Mrs. Jeffries. “I’m sorry, this sort of gossip must be most
upsetting—”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “If anything, hearing that the murderer is one of the dead man’s relatives or friends makes me feel much better. I don’t fancy moving
into a neighborhood where there’s a killer running loose.
But why does everyone think the murderer is from his own
household?”
“Because he’s not a pleasant person,” Pauline said
quickly, “and his three daughters are unpleasant as well.”
“Oh, dear, I do believe they’re my neighbors.” Mrs. Jeffries clucked her tongue. “That’s not very good.”
“This had been a bit of shock for you, Mrs. Roberts,”
Mrs. Saunders said softly. “I’m sure things won’t be quite as
bleak as they appear. Derby Hill Road really is a wonderful
place to live.”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “I did so want
congenial neighbors.”
“And most of the people in that neighborhood are very
congenial. Look, you’ve had a shock. I’m sure you could do
with a nice hot cup of tea.”
That invitation was precisely what Mrs. Jeffries had been
waiting to hear. “That would be very nice. But I must insist
that you ladies will have one with me.”
Wiggins popped his head into Luty’s room and saw that she
was sitting up in bed, apparently waiting for him. “Can I
come in?” he asked in a loud whisper.
“ ’Course you can,” she replied. “I’ve been watchin’ the
clock, waitin’ for you. No one saw you, did they? I did my
best to keep ‘em busy upstairs. I’ve got everyone up there
polishin’ silver and cleanin’ out the linen cupboards.”
136
Emily Brightwell
He grinned proudly. “No one saw me. I was quiet as a
mouse and nimble as a cat.”
“Good. Sit yourself down then. Before I forget, I want
you to take these notes to some people for me. One’s to a
friend of mine, she’s wonderful, she loves to gossip more
than a fat man loves to eat, and the other’s to my lawyer.”
She reached under her pillow, pulled out two cream-colored
envelopes and handed them to Wiggins. “I figured I might
as well git the two of them helpin’ us.”
“Do you think your solicitor will know somethin’?”
Wiggins asked as he sat down. He’d met the man on one of
their previous cases and rather liked the fellow.
“He ought to, he’s a right nosy feller.” Luty grinned slyly.
“Once I put a flea in his ear that I’m interested in the murder, he’ll do what he needs to do to find out what’s what. I think he gits a bit bored bein’ a solicitor. But that’s by the
by. Now, tell me what you learned at the meetin’ yesterday
afternoon.” She waved at the parlor chair next to her bed.
Wiggins studied her closely, hoping he wasn’t taxing her
health by doing her bidding. But her eyes were bright, her
expression cheerful, and her skin seemed just the right
color. She wasn’t coughing or gasping for breath, either. Besides, she wasn’t going to be out and about in this weather, she was going to do her share of the investigating right from
the comfort of her own room.
“Has the cat got yer tongue?” she demanded. “Now go
on, start talkin’, and don’t be leavin’ out any details. Sometimes it’s them little things that set us on the right track.”
“Sorry, I’m woolgatherin’.” He reached into his jacket
pocket for a small brown notebook, a twin to the one he’d
seen Constable Barnes use. “I wrote most of it down so I
wouldn’t forget anything.”
*
*
*
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
137
The dressmaker’s shop was located on the ground floor of a
commercial building around the corner from the railway
station. Betsy stood outside and stared through the small
front window into the shop. She wanted to make sure there
were no other customers before she went inside. Sometimes
it was easier to get tradespeople to chat a bit if they were
alone. She was in luck: all she could see was one young girl
sitting on a straight bench next to row of sewing machines.
Betsy grasped the brass handle, turned the knob, and
stepped inside. The girl looked up and smiled in welcome.
“Good day, miss. May I be of service?”
Betsy smiled in return. The lass couldn’t be more than
seventeen. Her red hair was pulled back into a knot at the
nape of her neck, she wore a plain dress of pale gray that fitted beautifully over her thin frame, and there was a half-inch gap in her front teeth. “Good day, I’d like to speak to
the proprietress, if possible. I’ll be needing a wedding dress
soon,” she paused momentarily as the truth of the words
struck home, “and I’d like to see what patterns you’ve got to
offer.”
“Mrs. Tortelli isn’t here, miss.” The girl laid the white
lace to one side and got to her feet. “But I’m a full dressmaker, and I’d be pleased to show you our pattern books.”
“That would be lovely, thank you. My name is Elizabeth
Ann Berry,” she replied, giving the girl her name. Betsy
generally never gave out her real name when they were
gathering clues, but this time, she had a legitimate reason
for visiting a dressmaker, so even if it got back to the inspector, he’d think nothing of it. He might wonder why she went all the way to Richmond to find a dressmaker, but she
could easily explain that she’d heard the shop was both inexpensive and did excellent work.
The girl bobbed a quick curtsey and then pointed to a
138
Emily Brightwell
pattern book on a round table by the window. “If you’ll step
over and take a seat, Miss Berry, I’d be pleased to serve you.”
“What’s your name?” Betsy asked as she took a seat.
“I’m Sophia, miss.” She smiled broadly and took the
chair next to Betsy. Reaching for the pattern book, she
flipped the pages to a section toward the back. “These are all
our wedding-dress patterns, miss. They’re quite lovely but
if there’s nothing here that pleases you, we can get Mrs.
Tortelli, she’s the owner, to come up with something you’ll
like.”
Betsy stifled a gasp as she stared at the lovely gown on
the page. The dress was done in a rich ivory satin with a
tight bodice, scoop neckline, high sleeves, and a short train.
An orange-blossom wreath with a diaphanous veil was also
on
