dreadful to think there’s murder about at what should be
the season of forgiveness.” The moment she said the words
she realized she was being ridiculously sentimental. She was
the widow of a Yorkshire policeman and the leader of the
inspector’s household. She knew that the season of forgive
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
7
ness had no meaning for some individuals. She’d been involved with enough homicides to know that murder knew no season. It happened all the time. As a matter of fact,
she’d noticed that murder tended to happen more often
when family and friends spent substantial amounts of time
with one another.
Betsy, the slender, blue-eyed, blonde-haired maid
brought her cup of tea to the table and sat down in her usual
place. “I’d not mind slogging about in the wet if it meant
we were on the hunt, so to speak. It does keep life interesting, doesn’t it? Besides, a bit of snow never hurt anyone.”
The maid was engaged to the coachman Smythe, and
their wedding was set for June. Because of Smythe’s economic circumstances, she knew that once they were married, her days investigating homicides might be numbered.
She wanted to get in as many cases as she could before it all
came to an end.
“That’s true, but it’s not very pleasant to be out in the
wet,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She was a plump woman of late
middle age with auburn hair and brown eyes. She’d been
housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon for several
years now, and she, along with the rest of the household,
was very involved in helping to solve their inspector’s murder cases. Of course, he’d no idea he was getting their assistance, and they were determined to keep it that way. But Mrs. Jeffries secretly took a great deal of pride in knowing
that their small band of dedicated sleuths had sent him
from the Records Room to being the most famous homicide
investigator in all the country. “I wonder where Wiggins
and Smythe have got to? They promised they’d be back for
tea this afternoon.”
“Smythe’s gone to Howards’ to make sure his darlings are
warm and snug in their stalls,” Betsy grinned. Her beloved
8
Emily Brightwell
was quite fond of the inspector’s two carriage horses, Bow
and Arrow.
“And I sent Wiggins over to Luty’s with some of my
chicken broth,” the cook added. She frowned slightly. “Luty
isn’t getting over her cold, she’s had it now for two weeks.”
Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet were two
special friends of the household. They’d gotten involved in
one of the inspector’s earlier cases, and they’d insisted on being included ever since then. Both of them had taken to homicide investigations like ducks to water.
“Sometimes it takes the elderly a bit more time to recover,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “She’s under a doctor’s care.”
“Yes, but is she actually doing what the doctor tells her
to do?” Betsy mused. “You know how stubborn she can be.”
“She’s stayin’ abed most of the time and takin’ her medicine, not that I think all them potions and pills doctors use nowadays do all that much good,” Mrs. Goodge put in.
“That’s why I sent my broth along, it’ll fix her right up.
Mind you, I expect it’ll put that nasty cook’s nose out of
joint. But I don’t care. Luty must get well, and those fancy
French chefs haven’t got any idea about what a body really
needs when it’s feelin’ poorly.”
They heard the back door open and the sound of heavy
footsteps coming along the back hall. “Cor blimey.” Smythe
pulled off his hat and brushed the snow off of it as he headed
toward the coat tree. He was a tall, muscular man with
harsh features, dark brown hair, and kind brown eyes. “It’s
startin’ to come down fast out there.”
“How are the horses?” Betsy asked as she reached for the
teapot and poured him a cup. “Nice and snug in their
stalls?”
“They are now.” Smythe slipped into the chair next to
Betsy. “The stable lads aren’t used to this kind of weather,
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
9
and the owner is out of town for the day. No one ‘ad thought
to make sure there was a bit of ‘eatin’ in the stable. But I
soon set them right.” He glanced around the table, his
brown eyes narrowing in concern as he saw Wiggins’ empty
seat. “Isn’t the lad back yet?”
“Don’t worry, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “I’m sure Wiggins has enough sense to stay at Luty’s if the snow comes down hard.”
Smythe didn’t look convinced, but he held his peace.
“What ‘ave you ladies been talkin’ about?” he asked as he
took a sip of tea.
“We’re complainin’ we’ve not got a murder,” Mrs.
Goodge said quickly. “It’s right borin’.”
The cook had once been something of a snob in the way
that only an English servant could be. Before she’d come to
this household, she’d have been scandalized by the very idea
of being associated with something as vulgar as a murder.
But she’d changed a great deal since being here, and she
wouldn’t trade this position for anything, not even if the
queen herself offered her a post.
Mrs. Goodge had a vast network of former associates, tinkers, deliverymen, match sellers, flower girls, and mush fakers that trooped through her kitchen on a regular basis. She fed them tea and pastry, and they fed her clues about the
suspects in whatever case the household happened to be investigating. Nothing she’d ever done in her life made her feel as proud as helping with the inspector’s cases.
“Murder or not, I don’t know that I’d like to be out in
this.” Smythe jerked his thumb toward the windows over
the sink. “I’ve never seen this much snow in London.”
“I do hope the inspector gets home soon,” Mrs. Jeffries
murmured. “The roads will be a bit of a mess. But I expect
he’ll take a hansom if it gets too bad.”
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Emily Brightwell
“ ‘E’d probably do better walkin’,” Smythe retorted. “The
roads are already a mess. Where’d he go today?”
“He’s at the Yard,” she replied. “There was some sort of
meeting with Chief Inspector Barrows.”
The back door opened again, and they heard footsteps,
just as their mongrel dog, Fred, who’d been sleeping peacefully on the rug, shot to his feet and ran toward the back hall.
“ ’Ello old feller,” they heard
