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

asked, “and if so, do you mind letting us have a look at it?”

“Of course,” Venable who was quite formally dressed in

an old-fashioned frock coat, cravat, and stiff tie, reached inside his coat and pulled out a flat, maroon-colored notebook three times the size of Constable Barnes little brown book.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to read it to you, if you don’t mind. After all, most of these notes are for the Home Secretary and are confidential.”

Witherspoon hesitated for a moment, then nodded his

agreement. He’d no idea if the law allowed him to take the

private writings of a Home Secretary into evidence. Perhaps

it was best to see what those writings might be. After all, if

there was something useful, he was certain there would be a

way to enter it into evidence if it became necessary.

Venable grinned and flipped open the book. “I’ll read the

entry from the eighteenth. I shan’t bother with the mundane work details but shall begin at the part where he awakens me to come with him to the Braxton household.

Monday, December 18th, 1893

H.S. woke me at 3:40 A.M. and bade me get dressed and

come downstairs right away. I did as instructed and met

H.S. in the foyer. He bade me follow him, and the two of us

went outside to the house across the road, the home of Sir

George Braxton. When I asked H.S. what we were doing,

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he told me he’d seen several constables enter the premises of

Sir George Braxton, and that we’d best find out what was

happening. When I asked H.S. why he was up and staring

out the window at this hour of the morning, he bade me

mind my own business and do what I was told.”

Venable looked up, a blush staining his cheeks. “Sorry, I

meant to cross that bit out. But honestly, it was a reasonable

enough question considering the circumstances. I mean, after all, it was the middle of the night.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re absolutely correct,” Witherspoon

assured him. “Please, do continue with your narrative.”

Venable cleared his throat and started again:

“H.S. and I went across the road and up the drive to the

Braxton house. H.S. shouted at a constable who’d stuck his

head around the corner of the house, identified himself, and

asked what was wrong. The constable stated that Sir George

Braxton appeared to have been murdered. H.S. immediately demanded to see the body. The constable escorted us around the side of the house to the back garden. We saw a

large group of people huddled in a circle by the pond. The

constable announced our presence and H.S. demanded

everyone step back so he could have a look at the situation.”

“Excuse me,” Witherspoon interrupted, “but why don’t

you tell us in your own words what happened next?” This

was taking far too long and wasn’t particularly useful. The

inspector wanted details, the kind of small details that

might turn out to be important, that might point the way

toward the killer, because at this juncture, he didn’t have a

clue as to who was guilty.

Venable brightened immediately. “Oh, jolly good. Well,

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they were all standing around the corpse and H.S. went over

and asked what had happened. Everyone started talking at

once, so he shouted at them to be quiet—he rather likes to

shout, I think—and then asked who was in charge.”

“And who replied?” Barnes asked curiously. He wondered which of the three sisters had stepped forward.

“That was the problem, you see,” Venable said. “Virtually everyone claimed to be in charge, but finally, one lady in particular, I believe it might have been Sir George’s eldest

daughter, managed to out-shout the rest of them and got the

H.S.’s attention. She told him her father had been murdered,

and that they’d best find out who did it straight away.”

“She wanted justice for her father,” Witherspoon murmured.

“Oh, no, she said she didn’t want her fiancé’s holiday ruined.” Venable shrugged. “Even the H.S. was a bit taken aback. But being a gentleman, he said nothing.”

“Then what happened?” Witherspoon prodded. He was

getting very tired. This had been an exceedingly long day.

“The H.S. asked if they’d moved the body, and then another lady, I believe she was the housekeeper, said that they had.”

“Who exactly had touched the victim?” the inspector

asked. He’d no idea why this might be important. “I mean,

who’d pulled the fellow out?”

Venable thought for a moment. “I don’t believe the H.S.

asked that question. I do know that he insisted they put Sir

George back the way he’d been found.” He grinned at the

inspector. “Apparently, he’d already made up his mind to

send for you. As a matter of fact, I know he’d made up his

mind to send for you because he sent me to do it.”

“So you left at that point?” Barnes asked.

“That’s right.”

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Witherspoon frowned. “What time was this?”

He thought for a moment. “It must have been close to

four o’clock.”

The inspector nodded. “Can you tell me what you saw as

you were leaving?”

“What do you mean? I saw nothing, it was still dark.”

Venable looked confused by the question. “There were a

great number of people in the garden, they were all milling

about. But I can’t say that I saw anything in particular.”

Barnes knew the man had seen more than he realized.

“Did you notice if the lights were on in the room directly off

the terrace?”

“I don’t think so,” Venable murmured. “But there was a

light in the side hall, I remember seeing that as I walked

past to the front of the house.”

“How about in the front of the house, any lights there?”

Witherspoon asked.

“I’m not sure . . . wait, yes, there must have been, because I noticed a set of footprints running along the side of the greenhouse, and I wouldn’t have been able to see them if

there hadn’t been some light spilling out of the house

through the windows. I don’t know that it came directly

from the front of the building, but there was light enough

to see.”

“Where did these footprints lead?” the inspector asked.

They were probably made by either the police or someone

from the household, but it never hurt to ask.

“I’ve no idea, Inspector,” Venable admitted. “I’m sorry, is

it important? Well,