Free Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot by Emily Brightwell

with Mrs. Goodge working her sources for information on Miss Gentry’s family, Miss Betsy asking around the current neighborhood, and Smythe and Wiggins finding out about our murder victim, there isn’t much left for me to do at this point.”
    “What about me?” Luty demanded. “I need something.”
    “Of course you do, madam,” Hatchet said smoothly. “But if I know you, you’ll play the innocent while all along you’ve already decided to find out everything you can about everyone’s bank balance.” He only said this because he knew this was precisely what his employer had planned.
    “Hmmph,” Luty snorted. “You think you know me sowell.” In truth, she was planning on having a chat with her sources in the City early the following morning. She might as well get some use out of those old windbags who were watching her money. God knows they all liked to talk; they bent her ear often enough about what she should and shouldn’t do with her own cash.
    “Precisely, madam.” Hatchet gave a satisfied smile.
    “Are we going to wait for Wiggins?” Mrs. Goodge glanced at the clock on the pine dresser. “It’s getting late.”
    “’E ought to be back ’ere anytime now,” Smythe replied. “He’s ’ad plenty of time to get down to the station, say ’is piece, and get back.”
    “What if he went with the inspector back to that shed?” Betsy said.
    Smythe’s smile disappeared. “Bloomin’ Ada, I ’ope ’e’s enough sense not to go back to that ruddy place. Poor lad felt bad enough—”
    “I’m not surprised,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “Finding a body isn’t very pleasant, the lad’ll be having nightmares if he’s not careful.”
    “It wasn’t just findin’ the corpse that upset him—” Smythe broke off as they heard the back door open. Fred, who’d been having a nap at the coachman’s feet, jumped up and raced down the hall.
    “Hello, boy.” Wiggins’s muffled voice could be heard. A moment later, he popped into the room. “It’s done. The inspector and Constable Barnes is on their way.”
    “I take it the inspector believed your story?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. To her way of thinking, that was the key.
    “He believed me all right. But Inspector Nivens was givin’ me some funny looks.”
    “Nivens was there?” Mrs. Jeffries didn’t like the sound of that.
    “It’s a funny thing.” Wiggins frowned. “’E spotted me comin’ in the building as ’e was leavin’, but insteadof goin’ on about ’is business, ’e turned heel and followed me right up to the inspector’s desk. ’Ung about the whole time I was there.”
    “That’s not good.” Smythe shot the housekeeper a worried look.
    “It most certainly isn’t.”
    “You think he’s onto us?” Luty asked.
    “I don’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries admitted honestly. “But the fact that he followed Wiggins back inside is worrying.”
    “We’ll ’ave to be doubly careful, won’t we?” Smythe said. “Sounds to me like Nivens is going to be watchin’ this investigation pretty sharp like.”
    “That’s true,” Betsy said brightly. “But he’ll only be concerned about the murdered man. He doesn’t know about Miss Gentry. So the only people who have to be careful are you and Wiggins.”

    Mrs. Jeffries had a cold supper laid in the dining room and was standing at the ready when Inspector Witherspoon came home. “Good evening, sir.”
    “Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries. I’m so sorry to be late.”
    “That’s quite all right, sir.” She reached for his bowler. “We expected you wouldn’t be home on time for dinner. Wiggins told us what happened. I’ve a cold supper laid out, sir.”
    “Would it be too much trouble if we had a glass of sherry first?” Witherspoon asked hopefully.
    “That would be splendid, sir,” she replied. Her spirits soared. She couldn’t believe her good luck. An invitation for a sherry together was a sure sign the inspector wanted to have one of his “chats” about the