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

when he got her with child, he made her send the child away

the moment it was born. Can you imagine such a thing?” Her

eyes narrowed angrily. “It’s one thing to dismiss a servant that

gets herself in that condition, but it’s quite another to keep

the woman on, why it’s a bad example for the rest of the staff.”

Luty stared at her incredulously. “Are you tellin’ me you

think he was a cad for lettin’ the woman keep her job?”

Hilda looked annoyed. “Of course not, he was a cad for

seducing the poor woman in the first place. The honorable

thing to have done in the circumstances would have been to

send her off with a settlement so she could have a least kept

her child. Gracious, Luty, what sort of heartless monster do

you think I am?”

“You’re not a monster.” Luty grinned. “But you do have a

peculiar way of describin’ things. How long ago was all this?”

“Oh, it was back when I was much younger, a good

thirty years ago.”

“What happened to the child?”

“I’ve no idea.” She shrugged. “It was sent off as soon as it

was born.”

“Sent off where?” Luty asked.

Hilda pursed her lips in thought. “I don’t know, I expect

the boy was sent to a foundling home or to one of the

woman’s relatives. But I honestly don’t remember.”

C H A P T E R 9

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Inspector Witherspoon climbed the stairs to Upper Edmonton Gardens and stepped inside. He was so glad to finally be home. “Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries. I believe it’s going to

snow again.”

“I do hope not, sir. We’ve far too much to do before

Christmas, and bad weather makes everything twice as difficult. Gracious, you look exhausted.” Mrs. Jeffries helped him off with his bowler and heavy black overcoat.

“I am tired,” he admitted. “It’s been a very busy day and

I’m not sure we’re any closer to discovering who murdered

Sir George Braxton,” he sighed. “This might be the one that

defeats me, Mrs. Jeffries.”

“Nonsense, sir,” she said briskly. “You’ll do just fine, you

always do. Just you wait, sir, at the very last minute, all the

clues with come together in your mind, and you’ll know the

identity of the killer.”

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“I do hope you’re right. We had another meeting with

the chief inspector this afternoon. He wasn’t pleased with

the progress we’ve made on the case.”

“Not to worry, sir, you’ll solve it soon. I’ve every faith in

your abilities, and I’m quite sure the chief inspector does as

well. Would you like a sherry, sir?” she asked.

He smiled wearily and started for the dining room. “Not

tonight. I think I’ll have my dinner and retire.”

“That’s a pity, sir,” she hurried after him. “Lady Cannonberry came home today and stopped in to say hello. She was hoping you’d feel up to going over to see her this evening. But if you’re too tired, I’ll send Wiggins to convey your regrets.”

He skidded to a halt and whirled to face her. “Lady Cannonberry is home, and she wants to see me? Tonight?”

“Indeed she does, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She was

hoping you’d come by before dinner.”

He grabbed his bowler and his coat. “Would you ask

Mrs. Goodge to hold dinner for a little while? I’ll just pop

along and say a quick hello.”

Mrs. Jeffries regretted that she’d have to wait to get today’s information out of him, but it was worth it. A sad inspector wasn’t of any use to anyone, least of all himself. “Of course, sir. Dinner will be served when you return. You’d

better take your umbrella, sir. It’s starting to rain.”

But as he’d already dashed out the front door and down

the steps, he didn’t hear her warning. Mrs. Jeffries laughed

softly and went down to the kitchen. “He’s gone to Lady

Cannonberry’s,” she told the others, “so we’re going to have

to wait until later to find out what he learned today.”

“Let’s hope he’s not too tired to talk about it later,” the

cook muttered as she covered a plate of buns with a towel.

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“We don’t want him retiring to his bed without telling us

what’s what.”

“Not to worry,” Betsy said as she dried the last of their

supper plates, “we can always find out what we need tomorrow morning.”

Mrs. Goodge snorted, “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve

been able to find out what you needed to know. I’ve not had

such an easy time of it.” She broke off and frowned.

“Where’s Wiggins? I wanted him to lift that sausage maker

off the top shelf in the dry larder.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Smythe offered. “The lad’s taken Fred

for a walk. He said for us not to worry if he was gone for a

while. ‘E said poor Fred needed a bit of a romp. I think ‘e

was goin’ to take the animal to Holland Park.”

Wiggins did take Fred to Holland Park, but not because

he needed a romp. “Come on, boy, hurry up. It should be

around ‘ere somewhere. Luty said ‘e lived off the ‘ere somewhere. Blast, I ‘ope ‘e’s in tonight. It’s cold, and I don’t fancy doin’ this again.” He put his mittened hand into his

jacket pocket and made sure the note Luty had entrusted to

him was still there. He came to the corner and sighed in relief. “There it is, Bastion Street, come on, boy, let’s scarper.”

Picking up his pace, he ran around the corner. Fred, thinking this was a wonderful game, trotted along happily at his feet. They made their way up the road, Wiggins squinting

in the darkening night at the house numbers. “Cor blimey,

looks like we’re in luck, they’ve got lights on. Now you be a

good fellow and stay put.” He wound the dog’s lead around

a lamppost. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

He dashed up the short walkway to a narrow, three-story

redbrick home, lifted the brass knocker, and let it bang

against the wood. A moment later, a young red-haired maid

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answered the door. She looked at Wiggins suspiciously.

“Yes, what do you want?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Josiah Williams. I’ve a note for him

from Mrs. Luty Belle Crookshank.”

“Who’s there, Matilda?” A deep male voice came from

inside the