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

the page. Betsy blinked, trying to tear her gaze away

from the gorgeous dress. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

“It’s very much like one done for the Countess de

Parma,” Sophia replied proudly. “Not exactly like it, of

course, but very close.”

Betsy forced herself to look away from the beautiful

dress. She had to keep her mind on why she was here. “The

countess must have looked lovely. You must have a lot of

posh customers. Are any of them aristocrats?”

Sophia said nothing for a moment, and Betsy was sure

she’d made her move too soon. Then Sophia grinned. “Not

that many, and, frankly, they’re a lot more trouble than

they’re worth. But Mrs. Tortelli likes doin’ for them because

they bring us business.”

“Truth to tell, that’s why I came,” Betsy laughed. She

was relieved the girl hadn’t gone all toff-nosed and proper

on her. “I do need a dress, and I can afford a nice one”—that

was true, she could—“and I heard that Sir George Braxton’s

daughters come here for their clothes. Mind you, I don’t

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

139

know them or anything like that, it’s just that one of my acquaintances mentioned you did their dresses.”

“Not anymore,” Sophia said with a shake of her head.

“Mrs. Tortelli stopped taking their custom when Miss Charlotte Braxton wouldn’t pay for a very expensive traveling dress we did for her last year. She still owes us, and do you

know what? Just the other day, they sent a boy here wanting

to know did we have any funeral clothes for hire.” She

pursed her lips and shook her head, clearly disgusted. “We

couldn’t believe it. Have you ever heard of such a thing,

wanting to hire mourning clothes. For goodness sakes, it’s

not like you’re only going to wear them once. Proper

mourning lasts for a year.”

“That’s terrible.” Betsy clucked her tongue. “But if

they’ve had a death in the family, perhaps they’re not thinking clearly. Shock does that sort of thing to some people.”

“Shock, my foot,” Sophia snorted. “Nothing could shock

that family. Aristocrats or not, when they don’t pay their

bills, they’re nothing more than thieves.”

“How dreadful. Why don’t you take them to court?”

Betsy asked.

“Mrs. Tortelli was going to, but yesterday Charlotte

Braxton came in and paid part of what she owed. She

claimed she’d pay the rest as soon as the estate was settled. I

was quite shocked. Can you imagine? She’s already talking

about her inheritance, even Mrs. Tortelli was surprised.

Mind you, she was glad to see part of her money.” Sophia

seemed to catch herself. “Oh, dear, this is terrible, I’m supposed to be showing you wedding-dress patterns, not sitting here chattering like a half-wit.”

“Oh, but chatting is so much more interesting,” Betsy

said eagerly. She had a feeling the girl didn’t often get to

talk to young women her own age. “Especially when it’s

140

Emily Brightwell

about people like the Braxtons. Who would have thought

they didn’t pay their bills?”

“That’s not the worst of it,” Sophia sniffed. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard, it’s been in all of the papers.”

“What has?” Betsy asked.

“The reason they needed mourning clothes,” Sophia

replied. “It wasn’t just a death in the family. It was a murder, and it was Sir George got done in. Of course, everyone’s pretending to be so surprised, but no one really is, if you get

my meaning.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes, considering all the things they say about that

family, it’s no wonder one of them ended up dead. First of

all, Sir George was playing with fire by hiring that man who

does the gardening, and then, of course, there’s that talk

about Miss Charlotte.”

Betsy already knew about Randall Grantham and that

Charlotte Braxton loved to travel. But just in case there was

something else, she said, “Miss Charlotte, the one who owed

you money for a long time?”

“That’s right.” Sophia nodded eagerly. “Mrs. Tortelli

heard from Mr. Parnell, he’s a cabbie that works out of the

stand over near the train station that he’s taken Miss Charlotte across the river on more than one occasion.”

“Across the river?” Betsy repeated. She hadn’t a clue

what that meant, but she had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with a trip to the continent.

“For card games,” Sophia’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“That’s where they have them, at private houses across the

river.”

“You mean—”

“That’s right,” Sophia exclaimed, “Miss Charlotte likes

to gamble.”

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

141

*

*

*

Inspector Witherspoon stared at Nina Braxton in exasperation. “Miss Braxton,” he said. “The question is very simple.

Please tell us what you were doing on the day your father

died.”

“I’ve already told you that.” She folded her arms over her

chest. “And I don’t care to repeat myself.”

“You’ve told us where you were on the evening your father was murdered,” Barnes clarified. “What we’d like to know now is what you did the afternoon of that day.”

Barnes had been somewhat surprised when Witherspoon

had initiated this line of inquiry, but he’d learned long ago

that no matter how irrelevant some questions might seem,

there was generally a good reason to be asking them. Besides, he suspected that Mrs. Jeffries might have put a flea in the inspector’s ear about finding out what everyone was doing on the day of the murder.

She stared at them for a long moment. “I spent the

greater part of the afternoon going over some financial papers, and then at four o’clock, I met with the builder.”

“The builder?” Witherspoon pressed. “Would you explain that, please?”

“My father was getting estimates on having the conservatory dismantled so it could be sold.”

“Your father had you deal with such matters?” Witherspoon probed.

“He wasn’t particularly interested in dealing with tradespeople,” she replied. “So he asked me to take care of it.”

“What’s the name of the builders?” Barnes looked up

from his notebook.

“Curriers, they’re in Twickenham,” she said. “I dealt

with Neil Currier.”

“What time did Mr. Currier arrive?” Witherspoon asked.

142

Emily Brightwell

He’d no idea if any of this information was going to be useful, but for some reason after he’d finished his breakfast this morning, he’d found himself wondering if perhaps it might

have been something that happened early in the day that

precipitated the murder.

“Four o’clock. I met with him and his assistant in my father’s study,” she replied.

“How long were you with them?” Barnes asked.

“It was close to five o’clock when they