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

thought.

“How are the plans for Christmas coming along?” he

asked. He followed her out into the hall.

“Very well, sir. See for yourself.” They had reached the

dining room.

Witherspoon gasped. “Gracious, this is lovely.”

Holly boughs and ivy were draped on the mantle piece.

The table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and there were

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fringed silk shawls on the top of the cabinets and the sideboards. Delicate angel figurines and candles were entwined in the greenery.

“I’m glad you’re pleased, sir. Everyone enjoyed decorating the house. But most of the credit for making it so lovely should go to Betsy. She’s very clever at putting things together nicely. She found those figurines in the attic and gave them a good clean.”

“And the result is wonderful. I’m so lucky to have such a

dedicated staff, and I’m so looking forward to Christmas

dinner with Lady Cannonberry.”

“We’re looking forward to Christmas as well.”

He sat down at the dining table, and Mrs. Jeffries went

to get his dinner tray. When she had him safely tucking into

his boiled mutton, she dashed back down to the kitchen.

Betsy was washing dishes, Wiggins was drying, Mrs.

Goodge was sitting at the table, resting her feet, and

Smythe was pouring a large sack of flour into Mrs. Goodge

special bin.

“Let’s have a brief meeting while he’s having his supper,”

she said. “I found out a few things, and I want to share them

as quickly as possible with all of you. This case isn’t going

well, and frankly, I can’t make any sense of it. I need all of

you to be thinking about it as well.”

“We’re running out of time, aren’t we?” Smythe put the

sack down and slipped into his seat.

“Yes, and if the inspector doesn’t catch this killer, it

could seriously damage his career. Nigel Nivens has been

waiting for him to fail, and a failure of this magnitude

would be just what he wants. We’re not going to let that

happen.”

“We certainly will not,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Now, tell us

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what you’ve learned, and we’ll all put our minds to solving

this puzzle.”

She told them everything. Then she dashed back upstairs

to get the inspector’s supper tray. Betsy came with her. They

were almost at the dining room when Mrs. Jeffries heard

what sounded like dozens of footsteps outside their front

window. She peeked out the window and laughed in delight. “Call the others,” she told Betsy. “We’ve got carolers.”

She dashed to the dining room. “Inspector, come quickly.”

They opened the front door and saw a group of warmly

dressed men and women standing in a semicircle in front of

their steps. The others had come up from the kitchen and

were now crowded around the open front door behind the

inspector and Mrs. Jeffries. Smythe slipped his arm around

Betsy’s waist.

They began to sing, and the quiet night was suddenly

filled with the lovely words and melody of “Silent Night.”

“ ‘Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.’ ”

The carolers sang beautifully, and the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens was soon completely caught up in the joy of the season.

Mrs. Jeffries heard Mrs. Goodge sniff and saw her dab at

her eyes with the hem of her apron, Smythe pulled Betsy

closer to him, and Wiggins was grinning so widely she

feared his cheeks would hurt. Even the inspector had lost

that worried, strained expression he’d come home wearing.

The carolers finished the song and Mrs. Jeffries thought

they would move on, but then they began to sing “Good

King Wenceslas.”

She closed her eyes briefly, letting the music wash over

her and lift her spirits. “ ‘Good King Wensceslas looked out

on the feast of Stephen.’ ” This was so very nice, she

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thought. “ ‘When the snow lay round about deep and crisp

and even.’ ” An image popped into her mind and her eyes

flew open. “ ‘Brightly shone the moon that night, though

the frost was cruel when a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.’ ” But the idea, nebulous as it was faded away as the notes of the Christmas melody drifted through

the air. Up and down Upper Edmonton Gardens other doorways opened, and people came out to stand on their stairs and door stoops. The singers finished the song, and with

cries of “Merry Christmas” from everyone, they moved on

down the road.

“Ought we to have invited them in?” Witherspoon whispered to Mrs. Jeffries.

“No, sir, I think they’re the choir singers from St.

John’s Church. Perhaps an extra bit of money to the poor

box on Christmas day would be a nice way of expressing

our gratitude.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to do that.” He yawned widely. “Good

night, all, everyone sleep well.”

But Mrs. Jeffries didn’t sleep well, she tossed and turned,

and finally got out of the bed altogether and took up her

spot at the window. There was something about that song,

something about the image that had popped into her mind

when the carolers sang “Good King Wenceslas.”

She’d sung the old carol for years, so she went over the

words silently, trying to get the idea back. Images came and

went, but none of them were the one that had shaken her so

completely, the one that she knew was the key to finding Sir

George Braxton’s killer.

Suddenly, the scene flew back into her head. She could

see it as clearly as she saw the almost-full moon peeking

through the clouds. But what did it mean? That’s what she

had to determine tonight.

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She unfocused her eyes and let her mind wander as it

would. Bits and pieces of the case came and went willynilly; Betsy saying that the only thing the butcher could talk about was the missing chicken livers. The bloodstain

and hair in the greenhouse, Samson showing up the night

his master was killed. Charlotte Braxton coming home perhaps just minutes before the murder. Mrs. Merryhill having to give up her child, Randall Grantham finding the body

and rousing the household.

Everything came and went quickly. The kernel of an idea

began to form, but it stubbornly refused to take shape and

help her come up with the answer.

She sat there for hours, letting the clues come and go.

But finally, she had to admit defeat. Whatever concept the

image from the carol had started was completely