Free Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage by Emily Brightwell Page B

like that and it’s a wonder you don’t scare them half to death,” she fumed. She was embarrassed because she’d been thinking about him. “I thought you said you were going up to bed.”
    “I was.” He walked to the table and pulled a chair out. “But Wiggins is still readin’ all them wretched newspapers and I didn’t ’ave the ’eart to make ’im turn out the lamps yet. Besides, I wanted to ’ave a word with you.”
    She gazed at him suspiciously. “About what?”
    “About what you was doin’ over at the East End the other day,” he shot back.
    “That’s none of your concern,” she replied.
    Smythe opened his mouth and then clamped it shut again. Arguing with the lass would only put her back up.He decided to take another tactic. “I thought we was friends, Betsy,” he said gently. “I thought you trusted me.”
    Betsy felt her resolve melting. She didn’t want to tell Smythe what she’d been doing. She didn’t want to tell anyone. She was too ashamed. “I do. But sometimes people have things they’d rather keep private. I had some old business to take care of, that’s all. But it’s over and done with now.”
    Old business. The words sent a shiver up Smythe’s spine. He’d run into some of Betsy’s old business before and it liked to put the fear of God in him. On one of their other cases, they’d run into an old acquaintance of Betsy’s from her days of struggling to survive in the East End. Raymond Skegit. Blast, Smythe thought, he hoped this latest trip over there didn’t have anything to do with the likes of someone like him. Protecting Betsy was all he cared about. How could he protect her if she wouldn’t talk? But pressing her wasn’t going to get him any answers; that was certain. “All right, Betsy. I’ll not bother you on the matter again. It’s your secret.”
    “It’s not a secret,” she protested. “You’re not always telling me what you’re up to, either.” She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. “It’s getting late. I’m going up.”
    Smythe said goodnight and watched her leave. Her words had hit home. He too had a secret. But he fully intended to share it with her one of these days. When she was ready. When she could hear the truth without wanting to box his ears. He smiled wryly, thinking that the promise he’d made to the late Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s aunt, had caused him nothing but trouble.
    Euphemia had known she was dying and she’d begged him to stay on at Upper Edmonton Gardens and keep aneye on her “naive nephew,” at least until he’d settled in. Smythe, not wanting to upset his old friend, had agreed. One thing had led to another. Soon, Mrs. Jeffries and Betsy had arrived in the household and before you could say Bob’s-Your-Uncle, they’d been investigating murders. Acting like a family.
    Smythe turned and started for the stairs. But what would his “family” think if they knew that he was rich as sin and too scared to tell them? Would they think he’d lied to them all this time? Would they hate him? Smythe grimaced. The idea of Betsy or any of the others hating him was too awful to think about. One of these days he’d tell them the truth. One of these days. In the meantime he’d continue on the way he was and do his best to keep that silly banker of his from letting the cat out of the bag. Besides, he told himself as he started up the stairs, the fact that he was rich didn’t change who he was. It wasn’t as if he’d been born that way.

    Mrs. Jeffries stared at the black night outside her window. She hadn’t even tried to sleep. It would be pointless with her mind still so much on this case. Who had hated Ogden Hinchley enough to murder him? More important, who had gone to so much trouble to try to make it look like an accident? And why had they botched it so badly? Or maybe she was wrong.
    If Dr. Bosworth hadn’t been in the mortuary that night, they could well have gotten away with it being ruled an