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

dreadful to think there’s murder about at what should be

the season of forgiveness.” The moment she said the words

she realized she was being ridiculously sentimental. She was

the widow of a Yorkshire policeman and the leader of the

inspector’s household. She knew that the season of forgive

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ness had no meaning for some individuals. She’d been involved with enough homicides to know that murder knew no season. It happened all the time. As a matter of fact,

she’d noticed that murder tended to happen more often

when family and friends spent substantial amounts of time

with one another.

Betsy, the slender, blue-eyed, blonde-haired maid

brought her cup of tea to the table and sat down in her usual

place. “I’d not mind slogging about in the wet if it meant

we were on the hunt, so to speak. It does keep life interesting, doesn’t it? Besides, a bit of snow never hurt anyone.”

The maid was engaged to the coachman Smythe, and

their wedding was set for June. Because of Smythe’s economic circumstances, she knew that once they were married, her days investigating homicides might be numbered.

She wanted to get in as many cases as she could before it all

came to an end.

“That’s true, but it’s not very pleasant to be out in the

wet,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She was a plump woman of late

middle age with auburn hair and brown eyes. She’d been

housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon for several

years now, and she, along with the rest of the household,

was very involved in helping to solve their inspector’s murder cases. Of course, he’d no idea he was getting their assistance, and they were determined to keep it that way. But Mrs. Jeffries secretly took a great deal of pride in knowing

that their small band of dedicated sleuths had sent him

from the Records Room to being the most famous homicide

investigator in all the country. “I wonder where Wiggins

and Smythe have got to? They promised they’d be back for

tea this afternoon.”

“Smythe’s gone to Howards’ to make sure his darlings are

warm and snug in their stalls,” Betsy grinned. Her beloved

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Emily Brightwell

was quite fond of the inspector’s two carriage horses, Bow

and Arrow.

“And I sent Wiggins over to Luty’s with some of my

chicken broth,” the cook added. She frowned slightly. “Luty

isn’t getting over her cold, she’s had it now for two weeks.”

Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet were two

special friends of the household. They’d gotten involved in

one of the inspector’s earlier cases, and they’d insisted on being included ever since then. Both of them had taken to homicide investigations like ducks to water.

“Sometimes it takes the elderly a bit more time to recover,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She’s under a doctor’s care.”

“Yes, but is she actually doing what the doctor tells her

to do?” Betsy mused. “You know how stubborn she can be.”

“She’s stayin’ abed most of the time and takin’ her medicine, not that I think all them potions and pills doctors use nowadays do all that much good,” Mrs. Goodge put in.

“That’s why I sent my broth along, it’ll fix her right up.

Mind you, I expect it’ll put that nasty cook’s nose out of

joint. But I don’t care. Luty must get well, and those fancy

French chefs haven’t got any idea about what a body really

needs when it’s feelin’ poorly.”

They heard the back door open and the sound of heavy

footsteps coming along the back hall. “Cor blimey.” Smythe

pulled off his hat and brushed the snow off of it as he headed

toward the coat tree. He was a tall, muscular man with

harsh features, dark brown hair, and kind brown eyes. “It’s

startin’ to come down fast out there.”

“How are the horses?” Betsy asked as she reached for the

teapot and poured him a cup. “Nice and snug in their

stalls?”

“They are now.” Smythe slipped into the chair next to

Betsy. “The stable lads aren’t used to this kind of weather,

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and the owner is out of town for the day. No one ‘ad thought

to make sure there was a bit of ‘eatin’ in the stable. But I

soon set them right.” He glanced around the table, his

brown eyes narrowing in concern as he saw Wiggins’ empty

seat. “Isn’t the lad back yet?”

“Don’t worry, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’m sure Wiggins has enough sense to stay at Luty’s if the snow comes down hard.”

Smythe didn’t look convinced, but he held his peace.

“What ‘ave you ladies been talkin’ about?” he asked as he

took a sip of tea.

“We’re complainin’ we’ve not got a murder,” Mrs.

Goodge said quickly. “It’s right borin’.”

The cook had once been something of a snob in the way

that only an English servant could be. Before she’d come to

this household, she’d have been scandalized by the very idea

of being associated with something as vulgar as a murder.

But she’d changed a great deal since being here, and she

wouldn’t trade this position for anything, not even if the

queen herself offered her a post.

Mrs. Goodge had a vast network of former associates, tinkers, deliverymen, match sellers, flower girls, and mush fakers that trooped through her kitchen on a regular basis. She fed them tea and pastry, and they fed her clues about the

suspects in whatever case the household happened to be investigating. Nothing she’d ever done in her life made her feel as proud as helping with the inspector’s cases.

“Murder or not, I don’t know that I’d like to be out in

this.” Smythe jerked his thumb toward the windows over

the sink. “I’ve never seen this much snow in London.”

“I do hope the inspector gets home soon,” Mrs. Jeffries

murmured. “The roads will be a bit of a mess. But I expect

he’ll take a hansom if it gets too bad.”

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“ ‘E’d probably do better walkin’,” Smythe retorted. “The

roads are already a mess. Where’d he go today?”

“He’s at the Yard,” she replied. “There was some sort of

meeting with Chief Inspector Barrows.”

The back door opened again, and they heard footsteps,

just as their mongrel dog, Fred, who’d been sleeping peacefully on the rug, shot to his feet and ran toward the back hall.

“ ’Ello old feller,” they heard