Free Mrs. Jeffries and the One Who Got Away by Emily Brightwell Page A

Witherspoon and Barnes sat across from her in matching armchairs.
    Signs of mourning were everywhere: Black crocheted antimacassars were draped on the back of all the chairs, and every table, cabinet, and bookcase was covered with ebony runners or black-fringed tablecloths. The curtains on the two windows were a dark shade of gray, and a wide black ribbon had been strung around an elderly gentleman’s portrait that was hanging over the mantelpiece.
    â€œIt was dreadful, Inspector Witherspoon, absolutely dreadful.” She shuddered and dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief edged in black lace.
    â€œCan you tell us what happened?” The inspector gave her an encouraging smile.
    â€œIt’s not an experience I care to recall,” she protested.
    â€œMrs. Rivers, I understand you were taking flowers to your late husband’s grave,” Barnes said softly.
    â€œYes.” She nodded eagerly. “That’s right. I take flowers to Mr. Rivers’ grave every week. Sometimes, if the weather is nice and the florist has flowers that aren’t too dear, I go twice a week.”
    â€œYour late husband must have been a wonderful person to have so devoted a wife,” Barnes said.
    â€œIt’s good of you to say so, Constable,” she responded, beaming with pride. “I try to follow the example set by Her Majesty. She’s worn nothing but black since she lost her consort, Prince Albert.”
    â€œAnd I’m sure, like Her Majesty, your husband believed in law and order,” the constable continued.
    She nodded somberly and glanced at the portrait over the fireplace. “He did. Thank you, Constable, for reminding me of my duty. Mr. Rivers would have insisted that no matter how distressing it might be, I must do what is right. Go ahead, gentlemen, ask your questions.”
    Witherspoon spoke first. “What time did you arrive at the cemetery yesterday?”
    â€œHalf past nine. I always get there at half past nine. The florist on the high street opens at nine and I go there to get fresh flowers. I don’t move quickly, Inspector, so it takes me a good half an hour to get to the cemetery.”
    â€œDid you see anyone when you went inside the main gate?”
    â€œNot that I recall, Inspector, but then again, when one gets to be my age, one tends to watch where one’s walking rather than what is going on around them.”
    â€œUsing your own words, can you tell us about finding the body,” Barnes suggested.
    â€œI walked along the main pathway as I always do until it branched off and then I went to my left, towards the Rivers family plot. That was when I practically tripped over that poor woman. At first I thought she must have fainted but then I saw her face and I knew something was terribly wrong.”
    â€œWhat happened then?” Witherspoon pressed.
    â€œI’m not sure, Inspector, but I think I must have screamed. I turned back and moved as quickly as I dared back towards the main gate. I must have still been shouting or making some sort of ruckus because as I got near the chapel, one of the groundsmen came running. I told him what I’d seen. He helped me to the office and Mr. Abbot sent for the police. When the constables arrived”—she swallowed heavily—“they asked me to show them where the body was, which, of course, I did. They wouldn’t let me leave until the other inspector arrived. He had a constable bring me home.”
    â€œDid you touch the body?” Barnes asked quietly.
    â€œCertainly not,” she exclaimed. “I could tell by looking at the woman’s face that she was dead.”
    â€œAnd you don’t recall seeing anyone while you were there?” Witherspoon leaned toward her.
    â€œNo, I don’t think so.”
    Witherspoon tried putting the question another way. “How about when you entered the cemetery—did you see anyone coming out?”
    She thought for a