speak with, but there was something else about her that
gave him pause.
He continued walking and then when she’d gone down
the footpath a bit, he turned and stared at her. Wiggins
watched her as she went farther across the common.
“You’re bein’ right silly,” he told himself. “You’d best get
to that café and ‘ave a cup of tea before you freeze to death.”
But just as he turned to go, a man came out from behind a
tree and stepped directly in front of the woman. She
stopped short. Wiggins stared hard at the two figures. He
could see the man speaking, but he was too far away to hear
what was being said. He’d no idea if these people had anything to do with the dead man or not, but at least it was something to concentrate on. The man and woman spoke
together for a few moments, their heads so close they were
almost touching. Wiggins had decided to follow them, when
suddenly the man gave the woman his arm and the two of
them walked off toward the far end of the common.
“Well, blast a Spaniard, it’s just a fellow and his sweetheart, meeting up on the ruddy common so they can ‘ave
‘em a bit of privacy. Just my bloomin’ luck.”
Disgusted with himself for getting so carried away over
such a small thing, Wiggins turned and headed for the road.
60
Emily Brightwell
Surely he could find someone in the café to talk about the
murder, or failing that, he could at least get a cup of tea and
keep warm.
Everyone made it back by half past four for their meeting.
Wiggins was the last to come to the table. He looked quite
glum as he took his seat. “I ‘ope the rest of you ‘ad better
luck than I did.”
“Not to worry, Wiggins.” Mrs. Goodge cut an extra-
large slice of seed cake, slapped it on a plate, and handed it
to the footman. “It’s early days yet. You’re not to worry
about what you have or haven’t found out.”
“We’ve only just started, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said
briskly. “No one expects you to find out everything on the
first day.”
“I didn’t find out anything at all,” he replied.
“Stop frettin’, lad,” Smythe said kindly. “The only thing
I found out is that Sir George Braxton was tightfisted and
tried to rob his servants of their wages.” He told them
everything he’d heard in the pub that afternoon.
“That could be a motive for murder,” Betsy speculated.
“I mean, maybe this Addie didn’t do it, but if Sir George
was like that to all his servants, maybe one of them had a fit
of rage and killed him.”
“That’s possible,” Smythe agreed.
“You’ve no idea when this incident took place?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Actually, I do, the barman said something like, ‘That
was two years ago’.” Smythe shook his head. “I can’t recall
the exact words, but I’ve got a sense that it was some time
ago. The girl seems to have gone off and got married.”
“And as Betsy says, it could well be a motive for murder.”
Mrs. Jeffries said.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
61
“I know it’s not much.” Smythe took a quick sip of his
tea. “But I’ll go back out tomorrow and see what’s what.”
“We’ll have a bit more information by then,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “That ought to help. Let’s hope the inspector has had a very successful day.” She looked around the table.
“Mrs. Goodge, did you have any luck today?”
Mrs. Goodge pursed her lips. “I only had the laundry boy
through here this afternoon, and he was useless. I wasted my
last bun on the lad, and he’d never even heard of Sir George
Braxton. But not to worry, I’ve got a goodly number of
tradespeople in tomorrow, and I’ve invited one of my old
colleagues over for morning coffee, so I ought to have something to report by tomorrow’s meeting.” She’d sent Hilda Bradford, an old acquaintance of hers a note as soon as they
learned of the murder. Hilda was a notorious gossip and had
absolutely no scruples about repeating everything that came
her way. Mrs. Goodge couldn’t wait for the woman to come
into her kitchen.
“Did you find out anything, Betsy?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Actually, I did hear a bit. According to Mrs. Bartlett,
she owns the baker’s shop, Sir George was very tightfisted
with his coin. So much so, that they only bought day-old
bread for the household.”
Mrs. Goodge snorted. “I’m not surprised. Aristocrats can
be the stingiest people on earth. In my younger days, I
worked for a countess who was so cheap she reused tea
leaves!”
Betsy giggled. “It seems the Braxton family might be cut
from the same cloth. Mrs. Bartlett said the daughters are
just as miserly.”
“The daughters frequent the baker’s shop?” Mrs. Goodge
asked.
“No, but Mrs. Bartlett is friends with the family’s dress62
Emily Brightwell
maker. She told Mrs. Bartlett that all three of the daughters
find fault with anything the seamstress makes so they can
cut a few bob off the price. Mrs. Bartlett said that the seamstress has gotten so fed up, she’s decided not to take any more custom from the family. There’s not enough profit,
and they’re not worth the trouble.”
“Does the seamstress work out of her home or a shop?”
Mrs. Jeffries asked. This could well be a good avenue of information.
“She works out of a shop on the Upper Richmond Road.”
The maid grinned. “I think I might go in and have a look at
some of her patterns, and see if I can get her talking a bit.”
Smythe opened his mouth and then clamped it shut just
as quickly. He’d almost told Betsy to go in and get fitted for
a dress. He could well afford to buy her any dress her heart
desired. Just in time, he’d remembered that not everyone in
the household knew about his financial situation.
The problem was he was a rich man. He’d made a fortune
in Australia. Betsy knew, of course, and he suspected that
Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out, but the others hadn’t a clue.
He wanted to keep it that way.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Oh, and I heard that there’s some cousin that lives at the
house, and the gossip is that he’s not really a cousin at all.
But Mrs. Bartlett didn’t have any details.”
“Did she
