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

“Very good, Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “and obviously, the

warden believed you.”

“Oh, yes. I said that my poor mother had always wanted

to find out what happened to her son, but she had to wait

until my father passed before she could make any inquiries.”

“Didn’t the warden notice you don’t have an American

accent?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

Betsy grinned. “I told her I was born in Baltimore, but

that we’d come home to England fifteen years ago. My father did very well in America, you see, and we’ve a nice house in Coventry. But despite believing me, Mrs. Shelby

wasn’t as much help as I’d hoped. She’d only come to the

foundling home a few years ago.”

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“But don’t they keep records?” Mrs. Jeffries was sure

they did.

“The old records were destroyed when the cellar flooded

ten years ago.”

“That’s too bad,” Mrs. Goodge remarked, “especially after you went to all that trouble to come up with such a good tale.”

“But I did find out something,” Betsy said. “One of the

cooks has been there for a long time, so Mrs. Shelby asked her

if she remembered anything. The woman said about thirty

years ago, a carriage drew up in the middle of the night, and

a man got out, banged on the door, and demanded they open

up. When they did, he shoved a wicker basket with a baby

wrapped in some old bunting in it and handed them a pound

note. Then he stomped off and got in his carriage without so

much as a by-your-leave. He didn’t speak to them, wouldn’t

even answer when the warden’s husband called out to him.

That’s why the cook remembered it so easily. Usually people

bring the children during the day, during proper hours.”

“That sounds like something that old blighter would

do,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “What happened to the baby.”

“It died the next day,” Betsy said sadly. “It was a little

boy.”

It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon by the time the

last of the guests left the funeral reception. But Witherspoon and Barnes had been very busy. Barnes had gone to the local station and got some lads to do a bit more searching of the grounds.

“We’ve found this, sir.” Barnes came into the butler’s

pantry, carrying a large piece of butcher’s paper. “It was

stuffed in behind the cooker.”

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The inspector took the paper, examined it thoroughly,

and then took a whiff. “It still smells like chicken livers.

Good work, Constable. We’ll take this into evidence.”

“I expect this was how the murderer kept the beast

quiet.” Barnes glanced around the decrepit pantry. “Has

anyone seen the animal? Too bad he can’t talk, sir. He could

tell us everything.”

“Indeed, he could,” Witherspoon replied. “Samson is alive

and well. One of the kitchen staff is secretly feeding him. Apparently, the daughters loathe the animal and have instructed the housekeeper not to waste any more food on it. But Mrs.

Merryhill, to her credit, is ignoring that instruction.”

“Good for her. Did you have a look at her arms and

hands, sir?”

“Not a scratch on them,” he smiled. “Nor on any of the

other servants, except for one of the maids. But hers are recent, and she got them because she’s the one feeding Samson. The rest of the staff vouches for her, and she’d no reason to murder Sir George.” He surveyed the decrepit, ugly

pantry where the staff took their meals. “He really was a

dreadful man, wasn’t he? The facilities for the servants are

shameful, utterly shameful; the furniture is falling apart,

the light is miserable, and I’d bet my pension there is barely

any heat in here. Still, Sir George didn’t deserve to be murdered. His lack of compassion and mercy is between him and the Almighty.”

“And I’ll warrant the Almighty had plenty to say on the

subject,” Barnes murmured.

“I’ve finished here.” Witherspoon started for the door.

“Mrs. Merryhill has told the family and the others we need

to speak to them. She’s waiting for us outside the drawing

room.”

Barnes followed the inspector, stopping only long

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221

enough to step out the side door and give the butcher’s paper to one of the constables. They had constables unobtrusively stationed at all the doorways.

The inspector and Mrs. Merryhill were in the hall outside the big double doors of the drawing room. The housekeeper acknowledged him with a faint smile.

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed that this will work,”

Witherspoon said as he opened the doors.

As he followed them inside, Barnes was suddenly filled

with grave doubts. What if this didn’t work? What if Mrs.

Jeffries was wrong? What if the theory was nothing more

than fancy, and they’d find nary a claw mark on anyone?

Then he caught himself, for goodness sakes, they weren’t

hanging an innocent at the yardarms, they were looking for

a few scratch marks.

If this didn’t go as planned, the Braxtons would complain, but by then it wouldn’t matter. Inspector Witherspoon would be off the case and maybe even back on his way to the Records Room. No matter how many cases he’d

solved in the past, the top brass at the Yard wouldn’t forgive

him for messing up this one.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Clarence Clark demanded

as he turned and saw the three of them. He was standing by

the fireplace. He’d discarded his jacket and was in his shirtsleeves, as was the only other man in the room, Raleigh Brent. The women had all discarded their shawls and gloves

as well.

“I’ll handle this, Clarence.” Raleigh Brent got up from

the chair and stomped over to the inspector.

Clark glared at Brent. “I’ll thank you to remember your

manners, sir. You’re not married to Lucinda yet and as such,

you’re only a guest in this house.”

“Don’t speak to Raleigh like that!” Lucinda leapt to her

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feet and charged over to her fiancé. “How dare you, Cousin

Clarence. Raleigh has every right to take charge.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Charlotte Braxton rolled her eyes.

“Do be quiet,” Nina said. “You’re all making fools of

yourselves.”

“I’m engaged to Lucinda,” Raleigh cried, his voice shrill.

“For a house in mourning, you do make a lot of racket,”

Fiona Burleigh commented to no one in particular.

“Excuse me,” Witherspoon shouted to make himself

heard over their quarreling. “But I’ve something to say that

is most important.”

Everyone looked at him