Free The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries by Emily Brightwell

sound of footsteps pounding across the grass.
    “Excuse me, sir,” an excited female voice exclaimed, “but the inspector from Scotland Yard would like to have a word with you now.”
    As soon as the twosome had followed the maid back into the house, Mrs. Jeffries peered out from behind the tree to make sure the coast was clear.
    Keeping her head low, she crept closer. A series of steps led from the edge of the garden onto a low-walled terrace that opened from what looked like the drawing room. Ducking down, Mrs. Jeffries made her way to the other side of the terrace and the small backdoor that led off the flat, rough-stone service porch.
    She studied the area carefully. The first thing she noticed was the service door didn’t have a keyhole, which meant that it latched from the inside. Next to the door was a long, rectangular pane of glass, and beside that, the broken shell of a larger window that had had all its glass knocked out. Mrs. Jeffries frowned. Why hadn’t the burglar knocked out the small window and then reached inside and unlatched the door? Why take the risk of someone hearing the shattering of a large pane of glass when one could just as easily have knocked out the small one and gained entry through the door?
    Suddenly she heard the inspector’s voice from deep inside the house. She quickly crept back behind the wall surroundingthe terrace and hurried back the way she’d come.
    As she walked towards the Queens Road Mrs. Jeffries realized she’d learned an enormous amount of information. Now she had to think of a way to ensure that Inspector Witherspoon learned it as well.
    But there were two very important facts that were uppermost in her mind. First, Abigail Hodges had not been much loved, and second, whoever killed her was either the worst kind of bungling burglar or a very clever murderer.

CHAPTER 4

    Inspector Witherspoon waited patiently for Jonathan Felcher to sit down. He’d been waiting now for a good two minutes. The fellow couldn’t seem to find a place to settle. He’d paced between the fireplace and the settee half a dozen times. Finally the young man stopped in front of a leather wing chair, smiled at the inspector and sat. He gazed at Witherspoon out of a pair of wary hazel eyes and casually flicked a lock of wavy brown hair off his forehead.
    “All right, Inspector,” Felcher said as he began stroking his beard, “go ahead and ask your questions. Though, I must say, I don’t think you’re going to learn anything useful. I certainly don’t know a thing about who robbed and murdered Abigail.”
    “I understand you took your aunt and uncle out to dinner on the night of the murder,” Witherspoon began. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to bite his tongue. He really must refer to this crime as a robbery. Blast it, this wasn’t a murder plot. Was it? He wasn’t sure anymore, just as he wasn’t sure what this fidgety young man could possibly tell him.
    But dash it all, he had to keep trying. Nothing else about this case was going right. Despite a massive effort by the uniformed lads, they hadn’t heard hide nor hair about themissing jewelry. It hadn’t turned up in any pawnshops or any of the usual places stolen goods frequently appeared.
    “That’s true. They’ve had me ‘round for meals so many times I felt I really ought to return their hospitality.” Felcher smiled slightly. “It’s difficult, though. I live in lodgings, so I had to take them to a restaurant. We went to Clutter’s. It’s a nice little place near Covent Garden. Do you know it?”
    “Er, no. What time did you finish your meal?” the inspector asked. He knew this line of inquiry would probably lead nowhere, but he felt he must do a thorough job of interviewing everyone.
    Felcher plucked a piece of lint off the lapel of his brown jacket. “It was rather early, actually. Abigail and Leonard had another appointment. So it must have been half past seven or so when I saw them off in a