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

but he didn’t want the lad to be stuck at home twiddling his

thumbs while they waited for the police to clear out of the

Braxton house.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find someone to talk to me, I always

do.” Wiggins smiled gamely. “Cor blimey, but I feel so bad

about poor Luty and Hatchet bein’ left out.”

“We’ll tell them tomorrow,” Smythe promised. “Now

get on with you, time is awastin’, and we’ve got to be back

for supper or Mrs. Goodge will ‘ave our ‘eads.”

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Emily Brightwell

Wiggins laughed and hurried off. Smythe pulled open

the door of the pub. The bar was straight ahead. The barman

stood behind the counter polishing glasses. He looked up as

Smythe stepped inside. A couple of men dressed in working

clothes were standing at the bar, two men wearing suits

were sitting at a table by the small fireplace, and an old man

smoking a clay pipe was sitting on a bench next to the door.

Everyone looked at him. This wasn’t good. The place was

dead quiet. He’d never get anyone to talk. In his experience,

people tended to talk freely when a pub was noisy, crowded,

and filled with drunks. But he was here now, he might as

well give it a go.

“What can I get for you?” the barman asked as he

stepped up the counter.

“A pint, please.”

“You a stranger in these parts?” The barman shoved a

glass under the keg and pulled the spout. “I’ve not seen you

in here before.” His voice was just a tad unfriendly.

“Never been ‘ere,” Smythe replied. “Why? You only

serve locals?”

An embarrassed flush crept up the barman’s broad face.

“We serve the public,” he muttered. He gave Smythe his

pint. “No offense was intended. I was just making conversation.”

“No offense taken,” Smythe said easily. “I expect everyone’s a bit nervous, what with murder ‘appenin’ around these parts,” he commented. He was fairly certain that whatever chance he might have had at getting any information was now ruined. He shouldn’t have reacted so harshly, the

whole neighborhood was probably nervous. People tended

to get suspicious of strangers when murder had been done.

The barman grunted in agreement. “Murder’s rare

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57

around these parts.” He picked up a towel and wiped the

end of the tap.

“Wonder if they know who did it?” Smythe watched the

barman over the top of his tankard. Maybe it wasn’t hopeless after all. The fellow was talking.

The barman looked at Smythe curiously. “When did you

hear about it? Is it in the papers?”

“Nah, it only ‘appened last night,” he replied. He was

prepared for the question. “But people were talkin’ about it

at the train station this morning and at the café next to it. I

overheard one fellow say he thought it was that Ripper fellow that did it, the police never caught him.”

“It weren’t the Ripper,” one of the taller of the two men

at the other end of the bar said. “It was probably one of the

poor sods who worked for him.”

“Mind your tongue, Harry,” the barman snapped. “You’ll

not be speaking ill of the dead.”

Harry snorted in digust. “Just because he died doesn’t

make him a saint. He treated his servants worse than a dog,

and that’s fact. Look how he done our Addie.”

“For goodness sakes, Harry, that was two years ago. Ad-

die’s married and moved to Brompton now.” The barman

shook his head. “Give it up, the man’s dead.”

“Don’t like to be speakin’ out of turn,” Smythe said to

Harry. “But what did he do to . . . uh . . .”

“He tried to stop her last quarter’s wages when she give

notice,” Harry replied. His companion nodded his head.

“Can you believe it? That bunch had worked her like an animal, and when she’d finally had enough and found another situation, he said he’d not pay her.”

“So she left without her wages?” Smythe pressed. That

could be a motive for murder.

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Emily Brightwell

“Oh, no, he had to pay up, we threatened him with the

law, so that toff-nosed daughter of his gave Addie her

money. But that’s the way he treated everyone, even that

cousin of his works like a dogsbody about the place to earn

his keep.”

“I’m glad the young lady got what was due her,” Smythe

said. He wanted a few more details.

“With no thanks to that tightfisted sod,” he said.

“Harry, let him rest in peace,” the barman said softly.

Smythe wondered if the barman would be quite so compassionate if Braxton had died owing him any money.

“Why do you care?” Harry’s companion asked accusingly. “You didn’t like him any better than we do.”

“No, I didn’t, but it just don’t seem right to talk about

the man when he can’t defend himself,” the publican

snapped. He looked at Smythe. “You want another pint?”

“No, thanks, this will do me.” Smythe had a feeling that

the well had finally gone dry.

Wiggins rubbed his hands together to keep them warm.

Sheen Common was a cold, miserable, and ugly patch of

ground. Even worse, it was almost empty. A lone man walked

slowly up a footpath on the far end, and there was a telegraph

boy hurrying across the other end. All in all, the prospects for

finding someone to talk to didn’t seem very good.

He sighed and wondered what he ought to do. He’d been

here for almost an hour, and he was near frozen, but he

didn’t dare go near the Braxton house. He desperately

wanted to have something to report at today’s meeting.

Maybe the telegraph boy was a possibility? Maybe he was

taking a message of importance to someone that had something to do with the murder. Wiggins turned to see where the lad had got to, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. Then

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59

he decided it was just as well, telegraph boys were trained

not to talk to people about the contents of messages.

Cor blimey, it was getting cold. He’d seen a café just near

the railway station; he’d get a cuppa and see if he could find

anything useful there. Wiggins headed toward the Upper

Richmond Road. Just as he reached the edge of the common, an auburn-haired woman wearing a wool hat and long gray coat entered the common. She walked past Wiggins

without a glance, her attention focused on the far side of the

common. She wasn’t