own mind. She had a feeling this might be an important clue.
“More like a whole row of wooden slats, you know the
sort of thing I mean. They’re used to hold seedbeds and potted plants. I think the reason we missed it the first time is because it was so wet that day, I suspect that when the
greenhouse was searched, the lads simply saw anything
pooled under the rows as water.”
“That’s possible. I expect when they were in the greenhouse they were concentrating on looking at the gardening tools. The spades and shovels, that sort of thing. Which reminds me, sir, you never said if you’d found anything in Randall Grantham’s room.”
“There was nothing suspicious in his shed,” he replied.
“All he had was an old carpetbag that held his personal belongings. Actually, I’m going to speak to him again tomorrow,” he said. “Like the gossip you heard today, there’s some sort of mystery as to how he obtained his position. According to the other servants, one day he was simply brought into the servants’ dining room and introduced as the new
gardener. Mrs. Merryhill seemed to be as surprised at the
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rest of the staff when Sir George brought the fellow downstairs. That means she wasn’t expecting any staff additions, and let’s face it, Mrs. Jeffries. The housekeeper would be the
first to know when a household needed more staff.”
“That’s true, sir, and as you’ve often said in the past,
sometimes it’s a good idea to thoroughly investigate the
newest person in the victim’s life.”
“Really? I said that?” He looked genuinely puzzled. But
then again, he often said things and possibly did things that
he couldn’t recall.
“Now don’t tease me, sir,” she laughed softly. “You know
good and well it’s one of your ‘methods.’ ”
“Oh, yes, my methods.” He smiled faintly.
“You should be very proud, sir. Your methods are becoming quite widespread in the force. Why just look at this case. As soon as the Home Secretary arrived, he immediately
made them put the body back where it was originally
found. That’s because other policemen have learned that
your methods solve cases. Everyone uses them now.”
Witherspoon beamed. “Well, one does what one can, and
of course we’re going to look at Mr. Grantham again.” He
drained his glass and set it on the table next to his chair.
“Tomorrow should be a better day.”
Mrs. Jeffries finished the last of the chores and then went up
to her room. As she got ready for bed, her mind raced, going
over and over every little bit of information they’d learned
so far.
She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep, so instead of getting into bed, she turned out the lamp and sat down in her chair by the window. She stared out into the night, her eyes
on the gas lamp across the street, and let her mind wander.
She’d found that by doing this, by letting the thoughts and
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ideas come as they would, she’d eventually find the way to
the truth. Mrs. Jeffries had no idea why such a random,
undisciplined way of thinking seemed to work, but it did.
Sir George Braxton wasn’t a very nice man, but then
again, that was often the case with murder victims. Not all
of them, of course. Sometimes perfectly nice people happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time or simply standing in the way of someone who wanted something
badly enough to kill for it. She shifted slightly into a more
comfortable postion.
But Sir George wasn’t just murdered; he was humiliated
in the process. Whoever killed him went to the trouble of
dragging him to that pond, chipping a hole in the ice, and
then shoving his head into it. That seemed a bit excessive.
Whoever killed him, hated him. She was certain of that.
Then again, perhaps the killer was simply very clever and
had deliberately manufactured the circumstances to make it
appear the murder was the result of hatred. She shook her
head. Most people were simply too mentally lazy to come
up with such an elaborate scenario to give a false impression. No, she was fairly sure that the killer had genuinely wanted to humiliate rather than just murder. She sighed
and pulled her shawl tighter against the cold seeping into
her bones. There were so many suspects. The entire household seemed to have disliked the victim, and that included his own children.
He’d been murdered outside the house, she reminded
herself. That meant it didn’t necessarily have to be someone
from the household. It could have been a stranger, someone
that they’d never even considered as the killer, someone
from Braxton’s past who’d nursed a grudge and then finally
worked up the nerve to murder the man. But how did they
get him outside that night? It had been dreadfully cold.
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What would make an elderly man get up out of his bed and
go outside in the snow? Someone he knew must have come
to his door that night—either that, or the killer got inside
and marched him out using a weapon of some kind. But
that didn’t seem likely. From what they knew of Sir
George’s character, he’d have bellowed like an enraged bull
if he’d been accosted in his own room. And how did that bit
of blood and tissue get under a row of seedlings in the
greenhouse? Was it even Sir George’s hair and blood?
The questions drifted in and out of her mind, one after
the other. She didn’t try to come to any conclusions or find
any answers. She simply let the thoughts move in and out as
they would.
She got up from her chair and climbed into bed. But she
didn’t sleep. Again, she simply let her mind drift where it
would. Charlotte Braxton had been fully dressed that night.
Why? She loved to travel so much that she’d even hired herself out as a paid companion. Was that motive enough?
What about Lucinda Braxton, who was desperate to marry?
Now that Sir George was gone, she’d get her share of his estate, and she could marry Raleigh Brent. Nina Braxton had to be considered as well; she was the one who’d sent for the
solicitors as soon as she’d realized her father was dead. Mrs.
Jeffries caught herself. She mustn’t focus on
