Free Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot by Emily Brightwell Page A

case.
    They went into the drawing room and Witherspoon dropped into his favorite armchair. The lamps had already been lighted and the room was suffused with a pale, golden glow. Mrs. Jeffries went to the mahoganysideboard and got the elegant Waterford crystal sherry glasses off of the top shelf. She pulled open the bottom cabinet and removed a bottle of Harvey’s. She filled both glasses to the brim. Putting her sherry on the table next to the settee, she handed the inspector his glass. “Here you are, sir. Just what the doctor ordered after a long, hard day at work.” She wanted to get right onto the subject at hand. “It must have been a really dreadful day for you, sir.”
    “Perhaps, but it was a great deal worse for the poor fellow who got himself strangled.” He took a quick gulp of his drink.
    She pretended to be surprised. “Strangled? Oh dear, you mean he was murdered? All Wiggins said was he’d seen a dead body. He seemed so upset, we didn’t press him for details; we just assumed that whoever it was had died of natural causes.”
    “I’m afraid not. There was quite a wide ligature mark about the fellow’s throat.” He shuddered.
    “How very sad, sir.” She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “I don’t suppose you’ve been able to identify him?”
    “Oh yes, that was quite easy. His name was Stanley McIntosh. He was a caretaker of a grammar school. Which, by the way, has been closed since Easter.”
    “So he was strangled, sir?”
    “It certainly looked like it.”
    “Do you have any idea who might have murdered the poor man?” She asked this as a matter of course.
    He sighed. “Not as yet. We sent police constables to do a house-to-house in the local area, but so far, we’ve not turned up much.”
    “Did this Mr. McIntosh live in the school itself?”
    “He had a room off the kitchen. Actually, they’d converted the dry larder into a bedroom for the fellow. We searched the room but we came up with nothing.”
    “Could robbery have been the motive, sir?” she asked innocently.
    “I doubt it, the school is virtually nothing more than an empty shell and the victim had nothing of value in his room. Quite sad, really, nothing but a few old rags for clothes and some postcards he’d kept under his bed in a cigar box.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not much to show for a man’s life. But whatever modest means he had, however humble his position and circumstances, no one had the right to kill him. To take his life.”
    “I agree, sir,” she said softly. From any other man, the sentiment expressed by him would have sounded false or silly, but Mrs. Jeffries knew he meant every single word. He would do everything in his power to bring the killer to justice. “I know you’ll catch the murderer, sir. You always do.”
    “I certainly hope so, Mrs. Jeffries. But I must admit, I’m not overly optimistic about our chances. There seems no reason for this killing.”
    “But there never seems to be a reason for murder, sir,” she protested. “Not in the beginning of a case. What’s got you so pessimistic about this one?”
    He smiled wanly. “I don’t really know. There was just something so depressing about the whole situation. Here was this poor wretch of a man living in that awful little room. There weren’t any curtains, or pictures or books or carpeting or anything to brighten his miserable existence, just this silly cigar box with a few postcards that he’d probably drug out of dustbins.” He sighed and shook his head again. “Why would anyone want to kill someone who had so little? It seems so pointless and cruel, I simply don’t understand, Mrs. Jeffries.”
    Mrs. Jeffries gazed at him sympathetically. He really was a sensitive person. She understood exactly what he meant. “Life is often cruel, Inspector,” she said softly.“And it’s because of this random misery that what you do is so important. You’ll find the person who took this McIntosh’s life and