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

about the cat. God knows he’d harangued the rest of

us continually since the wretched beast went missing.”

“How long had you known Sir George?” Witherspoon

asked.

“Five years,” Brent replied.

“And did you like Sir George?”

Brent looked surprised by the question. “I didn’t really

know him all that well. This is the first time I’ve ever been

invited here.”

“I see.” The inspector’s mind went blank.

“Is there anything else?” Raleigh was already getting to

his feet.

“Not at present,” Witherspoon replied. “How long will

you be staying? We may need to ask you some additional

questions.”

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“Oh, I shan’t be leaving for a long while.” The man

smiled broadly. “Miss Lucinda Braxton has consented to become my wife, and I think it important that I stay on until this matter is sorted out.”

“Congratulations,” Witherspoon said. “Have you announced your engagement?”

“Not yet, we’ll wait a decent interval before we announce

it publicly. After all, Lucinda has just lost her father.”

“Are you keeping it a secret then?” The inspector had no

idea where that question had come from, but to his amazement, he saw a deep flush creep up Brent’s face.

“We’ve not told anyone. I only mentioned it to you because you asked if I was staying on, otherwise I wouldn’t have said a word.” He glanced at the door. “It doesn’t look

good, does it, I mean, announcing an engagement so soon

after a death in the family?”

“Not just a death in the family, Raleigh.” Fiona Burleigh

stepped into the room. “It’s a murder in the family. Let’s be

honest here, you wouldn’t have given a tinker’s damn about

marrying Lucinda Braxton as long as her father was alive.

But now that he’s dead, everything’s different, isn’t it?”

Smythe hesitated in front of the Dirty Duck Pub. He pulled

his heavy coat tighter as a gust of cold wind blew in off the

Thames. He knew he should be doing the investigating on

his own, but, blast, there was only so much you could find

out from cabbies and street urchins. Besides, what was

money for if you couldn’t use it as you saw fit?

He opened the door of the pub and squinted against the

dim light as he stepped inside. It was just after opening

hours, and the place was relatively empty. His quarry was

sitting at his usual table by the fire.

His quarry spotted him as well. Blimpey Groggins raised

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

87

his glass and waved. He was dressed in his usual checked

coat, white shirt, and dirty porkpie hat. A bright red scarf

was wound around his neck.

Blimpey Groggins bought and sold knowledge. He had

an army of bank clerks, street urchins, telegram boys,

household servants, and street vendors who kept him supplied with information. If a house had been robbed while its owner was in the country, Blimpey would have a good idea

who was behind the theft. If a member of Parliament was

leaving the country for a holiday, he’d know what train the

fellow was taking. Blimpey had once been a thief, but had

discovered that the negative consequences of getting caught

weren’t to his liking, so he’d taken his phenomenal memory

and put it to work for himself. He sold his information to

politicians, private inquiry agents, real estate developers,

and a whole host of people who were willing to pay to know

who was doing what to whom.

Smythe slipped onto the stool across from Blimpey.

“Hello. Blimpey. Keepin’ warm?”

“Doin’ my best, mate. I was wondering how long it

would be before you showed up.” Blimpey grinned.

“What’ll you have, mate?”

C H A P T E R 5

�� ��

“I’ve got a job for ya,” Smythe said. “And it’s a bit of a

rush one.”

“Take a minute to catch yer breath,” Blimpey replied.

“Come on, mate, it’s Christmas. What’ll you have to drink?

It’s on me.”

Smythe waved him off with an impatient gesture of his

hand. “I know what time of year it is and that’s why I’m in

such a bloomin’ rush. Do you want the job or not?”

“ ’Course I do, old friend, ’course I do. But there’s no reason you can’t take five minutes and be sociable, have a bit of Christmas cheer.” He gestured to the barmaid. “Now,

what’ll you ‘ave?”

Smythe suddenly felt mean and petty. Blimpey was a decent sort, and they’d known one another a long time. “It’s good of you to offer, I’ll ‘ave a pint. ‘Ow’s your good wife?”

“She’s fine, mate.” Blimpey grinned broadly. “She’s all in

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89

a state over Christmas, bakin’ up a storm and puttin’ out

pretty paper streamers. She even wants one of them Christmas trees like they ‘ave at the palace.” He looked at the barmaid and said, “Bring me another one, Agnes, and bring my friend here a pint of your best bitter, please.”

“Coming right up, Blimpey,” Agnes replied.

Blimpey turned back to Smythe and continued with

what he’d been saying. “I told her, I wasn’t sure where I

could even get one of them trees, let alone all the folderol

she wants to put on the thing, but she’s insistin’ that we

‘ave one.”

“Don’t tell me she believed that,” Smythe grinned. “You

can get your ‘ands on anything.”

“That’s just what she said,” Blimpey laughed. “So I expect I’d best make sure I do what’s right to keep the lady

‘appy.”

“You sound like an old married man,” Smythe said. As

he’d had a hand in bringing the two of them together, he

was pleased with Blimpey’s good-natured complaining

about his spouse. Smythe hoped he’d be doing some good-

natured complaining of his own in the coming years. But

first he had to get that ring on Betsy’s finger.

“It’s costin’ me an arm and leg.” Blimpey nodded politely as Agnes put their drinks down on the table. “But then again, that’s what money is for, inn’t it? Speakin’ of

money, why don’t you tell me what it is you’re needin’, my

good fellow.”

Smythe almost laughed out loud. “Pull the other one,

Blimpey, you know why I’m ‘ere.” He was certain that

Blimpey had already heard about the Braxton murder, and

he was equally certain that Blimpey had already sent out

some feelers about who might be responsible for the deed.

Blimpey survived by knowing things. He’d not want toffs

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to start dying without him learning what he could about

the situation. Knowing what was going on amongst