Read Online Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat by Emily Brightwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Brightwell
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a cup of tea. I was just coming down the front stairs when I heard someone outside in the street.”
“Heard someone?” Witherspoon frowned. “Precisely how? Did you hear a hansom?”
“I heard footsteps,” she said. “It’s extraordinary how quiet it is at that hour of the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Witherspoon agreed slowly. “Er…uh, it is very quiet at that time of the morning.”
“You don’t understand,” she said impatiently. “I didn’t make that comment as an idle observation, Inspector. I made it because it is quite pertinent to your case.”
“Pertinent,” Witherspoon echoed. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it is.” He was rather puzzled. “But are you positive it was half past four when you heard these footsteps?”
“The very latest it could have been was four thirty-five,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t take long to don a robe and come down one flight of stairs.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” he replied quickly. “I’m not disputing your word, ma’am. I’m merely making certain I understand you completely.”
“You’re not asking the right questions, sir,” she admonished. “Aren’t you at all curious as to why I think those footsteps are pertinent?”
“I was just getting ready to ask that,” he said.
“Good, because if you must know, I’m quite sure the footsteps must have been those of the killer.” She leaned forward eagerly. “You see, the reason I made the remark about the quiet is because whoever was walking by the front door took care to be as quiet as possible. But they couldn’t mask their footsteps completely, and I heard them.”
Witherspoon thought he understood what she was saying. “You mean you think they were taking care not to make any noise.”
“Whoever it was out there was creeping about on his tiptoes,” she said.
“How can you be sure of that, ma’am?” Barnes asked curiously.
“Because I don’t sleep much,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve heard all manner of people go by outside at night. Whoever was out there early this morning was deliberately trying to be quiet. And not because they were being considerate of their neighbors, either, but because they had murder in their hearts. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. There’s plenty of people around here who don’t give a toss for whether or not they’re disturbing their neighbors.”
The inspector wasn’t quite sure how to take this sort of evidence. He didn’t wish to offend the lady, but he couldn’t quite see how she could be so sure about the sound of footsteps. Still, his “inner voice,” the one that Mrs. Jeffries always assured him would keep him on track, was telling him not to discount this lightly.
His consternation must have shown on his face because Mrs. Baldridge suddenly sighed. “Inspector, I can imagine what you’ve heard about me. But I assure you, I’m neither an hysteric nor a shrew.”
“Really, ma’am,” Witherspoon blustered. “Such a thought never crossed my mind.”
“Let us be frank, Inspector.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the garden key incident. But I only tossed it at Mr. Heckston because he was making such a fool of himself.”
“Not because of the hollyhocks?” Barnes asked.
“Certainly not.” She grinned broadly. “I don’t care what kind of flowers they plant in that stupid garden. I was only fed up because Mrs. Prosper snidely remarked they were ‘common’ when I suggested them. Well, really. Who on earth did she think she was fooling? The woman was nothing more than a lady’s maid before she married Eldon Prosper, and of course that love-struck fool Heckston agreed with her.”
“Her name was Mirabelle Daws,” Smythe said softly, “and this was her first visit to England. She come in on the Island Star , and that only come into port late yesterday afternoon.”
“Which port?” Hatchet asked quickly.
“Southampton,” Smythe replied. “Miss Daws took
“Heard someone?” Witherspoon frowned. “Precisely how? Did you hear a hansom?”
“I heard footsteps,” she said. “It’s extraordinary how quiet it is at that hour of the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Witherspoon agreed slowly. “Er…uh, it is very quiet at that time of the morning.”
“You don’t understand,” she said impatiently. “I didn’t make that comment as an idle observation, Inspector. I made it because it is quite pertinent to your case.”
“Pertinent,” Witherspoon echoed. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it is.” He was rather puzzled. “But are you positive it was half past four when you heard these footsteps?”
“The very latest it could have been was four thirty-five,” she said firmly. “It doesn’t take long to don a robe and come down one flight of stairs.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” he replied quickly. “I’m not disputing your word, ma’am. I’m merely making certain I understand you completely.”
“You’re not asking the right questions, sir,” she admonished. “Aren’t you at all curious as to why I think those footsteps are pertinent?”
“I was just getting ready to ask that,” he said.
“Good, because if you must know, I’m quite sure the footsteps must have been those of the killer.” She leaned forward eagerly. “You see, the reason I made the remark about the quiet is because whoever was walking by the front door took care to be as quiet as possible. But they couldn’t mask their footsteps completely, and I heard them.”
Witherspoon thought he understood what she was saying. “You mean you think they were taking care not to make any noise.”
“Whoever it was out there was creeping about on his tiptoes,” she said.
“How can you be sure of that, ma’am?” Barnes asked curiously.
“Because I don’t sleep much,” she said bluntly. “And I’ve heard all manner of people go by outside at night. Whoever was out there early this morning was deliberately trying to be quiet. And not because they were being considerate of their neighbors, either, but because they had murder in their hearts. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. There’s plenty of people around here who don’t give a toss for whether or not they’re disturbing their neighbors.”
The inspector wasn’t quite sure how to take this sort of evidence. He didn’t wish to offend the lady, but he couldn’t quite see how she could be so sure about the sound of footsteps. Still, his “inner voice,” the one that Mrs. Jeffries always assured him would keep him on track, was telling him not to discount this lightly.
His consternation must have shown on his face because Mrs. Baldridge suddenly sighed. “Inspector, I can imagine what you’ve heard about me. But I assure you, I’m neither an hysteric nor a shrew.”
“Really, ma’am,” Witherspoon blustered. “Such a thought never crossed my mind.”
“Let us be frank, Inspector.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the garden key incident. But I only tossed it at Mr. Heckston because he was making such a fool of himself.”
“Not because of the hollyhocks?” Barnes asked.
“Certainly not.” She grinned broadly. “I don’t care what kind of flowers they plant in that stupid garden. I was only fed up because Mrs. Prosper snidely remarked they were ‘common’ when I suggested them. Well, really. Who on earth did she think she was fooling? The woman was nothing more than a lady’s maid before she married Eldon Prosper, and of course that love-struck fool Heckston agreed with her.”
“Her name was Mirabelle Daws,” Smythe said softly, “and this was her first visit to England. She come in on the Island Star , and that only come into port late yesterday afternoon.”
“Which port?” Hatchet asked quickly.
“Southampton,” Smythe replied. “Miss Daws took
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