Read Online Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time by Emily Brightwell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Brightwell
Ads: Link
she covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth on the sofa.
Alarmed, Witherspoon leapt up. Ye gods, if she kept on like this, the poor woman was going to end up in a quivering, hysterical heap on the carpet. It was time to find the housekeeper or Mrs. Prescott. Just then, the door opened and Mrs. Eames stuck her head inside. “There’s a constable here who insists he must speak with you, Inspector. Oh dear, Miss Ross, you mustn’t go on so. You’ll make yourself ill.” She stepped into the room and hurried over to the wailing woman.
Witherspoon ran for the door and escaped into the hallway. A young constable standing by the staircase snapped to attention. “You wanted to see me,” the inspector said to the lad.
“Yes sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’ve a message from Chief Inspector Barrows. He wants you and Constable Barnes to come to Scotland Yard right away.”
“Now? But we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and I’ve not finished taking all the statements,” Witherspoon protested. This was most odd; he could think of no reason why they would be called back to the Yard, not unless someone had confessed to the crime.
“We’re to continue taking the statements, sir,” the constable replied. “There’s a hansom waiting for you—it’s quicker than the trains.”
An hour later, he and an equally puzzled Constable Barnes were standing in Chief Inspector Barrows’ office on the third floor of the modern, redbrick building now housing Scotland Yard.
“You made very good time in getting here.” Barrows smiled briefly. He was a tall, balding man with a pale complexion and a perpetually worried frown.
“The traffic was very light,” the inspector replied. He thought the chief inspector seemed even more anxious than usual. Barrows’ mouth was turned down, his shoulders hunched, and there were deep lines around his eyes. “Is everything all right, sir?”
Barrows sighed heavily. “I’m afraid not.” He straightened up and looked at Barnes. “I’ve some unsettling news, Constable. I’m pulling you off this case. You’re to report to Fulham for the time being.”
Barnes stared at him impassively. He was surprised, but he was too wily an old fox to let anything show on his face until after he’d learned the facts. “Yes sir. Is that to be effective immediately?”
Witherspoon’s jaw dropped in shock. He looked wildly from the chief inspector to the constable. “Constable Barnes is being pulled off the case. But why? I don’t understand. I can’t lose the constable, his services are invaluable. I couldn’t have solved any of my cases without his help. Has he done something wrong? Have we done something wrong?”
Barnes gave the inspector a brief, grateful glance. The reason the inspector was universally admired was because he always made sure the men working his cases got their fair share of the credit.
“No one has done anything wrong.” Barrows shook his head and stood up. “The constable is one of our best men. His record is impeccable. The new assignment isn’t a punishment.”
“But then why am I losing him?” Witherspoon pressed. He couldn’t imagine working on a homicide without his constable.
“Because I’ve no choice in the matter,” Barrows admitted wearily. He turned and moved the short distance to the window, propped his hands on the sill and stared out at the Thames. “The transfer to Fulham isn’t my idea. I know how well the two of you work together. Only a fool would break up one of the most successful homicide investigation teams in the history of this department. But there are plenty of fools about who have a great deal more power than I do, so there’s nothing I can do but acquiesce.” He turned back to face them. “If it’s any comfort, Fulham is only a temporary reassignment.”
“But if it wasn’t your idea,” Witherspoon asked, his expression confused, “whose was it?”
“The order has come from the very
Alarmed, Witherspoon leapt up. Ye gods, if she kept on like this, the poor woman was going to end up in a quivering, hysterical heap on the carpet. It was time to find the housekeeper or Mrs. Prescott. Just then, the door opened and Mrs. Eames stuck her head inside. “There’s a constable here who insists he must speak with you, Inspector. Oh dear, Miss Ross, you mustn’t go on so. You’ll make yourself ill.” She stepped into the room and hurried over to the wailing woman.
Witherspoon ran for the door and escaped into the hallway. A young constable standing by the staircase snapped to attention. “You wanted to see me,” the inspector said to the lad.
“Yes sir, I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I’ve a message from Chief Inspector Barrows. He wants you and Constable Barnes to come to Scotland Yard right away.”
“Now? But we’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and I’ve not finished taking all the statements,” Witherspoon protested. This was most odd; he could think of no reason why they would be called back to the Yard, not unless someone had confessed to the crime.
“We’re to continue taking the statements, sir,” the constable replied. “There’s a hansom waiting for you—it’s quicker than the trains.”
An hour later, he and an equally puzzled Constable Barnes were standing in Chief Inspector Barrows’ office on the third floor of the modern, redbrick building now housing Scotland Yard.
“You made very good time in getting here.” Barrows smiled briefly. He was a tall, balding man with a pale complexion and a perpetually worried frown.
“The traffic was very light,” the inspector replied. He thought the chief inspector seemed even more anxious than usual. Barrows’ mouth was turned down, his shoulders hunched, and there were deep lines around his eyes. “Is everything all right, sir?”
Barrows sighed heavily. “I’m afraid not.” He straightened up and looked at Barnes. “I’ve some unsettling news, Constable. I’m pulling you off this case. You’re to report to Fulham for the time being.”
Barnes stared at him impassively. He was surprised, but he was too wily an old fox to let anything show on his face until after he’d learned the facts. “Yes sir. Is that to be effective immediately?”
Witherspoon’s jaw dropped in shock. He looked wildly from the chief inspector to the constable. “Constable Barnes is being pulled off the case. But why? I don’t understand. I can’t lose the constable, his services are invaluable. I couldn’t have solved any of my cases without his help. Has he done something wrong? Have we done something wrong?”
Barnes gave the inspector a brief, grateful glance. The reason the inspector was universally admired was because he always made sure the men working his cases got their fair share of the credit.
“No one has done anything wrong.” Barrows shook his head and stood up. “The constable is one of our best men. His record is impeccable. The new assignment isn’t a punishment.”
“But then why am I losing him?” Witherspoon pressed. He couldn’t imagine working on a homicide without his constable.
“Because I’ve no choice in the matter,” Barrows admitted wearily. He turned and moved the short distance to the window, propped his hands on the sill and stared out at the Thames. “The transfer to Fulham isn’t my idea. I know how well the two of you work together. Only a fool would break up one of the most successful homicide investigation teams in the history of this department. But there are plenty of fools about who have a great deal more power than I do, so there’s nothing I can do but acquiesce.” He turned back to face them. “If it’s any comfort, Fulham is only a temporary reassignment.”
“But if it wasn’t your idea,” Witherspoon asked, his expression confused, “whose was it?”
“The order has come from the very
Similar Books
