“I see.” Witherspoon was very confused. He’d no doubt
the place had been thoroughly searched, especially given the
manner in which the victim had been murdered. Gardening
tools like shovels and spades were the sort of object that
could have easily been used as the murder weapon, and even
the most inexperienced of constables would have had a good
look at them. This was a puzzle. But then again, this entire
murder was a mystery. He’d no idea what the motive might
be, he’d no idea who might have killed the fellow, and they
hadn’t come close to finding the murder weapon. This case
wasn’t going very well at all.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
113
“What on earth is going on here?” Clarence Clark closed
the conservatory door and glared at the two policemen.
“I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Clark,” Witherspoon said.
“We’ve something we’d like to show you.” He pointed at
the stain. “Do you have any idea what this might be?”
Barnes stepped to one side to give Clark a better view.
He also tucked the tiny bundle of tissue and hair neatly into
his palm and out of sight.
“What what is?” Clark asked impatiently. “Why are you
in here? How did you get in anyway? The door is always
locked.”
“It wasn’t locked, Mr. Clark,” Barnes said easily. “And I
came in looking for the inspector. Could you please answer
our question?”
“You and I were just in here a few minutes ago,” Witherspoon reminded him. “Perhaps you forgot to lock it when you left. Now, sir, will you please answer the constable’s
question?”
Clark knelt down and stared at the pavement. “It looks
like a stain,” he said irritably. “It’s probably from one of my
fertilizer mixtures. I do a lot of experimenting.”
“We’re fairly certain it’s blood,” Witherspoon said softly.
“And we’d like to know if you have any idea how it got there.”
“I’ve no idea how it got there, if, indeed, it’s blood. Oh,
wait, it could be that wretched cat.” Clark stood up and
smiled slyly. “Sometimes he catches vermin and brings
them in here. He doesn’t eat them, of course. He simply tortures them and plays with them till they die of fright, then he mangles them up and puts them in Sir George’s room.
It’s quite fitting, I should think.”
Wiggins didn’t have much time. He looked up and down
the quiet Knightsbridge street, but he saw no one. Thank
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Emily Brightwell
goodness it was still so cold—it kept people indoors. He
found a handhold in the ivy that covered the wall, and in a
few seconds he was up, over, and inside the communal garden of Luty’s elegant house. He dodged behind a tree trunk and then stuck his head out, making sure there was no one
outside. But his luck seemed to be holding, as the garden
was empty save for a few birds that darted from tree branch
to branch. He hurried toward Luty’s house and then dodged
behind another tree trunk when he got close. He looked up
at the balcony protruding from the second floor. Those were
Luty’s rooms, but he had no way of getting up to them. He
pulled out a pebble he’d stuck in his pocket earlier, took a
deep breath, prayed that Luty was in her room, and took
aim. He heard the pebble strike stone and knew he’d missed
the window, so he tried again. This time, he heard the soft
ping as the pebble hit the glass. He waited and waited and
waited. Finally, when he was getting ready to try a third
time, he heard a door open. But it was the door down here,
the one that led from the kitchen to the garden. Blast a
Spaniard, now he was done for, he turned, intending to
sprint for the wall, when a soft voice hissed, “Wiggins? Is
that you?”
Wiggins whirled around and saw Luty standing in the
back door, waving him over. She was wearing a bright red
dressing gown over which she’d thrown a green-and-gold
striped mantle. “You’ll catch your death out ‘ere,” he said
softly as he ran toward her. “It’s bloomin’ cold. Get back
inside.”
“Don’t be silly.” She looked over her shoulder toward the
kitchen. “I’m fit as a fiddle, but hurry, we don’t have much
time. Come on.” She motioned for him to follow her.
Wiggins wasn’t sure going into the house was such a
good idea, but he did as she instructed. As soon as he
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
115
stepped inside the hallway, she closed the door softly and
then shoved him through another door into the wet larder.
It was almost as cold in there as it had been outside.
“Hurry up and tell me what’s goin’ on,” she demanded,
“and be quick about it. They’re goin’ to come looking for
me soon, so don’t waste time arguing.”
“The inspector caught the Braxton case,” Wiggins
whispered, “and we’ve got to get it solved by Christmas. I
tried to get in to see you this morning, but it was impossible.”
“Don’t worry about that.” She pulled a handkerchief out
of her pocket and blew her nose. “I know you did yer best.
Just tell me what we know so far.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it? I’d feel terrible if you got
ill again,” he said.
“Don’t let these sniffles fool you, boy. I’m strong as a
horse. Besides, I can do like Mrs. Goodge and do plenty of
investigating right from inside this house. Now tell me
what’s what.”
Wiggins gave her a quick, concise, and well-ordered report on what they’d learned so far. “I’m just on my way back for our afternoon meetin’,” he finished, “so I can get you another report tomorrow.”
“That’ll be tricky,” she replied. “But we can manage.
Come around nine o’clock. Hatchet will be gone by then,
and I can send Julie over to the chemist’s. I can keep the
others busy on some pretense or another. I’ll make sure this
door is unlocked, you stick your head in and make sure it’s
all clear before ya come upstairs. You’re a smart boy, that
oughn’t to be a problem for ya.”
“You’ve got a lot of faith in me.” Wiggins looked uncertain. “Won’t your kitchen staff be comin’ in and out?”
“Nah, there ain’t that many of ‘em here. I let most of
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Emily Brightwell
them have a few days off for Christmas, so there’s just a few
of us here in the house.”
“All right,” he promised. She
