Free Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead by Emily Brightwell Page A

inspector unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
    “Good gracious, Mrs. Jeffries, you shouldn’t have waited up for me. It’s dreadfully late.” He hung his bowler hat on the coat tree.
    “I don’t need as much sleep as I used to require, sir,” she said cheerfully. “And I thought you could do with a hot mug of tea and a snack before you retired. I know it is very late, sir, but sometimes a few minutes relaxing helps one get to rest easier.” She held her breath, hoping he had enough strength left to spare her a few moments before going upstairs.
    “That is very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Jeffries. Shall I come down to the kitchen?”
    “I thought you’d be more comfortable in the drawing room,” she replied. “I’ve brought up a tray.”
    “Excellent.” He took off down the hallway and she was right on his heels.
    He sat down in his favorite chair.
    “Lady Cannonberry very kindly stopped in and told us some of what happened, sir,” she said.
    “We’re lucky she was there and had the presence of mind to insist they leave things alone. We’ve got the glass the victim was drinking out of tonight. Between Ruth and Dr. Pendleton, they kept most of the evidence from being cleared away.” He settled back further in the chair and yawned.
    “Was it awful, sir?” She put the tray cover to one side, poured him some tea, and placed a bun on a plate. She was one of the few people who knew how squeamish he was about bodies. She handed him his food.
    He leaned forward, put the tea on the side table, and held the plate on his lap. “This is wonderful,” he murmured as he stuffed a bite of food into his mouth.
    She waited patiently while he chewed.
    “It wasn’t as bad as some I’ve seen,” he replied. “Mrs. Banfield was poisoned, so there wasn’t an excess of blood. Poor woman, what a terrible way to die; but then again, I suppose the only good way to pass on is in one’s bed at a very advanced age. Her name was Arlette Banfield and she was a young woman in the prime of her life.”
    “Yes, Lady Cannonberry gave us a few details,” she admitted. She wasn’t sure how much to reveal. “She said the doctor who happened to be there was a police surgeon.”
    “That’s correct.” He nodded. “But he was at the Banfield house as a guest.” He continued on, giving her the details of his evening.
    She listened carefully, not asking questions but simply listening. When he paused to take a sip from his cup, she said, “Was the doctor absolutely sure she’d been poisoned?”
    “Well, one can’t be one hundred percent certain until the postmortem is finished.” Witherspoon reached for another bun. “But he was fairly sure of it. He told one of the first constables on the scene there was a harsh, chemical smell on Mrs. Banfield’s breath. That almost always indicates poison.” He popped the last of the bun into his mouth.
    “Was he able to identify the poison?”
    Witherspoon shook his head as he swallowed. “He suspects cyanide but he wants to do the postmortem to be certain.”
    “Who else lives in the Banfield household?” She already knew, of course, but she didn’t want him to think that Ruth had told them too much.
    “Aside from the victim’s husband, there’s only his aunt, Geraldine Banfield, who is a permanent resident of the household. But there have been two houseguests staying for the past week, a Mrs. Bickleton and a Mrs. Kimball.”
    “Two houseguests?” she repeated. Ruth had only mentioned Margaret Bickleton. Perhaps she didn’t know about the second guest.
    “Yes, but I didn’t have time to interview them.” He sighed. “It got so late that people sort of drifted off. But I don’t think I’ll have any problem speaking to either of these ladies; even if they’ve left the Banfield house, we’ve got their addresses.” He put his cup down and rose to his feet.
    She stood up. “I’ll lock up, sir. You must get your rest. Shall I let you sleep a bit later than usual in