Free 12- Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art by Emily Brightwell

agreed, watching him carefully. “Wiggins told us about Dr. Bosworth’s idea. What do you think, sir? Was the man poisoned?” She was quite certain that Bosworth was right, but her main goal right at the momentwasn’t to establish the facts in the case—it was to get her employer talking.
    “We won’t know for sure until after the postmortem.” Witherspoon took a sip of tea, sighed in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes.
    Alarmed, Mrs. Jeffries quickly said, “What do your instincts tell you, sir?” She firmly squashed the nagging guilt that crept up on her. The poor man was tired. His face was pale, his thin brown hair disheveled and behind his spectacles, his eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. Even his mustache seemed to droop in weariness.
    “Huh?” He blinked. “Oh, sorry, must have dozed off. What did you say?”
    “I asked what your instincts told you about this case, sir.”
    He hesitated. Unlike his housekeeper, he wasn’t certain he trusted his instincts all that much. Sometimes they played him false.
    “Come now, sir, you mustn’t be modest with me. I know you must have some feel for what happened to James Underhill. You’re far too brilliant a detective not to have sensed something from the atmosphere surrounding the man’s death. Please do tell me.”
    Pleased by her faith in him, he smiled. Perhaps he was simply tired tonight. It had been rather a long day. His “inner voice” or instincts were really quite sound. Quite sound, indeed. After all, as she’d just reminded him, he was a brilliant detective. One of Scotland Yard’s finest. He’d solved any number of tricky murders. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but it’s my considered opinion that the man was murdered. As a matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”
    “How very astute of you, sir.” She reached for her cup. “Do go on.”
    Suddenly, the inspector wasn’t as tired as he’d been only a few moments ago. “Well, I must say, one of the things that led me to my conclusion was the way the rest of the guests in the house behaved,” he explained eagerly. “Not one of them seemed in the least upset that he was actually dead. As a matter of fact, they were more annoyed at being inconvenienced than anything else. That’s always a pertinent clue, I think. Whether or not people actually cared about the victim. I sensed that no one really liked James Underhill and it’s often been my experience that people who aren’t well liked frequently end up murdered.”
    “So you questioned everyone?”
    “I took statements from the guests and had the police constables question the servants.”
    Mrs. Jeffries took a sip from her own cup. “According to those statements, exactly what happened this afternoon?”
    Witherspoon yawned. “Well, just as Mrs. Grant was getting ready to pour the tea, James Underhill popped some peppermints in his mouth and then appeared to choke. By the time the others in the room realized the man was having serious difficulties, it was too late to do anything for him. Though mind you, if Dr. Bosworth is correct, there wouldn’t have been anything anyone could do for the poor chap.”
    “I see,” she said softly. There were a dozen questions she needed to ask, but she couldn’t decide what was the best way to proceed.
    The clock struck the hour and she started, realizing that one of the reasons she couldn’t think straight was that it was late. When she glanced over at the inspector, he was slumped back against the seat, his cup and saucer restedprecariously on his lap, and his eyes were closed.
    Rising quietly, she plucked the china out of harm’s way and placed it on the table beside the inspector’s chair. Gently, she shook him. “Sir,” she whispered. “I do believe you’d better retire for the evening.”

    Mrs. Jeffries was up and gone from the house before the others had stirred. The hansom let her out at the junction where Newgate Street meets Cheapside. She smiled at