations, she’d always learned more when she wore her broadcloth working dresses than when she slipped on one of her “good” outfits.

Abigail shrugged. “The police are still up there, it’ll be

ages before they find out anything. Mrs. Hadley says she

thinks it must be that ‘Ripper’ feller. But I think that’s silly.

The Ripper only murdered women. Well, I’d best be off.

Mrs. Hadley needs this loaf for luncheon.”

Betsy was torn between following the maid and staying

where she was. Mrs. Bartlett obviously loved to gossip, but

the girl was obviously from a house close to the Braxton

home.

“May I help you, miss,” said Mrs. Bartlett. “I’m sorry, I

didn’t mean to ignore you. But we’ve had a spot of trouble

in the neighborhood, and I find it’s always best to be well

informed about one’s community. What can I get for you?”

Betsy made up her mind to stay. She could always try and

find Abigail later. “Those buns look wonderful.” She

pointed at a tray of buns on the shelf under the loaves. “I’d

like two, please. I couldn’t help overhearing, did you say

there had been a murder in the neighborhood? I’m not asking out of idle curiosity.”

Mrs. Bartlett pulled two buns off the shelf. “There’s

nothing wrong with curiosity, idle or not. That’s what

makes life interesting, that’s what I always say. Sir George

Braxton was murdered, and I’m not in the least surprised. I

don’t care if he is a baronet, he’s a strange one. Cheap as the

day is long, he is, and his household isn’t much better. You

know, they only buy day-old bread. Can you imagine such a

thing? He’s as rich as sin, but he’s too tightfisted to spend a

bit of coin for fresh bread.”

“My goodness, that’s terrible.” She wasn’t sure if she was

agreeing that the murder was terrible or whether it was ter

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

rible that the household only bought day-old bread. But it

apparently didn’t matter, Mrs. Bartlett didn’t stop talking.

“And his three daughters aren’t any better. Mind you, I

wouldn’t be surprised if one of them did the old blighter

in.” She leaned across the counter. “There’s no love lost between any of them. They’re all money mad, and that cousin of theirs, Clarence Clark, there’s some that say he isn’t really

a cousin, if you know what I mean.”

“Really?” Betsy had no idea what the woman meant, but

she was fairly certain she could find out. She prayed no one

else would come into the shop. She knew she’d struck gold.

Smythe and Wiggins stood in front of the Kings Road Pub

on the Upper Richmond Road. “Good, they’re open already,”

the coachman said, “so I’ll nip in and see what I can find out.”

Wiggins rubbed his hands together for warmth. “I’ll go

over to the common and see if anyone’s about. Is it a nice

common?” he asked. “You know what I mean, the sort of

place where people would walk and such?”

“It’s cold, lad, so they’ll not be many people out and