This was simply a much quieter neighborhood than the
ones in London. She’d have to be a bit more careful here.
Betsy studied the area, trying to determine where she
ought to go first. There was a greengrocer’s, a butcher’s, a
chemist’s and a baker’s. She’d developed a kind of “feel” for
which shop to go into and which shop to avoid. She watched
as two well-dressed matrons carrying shopping baskets
went into the grocer’s. That wasn’t the place to go, not yet.
Next, she saw an elderly woman wearing a heavy green wool
cloak shuffle into the chemist’s, and a moment later, she saw
a young maid dressed in a short, brown plaid jacket hurry
into the baker’s shop. Betsy headed for the baker’s.
As she stepped through the door, she was enveloped by
the scent of yeast and cinnamon. On the wall behind the
counter, row upon row of breads, cakes, pies, and buns filled
the shelves. The maid was at the counter, pointing at a loaf
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
53
of bread. “Cook needs another loaf, and she wants it put on
account, please.”
“Certainly, that’s one loaf for the Hadley account.” The
plump, middle-aged woman behind the counter pulled the
bread off the shelf and wrapped it in a sheet of brown paper.
“Anything else? We’ve some nice mince pies today, they’re
always nice this time of year. You might tell Mrs. Hadley
we’re running a special between now and Christmas.”
“I’ll tell her. Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett, that will be all for
now. But knowing Mrs. Hadley, she’ll have forgotten something, so you’ll probably see me later this afternoon as well,” the girl grinned. “Maybe she’ll even order us a mince
pie. That would be nice.”
“There was a lot of police down your way this morning,
Abigail,” Mrs. Bartlett continued as she handed the maid
the loaf. “I heard there was some trouble.”
“It was ever so exciting,” Abigail replied eagerly. “Sir
George Braxton’s got murdered. We weren’t supposed to
notice, Mrs. Hadley kept chasing us away from windows
sayin’ it wasn’t proper to see such things and murder wasn’t
supposed to happen in our neighborhood. But Lizzie and I
managed a few peeks, and we saw what was what. There
were police all over the place, and they were searchin’ everywhere.” She broke off and giggled. “Mind you, Mrs. Hadley doesn’t know it, but Lizzie and I saw her taking more than
one peek out the upstairs windows.”
“That’s terrible.” Mrs. Bartlett flicked a quick glance at
Betsy, assessed her dress in a split second and then went on
talking to Abigail. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
Betsy wasn’t offended. She’d worn her old gray jacket
and her plain black wool hat for just such a situation as this.
She’d found in the past that the lower down you looked to
be on the social ladder, the more people were apt to speak
54
Emily Brightwell
freely in front of you. In their past investigations, she’d always learned more when she wore her broadcloth working dresses than when she slipped on one of her “good” outfits.
Abigail shrugged. “The police are still up there, it’ll be
ages before they find out anything. Mrs. Hadley says she
thinks it must be that ‘Ripper’ feller. But I think that’s silly.
The Ripper only murdered women. Well, I’d best be off.
Mrs. Hadley needs this loaf for luncheon.”
Betsy was torn between following the maid and staying
where she was. Mrs. Bartlett obviously loved to gossip, but
the girl was obviously from a house close to the Braxton
home.
“May I help you, miss,” said Mrs. Bartlett. “I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean to ignore you. But we’ve had a spot of trouble
in the neighborhood, and I find it’s always best to be well
informed about one’s community. What can I get for you?”
Betsy made up her mind to stay. She could always try and
find Abigail later. “Those buns look wonderful.” She
pointed at a tray of buns on the shelf under the loaves. “I’d
like two, please. I couldn’t help overhearing, did you say
there had been a murder in the neighborhood? I’m not asking out of idle curiosity.”
Mrs. Bartlett pulled two buns off the shelf. “There’s
nothing wrong with curiosity, idle or not. That’s what
makes life interesting, that’s what I always say. Sir George
Braxton was murdered, and I’m not in the least surprised. I
don’t care if he is a baronet, he’s a strange one. Cheap as the
day is long, he is, and his household isn’t much better. You
know, they only buy day-old bread. Can you imagine such a
thing? He’s as rich as sin, but he’s too tightfisted to spend a
bit of coin for fresh bread.”
“My goodness, that’s terrible.” She wasn’t sure if she was
agreeing that the murder was terrible or whether it was ter
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
55
rible that the household only bought day-old bread. But it
apparently didn’t matter, Mrs. Bartlett didn’t stop talking.
“And his three daughters aren’t any better. Mind you, I
wouldn’t be surprised if one of them did the old blighter
in.” She leaned across the counter. “There’s no love lost between any of them. They’re all money mad, and that cousin of theirs, Clarence Clark, there’s some that say he isn’t really
a cousin, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?” Betsy had no idea what the woman meant, but
she was fairly certain she could find out. She prayed no one
else would come into the shop. She knew she’d struck gold.
Smythe and Wiggins stood in front of the Kings Road Pub
on the Upper Richmond Road. “Good, they’re open already,”
the coachman said, “so I’ll nip in and see what I can find out.”
Wiggins rubbed his hands together for warmth. “I’ll go
over to the common and see if anyone’s about. Is it a nice
common?” he asked. “You know what I mean, the sort of
place where people would walk and such?”
“It’s cold, lad, so they’ll not be many people out and
about. But I can’t think of anyplace else for you to go, not
while the inspector’s still at the Braxton house. It’s too dangerous for you to go too close to the house.”
He didn’t think Wiggins would have much
