asked, “and if so, do you mind letting us have a look at it?”
“Of course,” Venable who was quite formally dressed in
an old-fashioned frock coat, cravat, and stiff tie, reached inside his coat and pulled out a flat, maroon-colored notebook three times the size of Constable Barnes little brown book.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to read it to you, if you don’t mind. After all, most of these notes are for the Home Secretary and are confidential.”
Witherspoon hesitated for a moment, then nodded his
agreement. He’d no idea if the law allowed him to take the
private writings of a Home Secretary into evidence. Perhaps
it was best to see what those writings might be. After all, if
there was something useful, he was certain there would be a
way to enter it into evidence if it became necessary.
Venable grinned and flipped open the book. “I’ll read the
entry from the eighteenth. I shan’t bother with the mundane work details but shall begin at the part where he awakens me to come with him to the Braxton household.
Monday, December 18th, 1893
H.S. woke me at 3:40 A.M. and bade me get dressed and
come downstairs right away. I did as instructed and met
H.S. in the foyer. He bade me follow him, and the two of us
went outside to the house across the road, the home of Sir
George Braxton. When I asked H.S. what we were doing,
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he told me he’d seen several constables enter the premises of
Sir George Braxton, and that we’d best find out what was
happening. When I asked H.S. why he was up and staring
out the window at this hour of the morning, he bade me
mind my own business and do what I was told.”
Venable looked up, a blush staining his cheeks. “Sorry, I
meant to cross that bit out. But honestly, it was a reasonable
enough question considering the circumstances. I mean, after all, it was the middle of the night.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re absolutely correct,” Witherspoon
assured him. “Please, do continue with your narrative.”
Venable cleared his throat and started again:
“H.S. and I went across the road and up the drive to the
Braxton house. H.S. shouted at a constable who’d stuck his
head around the corner of the house, identified himself, and
asked what was wrong. The constable stated that Sir George
Braxton appeared to have been murdered. H.S. immediately demanded to see the body. The constable escorted us around the side of the house to the back garden. We saw a
large group of people huddled in a circle by the pond. The
constable announced our presence and H.S. demanded
everyone step back so he could have a look at the situation.”
“Excuse me,” Witherspoon interrupted, “but why don’t
you tell us in your own words what happened next?” This
was taking far too long and wasn’t particularly useful. The
inspector wanted details, the kind of small details that
might turn out to be important, that might point the way
toward the killer, because at this juncture, he didn’t have a
clue as to who was guilty.
Venable brightened immediately. “Oh, jolly good. Well,
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
167
they were all standing around the corpse and H.S. went over
and asked what had happened. Everyone started talking at
once, so he shouted at them to be quiet—he rather likes to
shout, I think—and then asked who was in charge.”
“And who replied?” Barnes asked curiously. He wondered which of the three sisters had stepped forward.
“That was the problem, you see,” Venable said. “Virtually everyone claimed to be in charge, but finally, one lady in particular, I believe it might have been Sir George’s eldest
daughter, managed to out-shout the rest of them and got the
H.S.’s attention. She told him her father had been murdered,
and that they’d best find out who did it straight away.”
“She wanted justice for her father,” Witherspoon murmured.
“Oh, no, she said she didn’t want her fiancé’s holiday ruined.” Venable shrugged. “Even the H.S. was a bit taken aback. But being a gentleman, he said nothing.”
“Then what happened?” Witherspoon prodded. He was
getting very tired. This had been an exceedingly long day.
“The H.S. asked if they’d moved the body, and then another lady, I believe she was the housekeeper, said that they had.”
“Who exactly had touched the victim?” the inspector
asked. He’d no idea why this might be important. “I mean,
who’d pulled the fellow out?”
Venable thought for a moment. “I don’t believe the H.S.
asked that question. I do know that he insisted they put Sir
George back the way he’d been found.” He grinned at the
inspector. “Apparently, he’d already made up his mind to
send for you. As a matter of fact, I know he’d made up his
mind to send for you because he sent me to do it.”
“So you left at that point?” Barnes asked.
“That’s right.”
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Emily Brightwell
Witherspoon frowned. “What time was this?”
He thought for a moment. “It must have been close to
four o’clock.”
The inspector nodded. “Can you tell me what you saw as
you were leaving?”
“What do you mean? I saw nothing, it was still dark.”
Venable looked confused by the question. “There were a
great number of people in the garden, they were all milling
about. But I can’t say that I saw anything in particular.”
Barnes knew the man had seen more than he realized.
“Did you notice if the lights were on in the room directly off
the terrace?”
“I don’t think so,” Venable murmured. “But there was a
light in the side hall, I remember seeing that as I walked
past to the front of the house.”
“How about in the front of the house, any lights there?”
Witherspoon asked.
“I’m not sure . . . wait, yes, there must have been, because I noticed a set of footprints running along the side of the greenhouse, and I wouldn’t have been able to see them if
there hadn’t been some light spilling out of the house
through the windows. I don’t know that it came directly
from the front of the building, but there was light enough
to see.”
“Where did these footprints lead?” the inspector asked.
They were probably made by either the police or someone
from the household, but it never hurt to ask.
“I’ve no idea, Inspector,” Venable admitted. “I’m sorry, is
it important? Well,
