Free Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up by Emily Brightwell

mean they’re telling the truth. Lying to keep a roof over one’s head is understandable.”
    “So you’re saying the fire could have been a genuine accident?” the housekeeper countered.
    “Shouldn’t we treat that as an equal possibility?” Hatchet said. “Perhaps the killer merely took advantage of the circumstances. It wouldn’t be the first time a murder was committed because someone saw a golden opportunity and didn’t want to waste it.”
    “We don’t know enough yet to be speculatin’,” Luty declared. “And every time we start thinkin’ too much about the case before we’ve got all our facts, we git in trouble. So I say we ought to just git out there and find out as much as we can.”
    Mrs. Jeffries laughed and rose to her feet. “Let’s see if we can’t learn a few facts today. Everyone be back here by half past four for our afternoon meeting.”
    There was the sound of chairs scraping as people began to move. Smythe looked at his wife. “Are you goin’ to stay ’ere or go ’ome?”
    Betsy hesitated, unsure of her welcome in the kitchen now that they had a case. “I don’t know. Mrs. Goodge has her sources coming and I—”
    “Don’t you worry about that,” the cook interrupted. “You and that baby stay right here. As a matter of fact, you can help me get these lads talkin’. Wiggins”—she looked toward the coat tree where the footman stood putting on his jacket—“can you go into my room and pull the rocker out here, please?”
    “Sure.” Wiggins headed off toward the cook’s quarters on the far side of the staircase.
    “Are you certain I won’t be in the way?” Betsy asked.
    “Don’t be daft, girl. I can use the company,” the cook declared.
     
    “Mrs. Williams wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped, but she was sure that none of the servants left the back garden,” Witherspoon admitted as he and Barnes got out of the hansom in front of Arthur Brunel’s house on Claringdon Crescent. “But thanks to Haines, we do have a better time line of yesterday’s events.”
    “And he also confirmed that the servants stayed in the garden, so none of them could have seen Mrs. McCourt on the balcony.” Barnes paid the driver. “So we’ll have to wait till we read the house-to-house reports to see if anyone else might have noticed her. Mind you, even if no one saw the woman, it doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”
    “True, but I do want to verify her statement if possible. I don’t think she was overly fond of her husband,” the inspector added.
    Barnes laughed. “You can say that about half the married women in England, sir, but that doesn’t mean they’d do murder.” His eyes narrowed as he studied the three-story brown brick home belonging to Arthur Brunel. “Wonder what’s going on here, sir.”
    The house sat back from the street behind a small fenced garden. Two workmen blocked the short walkway leading to the front door; one was bent over a set of sawhorses cutting a piece of wood, and the other was on his knees rummaging through a toolbox. He looked up just then and caught sight of the two policemen.
    “Pardon me.” The inspector smiled politely at the laborer as he opened the creaking gate and went up the walk. “But do you know if Mr. Arthur Brunel is home?”
    The workman stopped sawing as his companion stood up. Both men were now staring at them. “He’s in there.” The taller of the two men wiped the sawdust off his hands and pointed to the front door. “Just bang the knocker.”
    But they didn’t need to do that, as the door opened and a young housemaid stuck her head out. She looked directly at the inspector. “What do you want, sir?” she asked.
    “We’d like to see Mr. Arthur Brunel.”
    “He’s not receivin’, sir.” She started to close the door, but Barnes slapped his hand against the wood and stopped her from slamming it shut.
    “This isn’t a social call,” he said softly. “Tell Mr. Brunel we need to speak with him. If he