Free Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected by Emily Brightwell Page A

briefly. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Someone did.”
    “Who?” Taggert asked belligerently. “I want to know who said I was there so I can call him a liar to his face.”
    “I’m afraid it wasn’t a him, sir,” Witherspoon said softly. “It was a her. It was Sarah Hewett.”

    “Would you care for more sherry, sir?” Mrs. Jeffries asked the inspector. Goodness, she thought, he wasn’t very talkative this evening. “Dinner won’t be ready for a few minutes, so you’ve plenty of time for another one.”
    “This one will do me fine, Mrs. Jeffries,” the inspector replied, waving his half-full glass in her direction.
    “How is the investigation going, sir?” she asked.
    “Oh, we’re moving right along.”
    “Did you manage to talk with the other suspects today?”
    “Of course.” He yawned. “Quite a busy day it was too. By the way, have you had any more letters from Lady Cannonberry?”
    Drat, Mrs. Jeffries thought, he was changing the subject again. He’d done that twice since he’d come home. “Only a short note to tell us she was having a nice time. She enjoys the country, even if she isn’t overly fond of her late husband’s relatives.”
    Witherspoon frowned. “It’s jolly decent of her to go at all. I was rather hoping she might have mentioned when she would be returning to London.”
    “She didn’t say, sir. Did you find out—”
    “Isn’t it time for dinner yet?” Witherspoon queried. “I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”
    Mrs. Jeffries gave up. She’d try again once the man had his stomach full.

CHAPTER 4

    “I’m afraid the inspector wasn’t very forthcoming last night,” Mrs. Jeffries told the others at breakfast the next morning. “He didn’t tell me very much.” To be precise, he hadn’t really told her anything worthwhile at all.
    “’Ow much is ’very much’?” Smythe asked cautiously.
    “Well,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly, “I’m afraid he really didn’t say anything at all.”
    “Nothing at all!” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “What’s gotten into the man?”
    Betsy reached for a slice of toast. “I’m not sure what you mean? Are you saying the inspector doesn’t know anything or that he deliberately avoided answering your questions?”
    “I mean,” Mrs. Jeffries said irritably, “that he talked about everything under the sun except this murder case. I tried all my usual methods of questioning him, but he rather neatly sidestepped my queries. He kept asking me all sorts of silly questions about women’s clothing.”
    “Maybe he was just tired,” Wiggins suggested softly. He hadn’t said more than three words to anyone since he’d come into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and clutching his stomach.
    “He wasn’t tired,” Mrs. Jeffries replied flatly. “He was deliberately avoiding talking about the murder.” She’d spent half the night worrying about the inspector’s reticence and she’d finally come to the conclusion there was only one thing to do. Confront the man. Find out precisely why he’d closed up tighter than a bank vault.
    “Maybe he’s onto us,” Smythe mused. “Maybe that last case…”
    Mrs. Jeffries shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the problem. Last night he was muttering something about listening to his natural instincts, his inner voice—”
    “What inner voice?” Mrs. Goodge interrupted. “Is he hearin’ things now? My uncle Donald went like that when he was about the inspector’s age. It happens sometimes. Out of the clear blue they start hearing things and then they start seeing things. That’s when you’ve really got to keep a sharp eye on them; once they start seeing things that aren’t there you’ve got to lock them up. Causes all sorts of problems.”
    “I’m hearin’ things,” Wiggins muttered, frowning as he turned to stare at the hall. “Either that, or Luty Belle and Hatchet’s fixin’ to come through the back door. I just ’eard a carriage pull up.”
    Fred, his tail wagging