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

lads with plenty of ambition on these local forces. They’ll

not want a failure like this on their records if they don’t

catch the killer.”

“Surely you’re not saying they’d be dismissed if they

didn’t find the killer?” the cook asked.

“Of course not, they’d keep their positions, but they’d

not move up.” He glanced at Mrs. Jeffries, and she gave him

an almost imperceptible nod indicating that she’d got his

message. This case was important. She knew their inspector

wasn’t overly keen to move up in the department, but his

status as a homicide detective would be badly hurt by a failure of this magnitude.

“Well, we’d best be off then,” Witherspoon said. He

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Emily Brightwell

drained his mug of tea and rose to his feet. “Let’s hope we

can get a hansom this early.”

The minute the two policemen had gone up the stairs,

Smythe slipped out of his hiding place in the back hall.

“How’d you get in there?” the cook asked. “I didn’t hear

you come down the stairs.”

“Good, then the inspector didn’t, either.” He was fully

dressed, including his heavy coat. He shoved his hat on and

pulled on his gloves. “I’ll ‘ead for Richmond, then.”

“Try and find out as much as you can,” Mrs. Jeffries

replied. “It’ll be this evening before the inspector gets

home, and we want to be on the hunt before then.”

“I’ll try to get back with something by lunch,” he said.

“If not, I’ll be here by tea time. Tell Betsy not to worry, I’m

dressed warmly. Under this coat, I’ve got on a heavy wool

vest, two shirts, and my scarf.”

The Braxton home was more than a house but not quite an

estate. The huge brick monstrosity occupied two acres and

was set back behind a set of wrought-iron gates at the end of

a long road. The house was a hodgepodge of styles. The

main part of the house was Georgian with gracious columns

and perfectly proportioned windows and doors, but the effect was ruined by the turrets and gothic wings that had been slapped onto both sides of the house without any

thought of depth or proportion. On the far side, a conservatory had also been added. The drive, made up of pockmarked bricks and stone, curved around the front of the house and snaked across the property to end in front of a dilapidated carriage house with a sagging roof.

A young man wearing a bowler hat, a striped scarf, and a

brown overcoat stood in front of the open wrought-iron

gates at the end of the drive. He was rubbing his hands to

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gether and moving in short, jerky motions, probably to

keep his feet from freezing.

“Are you Inspector Witherspoon?” he asked as the two

policemen got down from the hansom.

“Yes,” the inspector replied, “and this is Constable

Barnes.”

The young man nodded respectfully. “I’m Darwin Venable, from the Home Secretary’s office. I’m to offer you any assistance in this matter. Quietly, of course. We don’t want

it out and about that the Home Secretary thinks the murder

of a baronet is more important than the murder of anyone

else.”

But the Home Secretary obviously does, Barnes thought,

as he’d never offered assistance in any of their other cases.

But he wisely kept this thought to himself.

“Thank you, that’s very much appreciated.” Witherspoon murmured. He didn’t know what to make of this. Of course he’d do his best to find Sir George’s killer, but then,

he did his best in all of his cases. “May we see the body,

please.”

Darwin nodded eagerly and started toward the house.

“It’s in the back, we’ll go straight around. We’re familiar

with your methods, Inspector. The Home Secretary himself

told the local constables not to touch the body until you got

here.”

“Er, uh, that was very good of him,” Witherspoon replied

as he followed the young man. “So I take it the police surgeon isn’t here yet?”

“We told him there was no rush,” Darwin said as he led

them up the drive. “We knew you’d want to have a good

look at the body.”

They cut across the lawn and around the side of the

house, going past the conservatory to the back garden. The

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Emily Brightwell

snow was beginning to melt, and the ground was soaked. A

constable was at the end of the terrace, presumably making

sure no one from the house came out to disturb the body.

Another two constables were standing in the snow next to a

small, frozen pond with a statue at its center. One stood on

each side of the late Sir George Braxton.

Barnes cast an anxious glance at Witherspoon. The inspector was quite squeamish about corpses, and this looked to be a nasty one. Even from this distance, the constable

could see that the back of the victim’s head was crushed.

Witherspoon slowed his pace. No matter how awful it

might be, he knew he must do his duty. He took a deep

breath and steeled himself. He was suddenly glad he’d not

had too much to eat this morning. He hoped the pastie

would stay put in his stomach. He nodded politely to the

two policemen as they reached the dead man’s body.

“Good day, sir. I’m Constable Goring, and this is Constable Becker. We’ve kept things undisturbed, sir.” Though the tone was polite, their expressions weren’t. Goring was

an older copper, with deep-set hazel eyes and a thin, disapproving slash of a mouth. Becker was a fresh-faced lad in his mid-twenties, with blue eyes and dark hair beneath his policeman’s helmet.

“Thank you,” Witherspoon said. He waited for them to

move out of his way. Becker moved immediately, but Goring stood his ground.

Barnes wasn’t having that. “If you’ll move, Constable

Goring, then the inspector can have a proper look,” he said.

His words were polite, but his tone was hard. He was going

to nip this insubordination in the bud before it could take

root. He knew the rank and file respected Witherspoon

greatly, but he also knew the inspector had a bit of a reputa

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21

tion for being very lenient with the lads. Well, these lads

had a lesson to learn if they thought they could get away

with out and out disrespect.

Goring hesitated a split second and then stepped to one

side. “Yes, sir.”

Witherspoon took a deep breath and knelt down by