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

Mrs. Goodge took a deep breath. “I think I know what

Sir George had on Randall Grantham.” She told them the

gossip she’d heard from the delivery lad. She took care to

tell them everything, making sure she left nothing out of

her tale.

When she’d finished, Betsy said, “So Grantham was a

pickpocket.”

“And not a very good one,” Smythe added. He wondered

why Blimpey Groggins hadn’t got wind of this tidbit. It

was the sort of knowledge that was his stock and trade.

“Yes, it most certainly sounds that way,” Mrs. Jeffries

replied slowly. “Oh, dear, then that more or less eliminates

him as a suspect.”

“Eliminates him?” Mrs. Goodge repeated. “Why? I

should think it would put him more in the running. He obviously hated Sir George.”

“Of course he did,” the housekeeper replied. “And fifty

years ago, the word of a baronet would have been enough to

bring charges against someone like Grantham. But times

have changed. Braxton didn’t lodge a complaint with the

police when this incident happened, so after a few weeks of

time had passed, it would have been Braxton’s word against

Granthams.”

“But the lad’s uncle saw it all,” Mrs. Goodge protested.

“He could tell the police.”

“Tell them what? That he saw a scuffle between two men.

Grantham could claim the purse fell out of Braxton’s

pocket, or that Braxton planted the thing on him. Oh,

dear,” she sighed impatiently, “I’m not explaining this very

well, but after weeks had passed, I don’t think the police

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would have been too keen to arrest Grantham just because

Braxton claimed the man had tried to pick his pocket.”

“And Grantham would ‘ave known that,” Smythe

agreed. “His sort knows ‘ow the police work. You’re explainin’ it fine, Mrs. Jeffries. Grantham could ‘ave left anytime he wanted.”

“Then why did he stay?” the cook demanded.

“Food and shelter,” Betsy said. “It’s the dead of winter, and

he’d probably no place to go. At least he had a roof over his

head and hot meals.” She had once been poor herself and had

had to survive on the streets. She knew what hunger and cold

could do to a person. From under the table, Smythe squeezed

her hand, and she gave him a quick, confident smile.

Mrs. Goodge’s shoulders slumped. “Well, that’s a right

old kettle of fish, I finally get some information, and it’s not

worth anything.”

“Of course it’s worthwhile,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly.

“You’ve told us something very important.”

“I have?” the cook stared at her hopefully.

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Jeffries laughed. “We can now eliminate Randall Grantham as a suspect. Whoever killed Sir George went to a great deal of trouble to lure him outside,

cosh him over the head, and then chip a hole in an icy pond

and shove his head into it. If Grantham had committed the

murder, my guess is he’d have simply coshed him over the

head and not bothered with the rest.”

“I agree,” Betsy added. “People like him don’t bother to

come up with elaborate plans. They’re more the grab-andrun type of criminal.”

“I concur,” Hatchet said. “And I believe this is very good

news indeed. This case has far too many suspects, it’s nice to

be able to eliminate one of them.”

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Emily Brightwell

“Well, good then, I feel better.”

“Excellent,” Mrs. Jeffries beamed approvingly. “You always do your fair share, Mrs. Goodge, make no mistake about that. Now, does anyone else have anything to report?

Wiggins?”

Wiggins had been dreading this moment. He had a story

ready, but he wasn’t sure it was one they’d believe. “I’ve

‘eard a bit, but I’m not sure if it’s true or not. I got it from

a lad that used to walk out with one of the maids at the

Braxton house.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Anyways, this lad told me that the maid had told him that she knew the contents of Sir George’s will. She claimed she’d

overheard Sir George talkin’ to ‘is solicitor.” He stopped

and quickly scanned their faces. But they were watching

him as they always did, and he couldn’t tell if they believed

him or not.

“Well, get on with it, lad,” Mrs. Goodge urged. “We’ve

not got all night. What’s in Sir George’s will?”

“Not much, really,” he said quickly. “Just that the

daughters get it all in equal shares. It’s not very interestin’.”

“How long ago did this young woman hear this?” Mrs.

Jeffries asked.

“I didn’t think to ask,” he admitted. “But I ‘eard something else as well. The lad, I’d bought ‘im a pint you see, also told me that Mr. Clark gets to stay at the Braxton house

for all ‘is life.”

“That was in Sir George’s will as well?” Betsy asked.

“No, it was in ‘is father’s will. Neither Sir George nor ‘is

daughters can turf ‘im out, so I reckon ‘e ‘ad no reason to do

the murder.”

Mrs. Jeffries thought about that for a moment and then

said. “You could be correct, Wiggins. In which case, we

might be rapidly running out of suspects. Anything else?”

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203

“No.” He was glad this was over. Pretending that the bits

and pieces that Luty gave him to report were actually his

own, made the telling very hard. He felt like he was lying.

“That’s all I’ve got. Uh, if we’re finished, I’d like to take

Fred for a walk.”

“Mind you don’t let him run off from you again,” Mrs.

Jeffries said. She rose to her feet. “I’m going upstairs to

wait for the inspector. Hopefully, he’ll have some more information on the case. Let’s meet again down here before bedtime.”

Witherspoon was dead tired when he arrived home, but he

did consent to have a glass of sherry before dinner.

“Tomorrow’s the funeral,” he told her as he took a quick

sip, “and we’re no closer to finding the killer than we ever

were. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You’ll keep on looking until you do find the murderer,

sir.” She smiled calmly. “Now, why don’t you tell me about

your day, sir. That always helps.”

As he talked, she occasionally asked a question or made a

comment. She had several ideas that she wanted to put into

his mind, none of them were particularly brilliant, but like

the inspector, she, too, was at a loss to know what to do

next. But luckily, by the time they’d finished their Harvey’s,

his recitation of the day’s events had given