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

“I see.” Witherspoon was very confused. He’d no doubt

the place had been thoroughly searched, especially given the

manner in which the victim had been murdered. Gardening

tools like shovels and spades were the sort of object that

could have easily been used as the murder weapon, and even

the most inexperienced of constables would have had a good

look at them. This was a puzzle. But then again, this entire

murder was a mystery. He’d no idea what the motive might

be, he’d no idea who might have killed the fellow, and they

hadn’t come close to finding the murder weapon. This case

wasn’t going very well at all.

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“What on earth is going on here?” Clarence Clark closed

the conservatory door and glared at the two policemen.

“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Clark,” Witherspoon said.

“We’ve something we’d like to show you.” He pointed at

the stain. “Do you have any idea what this might be?”

Barnes stepped to one side to give Clark a better view.

He also tucked the tiny bundle of tissue and hair neatly into

his palm and out of sight.

“What what is?” Clark asked impatiently. “Why are you

in here? How did you get in anyway? The door is always

locked.”

“It wasn’t locked, Mr. Clark,” Barnes said easily. “And I

came in looking for the inspector. Could you please answer

our question?”

“You and I were just in here a few minutes ago,” Witherspoon reminded him. “Perhaps you forgot to lock it when you left. Now, sir, will you please answer the constable’s

question?”

Clark knelt down and stared at the pavement. “It looks

like a stain,” he said irritably. “It’s probably from one of my

fertilizer mixtures. I do a lot of experimenting.”

“We’re fairly certain it’s blood,” Witherspoon said softly.

“And we’d like to know if you have any idea how it got there.”

“I’ve no idea how it got there, if, indeed, it’s blood. Oh,

wait, it could be that wretched cat.” Clark stood up and

smiled slyly. “Sometimes he catches vermin and brings

them in here. He doesn’t eat them, of course. He simply tortures them and plays with them till they die of fright, then he mangles them up and puts them in Sir George’s room.

It’s quite fitting, I should think.”

Wiggins didn’t have much time. He looked up and down

the quiet Knightsbridge street, but he saw no one. Thank

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goodness it was still so cold—it kept people indoors. He

found a handhold in the ivy that covered the wall, and in a

few seconds he was up, over, and inside the communal garden of Luty’s elegant house. He dodged behind a tree trunk and then stuck his head out, making sure there was no one

outside. But his luck seemed to be holding, as the garden

was empty save for a few birds that darted from tree branch

to branch. He hurried toward Luty’s house and then dodged

behind another tree trunk when he got close. He looked up

at the balcony protruding from the second floor. Those were

Luty’s rooms, but he had no way of getting up to them. He

pulled out a pebble he’d stuck in his pocket earlier, took a

deep breath, prayed that Luty was in her room, and took

aim. He heard the pebble strike stone and knew he’d missed

the window, so he tried again. This time, he heard the soft

ping as the pebble hit the glass. He waited and waited and

waited. Finally, when he was getting ready to try a third

time, he heard a door open. But it was the door down here,

the one that led from the kitchen to the garden. Blast a

Spaniard, now he was done for, he turned, intending to

sprint for the wall, when a soft voice hissed, “Wiggins? Is

that you?”

Wiggins whirled around and saw Luty standing in the

back door, waving him over. She was wearing a bright red

dressing gown over which she’d thrown a green-and-gold

striped mantle. “You’ll catch your death out ‘ere,” he said

softly as he ran toward her. “It’s bloomin’ cold. Get back

inside.”

“Don’t be silly.” She looked over her shoulder toward the

kitchen. “I’m fit as a fiddle, but hurry, we don’t have much

time. Come on.” She motioned for him to follow her.

Wiggins wasn’t sure going into the house was such a

good idea, but he did as she instructed. As soon as he

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115

stepped inside the hallway, she closed the door softly and

then shoved him through another door into the wet larder.

It was almost as cold in there as it had been outside.

“Hurry up and tell me what’s goin’ on,” she demanded,

“and be quick about it. They’re goin’ to come looking for

me soon, so don’t waste time arguing.”

“The inspector caught the Braxton case,” Wiggins

whispered, “and we’ve got to get it solved by Christmas. I

tried to get in to see you this morning, but it was impossible.”

“Don’t worry about that.” She pulled a handkerchief out

of her pocket and blew her nose. “I know you did yer best.

Just tell me what we know so far.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it? I’d feel terrible if you got

ill again,” he said.

“Don’t let these sniffles fool you, boy. I’m strong as a

horse. Besides, I can do like Mrs. Goodge and do plenty of

investigating right from inside this house. Now tell me

what’s what.”

Wiggins gave her a quick, concise, and well-ordered report on what they’d learned so far. “I’m just on my way back for our afternoon meetin’,” he finished, “so I can get you another report tomorrow.”

“That’ll be tricky,” she replied. “But we can manage.

Come around nine o’clock. Hatchet will be gone by then,

and I can send Julie over to the chemist’s. I can keep the

others busy on some pretense or another. I’ll make sure this

door is unlocked, you stick your head in and make sure it’s

all clear before ya come upstairs. You’re a smart boy, that

oughn’t to be a problem for ya.”

“You’ve got a lot of faith in me.” Wiggins looked uncertain. “Won’t your kitchen staff be comin’ in and out?”

“Nah, there ain’t that many of ‘em here. I let most of

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them have a few days off for Christmas, so there’s just a few

of us here in the house.”

“All right,” he promised. She