Read Online Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead by Emily Brightwell - Free Book Online

“After everyone at the table had been served wine, I saw Lewis Banfield signal a footman. The waiter came with the champagne glass on a silver tray. I remember it vividly because the flute was a lovely pale blue glass and Arlette commented that her mother had made two champagne glasses for her and Lewis as one of their wedding presents. Elizabeth Montrose, her mother, is quite a well-known sculptress. Arlette told me that two years ago she went to Italy to learn glassblowing as well.”
    “Did she drink the champagne immediately?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
    “She took a sip right away,” Ruth said. “I remember because she laughed and told Lewis it was delicious. We chatted for a good five minutes and she took a few more sips, then we were both distracted. We started talking again when she noticed her husband’s aunt and her friends staring at our table from across the room. We both laughed about them, and just then, there was a loud crash and the entire ballroom came to a halt as everyone turned to see what had happened. One of the musicians knocked down his music stand and it went over in such a manner as to send the entire row of stands tumbling to the floor. They made a frightful noise, but the fellow handled the situation nicely. He righted them, gave us a big cheeky grin, and then did a nice bow as though we were his audience. Everyone laughed.”
    “How long were people distracted?” Betsy glanced at Mrs. Jeffries as she asked the question and was rewarded with a knowing nod from the housekeeper.
    Ruth tapped her fingers against the tabletop. “Ten or perhaps fifteen seconds. No, it was a bit longer; because of the show the lad put on for us, it was closer to twenty or thirty seconds.”
    Mrs. Jeffries leaned forward. “What instrument did he play?”
    Ruth looked surprised by the question. “Oh, let me see, I think it was a violin. Why? Is it important?”
    “Only if she was poisoned by someone at your table while the musician distracted everyone. In which case, we’d best find out if he was paid to draw everyone’s attention away,” Mrs. Goodge responded.
    “But we only turned away for a few seconds,” she protested.
    “Twenty seconds is long enough for someone to have slipped something into the victim’s glass,” Mrs. Jeffries declared.
    “But they would have had to have brought the poison with them and had it at the ready,” Ruth mused.
    “A small vial or jar of poison is easy to hide.” Betsy ran her hands over her arms and torso, picking up folds of material and the pockets in her voluminous loose dress. “I could probably put half a dozen tiny pillboxes or tins on my person.”
    “But wouldn’t it have taken a few moments to find the container and either get the stopper off or remove the lid?” Ruth argued as she played the devil’s advocate.
    Mrs. Goodge held up her hands. Her fingers were gnarled and swollen. “I’ve got rheumatism in these,” she said, “but when they are really hurtin’ and I’m desperate for a bit of relief, I can get the stopper off my little medicine bottle and the medicine poured into a mug in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. So believe me, if our killer had a strong enough reason for wanting that poor woman dead, it would have been child’s play to do it.”
    She glanced toward the window at the far end of the kitchen as they heard the clip-clop of a horse pulling a hansom cab outside.
    Betsy reacted first. She shoved her chair back and leapt up. “I’ll see if it’s the inspector.” She flew across the room.
    They weren’t concerned about being caught gathered together; the inspector knew that despite his admonition to the contrary, the household wouldn’t retire for the evening while he was out on a case. Nor would he be surprised by Ruth’s presence. She was very much at home in this kitchen, especially tonight, as she was the one who’d raised the alarm about the murder. The only fly in the ointment would be explaining Betsy being here at this