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

sir. The Home Secretary instructed us to put the victim

back. Your methods have become quite well known, sir. But

we’d have done the same without being told.”

“So you placed the head back into the pond,” Barnes

asked, but his tone was a bit less harsh.

“Yes, sir. We took care to put it back exactly as it had

been,” Goring replied. Some of the animosity had left his

voice. “I had the gardener, he’s the one who found the body,

tell me exactly how the victim looked when he found him.

As I said, Inspector Witherspoon’s methods have become

quite well known, and even without the H.S. intervening,

we’d have done it.”

“That’s quite right,” Darwin Venable interjected. “Look,

now that you’re here, do you mind if I go? I really must get

to the Home Office. The secretary’s got a very full schedule,

and I’ve so many things to do.”

Witherspoon started in surprise. He’d quite forgotten

the fellow was still with them. “Yes, of course, do go on

your way. We’ll not keep you.”

“Excellent.” Venable beamed his thanks and took off at a

fast trot back the way they’d come.

Barnes looked at Goring. “You did well, Constable. That

was exactly the right thing to do. But I still wish there

weren’t so many footprints.”

Goring looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to

be pleased or to continue taking umbrage. But he finally

said, “Thank you, sir. We did our best.”

“I’m sure you did,” Witherspoon said quickly, glad that

some of the tension seemed to be fading. “Could you please

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

27

take care of getting the body to the morgue and notifying the

police surgeon that it’s been released for the postmortem.”

“Yes, sir.” Goring hurried off toward the front of the

house.

Witherspoon looked at Constable Becker. “Get the lads

from the terrace and search the property.”

“Do you want me to get the ones you sent out to the

front gate?” Becker asked, looking at Barnes.

“No, leave them there for the time being,” the constable

replied. “We need someone to make sure the press doesn’t

get in and trample the place down before we’ve found any

evidence that might be useful.”

“Yes, sir,” Becker replied. “Er, uh, what are we looking

for, sir?”

“The murder weapon,” Barnes said dryly. “The man

didn’t cosh himself on the back of the head. But keep a

sharp eye out for anything else you find lying about on the

ground. Come get us if you find anything, anything at all.”

He turned to Inspector Witherspoon. “Shall I send someone

to the station to get the lads here for a house-to-house?”

Witherspoon looked around the area, noting the distance

between the houses. He wasn’t certain about what to do. In

London, the houses were so close together that people frequently heard or saw something useful. “Do you think anyone would have heard or saw something? I mean, the houses aren’t close, and I’m not certain that anyone was awake in

the middle of the night. That’s probably when the murder

happened.”

“It couldn’t hurt, sir,” Barnes said easily. “Sometimes

people have strange habits; there might have been someone

with a bout of sleeplessness or a case of indigestion up and

about. Besides, it’ll be good to have the locals doing their

fair share.”

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Emily Brightwell

“Yes, of course, Constable, you’re absolutely right. I

don’t know what I was thinking.” He was a bit embarrassed

by his behavior. He mustn’t keep second-guessing himself,

of course there must be a house-to-house, that was standard

procedure.

Barnes nodded. “I’ll send one of the lads from around the

front. One good copper ought to be able to keep the press at

bay for fifteen minutes.”

Smythe knew he’d have to make a run for it. The copper

would be here any second, and the one thing they would be

looking for was strangers hanging about a murder scene.

They’d knick him for sure, and if the inspector saw him,

he’d be done for. There was no reason on God’s green earth

that he could give for following him to a murder scene.

“What are you doing?” The voice rang out loud and clear

from the direction of the house.

“I thought I saw something,” another voice replied. “I

thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye.”

“You didn’t see anything,” The first voice yelled. “And

we can’t be caught mucking about again. That old constable

that came with the inspector is heading this way, so get

back to your post.”

“All right, I’m coming. It was probably just a squirrel or

the wind or something.”

As he heard the footsteps retreating, Smythe slumped

against the tree trunk in relief. He knew he had to move.

He knelt down and peeked around the tree trunk. Both the

constables had their backs turned, their attention on the

house. Smythe ran out from behind the tree and ducked into

the front garden of the nearest house. He didn’t stop, but

kept on moving, hoping that no one was looking out a window. Smythe made it to the end of the property and dodged Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

29

behind a small shed. He leaned against the wood, his heart

racing like mad. Luckily, he’d put on his boots this morning, so at least the snow wasn’t getting in his shoes, but his trousers were soaked to the knees, and his nose was running.

Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he blew his nose

and tried to decide how to get closer to the victim’s house.

Unfortunately, he was several houses away from the Braxton

home, and with police activity in the neighborhood, there

were sure to be eyes peeking out of windows today. But

Smythe wasn’t going to let that stop him. He’d figure out a

way. He always did.

He pushed away from the shed, looked around to make

sure no one was about and then dashed toward the next

property. There was a grouping of evergreen trees at the end

of that garden, and if he could make it to them without being seen, they’d provide a bit of cover. If he was fast and lucky, he could make his way to the murder house from

back here. There were a few fat tree trunks and garden sheds

about; he’d just have to make sure he didn’t get caught.

Witherspoon sighed and then looked toward the house. Behind him, the body was being loaded onto a stretcher and covered for transport to the morgue.