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

moment and then her face brightened. “There was someone. He was coming out as I was going in. He tipped his hat to me and I remember thinking that there was something odd about him.”
    â€œWhat was that?” Barnes asked quickly.
    â€œThe man was carrying a bouquet and I thought it strange that one would take flowers out of a cemetery. Usually, one does just the opposite. One brings flowers in to put on a grave.”
    *   *   *
    Mrs. Jeffries heard the back door open and the twang of Luty Belle Crookshank’s American accent. “Get a move on, Hatchet. We’re late enough as it is.”
    â€œWe’re right on time, madam,” Hatchet replied.
    As Mrs. Jeffries waited for the two of them to enter, she crossed her fingers that they might have seen the morning newspapers and, therefore, wouldn’t be surprised about Edith Durant having been alive, well, and living in London until yesterday. Unfortunately, none of the others had made mention of it so she was fairly sure they’d not had time to read the papers today. In truth, if they had, it would have made telling them easier.
    â€œDang it, I knew we’d be the last ones here.” Luty stopped beneath the archway separating the hall from the kitchen and surveyed the room. She was a tiny, white-haired American with a kind heart, a sharp tongue, and a love of bright clothes. She’d been a witness in one of Witherspoon’s earliest cases, had figured out what the household was up to, and then come to them for help on a problem. Ever since, both she and Hatchet insisted on helping whenever the inspector had a homicide. “You haven’t started yet, have ya?”
    â€œOf course they haven’t begun, madam.” Hatchet swept off his shiny black top hat revealing a head full of snowy white hair. He helped Luty take off her peacock blue cloak, shed his own coat, and hung all their garments on the coat tree.
    â€œWe’ve only just sat down,” Mrs. Jeffries assured them as Luty raced around the table and yanked out the empty chair across from Betsy. “Where’s my baby?” she demanded.
    Betsy smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Luty, but we had to leave her home. She’s got a bit of a sniffle. Our neighbor is sitting with her.”
    â€œWe didn’t want ’er out in this cold air,” Smythe added. He was a tall, muscular man with dark hair going gray at the temples. His features were hard and sharp, softened only by the kindness in his brown eyes and his ready smile. He and Betsy were married and the parents of Amanda, who was Luty Belle’s godchild. Betsy had been the inspector’s housemaid, and Smythe was still the household coachman despite the fact that Witherspoon rarely used his horses and carriage.
    Luty’s eyes narrowed in a worried frown. “Have you taken her to the doctor?”
    â€œIt’s just a sniffle,” Betsy assured her. “She’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
    â€œYou’d best take her to the doctor if she’s not.” Mrs. Goodge reached for the teapot and began to pour. “We can’t take any chances with our little one.” She was also a godparent to the child as was the inspector. All three of them doted on her.
    â€œWe’re keepin’ a close watch on her,” Smythe promised. “Now, what ’ave we got here?”
    Everyone at the table turned their attention to Mrs. Jeffries. She nodded her thanks as the cook handed her a mug of tea. “It’s a very unusual case.”
    â€œAren’t they all,” the blonde, middle-aged woman sitting at the far end of the table muttered. Slender as a girl and still very attractive, Lady Ruth Cannonberry was the widow of a peer. She lived across the communal garden and she and the inspector had become very close “friends.” The daughter of a country vicar, she very much believed in Christ’s instructions