crouched into a sit.
“Thanks for your help,” a voice whispered as the gloved
hand reached over and stroked the cat’s back. “I couldn’t
have done it without you.”
14
Emily Brightwell
Samson twisted, clawing at the stroking hand as he
hissed his displeasure.
At dawn the next morning, there was a heavy knocking at
the front door. Mrs. Jeffries, who was already up and
dressed, wasn’t surprised to find Constable Barnes on the
door stoop, blowing air on his hands in a vain attempt to
keep them warm. “Sorry to disturb you so early,” he said.
“But I’ve got to see the inspector.”
Mrs. Jeffries kept her expression neutral, but inside she
was overjoyed. There was only one reason Constable Barnes
would be here at this time of the day—there was a murder
to be solved.
“Go straight down to the kitchen, Constable,” she ordered. “You look half-frozen, and I’ve just made a pot of tea.
Help yourself. I’ll pop upstairs and let the inspector know
you’re here.”
She’d also awaken Smythe. It might be necessary for him
to get out and about to see what was what.
“Ta,” Barnes grinned and started down the hall toward
the back staircase. “I’m sure you’ve already sussed out that
we’ve got a murder on our hands,” he said softly. “The victim’s a baronet so that means there’s going to be all sorts of political pressure.”
Mrs. Jeffries paused and nodded. Constable Barnes’ message was quite clear. He’d have to watch the inspector’s back. When it came to bureaucratic politics, Witherspoon
was an innocent. Barnes wasn’t. The tall, gray-haired constable had been on the force long enough to know how to protect himself and his inspector.
Barnes continued on to the kitchen as Mrs. Jeffries
dashed up the staircase. She knocked lightly on the inspec
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
15
tor’s door, stuck her head inside, and said, “Excuse me, sir,
but you’d best get up. Constable Barnes is here to see you.”
“What? What? Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be right down,” he
replied groggily.
She closed his door quickly and hurried up to the top
floor. Knocking once, she opened the door slightly and said.
“May I come in?”
“I’m decent,” Smythe said in a loud whisper.
She stepped inside and saw that the coachman was
dressed in his trousers and shirt. “Sorry to wake you so
early,” she said softly. “But Constable Barnes is here, and I
may need you to be out and about in a hurry.”
“I thought I ‘eard voices from downstairs.” He pulled on
a gray wool sock. “Do we ‘ave us a murder?”
She nodded. “Yes, and from what little I know, it’s going
to be a sticky one. It’s a baronet. Do you know if Wiggins is
up yet?”
The two menservants used to share a room, but the previous month, Inspector Witherspoon had converted the small attic into another bedroom and insisted that each man
have his own quarters.
“The lad’s probably dead to the world,” Smythe grinned.
“He stays up late at night reading. Why? Do you think
we’ll need him?”
She thought for a moment. “Wake him. We might need
everyone. Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ll go see
what I can get out of Constable Barnes before the inspector
gets downstairs.”
But Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t able to get anything out of Constable Barnes. The inspector, who’d managed to dress very quickly, was right on her heels as she went down the back
stairs to the kitchen.
16
Emily Brightwell
Constable Barnes was sitting at the kitchen table. Mrs.
Goodge was coming out the back hall holding a brown bowl
covered with a clean white tea towel in her arms. “Morning,
sir, Mrs. Jeffries,” the cook said. “I thought I’d get the constable one of my Cornish pasties for his breakfast. We’ve a few left over from yesterday’s lunch.”
“That’s most kind of you, Mrs. Goodge,” the inspector
replied. “I’ll have one as well. I’ve a feeling we won’t have
time for one of your delightful cooked breakfasts.” He hurried over the table. “Morning, Constable. You’re here early.
I presume something awful has happened.”
“There’s been a murder, sir,” Barnes replied. “Sir George
Braxton was found dead early this morning.”
“Where was he found?” Witherspoon asked. He sat down
and then nodded his thanks as Mrs. Jeffries handed him a
mug of hot tea.
“At his home in Richmond, sir,” Barnes replied. “Thank
you, Mrs. Goodge,” he said as the cook put his pastie in
front of him.
“Richmond?” Witherspoon shook his head. “That’s out
of our jurisdiction.”
“It is, sir. But the Home Secretary happened to be visiting at the house next to the Braxton place and when he saw the constables, he went over to see what had happened. As
soon as he saw the body, he took control and sent along to
the Yard for you to be called into the case.”
Witherspoon frowned slightly and took another gulp of
his tea. “I expect that didn’t go down well with the local
lads, did it?”
“They’ll do as they’re told,” Barnes replied. He stuffed a
huge bite of pastie into his mouth. It would probably be
hours before he got another chance to eat, and he’d been
rousted out of his bed in the middle of the night.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
17
“I don’t like to be the cause of any resentment,” the inspector murmured.
“Not to worry, sir,” Barnes said. “Most of the local lads
don’t want to have to deal with a murder like Sir George’s.”
“Why’s that?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “Oh, sorry, sir. I
didn’t mean to be so bold . . .” The cook was of the generation of servants that had been trained not to speak unless spoken to when in the presence of their betters. Not that the
inspector ran his household in such a fashion, but old habits
die hard.
“Nonsense, Mrs. Goodge.” The inspector smiled at the
cook. “You’ve every right to be curious.” He was a bit curious himself. He couldn’t think why the local police wouldn’t resent him greatly for taking over their case, especially at the request of the Home Secretary.
Barnes finished off the last of his food. “If they fail, Mrs.
Goodge, they’ll ruin their chances for promotion. Most detectives aren’t like our inspector,” he nodded at Witherspoon. “Detectives come from the ranks and it’s a good way for working-class
