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

before.
    “Aren’t you going to open it, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
    “Oh, yes, I suppose I ought to.” The inspector grinned sheepishly and tore it open. Taking out the slender, thin yellow paper, he read it quickly. His eyebrows rose, and Mrs. Jeffries noticed he read the page again. “Good gracious,” he exclaimed. “This is most extraordinary. Most extraordinary, indeed.”
    “What is it, sir?”
    “Let me read it to you. ‘Dear Inspector,’” he read, “‘The woman who was stabbed in Sheridan Square is one Miss Mirabelle Daws. She arrived from Australia yesterday evening on a ship called the Island Star .’”
    “Goodness, sir, that is extraordinary.” Mrs. Jeffries wondered if it were Betsy’s or Luty’s idea to provide the name of the vessel. She wasn’t sure they ought to have given so much away, but it wasn’t her plan. “Who is it from?”
    “That’s extraordinary as well.” He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”
    “You mean it’s unsigned?”
    “It’s signed; it’s just I’ve never heard of this person.” He shook his head and glanced back at the message. “It’s signed, ‘Your humble servant, Rollo Puffy.’”
    “And you’ve no idea who he is?” she asked. Really, where did Luty come up with these strange names?
    “I’ve no idea. No idea at all.”
    “You’re certain, sir?” She pressed. She wanted to make sure there wasn’t a real Rollo Puffy out and about somewhere in London. Occasionally, Luty’s sense of humor overcame her good sense.
    “Absolutely, Mrs. Jeffries,” he insisted. “I don’t think I’d ever forget meeting someone with a name like that.”

CHAPTER 4

    The next morning, Betsy was still furious. She ignored the admiring glances of the young lad sweeping the sidewalk in front of the fishmonger and charged toward her destination, a grocer on the far corner. She wasn’t on Sheridan Square, but the nearest shopping street to it. She was determined to have something useful to tell the others this afternoon.
    When Smythe—she kicked a small pebble out of her way—finally took it into his head to come home today, she wanted to make damned sure she had something better to report than he did.
    She dodged around a fruit-loaded hand cart blocking the pavement in front of a greengrocer and kept on walking. She might as well see what the shopkeepers had to say. At least now she had a name.
    It wasn’t simply rivalry that had prompted her to leave the house so early this morning in search of clues. Yesterday she’d been deeply, deeply hurt. She’d been so sure she and Smythe were coming to an understanding, had truly gotten to know each other. She’d told him things about herself she’d never shared with anyone, and he, the ruddy sod, hadn’t bothered to tell her a blooming thing. Though that wasn’t quite true, she was in no mood to be fair.
    Luckily, by the time she arrived at the grocer’s, she’d walked some of her anger off. Pulling open the door, she stepped inside. As it was just past opening, she was the only customer in the place.
    “Can I help you, miss?” a thin-faced young man said from behind the counter.
    “Yes, thank you.” Betsy gave him her most dazzling smile. “I’d like a tin of Bird’s Custard Powder, Epps Cocoa and some Adam’s Furniture Polish, if you have it.”
    “We’ve all those things, Miss.” He blushed deeply. “I’ll get them for you.”
    In a few moments, the items she’d ordered were on the counter in front of her. “I say, isn’t it awful about that poor woman they found murdered over on Sheridan Square?”
    “It’s dreadful, miss. Right dreadful.” He tallied up the bill on a sheet of brown paper. “We don’t often get things like that in this neighborhood. Well, you can see by the houses and such it’s a very nice area.”
    “I hear she was stabbed clean throught the heart,” Betsy continued. “Poor Miss Daws, she simply didn’t stand a chance, did she? Not with someone out to murder