entitled to your own opinions.”
“I do hope my coming in so late didn’t inconvenience
you. I don’t mean for you to wait up for me. I’m quite capable of locking the house and putting everything to rights before I go up.”
Mrs. Jeffries smiled over the top of her tea cup. “Thank
you, sir. I’ll remember that for the future. Do you have a
busy day planned?” She wanted to find out what he learned
yesterday, and to do that, she had to get him talking about
the case and not Ruth Cannonberry.
Witherspoon’s shoulders drooped just a bit. “I’m sure it’ll
be busy, but as to whether or not it’ll be useful, that’s another matter entirely. I don’t know what we’re going to do.
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We’re running out of time. Christmas is in just a few days,
and frankly, I’ve no idea who killed Sir George Braxton.”
“I take it you didn’t learn much yesterday?” She took another sip of tea.
“That all depends,” he said, his expression uncertain.
“We heard quite a bit of new information about the principals in the Braxton household, but I’m not sure what it all means, or if it has anything to do with Sir George’s murder.”
“You mustn’t get discouraged, sir. This is always what
happens with your cases.”
“It is?”
“Yes, it is. You’re always in a bit of a muddle until right
before the very end, and then it all comes together in your
mind and you catch the killer.”
“Really?” He stared at her with hopeful expression.
She could tell he desperately wanted to believe her, and
in one sense, her words were true. They were generally in a
muddle until the very end.
“Why don’t you tell me what you learned yesterday, sir,”
she coaxed. “You’ve always said that discussing your cases
helps put all the bits and pieces together.”
He brightened considerably. “That’s a jolly good idea.
Well, now, let’s see, where did I go first yesterday? Oh, yes,
now I remember.”
Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, occasionally making a
short comment or asking a question. By the time Betsy had
come up for the breakfast dishes, he’d finished.
“Where are you going this morning, sir, if you don’t
mind my asking?” Betsy picked up his empty plate and put
it on the tray. She’d been hovering in the doorway and had
caught most of his narrative. “We’re all ever so curious
about your cases.”
“I don’t mind you asking in the least,” he said eagerly.
Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight
185
“This morning I’m going along to have a chat with the victim’s banker, and then we’re going into the city to speak to his brokers. I’m hoping they can shed some light on why
they’d been scheduled to come and see him the day he
died.”
“What about his solicitor?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She
picked up the empty toast rack and put it on the tray next
to the dirty plates.
“Oh, yes, we’ll be seeing him as well.” Witherspoon finished his tea just as a knock sounded on the front door.
“That’ll be Constable Barnes,” he said as he got to his feet.
“I shall see you all this evening. There’s no need to see me
out, Mrs. Jeffries, I can see you’re busy.”
Smythe banged on the back door of the Dirty Duck. The
pub couldn’t open for a couple of hours yet, but he’d had a
message from Blimpey to come straightaway.
The door creaked open and Agnes, the barmaid, waved
him inside. “Blimpey’s at his usual spot,” she said. “Will
you be wantin’ something to drink?”
“No, thank ya, Agnes, it’s a bit too early in the day for
me.” He went down a dim hallway and around the bar into
the pub proper. “Mornin’, Blimpey, I got ‘ere as soon as I
could.”
“That’s right thoughtful of ya, mate. I’ve a full day ahead
of me. Have a seat, and let’s get crackin’.”
“What ‘ave ya got for me?” Smythe slid onto the stool
across from Blimpey.
“I wanted to get ya here right quick because one of yer
suspects might be thinkin’ of leaving our fair shores,”
Blimpey replied. “Charlotte Braxton bought a third class
ticket on the Valiant Sky on December fifteenth. She’s
pullin’ out of the Liverpool docks tomorrow morning with
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Emily Brightwell
the tide, and she’s bound for New Zealand. You might want
to ‘ave a word with your inspector.”
“You think she’s running?” Smythe had a great deal of respect for Blimpey’s knowledge of the criminal mind.
“No, she bought the ticket three days before the old
blighter was murdered. Unless she’s the killer, I think she
bought it to escape them that’s pressing her about her gambling debts. They’re not a nice bunch of people, even her bein’ an aristocrat wouldn’t ‘elp her much if they’d decided
to get real nasty.”
“You think they might have roughed ‘er up a bit?”
Smythe asked, his expression incredulous.
Blimpey hesitated. “She’s in pretty deep to Horace
Quigley’s boys, but I don’t think they’d have ‘armed her
person. More like they’d ‘ave made sure her father found out
about how much she owed ‘em, and they’d not be shy about
makin’ it public.”
“And they’ve got lots of ways they could ‘ave done it,”
Smythe said. “Even someone as ‘ard as Sir George wouldn’t
‘ave liked everyone and ‘is brother knowin’ ‘is daughter
wouldn’t pay ‘er debts.”
“True,” Blimpey replied. “I’ve not much more for ya except for a few bits and pieces I expect you’ve already heard.
My sources have been seriously remiss in getting back to me
with anything useful. I think they’re all slacking off a bit
because of Christmas.”
Luty was at the back door when Wiggins arrived the next
day. “Be real quiet, I got rid of Hatchet, but Julie’s upstairs
mending one of my gowns, and I don’t want her sneakin’ in
on us.” She motioned for him to follow her, and they crept
down the hall, past the abnormally quiet kitchen and into
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187
the butler’s pantry. Luty closed the door and motioned for
him to take a seat at the empty table.
He flopped down, wincing as the old cane-backed chair
creaked loud enough to wake the dead. “Sorry.”
“Don’t fret, boy.” Luty sat down opposite him. “Josiah
Williams stopped by here early this morning, and Hatchet
saw him. Josiah’s a smart one, though. He said he’d just
stopped by to give me some documents I’d asked for a while
back. He had the papers with him, too.”
“Did Hatchet
