waitin’ for me, ‘ave ya. Brrrr . . . it’s gettin’ right cold outside.” He came into the kitchen with Fred trotting at his heels.
“It’s about time you got home,” Mrs. Goodge chided.
“We were starting to worry.”
“I’m sorry, I got back as quick as I could.” He hung up
his hat, coat, scarf, and gloves, and then hurried over to the
table and slipped into his seat. “I’ve never seen it comin’
down like this. You ought to see the traffic on Holland Park
Road, it’s a right old soup, it is. A hansom’s lost a wheel,
and a cooper’s van went up over the pavement trying to get
‘round it.”
“I hope no one was hurt,” Mrs. Jeffries said.
“Nah, there’s just a lot of shouting and yellin’,” he
replied.
“How is Luty feeling?” Betsy asked.
Wiggins took a quick sip of tea. “She’s a bit better than
she was yesterday,” he said. “She was up when I got there,
sittin’ in front of the fire. Hatchet was ‘avin’ a right old time
tryin’ to get ‘er to go back to bed.” He glanced at the cook.
“She was pleased to get your broth. I told ‘er it would make
‘er right as rain. She’s scared we’re goin’ to get us a murder
while she’s still ill. When Hatchet went out of the room,
she made me promise not to leave ‘er out in case somethin’
‘appens.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
11
“You didn’t agree to any such thing, did you?” Mrs.
Goodge demanded.
Wiggins looked down at his teacup. “Well, she looked
like she were goin’ to cry. I ‘ad to promise ‘er she’d be included, but I don’t think it’s likely. It’s too miserable outside even for a murder.”
Mrs. Goodge looked disapproving but said nothing.
“Not to worry, lad,” Smythe said quickly. “I’d ‘ave done
the same. A woman’s tears aren’t something a man can ignore.”
Betsy squeezed his hand under the table. Smythe always
knew just the right thing to say.
Wiggins smiled in relief. “Is our inspector ‘ome yet?”
“Not yet.” Mrs. Jeffries cast another worried glance toward the window. “If he doesn’t get here soon, he may get stranded.”
It snowed on and off for the rest of the afternoon, but despite the inclement weather, Inspector Witherspoon made it home in time for supper.
“It’s dreadful out,” he said to Mrs. Jeffries as he handed
her his bowler and brushed snow off his heavy black coat.
He was a middle-aged man of medium height and a thin
build. His eyes were blue, and his dark hair was thinning
quite noticeably. He’d inherited his home and his fortune
from his late Aunt Euphemia Witherspoon, and as he’d
been raised in quite modest circumstances, he’d no idea how
to manage a huge house. He’d hired Mrs. Jeffries as his
housekeeper, and she kept things running smoothly. “But at
least the crime rate appears to have dropped a bit in the last
week. I say, is that roast beef I smell?”
“It is, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries helped him off with his coat.
“Mrs. Goodge thought you could use something substantial
this evening. Is the crime rate really down, sir?”
12
Emily Brightwell
He sighed happily. “It most certainly is, Mrs. Jeffries.
The consensus at the Yard is that it’s the weather that’s causing it. The number of complaints we’ve had about pickpockets, assaults, robberies, and burglaries have all diminished greatly.”
“That’s very good, sir,” she replied. “If you’ll go straight
into the dining room, I’ll bring your supper up.”
“Even the murder rate has decreased,” he said as he went
down the hall. “Let’s hope it stays that way, Mrs. Jeffries.
Then we shall all enjoy our Christmas.”
“Meow . . . meow . . .”
Sir George Braxton sat bolt upright. “Samson,” he muttered as he climbed down from the high bed. “Don’t worry, old precious, I’m coming.” He fumbled for his spectacles,
shoved them onto his nose, and then peered toward the double French doors that led out onto the terrace. He could see quite easily. The snow had settled like a white blanket over
everything, and it was quite bright outside. But he saw no
sign of Samson. Braxton picked up his wool dressing gown
and shoved his arm through the sleeve.
“Meow . . .” the cry came again, and Braxton quickly
pulled the gown around him and poked his other arm
through the sleeve. “Hold on, old precious, Papa’s coming.”
The gown secured, he dropped to his knees and fumbled
under the bed for his slippers. Finding them, he shoved
them on and charged for the doors. He threw the bolt,
pulled open the door, and stepped outside. “Samson,” he
called. “Samson, where are you?”
But there was nothing, just silence.
Snow filled Braxton’s flimsy slippers as he moved farther
out onto the terrace. At least it’s stopped snowing, he thought.
“Samson,” he called again. “Where are you? Samson.”
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
13
“Meow.”
He whirled around to his left, peering in the direction of
the conservatory. “Samson? Where are you? Come to Papa,
old precious. Come to Papa,” he called as he hurried toward
the conservatory. He stepped off the terrace onto the grass,
and his feet immediately sank even deeper into the snow. It
came up past his ankles, but he didn’t care, he had to find
Samson. No doubt the poor thing was trapped in that
wretched greenhouse. Well, by golly, no matter how much
Clarence complained, trapping Samson like this was reason
enough to sell the wretched thing.
“Meow, meow . . . meow,” the cat’s cries increased in volume as it heard his master calling. “Meow . . .”
“Don’t worry, old precious, Papa’s co—” Braxton’s voice
died suddenly, and he heard a loud thud. A roar filled his
ears, and his vision blurred. He slumped to his knees, a look
of surprise on his face as he flopped to the ground.
A gloved hand reached down, grabbed the dressing gown
at the back of Braxton’s neck, and pulled him toward the
frozen ornamental pond directly off of the terrace. It started
to snow again, but the assailant didn’t care. The more snow,
the better. Within moments, Sir George Braxton was lying
face down in a chipped-out hole in the frozen pond.
“Meow,” Samson cried piteously as the gloved hand
reached down and opened a large wicker basket placed next
to the body. With pinned-back ears and an angry hiss, the
orange-colored tabby leapt out of the basket.
