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

gone. Dejected, she got up, wincing as her stiff joints reminded her she shouldn’t be sitting motionless for hours in a cold room.

She slipped back into bed and closed her eyes. Now that she

had admitted to herself that it was hopeless, sleep would

come. Tomorrow she’d have a meeting with the others, and

she’d tell them the truth, that she had no idea who had

killed Sir George Braxton and they weren’t likely to find the

answer before Christmas. Perhaps it would be best to concentrate on ways to keep the inspector’s spirits up. Perhaps it would also behoove them to come up with some thoughts

on how they might keep Inspector Nigel Nivens from taking advantage of their inspector’s failure.

She yawned, rolled onto her side, and told herself quite

sternly to go to sleep. But thoughts of the cat came back,

and the words popped into her mind unbidden. She sat

bolt upright as she suddenly understood what it all meant.

That was it. Of course, how could she have not seen it before? That was the key to solving the case; that was what 208

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the image had been trying to tell her. Gracious, it was so

very obvious.

She threw back the covers just as another piece of the

puzzle fell into place in her mind: “It looked like some giant

hand had reached down and yanked it off just to make the

scene even more frightening.” When Witherspoon had repeated that conversation and those words to her, she’d barely given them a thought, but she’d been wrong. Oh,

yes, now it all made sense.

She sat up and fumbled under the bed for her slippers.

She put them on, slipped on her heavy dressing gown, and

then got up and lighted the lamp on her desk. Grabbing the

top blanket off her bed, she sat down at her desk, arranged

the blanket over her knees, and set to work. The room was

cold, and she had much to do before she could sleep. Taking

a sheet of paper out of the drawer, she picked up her pen and

began to write. This was the only way to be sure, the only

way to be certain that her idea was right.

Mrs. Jeffries was the first one downstairs the next morning.

She put the kettle on, measured out enough tea into the big

brown pot to insure it was good and strong, then went back

upstairs to wake the others.

When she came back the kettle was whistling, and by

the time the others had trooped down, she had the tea

poured and the cups spread out on the table.

“What’s wrong?” Wiggins asked.

“Mrs. Jeffries has thought of something,” the cook

yawned. “Why else would she have got us up at this time of

the morning. Ah, lovely, you’ve made tea.”

“Have you figured out who the killer is?” Betsy asked as

she slipped into her seat. “I knew you would. I knew it was

just a matter of time.”

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

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“I have an idea, but I’m not sure I’m absolutely right.”

She touched the paper in her pocket, taking encouragement

from the account she’d written up in the wee hours of the

morning. She’d done it to clarify things in her own mind,

and she had no intention of showing this missive to the others. Despite everything, she could be dead wrong.

“Don’t start yet.” Smythe hurried into the kitchen, he

was carrying his heavy gloves and his old brown scarf. “I

thought I’d best bring these down in case you need me to

go out.”

“That scarf has seen better days,” Betsy commented.

“And those gloves could do with a clean.”

“I don’t wear them that often.” He sat down next to her

and reached for her hand under the table.

“I know, that’s why your hands get so chapped in the

winter,” she chided. “You don’t wear your gloves. But not to

worry, I’ll take care of them.”

Mrs. Jeffries gave him a grateful smile. “I do need you to

go out, that’s why I’ve called everyone here so early. But first

of all, I want to say that I’m not altogether sure of my conclusions in this case.”

“Stop frettin,’ Mrs. Jeffries.” The cook took another sip of

tea. “We’ve done this many times. You’re never sure, but

you’re generally always right. Now, who’s the killer?”

“That’s just it,” she said. “It could be several people. I

think I know who it is, but there’s a second suspect who

could equally have done it.”

“Then what are we goin’ to do? We can’t get the inspector to arrest ‘em both.” Wiggins said. He looked worried.

“Of course we can’t, but I have an idea about how he can

arrest the right person. Unfortunately, it’s quite complicated, so I’m going to need some help.” She turned to Smythe. “I need you to bring Constable Barnes here to the

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kitchen, I’ve got to talk to him. He’s got to convince the inspector to do something very unorthodox today.”

He started to get up, but she waved him back to his seat.

“Finish your tea. We’ve got time, and this might be the only

opportunity you’ll have to get something in your stomach.”

Mrs. Goodge got up and started for the dry larder. “If

that’s the case, I’ll go get those buns I made yesterday so he

can have a bite to eat before he goes.”

“Can we ‘ave some of that red currant marmalade as

well?” Wiggins asked. “It’s right good.”

“I’m saving that for our Christmas breakfast. But I’ve

some nice gooseberry jam, will that do?”

“That’ll be fine,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. She smiled at

the footman. “As soon as you’ve had your breakfast, I want

you to go to Richmond.”

“Cor blimey, really? What do ya want me to do?” His

eyes sparkled with excitement and all thoughts of red currant marmalade vanished.

“Keep watch on the Braxton house,” she instructed. “After the funeral everyone will go back to the house. If any of our suspects leave, follow that person.”

Wiggins gaped at her. This was generally the sort of task

Mrs. Jeffries would give the coachman. “What should I do?

I mean, ‘ow far do I follow ‘em?”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” she replied. “But just in

case, stop by Luty’s and get Hatchet. Take him with you.

That way he can get a message to us if someone disappears

unexpectedly.”

“What