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

you’ll put them in prison so they can’t ever hurt anyone again.”
    “I’m flattered by your faith in me.” He sighed again, but this time he didn’t sound quite so depressed. “I only hope I can justify it.”
    “You’ve never failed in the past, sir,” she reminded him, “and there’s no reason to think you’ll fail on this case. Now, sir, do tell me what you’ve learned so far. You know how I love hearing all the details.” She held her breath, hoping she’d managed to shift his mood.
    He hesitated for a moment and then he swallowed the bait. “Well, we did learn a few things today. There weren’t any witnesses, of course, but one of the neighbors said they’d seen Mr. McIntosh crossing the school yard earlier today.”
    “Earlier today?” she repeated. She wanted something a bit more specific.
    “Around a quarter to eleven.” Witherspoon took another drink of sherry. “So far, that’s the last time anyone saw him alive.”
    “Except for the killer,” she said. “It would have been nice if your witness had seen someone going into the school yard.”
    “That would certainly make my task a great deal easier.” He drained his glass and got to his feet. “Perhaps we’ll come up with something soon. Not all of the lads doing the house-to-house had reported in by the time I left the station. So there’s still hope. Someone may have seen something.”
    Mrs. Jeffries suddenly remembered that Smythe and Wiggins had been at the school. She hoped it wouldn’t be their bad luck that someone had seen one of them. But she managed to give the inspector an encouraging smile. “Let’s hope so, sir. Did you find any evidence ofwhat actually, uh, strangled the victim?” She might as well get as many details as possible.
    Witherspoon started toward the dining room. “We think the killer must have used rope. The marks on the throat certainly weren’t caused by hands.”
    “Why do you think it was rope, sir?” she asked as she followed him into the dining room.
    Witherspoon pulled out his chair and sat down. “There was a length of it tossed into the corner. Of course, we won’t know the cause of death until the postmortem is completed. But Dr. Bosworth assured me that he’ll have the results by tomorrow.”
    Mrs. Jeffries’s spirits lifted. “Dr. Bosworth. He’s doing the autopsy?”
    “Oh yes; Dr. Potter’s gout has flared up again and the district doctor’s got a broken arm. I had Barnes send over to St. Thomas’s for Dr. Bosworth. I’m sure the chief inspector won’t object. It’s not good to delay the postmortem, you know. I mean”—he yanked his serviette off the table and onto his lap—“we think the man was strangled, but we don’t know for certain, if you get my meaning.”
    “Yes, sir, I believe I do,” Mrs. Jeffries agreed. She deliberately kept her expression casual, but she was delighted that Dr. Bosworth would be doing the autopsy. He’d helped them on several of the inspector’s cases.
    “I’m not very hungry,” the inspector said as he reached for his fork, “but I suppose I should eat something.”
    “Absolutely, sir,” she assured him. “You must keep up your strength. You’ve much to do in the next few days.”

    Smythe had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him as he slipped around the corner of Orley Road. Yet when he looked over his shoulder, he sawnothing. “I’m gettin’ fanciful,” he muttered to himself. Yet the feeling persisted as he continued up the road and around the bend to a pub he’d spotted. It was a plain, honest workingman’s pub called the White Hare. He pushed into the public bar and took a good, long look around before moving up to the bar. “I’ll have a pint of your best bitter,” he told the publican.
    The room was crowded with workers, shop assistants, day laborers, and even a few bank clerks in their suits and ties.
    “Here you are.” The barman slid his glass of beer across the counter.
    “Ta.”