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

information. “I’m wonderin’ if you could help me,” he began, his mind working furiously as he tried to come up with a plausible story this fellow would believe. “My mistress left

somethin’ important in a ‘ired coach the other night, and

she needs it back right quick.”

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Blackston shook his head. “We’ve not hired out any

coaches at night for nigh onto a week now. Are you sure the

coach was one of ours?”

“Now that’s just it,” Smythe replied. “She was picked up

around nine o’clock on the night of the eighteenth from the

end of Derby Hill Road by friends, and she just assumed the

coach came from here.”

Blackston patted the horse’s nose. “It weren’t one of ours,

sorry. I can’t help you.”

“Do you ‘ave any idea where it might be from?” he asked.

He’d started asking these questions just to get the man

talking, he’d no idea if anyone had been picked up near the

Braxton house or not that night, but he’d considered it

worth a try. After all, if the killer wasn’t someone in the

household, he or she had to get there that night some way.

“I mean, it’s real important I find out if any hired coaches

came or went from there that night.”

Blackston looked at him sharply, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re wanting to find out if anyone hired a coach from

here on the night Sir George Braxton was killed, don’t ya?

Don’t waste your time, man, the constables have already

been around here askin’ questions, and I’ll tell you the same

thing I told them. We stopped having anything to do with

Sir George’s household years ago, and we’ve not hired out a

carriage for more than a week, now get on with you. I’ve got

work to do.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to delay ya, but can ya tell me why

you stopped ‘avin’ anything to do with the Braxton ‘ousehold?” He figured he might as well ask.

Blackston gave an exasperated sigh. “What’s it to ya,

man?”

“It’s not just idle curiosity,” Smythe said quickly. “I’m

workin’ with a private inquiry agent to ‘elp find the killer.”

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151

He felt he was staying close enough to the truth here. In one

sense, they were private inquiry agents.

Blackston gave him a long hard stare and then said, “We

stopped dealin’ with them after Sir George ruined our best

carriage and then wouldn’t pay for the damage he’d done. It

was a good few years back, so if someone hired a carriage to

drive over and kill him that night, they didn’t hire it from

us. Now, get on with you, man, I’ve work to do.”

“Inspector, I know you’re doing your best, but you really

must try harder,” Chief Inspector Barrows said. He was

seated behind his desk with the inspector’s latest report

spread out in front of him.

Witherspoon was seated directly across from him. “Yes,

sir, I certainly will.” In truth, he didn’t see how he could try

any harder.

“Have you any idea who committed the murder?” Barrows asked.

“Not as yet, sir, but we’re making progress on the case.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you are. But could you hurry it up a

bit? We’re getting a great deal of pressure from the Home

Office, and they’re getting a great deal of pressure from

the—” He broke off and looked down at the report on his

desk. “Oh, never mind, suffice to say we must put this to

rest quickly, Inspector. That’s the reason I assigned you to

this case, now I trust you’ll not disappoint me.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“They want this case solved by Christmas,” Barrows

muttered harshly. “I don’t know what they expect us to do.

We can’t pull a suspect out of a hat. We’re not magicians,

we’re detectives.” He looked at Witherspoon, his expression

almost pleading. “Are you quite certain you’ve no really

good suspects?”

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“I’ve a goodly number of suspects, sir,” he replied. “Yet

there isn’t one that stands out as the killer. But we’re doing

our very best, sir. We really are.” He couldn’t promise to

catch the killer by Christmas, and he wasn’t going to arrest

someone just for show. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to

have a word with Mr. Venable again. I understand he was

there right after the body was discovered.” He’d no idea why

that idea popped into his head, but it had, and he was desperate enough to latch onto anything that appeared useful.

“Who?”

“Darwin Venable, the Home Secretary’s assistant.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. He was with the H.S. the night the

body was discovered,” Barrows murmured.

“I hope to ask him a few questions,” Witherspoon said.

“He might be quite useful. Unless, of course, you think I

ought to speak to the H.S. directly.”

“He’s already made a statement,” Barrows sighed, “and I

think it unlikely he’ll want to give another one. Besides, I

believe he’s gone to Scotland. You have a word with the assistant, and let’s hope for both our sakes that he remembers something useful.”

C H A P T E R 8

�� ��

“It’s gone cold again,” Mrs. Goodge commented as she put a

pot of tea in the center of the table. “Mark my words, we’ll

have more snow for Christmas.”

“I hope it holds off till then.” Betsy put a plate of seed

cake next to the teapot. “Bad weather makes it hard to get

about quickly. The trains are always late, the omnibus

doesn’t show up half the time, and I hear the lifts on those

new tube stations don’t work properly in the wet. I’d hate

for our investigation to be slowed by the weather.”

“Humph, seems to me it’s going slowly all on its own,”

the cook grumbled. She’d not had a good day. Half of her

sources hadn’t shown up, and those few that had trooped

through her kitchen hadn’t known much of anything. She

had very little to contribute to their meeting.

“I don’t know,” Wiggins said as he and Fred ambled into

the kitchen. “I think we’re doin’ just fine.” He’d not found

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out much himself, but helping Luty be a part of the investigation had restored his usual optimism.

“As do I, Wiggins,” Hatchet nodded at the footman.

“The information is coming in slowly, but I’ve no doubt

we’ll get to the right conclusion in the end.”

“I’m sorry to be late.” Mrs. Jeffries burst into the kitchen

behind the footman. She took off her jacket as she headed