do something useful and get the boughs cleaned and ready
to be put out.”
“Are we going to put the candles out as well?” Betsy asked
eagerly. “It looks so lovely when it’s all done up properly.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Did we get enough?” Mrs. Goodge asked anxiously.
“We must have enough to do both the dining room and the
drawing room, especially as Lady Cannonberry is coming
for Christmas dinner.”
“And we need some for down here as well,” Betsy added.
“We need our bits as well.” She loved decorating for Christmas. Once she and Smythe were married, she was going to be sure to do something special every year.
“We’ve plenty,” Mrs. Jeffries assured the cook. She
looked at Betsy. “The candles are in the dry larder, and we
need to clean the lamps, so you might as well bring them
out as well.” She broke off as she heard knocking on the
back door.
“I’ll go see who it is,” Smythe offered. “But it’s probably
the inspector or Wiggins.”
“They’d have walked straight in,” Mrs. Goodge said
darkly.
A moment later, they heard the door creak open and then
a low murmur of voices. Smythe came back to the kitchen
alone. “That was Lady Cannonberry’s butler. He said the inspector was having supper with her and for us to put his dinner away.”
Mrs. Jeffries was torn between annoyance and delight.
She knew how lonely the inspector had been lately, but with
him eating his meal with Ruth, it meant they couldn’t get
any information until tomorrow morning. “We can save his
supper for Wiggins.”
“We’ve already got the lad’s supper saved,” Mrs. Goodge
reminded her.
“If he doesn’t get home soon, he’ll be hungry enough to
eat them both,” she replied. “I do wish he’d come along, I’m
getting a bit worried about him.”
“He’ll be fine,” Smythe went back to the table and con
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181
tinued pulling holly out of the burlap bundle. “Let the lad
have a bit of privacy. ‘E might be running a special errand.”
“What kind of special errand?” Betsy demanded. She
looked at her beloved. “What do you know that you’re not
telling us?”
“I don’t know anythin’,” he protested. “I’m just thinkin’
that maybe Wiggins is doing something he doesn’t want to
share with the rest of us. It’s Christmas. Maybe the lad’s out
gettin’ presents for us.”
“The shops are all closed,” Betsy persisted.
“Not all of them,” Smythe shot back. “There’s a few that
are open late this week. Sometimes a man needs to be on his
own for a while, buyin’ presents for people isn’t easy you
know.” He was bluffing about the shops: as far as he knew,
every single one of them was shut tighter than a bank vault
at this time of night. But Wiggins was a grown man, and
sometimes these ladies could get just a bit smothering.
Mind you, if Wiggins didn’t show up soon, Smythe would
have a sharp word or two for the lad.
Betsy didn’t look convinced, but she stopped arguing and
went to the dry larder to get the lamps and the candles. She
was on her way back when the back door opened, and Fred,
followed by a red-cheeked Wiggins came charging inside.
“I’m ever so sorry to be late,” he gasped. “But it’s all
Fred’s fault. He got away from me in the park, and it took
ages to find him.”
Fred wagged his tail and bounced up and down, hoping
that the maid would give him a bit of attention. Betsy was
one of his special friends.
“You bad boy,” Betsy scolded the dog. “You mustn’t go
running off that way. We’ve been ever so worried about you
and Wiggins.”
Fred’s tail went still, and then he tucked it under his
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Emily Brightwell
backside and hung his head. Wiggins, watching his beloved
friend go from happy to miserable, and knowing it was his
fault, felt lower than a snake. He silently vowed he’d never
do this sort of thing again. Who would have thought keeping a promise to Luty would be so difficult? But at least he’d had a bit of luck when he went back with the solicitor’s
note. She’d seen him coming across the garden and nipped
down to the back door to meet him.
Betsy looked at Wiggins. “You’d best get in and eat your
supper. Mind you, you’ll have to eat on a tray, we’ve got the
table covered in holly.”
“I’d eat off the floor if I had to, I’m that hungry,” he
replied, as he raced toward the kitchen. “My belly’s touching my backbone.”
“Where on earth have you been?” Mrs. Goodge asked as
he hurtled into the kitchen.
“Sounds like he’d been at Luty’s,” Smythe said. “That’s
one of her sayins’.”
“Fred ran off from him,” Betsy explained as she came
into the kitchen behind him.
“It took ages to find ‘im,” Wiggins said quickly.
“Humph, why didn’t you have him on the lead?” Mrs.
Goodge picked up a thick pot holder.
He was ready for that question. “It got all tangled up in
a bush,” he explained. “The only way to get the bloomin’
thing straightened out was to take it off ‘im. But the minute
Fred was free, ‘e took off running.”
“It’s not like Fred to run off,” Smythe commented.
“I know,” Wiggins agreed quickly. “And generally ‘e
doesn’t. But he spotted a cat, and it took off runnin’. You
know Fred, he can’t resist that.” He went to the sink and
washed his hands.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
183
“Silly dog,” Mrs. Goodge muttered as she got his supper
from the warming oven.
Wiggins slipped into a spot at the far end of the table as
the cook put down a tray with his dinner on it in front of
him. Despite his conscience bothering him something
fierce, his mouth watered. “Thanks, Mrs. Goodge.”
“Mind you eat all of it,” she ordered. “A growing lad
needs his food.”
Fred whined softly and looked up at him. Wiggins
slipped him a huge bite of roast beef. He felt it was the least
he could do considering that poor Fred had taken all the
blame.
“Supper was utterly delightful,” the inspector said. He took
a bite of his eggs. “We had such a lovely chat. She’s so very
intelligent, mind you, I do think some of her ideas are quite
modern, more so, of course, than mine. But that doesn’t
mean I think she’s wrong in her thinking.”
“Of course not, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “You’re
