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

into the house,” he said.

“We’ve done everything we can out here, sir,” Barnes

replied. “We’ve got men searching the grounds and the outbuildings, the house-to-house has been organized, so we’d best get on to interviewing the family and the servants.”

“I hate this part of it,” the inspector said as he started

walking over the now-rapidly melting snow. “It’s dreadful

watching people grieve over the loss of a loved one, especially when the death is the result of murder.”

They’d reached the side door of the house. Barnes pulled

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it open, and the two men stepped inside. They went down a

dimly lighted hallway toward the front. On the hardwood

floor, there was an old threadbare rug, and there were spots

on the wall where the damp had seeped in. “You’d think a

baronet would keep his property better than this,” Barnes

murmured.

“He might have been one of those aristocrats that have a

title and little else,” Witherspoon said quietly. They went

past the wet and dry larders, the butler’s pantry, and the

staff dining room until they came out into the kitchen.

A scullery maid was washing dishes at the sink, and a

small, slender woman wearing a cook’s cap and a dirty white

apron was rolling out dough at a large table in the middle

of the room. She looked up at the two policemen. “I expect

it’s Mrs. Merryhill you’ll want to speak with,” she said.

“Nelly,” she called to the girl at the sink, “run and get Mrs.

Merryhill.”

“There’s no need for that.” A tall woman dressed in a

black bombazine dress strode into the room. She had gray

hair and wore spectacles. “I’m already here. I’ve been waiting for them.” She stared at the policemen. “I’m Mrs. Merryhill, and I know who you are. The family is ready for you.

They’ve assembled in the drawing room, but you’d better

hurry. The solicitors are coming this afternoon, and the

misses will want to speak with them.” She jerked her head

toward the door, whirled around, and hurried out the way

she’d come. “Come along,” she called. “It’s this way.”

“Er . . . Yes.” Witherspoon took off after the woman.

Barnes followed after him.

Mrs. Merryhill led them down another long hallway, this

one in slightly better condition than the one that had led to

the kitchen, and around a staircase into a large, rather dark

drawing room. The windows were covered with heavy red

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

31

curtains, and the walls were painted a dull, faded crimson.

A gray-and-red patterned carpet was on the floor. The room

was furnished with furniture from a variety of eras. Delicate

Queen Anne chairs sat next to heavy mahogany tables, an

Empire-style French love seat covered in pale cream damask

was next to an overstuffed horsehair sofa. At the far end of

the room a small fire burned in a dark marble fireplace over

which hung a huge portrait of a fat man in elaborate Elizabethan dress.

Three women were in the room. The one sitting on the

horsehair sofa glared at them and said, “It’s about time.

We’ve been sitting here waiting for ages.” She got up and

stalked toward the two policemen. “I’m Lucinda Braxton,

the eldest of Sir George’s daughters.”

Barnes resisted the urge to pull his inspector back from

the woman, as it looked like she was charging over to give

him a good smack for being late. But she wasn’t. She was

simply going to the sideboard that held a tea service on it

and refilling her cup. She was wearing a navy blue dress festooned with lace and overskirts, none of which complimented her short, rather chubby frame. She had dark blonde hair, blue eyes, and a very sour expression. Barnes doubted

that she was going to offer them any tea.

“I’m Inspector Witherspoon,” he said softly. “And I’d

like to convey my condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She finished filling her cup and stalked

back to the sofa. “These are my sisters, Charlotte Braxton”—

an auburn-haired woman sitting on the love seat nodded at

the two policemen—“and Nina Braxton.” The one sitting

on a chair next to the sofa also nodded at the two men.

“Is this going to take long?” Charlotte Braxton asked.

Her voice wasn’t as harsh as her sister’s. “We’ve an appointment with Father’s solicitors this afternoon.”

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Witherspoon gaped at them. He wasn’t quite sure how to

respond. “Miss Braxton, perhaps you don’t understand. Your

father has been the victim of murder. We must investigate.

I’ve no idea how long I’ll need to speak with you, but I assure you, I’ll not detain you unnecessarily.”

“We know perfectly well that father has been murdered,”

Lucinda Braxton interjected. “But surely you’ve some idea

how long these sorts of things take. Presumably you’ve

done it before. I believe I heard the Home Secretary mention you were quite good at taking care of these kinds of inconveniences.”

Witherspoon gazed at the woman in stunned surprise.

He was, quite literally, speechless. He’d never, ever heard a

murder referred to as an “inconvenience” before.

“It’ll take less time if we get started,” Barnes said quickly.

He glanced at Witherspoon, who gave him a barely perceptible nod. “Miss Braxton.” He directed his question at Lucinda. “Could you give us an accounting of what happened?”

“What happened when?” She put her tea cup on the table

and flopped back down on the sofa. “You mean when we

found out Father had been murdered?”

“That’s correct.” Barnes whipped out his little brown

notebook. “Do you mind if we sit down, it’s easier to write

that way.”

Lucinda hesitated. “Yes, all right, sit where you please.”

She waited a moment for the two men to settle themselves.

“All right, you’d like to know what happened. I’ll tell you

what I know. I was awakened about half past four by Charlotte pounding on my door and screaming that something had happened to father.”

“That’s not true,” Charlotte interrupted. “I wasn’t

screaming. I was quite calm, and I believe my exact words

were that I thought there’d been an accident.”

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33

“You didn’t say that at all,” Lucinda retorted. “You said

something awful has happened to Father.”

“And you were screaming,” Nina added. “That’s what

woke me up.”

“I most certainly was not,” Charlotte yelped.

“If you could continue, ma’am,” Witherspoon said

quickly, his attention directed at Lucinda. “What happened

next?”

“I put on my dressing gown and opened the door and

told