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Authors: Emily Brightwell
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someone. But given what happened, it seems to me she was watching the house.”
Beside him, Witherspoon heard Constable Barnes sigh softly and he knew what that meant. This evidence, if evidence it even was, was utterly useless.
After
a crime had been committed, people could always remember a suspicious character or two in the neighborhood. However, none of these people were ever suspicious enough
before
a crime was committed to warrant anyone even mentioning them to a policeman! And finding a lone woman who’d happened to be standing on the same street as the Hodges home on the day of the murder would be an impossible task. And on top of that, the woman probably had absolutely nothing to do with the crime.
Mrs. Jeffries paused at the corner and gazed at her surroundings, looking for a likely hiding place in the event that Inspector Witherspoon or one of his constables happened to come out of the Hodges house. She could hardly claim she’d come to return his glasses or his watch. The inspector had slipped out this morning before she’d had an opportunity to appropriate either item from his coat pockets. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her. It was imperative she see the house and, if possible, the scene of the crime itself.
Camden Street came off the busy thoroughfare of the Queens Road. The Hodges house was a large red-brick Georgian at the end of the street. It was separated from its neighbor by a large stretch of garden on one side and enclosed by a six-foot stone wall on the other side.
She hurried to the corner and came alongside the ivy-covered stone wall. Her footsteps seemed inordinately loud as she walked along the pavement stones searching for a gate. When she found the gate, it was locked. She glanced up and saw the tradesmen’s bell and, for one long moment, seriously considered giving it a good yank. But she immediately discarded that idea. It was far too likely that a policeman might answer that summons.
Thinking hard, she continued walking, her hand trailing idly against the wall, her fingers skimming over the leaves and brushing lightly against the stone. Suddenly her fingers stilled and she stopped. Leaning close, she saw that there was another, smaller, wooden gate set in the wall. Because of the heavy foliage, it wasn’t noticeable. She pushed slightly against the wood and smiled as it silently swung open a few inches. Peeking inside, she saw that the latch was gone and the gate had been held shut merely by the connecting strands of ivy. She shoved again and managed to open up a space big enough to squeeze through.
Once inside, she stood stock-still and examined the area.
The ivy extended for a distance of about eight feet. Mrs. Jeffries could see that only inches from where she stood, the plants had been trampled. A vague but direct line of trampled vines led from the gate to the grass. She suspected she knew now how the killer had made his escape. Turning, she looked at the gate again and shook her head. If her fingers hadn’t been brushing that wall as she passed, she’d have missed it completely.
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t usually leap to conclusions. However, in this case she made an exception. If, indeed, the killer was the one who’d made those faint tracks through the ivy to get away, then that person was someone who knew this garden well. That gate was too well hidden to be discovered by a casual thief.
Mrs. Jeffries wasted no time. Keeping her head down and dodging from one low-lying clump of bush to another, she was making her way to the Hodges house when thebackdoor opened and a man and woman came outside.
The woman was dressed in an elegant, long-sleeved mourning dress and the man was wearing a well-cut suit. She didn’t think they were servants.
Praying they were too preoccupied with one another to notice her, she treaded softly across the grass to the only available hiding place, a giant oak tree. In front of the tree was a bench. Mrs. Jeffries made it to the other side
Beside him, Witherspoon heard Constable Barnes sigh softly and he knew what that meant. This evidence, if evidence it even was, was utterly useless.
After
a crime had been committed, people could always remember a suspicious character or two in the neighborhood. However, none of these people were ever suspicious enough
before
a crime was committed to warrant anyone even mentioning them to a policeman! And finding a lone woman who’d happened to be standing on the same street as the Hodges home on the day of the murder would be an impossible task. And on top of that, the woman probably had absolutely nothing to do with the crime.
Mrs. Jeffries paused at the corner and gazed at her surroundings, looking for a likely hiding place in the event that Inspector Witherspoon or one of his constables happened to come out of the Hodges house. She could hardly claim she’d come to return his glasses or his watch. The inspector had slipped out this morning before she’d had an opportunity to appropriate either item from his coat pockets. But she wasn’t going to let that stop her. It was imperative she see the house and, if possible, the scene of the crime itself.
Camden Street came off the busy thoroughfare of the Queens Road. The Hodges house was a large red-brick Georgian at the end of the street. It was separated from its neighbor by a large stretch of garden on one side and enclosed by a six-foot stone wall on the other side.
She hurried to the corner and came alongside the ivy-covered stone wall. Her footsteps seemed inordinately loud as she walked along the pavement stones searching for a gate. When she found the gate, it was locked. She glanced up and saw the tradesmen’s bell and, for one long moment, seriously considered giving it a good yank. But she immediately discarded that idea. It was far too likely that a policeman might answer that summons.
Thinking hard, she continued walking, her hand trailing idly against the wall, her fingers skimming over the leaves and brushing lightly against the stone. Suddenly her fingers stilled and she stopped. Leaning close, she saw that there was another, smaller, wooden gate set in the wall. Because of the heavy foliage, it wasn’t noticeable. She pushed slightly against the wood and smiled as it silently swung open a few inches. Peeking inside, she saw that the latch was gone and the gate had been held shut merely by the connecting strands of ivy. She shoved again and managed to open up a space big enough to squeeze through.
Once inside, she stood stock-still and examined the area.
The ivy extended for a distance of about eight feet. Mrs. Jeffries could see that only inches from where she stood, the plants had been trampled. A vague but direct line of trampled vines led from the gate to the grass. She suspected she knew now how the killer had made his escape. Turning, she looked at the gate again and shook her head. If her fingers hadn’t been brushing that wall as she passed, she’d have missed it completely.
Mrs. Jeffries didn’t usually leap to conclusions. However, in this case she made an exception. If, indeed, the killer was the one who’d made those faint tracks through the ivy to get away, then that person was someone who knew this garden well. That gate was too well hidden to be discovered by a casual thief.
Mrs. Jeffries wasted no time. Keeping her head down and dodging from one low-lying clump of bush to another, she was making her way to the Hodges house when thebackdoor opened and a man and woman came outside.
The woman was dressed in an elegant, long-sleeved mourning dress and the man was wearing a well-cut suit. She didn’t think they were servants.
Praying they were too preoccupied with one another to notice her, she treaded softly across the grass to the only available hiding place, a giant oak tree. In front of the tree was a bench. Mrs. Jeffries made it to the other side
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