Read Online Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time by Emily Brightwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Brightwell
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have had someone in the house open a window or make sure a side door was unlocked,” Betsy speculated.
“I’ve no idea what happened,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Either of those scenarios is certainly possible. I don’t think we ought to rule out anyone, even those who have an alibi.”
“There was half a dozen or more guests and almost as many family members,” Smythe muttered. “That’s going to take a bit of work.”
“True, but we’ll not let that discourage us. To begin with, I suggest we start on learning as much as we can about our victim and more importantly, about everyone who might benefit from his death.”
Betsy was the first to get up. “I’ll be off, then. Let’s hope the local shopkeepers know something useful about the household.”
“I’ll see what my sources can tell me about Humphreys.” Luty pushed back from the table and got to her feet.
“It would be useful to find out about his financial situation,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.
Luty picked up her muff. “That goes without sayin’.”
“And I shall endeavor to find out what I can from my sources as well.” Hatchet glanced at his employer and grinned. “Shall we have a small wager on who finds out the most information today, madam?” Though he was fiercely devoted to Luty, the two of them were very competitive when they were on a case.
Luty snorted, but before she could respond, Mrs. Jeffries leapt up and said, “Now, now, you’re both too valuable for us to waste time on silly wagers.” She didn’t want this sort of thing to begin because she knew what would happen. The entire household would get competitive and they’d spend more time arguing over who’d learned the most or which piece of information was the more important than they did hunting clues. “Come on everyone, let’s get to it. We’ve much to do today. We’ll meet back here at our usual time this afternoon.”
By nine o’clock that morning, Witherspoon and Barnes were back at Humphreys House. The constable was downstairs in the servants’ hall while the inspector was in the dining room upstairs. They were taking statements.
He and Barnes had reported in at the Acton Police Station, but the postmortem report still hadn’t arrived. A small contingent of constables had accompanied him to the victim’s home and Witherspoon had sent them off to do a house-to-house. He was hoping that one of the neighbors had seen someone or something suspicious yesterday. Another group of constables were searching the grounds and he’d instructed them to look along the railway line as well.
The inspector rose politely as Imogene Ross came into the drawing room. “Mrs. Eames said you wished to speak to me?” she said.
“I just have a few questions for you, Miss Ross.” He noticed her eyes were red rimmed from weeping and she was dressed in formal black mourning clothes.
“Yes, of course.” She sighed heavily and sank onto the sofa.
“Please accept my condolences for your loss.” Witherspoon sat down across from her. “I know this isn’t pleasant, but it is necessary.”
“I understand that, Inspector.” She held herself stiffly, with her back ramrod straight and her hands neatly folded together on her lap. “But I don’t know what you think I can tell you, I was down here when we heard the shot . . .” She broke off, her eyes filling with tears. “Sorry, please forgive me, but this has upset me dreadfully.”
“You were close to your uncle.” He smiled sympathetically.
“Oh no, I don’t think anyone but Annabelle was ever close to him. He was genuinely fond of her. But Uncle Francis was very decent to me. He took me in when I lost my position and gave me allowance. He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“No one does,” the inspector said softly. “How long have you lived here?”
“I came about three months ago.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “As I said, I lost my position as a governess.”
Witherspoon was in a quandary: He
“I’ve no idea what happened,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Either of those scenarios is certainly possible. I don’t think we ought to rule out anyone, even those who have an alibi.”
“There was half a dozen or more guests and almost as many family members,” Smythe muttered. “That’s going to take a bit of work.”
“True, but we’ll not let that discourage us. To begin with, I suggest we start on learning as much as we can about our victim and more importantly, about everyone who might benefit from his death.”
Betsy was the first to get up. “I’ll be off, then. Let’s hope the local shopkeepers know something useful about the household.”
“I’ll see what my sources can tell me about Humphreys.” Luty pushed back from the table and got to her feet.
“It would be useful to find out about his financial situation,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.
Luty picked up her muff. “That goes without sayin’.”
“And I shall endeavor to find out what I can from my sources as well.” Hatchet glanced at his employer and grinned. “Shall we have a small wager on who finds out the most information today, madam?” Though he was fiercely devoted to Luty, the two of them were very competitive when they were on a case.
Luty snorted, but before she could respond, Mrs. Jeffries leapt up and said, “Now, now, you’re both too valuable for us to waste time on silly wagers.” She didn’t want this sort of thing to begin because she knew what would happen. The entire household would get competitive and they’d spend more time arguing over who’d learned the most or which piece of information was the more important than they did hunting clues. “Come on everyone, let’s get to it. We’ve much to do today. We’ll meet back here at our usual time this afternoon.”
By nine o’clock that morning, Witherspoon and Barnes were back at Humphreys House. The constable was downstairs in the servants’ hall while the inspector was in the dining room upstairs. They were taking statements.
He and Barnes had reported in at the Acton Police Station, but the postmortem report still hadn’t arrived. A small contingent of constables had accompanied him to the victim’s home and Witherspoon had sent them off to do a house-to-house. He was hoping that one of the neighbors had seen someone or something suspicious yesterday. Another group of constables were searching the grounds and he’d instructed them to look along the railway line as well.
The inspector rose politely as Imogene Ross came into the drawing room. “Mrs. Eames said you wished to speak to me?” she said.
“I just have a few questions for you, Miss Ross.” He noticed her eyes were red rimmed from weeping and she was dressed in formal black mourning clothes.
“Yes, of course.” She sighed heavily and sank onto the sofa.
“Please accept my condolences for your loss.” Witherspoon sat down across from her. “I know this isn’t pleasant, but it is necessary.”
“I understand that, Inspector.” She held herself stiffly, with her back ramrod straight and her hands neatly folded together on her lap. “But I don’t know what you think I can tell you, I was down here when we heard the shot . . .” She broke off, her eyes filling with tears. “Sorry, please forgive me, but this has upset me dreadfully.”
“You were close to your uncle.” He smiled sympathetically.
“Oh no, I don’t think anyone but Annabelle was ever close to him. He was genuinely fond of her. But Uncle Francis was very decent to me. He took me in when I lost my position and gave me allowance. He didn’t deserve to be murdered.”
“No one does,” the inspector said softly. “How long have you lived here?”
“I came about three months ago.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “As I said, I lost my position as a governess.”
Witherspoon was in a quandary: He
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