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

what you had in mind then, sir, but it only occurred to me

later. Of course you’re right, sir. It wasn’t a coincidence

about the cat coming home that night. Samson didn’t come

home that night. The killer finally let him out.”

Witherspoon gaped at him, and Barnes was sure this

wasn’t going to work. But then the inspector’s expression

changed, he shut his mouth and his eyes lighted up. “Of

course, that’s how the killer lured Sir George out of his bed

and into the back garden.”

Relieved, Barnes said, “Now, sir, I’m sorry if I’ve ruined

your surprise, but I’ve worked with you a long time. I know

your methods, and I know when you’re listenin’ to that famous ‘inner voice’ of yours.”

“That’s most kind of your Barnes, er, uh.” He tried to

think of what to do next. The constable was correct, of

course, it all made sense now. Samson was the perfect explanation as to why Sir George went out that night. The killer was no doubt lying in wait for him. “Let’s see . . . uh—”

“Now, now, sir, don’t tell me, let me guess,” Barnes interrupted. Mrs. Jeffries had told him this trick, and he hoped it would work. The inspector was an innocent, but he

wasn’t stupid.

“Guess? Uh, certainly, do go ahead.” Actually, the inspector had come up with a very good idea of what it would be best to do, but he didn’t want to spoil the constable’s obvious pleasure in exercising his reasoning abilities.

216

Emily Brightwell

“Well, knowing you as I do, sir, and knowing that both

of us heard about how mean that cat is, I’d say there’s a good

chance that whoever took Samson and kept him away from

the house for those days he was gone, ended up getting

pretty badly scratched. As Randall Grantham said, that cat

knows how to put up a fight.”

“Yes, I was thinking along those lines myself,” the inspector agreed.

“So I expect you’ll wait until after the funeral reception,

and then you’ll insist on looking at the arms and hands of

the principals in the case. Am I right, sir?”

Witherspoon nodded. “That’s precisely what I was

thinking. I’m not sure we can force anyone to disrobe, but I

don’t think asking people to roll up their sleeves is likely to

get us into difficulties. Have you noticed any scratches on

anyone?”

“No, sir, but that doesn’t mean anything, as we’ve not

been looking.” Barnes replied. He couldn’t believe how easy

this had been, but then again, Mrs. Jeffries had laid a good

foundation. She’d made a few remarks and asked a pertinent

question or two while the inspector was eating his breakfast.

“That’s one of the reasons I was glad you let us bring the

carriage, sir. If you’re right, someone may try and run for it.

We’ve had that happen a time or two.”

“Unfortunately, that is all too true,” he replied somberly.

“But this time we’re prepared. I don’t know that my idea

will work, but it’s a sound enough theory to give it a try.”

He leaned back, and the two men rode in silence.

Ideas and theories were now flying into his mind with

great speed, and he was sure they were on the right track.

Mrs. Jeffries had been correct, all he had to do was to wait

for his “inner mind” to ascertain as many facts as possible,

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

217

and then the solution to the case would become apparent. A

good night’s sleep helped as well.

“We ought to be at Richmond soon,” Barnes said as he

looked out the window. “We’re crossing the river.”

Witherspoon took his watch out of his coat pocket and

snapped open the case. “Let’s go straight to the house. I

want to have another word with the servants. I’ve an idea

where the killer might have hid Samson for those days he

was missing. Mrs. Jeffries asked me a question this morning, and it got me to thinking.”

“You don’t want to go to the church, sir?” Barnes looked

away to hide a smile.

“Oh, no, Constable, it’ll be far too long a service for my

bones. We’ve got lads stationed at the church. I doubt that

our killer has any idea we’ve figured out that Samson was

the key to luring Sir George out that night. The killer will

come back to the house, I’m sure of it.”

“Let’s hope our murderer isn’t the sort of person that

heals quickly,” Barnes replied. “But then again, healin’ fast

is usually reserved for the very young, and all of our suspects

are heading nicely into middle age.”

Betsy dashed into the house, taking off her coat and hat as

she walked. Mrs. Goodge looked up from the table where

she sat peeling turnips. “Did you have any luck?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Where’s Mrs. Jeffries?”

“I’m right here,” the housekeeper replied. She’d been upstairs polishing the brass fittings on the third-floor landing and had heard the back door slam. She had wanted to keep

busy today in order to hold her nerves at bay.

In the clear light of day, her theory about the murder

seemed more and more fanciful. She was afraid she’d sent

218

Emily Brightwell

her inspector and the good constable on a fool’s errand that

would ruin both their careers. “What did you find out?”

“The warden at the home was quite nice. Her name is

Mrs. Shelby, and she seems a kindly soul.” Betsy giggled.

“When I came into reception, I think she thought I was

bringing in a baby. She seemed quite surprised when I told

her I wanted to make a donation. I told her I’d come to find

out if my brother had been brought there thirty years ago.”

“You had a good story ready, did you?” Mrs. Goodge

asked.

“I told the truth,” Betsy explained, “it seems to work so

much better. Of course, I pretended that Mrs. Merryhill was

my mother. I didn’t use her name or anything like that. But

I kept to the facts as much as I could. I said my mam had

been seduced by her employer, got with child, and then

forced to give it up. I said she’d left the child there about

thirty years ago, but I didn’t know the exact dates or anything like that. I tossed in a bit that my mam had met my father much later and they’d emigrated to