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

started. “Didn’t someone try to help Sir George when the scuffle started?”

“Why should they?” Neville asked. “No one liked Sir

George, and he was one old man that could take care of himself. Besides, Uncle Ennis said it were over real quick.”

“What an odd man he must have been,” Mrs. Goodge

mused. “Taking in someone right off the street like that, it

simply doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“The whole family is crazy,” Neville replied. “That cousin

of Sir George’s cuffed a porter once just because the fellow

dropped a tray of flowers. Uncle Ennis saw that one, too.”

“Shall we try and see his banker?” Barnes asked Witherspoon as they came out of the law offices of Trent, Steel, and Burnum on Bleeker Street. The two policemen had been to

see Oliver Trent and Theodore Burnum, solicitors to the

late Sir George Baxter.

“We might as well,” Witherspoon said glumly. “Maybe

they’ll be able to give us something more useful than we’ve

heard so far today.”

Barnes stepped to the curb and waved at a passing hansom. The cab pulled over, and the two men got in and settled back in the seat. “Uxbridge Station,” the constable yelled at the driver. He looked at the inspector, “After we

see the bank manager, should we go back to the Braxton

house?”

“As we’ll already be in Richmond, we might as well.”

Witherspoon grabbed the handhold as the cab bounced over

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a hole in the road. “I was so disappointed by the solicitors.

There certainly wasn’t any motive there that I could see.”

“You were hoping that Sir George had been planning to

change his will.” Barnes nodded in agreement. “So was I,

sir. That’s often a good motive for murder. Someone gets

wind they’re being cut out of the estate, and so they decide

to take matters into their own hands. They commit murder

before the will can be changed.”

“Yes,” the inspector sighed. “But according to Mr. Trent,

Sir George had no plans to make any changes to his will,

and the division of his estate was known to all the heirs and

had been for years.”

Witherspoon closed his eyes briefly. He’d no idea what to

do next. Perhaps they’d get very lucky and Sir George’s

banker would have information that was useful to the case.

“At least the solicitors confirmed Miss Nina’s statement,” Barnes pointed out. “They did come to discuss the funeral arrangements. Honestly, sir, I didn’t think the

Church of England allowed one to have fifteen hymns and

seven readings done at one service, even if you’re a baronet.”

“That does sound a bit extravagant, doesn’t it?” he

agreed.

“Not as extravagant as having a ten-foot-tall marble

headstone.”

“And I expect having the Four Horsemen of the Apopcalyse carved on the top of the thing will set a few tongues wagging as well,” Witherspoon replied.

“He’s being buried at the local church?” Barnes asked.

Witherspoon nodded. “Oh, yes, the family has a very

prominent spot in the front of the churchyard. The funeral

is tomorrow at ten. It’s at St. Andrews, which is right off

Richmond Green.”

“That’s the day before Christmas Eve.” Barnes clucked

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his tongue. “They’ll be lucky if they can dig the hole to

bury the man, the ground is still pretty hard.”

“I expect they’ll manage somehow,” Witherspoon

replied. “We’ll have to be there, of course. Before I forget,

make sure we’ve a few lads available in case we need them.”

“You’re expecting something to happen at the funeral tomorrow?” Barnes asked eagerly. “You’re close to an arrest?”

“I wish that were the case,” Witherspoon admitted. “Actually, I was thinking we’d need them to keep the traffic sorted out properly.”

Everyone was on time for their meeting that afternoon.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Lady Cannonberry?” Wiggins

asked as they settled themselves around the table.

“She sent her butler over with her regrets,” Mrs. Goodge

said. “A friend of hers has come down with influenza, and

Ruth has gone to sit with her.”

“I hope the lady gets well soon,” the footman said sympathetically. “Feelin’ poorly at Christmas doesn’t seem right.”

“If no one ‘as any objections, I’ll go first,” Smythe offered.

Betsy gave her beloved an irritated glance but didn’t

protest. She had talked to every shopkeeper in Richmond

today and hadn’t heard anything except old bits that they

already knew. “Go ahead. I’ve nothing to report.”

“Go on, Smythe,” the cook urged. “We’ve got to start

somewhere.”

As no one else said anything, he plunged straight ahead.

“One of my sources told me that on December fifteenth,

three days before the murder, Charlotte Braxton bought a

third-class ticket to New Zealand.”

“That’s a long ways away,” Wiggins said.

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“Did your source know why?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“Not for certain,” he replied. “But he thinks it was because of her gambling. My source says the ones that run those games can get right nasty when you don’t pay up.”

“But Charlotte Braxton is the daughter of a baronet,”

Mrs. Goodge protested. “Surely even the worst ruffian

wouldn’t have dared harm her person?”

“No, but they could ‘ave made ‘er debts public and ruined her in lots of other ways.” He helped himself to a slice of buttered bread.

Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “When is the ship due to sail?”

“Tomorrow morning. I think we ought to let the inspector know about it.”

“If she bought the ticket three days before the murder,

then she had made up her mind to leave,” Mrs. Jeffries

mused. “So if that was her intention, why would she then

kill her father?”

“Perhaps she decided she didn’t wish to go,” Hatchet

suggested. “Perhaps she might have thought that if she left,

her debts would become public. If that happened, Sir

George could have cut her completely out of his will.”

“But we don’t know that,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She honestly didn’t know what to do. “I don’t think she killed him.

Not if she had decided to flee the country.”

“Are you goin’ to tell the inspector?” Wiggins asked.

“Perhaps I ought to,” she said hesitantly. “But I’ll need to

think of a clever way to do it.” She glanced at the coachman.

“Do you have anything else?”

He shook his head. “Not really.”

“Can I go next?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

“You might as well, Mrs. Goodge,” Hatchet said. “I’ve

nothing to report. Despite my rather extensive network of

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resources, I’ve heard nothing new about this case, just a

mishmash of old