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

“I see. So you were going to see Sir George and tell him

of your concerns?”

“That’s right,” Flannerty said. He glanced out the window and then looked back at the two policemen. “I didn’t relish the idea of running to Sir George telling tales, but I

did think I had a responsibility to him the truth. Miss Nina

was simply risking far too much of their available capital in

enterprises that could be ruinous.”

“Ruinous?” Witherspoon asked. “Are you saying she

could have sent the family into bankruptcy?”

He shook his head. “Not bankruptcy, Inspector, but she

was close to losing almost all the amounts she was authorized to use.”

“So Sir George limited her authority,” Barnes commented. “We didn’t know that.”

Witherspoon looked puzzled. “You mean she had a set

amount of money she was allowed to invest? But I had the

impression she handled all the family finances.”

“To all intents and purposes she does,” Flannerty

replied. “Most of the family money is tied up in non-cash

assets that could only be spent if they were sold. Sir George

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never authorized Miss Nina to have access to any of those

assets. But he did give her complete authority over the investment account.” He shrugged. “It’s not surprising, since financial matters bored him to tears. He simply didn’t have

a head for it at all.”

“And your firm didn’t advise him?” Witherspoon

queried.

“We charge a fee for that,” Flannerty admitted, “and

frankly, there were times in the past where our advice wasn’t

very good.”

“He lost money?” Barnes guessed.

“I’m afraid so.” Flannerty leaned back in his chair.

“Sometimes, even the soundest-looking investments go bad.

Sir George wasn’t one to overlook the fact that our firm had

made recommendations and then charged him for the privilege of losing several thousand pounds.”

“Did Sir George have any idea why you were coming to

see him?” Witherspoon asked.

“Actually, he did. I’d run into him in front of the Corn

Exchange last week, and we spoke for a moment. I mentioned that I’d written to him requesting an appointment.

He said he’d received my letter and replied with one of his

own, specifying Monday at ten o’clock as a convenient appointment time.”

“Is that all he said?” Barnes asked.

“No. I was going to speak to the poor man about business, but I also knew that I was going to be talking about his child, his daughter. Sir George wasn’t a very nice person,

he certainly wasn’t sentimental by any means, yet I know he

was like any of us, he loved his children.” Flannerty smiled

sadly. “I wanted to give him a bit of hint so he wouldn’t be

totally surprised when I told him of my concerns. I don’t

think some surprises are good for men his age. So I told him

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I needed to discuss the matter of the investment account,

but he held up his hand and told me not to worry, that he

knew why I was coming and that we’d discuss the matter

then.”

“How could he have known why you were coming to see

him?” Witherspoon asked. “Had you mentioned it in your

note?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But he knew. He told me that

Nina had already spoken to him, and that he knew the investment account was almost empty.”

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“Are you sure about that?” Mrs. Goodge stared hard at the

delivery boy. Generally, she considered him as useless as the

lad who picked up the laundry, but he’d just given her a genuinely useful tidbit, and she wanted to make sure it was true.

“I got it from my uncle Ennis, and he were right there

when it happened,” Neville Shuster declared. He was a red-

haired lad of thirteen with long legs and dozens of freckles.

He shoved another bite of custard tart into his mouth and

reached for his tea. “Uncle Ennis is the ticket taker at Richmond. He saw the whole thing.”

“How did he know it was Sir George Braxton?” Mrs.

Goodge asked.

“ ’Cause he knows who Sir George is, or was,” Neville

said. “Everyone knew the old blighter, he was a right nasty

fellow. Uncle Ennis says he was always complainin’ about

something or other.”

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195

“That sounds like Sir George,” she muttered, more to

herself than the lad.

“ ’Course it were him,” the lad stated. “I told ya, my uncle knows him.”

“Your uncle saw the whole incident?” she pressed. “He

didn’t just hear about it from someone else?” Not that that

would have made any difference to her, she’d have passed it

onto the others whether it was hearsay gossip or not.

“He saw it with his own two eyes,” Neville retorted.

“This bloke bumped into him and before you could say

Milly’s-got-a-billy-goat, the old blighter had grabbed the

feller and shoved him up against a post. Then he told the

feller, he’d better give him his purse back if he didn’t want

to go to prison.”

“What happened then?”

“Uncle Ennis said the fellow tried to run, but the old

man just stuck his leg out and tripped him good. Sir George

looked at the man and said something like, give it to me before I call the law. The bloke reached into his jacket and handed over the purse, nice as you please. Then he got up,

he tried to run off, but Braxton caught him by the arm and

said fer him to stand still and listen if he knew what was

good for him.”

“What did he say to him?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

Neville shrugged. “Dunno. Uncle Ennis said he was

talkin’ too soft fer him to hear. When he’d finished speaking, they walked off together like nothin’ had happened, and the man took to workin’ at the Braxton house. I think

he was the gardener.”

“How do you know it was the same man?” Mrs. Goodge

shoved the plate of tarts closer to the lad.

“Uncle Ennis saw him down at the pub a few days later,

he was cadging a pint of beer off one of the porters. He was

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complainin’ to everyone that they worked him like a dog at

the Braxton house.”

There was one thing that bothered Mrs. Goodge about

the tale. Braxton had been an old man. Surely someone on

the platform would have tried to intervene when the altercation