everyone else to come back.”
C H A P T E R 3
�� ��
Barnes and Witherspoon waited until Miss Nina Braxton
had left them before they opened the door to Sir George’s
room and stepped inside.
The room overlooked the terrace. Against the wall in the
center of the room was a large bed with a canopy and dark
maroon side curtains tied back against the side rail. It had
been made properly, with the maroon bedspread pulled up
over a mountain of pillows against the ornately carved
wooden headboard. Next to the bed was a side table with
curved legs, on top of which stood a brass lamp and a copy
of the Times. On the far side of the room was a fireplace with
the same dark marble as in the drawing room. Over it was a
portrait of an elderly gray-haired woman wearing a blue
Empire-style ball gown. Two overstuffed chairs were in
front of the fireplace. A set of cut-glass whiskey carafes
45
46
Emily Brightwell
stood on the top of cabinet next to one of the chairs. The
walls were done in an ugly gray-and-blue striped wallpaper.
“Blast,” Barnes muttered. “The room has been tidied up.
You’d think these people would have enough sense to let
things alone when there’s been a murder in the house.”
“It does muck about a bit with the evidence,” Witherspoon agreed. “But perhaps we’d best make sure. I mean, just because the bed has been made doesn’t mean that the room’s
been put right. Perhaps Sir George never got in the bed, in
which case, we’d best rethink some of our assumptions.”
“I’ll go and check, sir.”
While he waited for the constable to return, Witherspoon continued to study the room. The bed faced a set of double French doors that opened directly onto the terrace.
He wandered over to the doors and examined the area
around the lock. The paint was a dull gray color, done to
match to walls, but there were no scratches around the lock
nor any sign of splintered wood.
Barnes slipped back into the room. “Mrs. Merryhill says
the maid cleaned in here this morning. No one thought to
tell the girl to leave the room alone.”
Witherspoon turned the brass handle. It was good and
sturdy. “This appears to be in good working order. I don’t
think the lock has been forced. Did the housekeeper say
whether or not the door was open or closed this morning?”
“It was closed, sir. I asked that question straightaway. So
it looks like he went outside on his own and had the foresight to close the door behind him.” Barnes frowned. “Now why would an elderly man go out in the middle of the night
like that? The weather was miserable, and it was snowing.”
“I don’t know, Constable,” Witherspoon said softly. “But
this seems a very strange household. His daughters seem to
barely notice the poor man is dead, and getting a reasonable
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
47
answer out of anyone is almost impossible.” He had the feeling this might turn into a really unsettling case. “And I suspect the local lads resent us. I’m not sure that I blame them all that much, either.”
“Don’t let it worry you, sir,” Barnes turned in a slow circle, examining the room for clues. “They’ll come around. At least we’ve not got Inspector Nivens dogging our footsteps,
sir. This would be just his sort of case, he likes the ones that
get the most press coverage.” The moment the words were
out of his mouth, he wished he could take them back.
Barnes wasn’t an unduly superstitious person, but he had a
sudden feeling that he shouldn’t have even breathed Nivens’
name. But he shook the silly superstition off, Chief Inspector Barrows wouldn’t let someone as incompetent as Nivens near a murder case like this one.
Witherspoon walked over to the bed and scanned the top
of the bedside table. The newspaper was dated December
eighteenth, so it was yesterday’s, but that told him nothing
except that Sir George had read the paper. He yanked open
the drawer and rummaged inside, but he found only a tobacco pouch, a coin purse with a broken clasp, and an 1890
copy of Wisden’s Cricketer’s Almanack.
“He must have been keen on cricket,” Witherspoon murmured. He picked up the heavy book and fanned the pages.
But nothing fell out.
Barnes had gone to the tall wardrobe and pulled open the
double doors. The constable reached inside and pulled out
the first garment. It was an old-fashioned frock coat. He laid
it across the bed and began to methodically check the pockets. The inspector went to the bookcase, pulled out the first volume on the top shelf, and fanned the pages.
They spent the next hour searching the room but found
nothing that could constitute a clue. Witherspoon sighed as
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Emily Brightwell
they stepped out into the hall. “Let’s go talk to the servants,
Constable. Perhaps someone saw or heard something that
might be useful. We’ll start with the gardener and see what
he has to say. Then we’ll speak to the houseguests and
Cousin Clarence.”
Ten minutes later, they were in the butler’s pantry. A
slender, brown-haired man wearing a navy coat, workboots,
and carrying a workman’s cap in his chapped hands stepped
inside the room. “Mr. Clark said you wanted to see me.”
“Are you the gardener, the one who found the body?”
He nodded.
Witherspoon gestured at the empty chair on the other
side of the scratched table. “Please sit down. Could you
please tell us your full name and how long you’ve been employed here?”
“Name’s Randall Grantham, and I’ve been here about
three months,” he replied as he took a seat. He looked down
at the tabletop and began running his index finger over the
deep scratch marks in the wood. “I started on September
twenty-fifth.”
“And you’re the gardener?” Barnes clarified. He looked
up from his notebook. There was something about the man
that sent his copper’s whiskers bristling. Had he seen him
before?
Grantham snorted and jerked his attention away from
the tabletop. “If you can call it that,” he said sullenly.
“That’s what I’m supposed to be doin’, but Mr. Clark, he
fancies himself one of them naturalists or botanists or some
such thing. He generally has me fetchin’ and carryin’ and
doin’ for him out in that conservatory of his. Then I catch
