Free Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat by Emily Brightwell Page A

night. “I say, Mrs. Jeffries, it’s the oddest thing. I don’t quite know what to make of it.”
    “Oh, do tell me, sir,” she pleaded with a smile. “You know how interested I am in your cases.”
    He smiled happily. It was always such a relief to talk his cases out. It always gave him a new perspective on the crime. “Let’s see, where should I begin?”
    “Why don’t you tell me what you thought was so odd, sir?” she suggested. “I’m terribly curious.”
    “Good idea.” He reached for his glass again. “You know the victim was found in Sheridan Square. That’s quite a nice area. Rather expensive and large houses. There’s only seven residences around the square, and what was odd was that we had someone from a house at each end of the square hear something early this morning.”
    “What did they hear, sir?”
    “Mrs. Baldridge—she lives at number one, that’s at one end of the square—claims she heard someone creeping by her windows early in the morning. Yet we’ve evidence from Mrs. McCabe, who lives at the other end of the square, that she heard a hansom come into the square a good half hour after Mrs. Baldridge swears she heard footsteps. It’s most mystifying.”
    Mrs. Jeffries didn’t find it in the least mystifying. “How so, sir?”
    “I’m not sure,” he muttered, “it just is. I mean, was it the killer creeping about at half past four, and or was it the victim?”
    “I should think it was the killer,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “Why would the victim try to be quiet? By the way, have you any idea who the poor woman might be?”
    “No,” he sighed again. “We haven’t a clue. I tell you, it’s all very, very, confusing.”
    “It’s always confusing in the beginning, sir,” she said stoutly. “But you know how very, very good you are at solving murders, sir. You’ll catch the killer in the end. You always do.”
    “It’s reassuring that you have such faith in my abilities,” he said sofly. “But sometimes I doubt myself.”
    “Nonsense, sir. You should never doubt yourself.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Jeffries.” He smiled. “I must admit, it does help to talk about it. You know, the people on that square were a tad uncooperative. You’d think they’d do everything they could to help us solve this case, especially as it was right on their own doorstep, so to speak.”
    “Indeed, you would, sir,” she agreed.
    He continued talking about the murder. Mrs. Jeffries occasionally clucked her tongue or asked a question. By the time he’d finished his sherry, he’d told her every little detail about the crime.
    “You must have had quite a day, sir,” she commented, when it was apparent he’d told her everything he knew. “I expect you’d like your dinner now.”
    “Oh yes, I am a bit hungry.” He got up and started for the dining room. “What’s Mrs. Goodge laid on for us this evening?”
    “Lancashire hot pot, sir.” She followed him out into the hall, “and there’s lemon tarts for dessert, sir.”
    They were almost at the dining room when there was a loud knock on the front door. Mrs. Jeffries turned and started in that direction.
    “No, Mrs. Jeffries.” Witherspoon gently pulled her back. “This time of night I don’t want you or Betsy answering the door.”
    “It’s not that late, sir,” she protested.
    “Nevertheless, I’d feel better if you let me get it.” With that, he marched down the hall and threw open the front door.
    “Telegram for Inspector Witherspoon, sir,” a young lad in a messenger’s uniform said.
    “I’m Inspector Witherspoon.” He reached for the pale brown envelope the boy held out. “Thank you,” he said as he took the telegram in one hand and reached in his trouser pocket with the other. Withdrawing a coin, he handed it to the lad. “For your trouble.”
    “Thank you, sir,” the boy said as he pocketed the money.
    Witherspoon closed the door and stared at the envelope as though he’d never seen one