Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans by Emily Brightwell Read Free Book Online

luncheon, sir?” Barnes probed.
    “Yes, luncheon was to be at one o’clock,” Gibbons said impatiently. “I’ve already told you all this.”
    “From your earlier comment, Mr. Gibbons, I take it you and Mr. Boyd weren’t friends.” Barnes watched him carefully as he asked the question. But Gibbons didn’t so much as bat an eyelash or do anything else to indicate he might be uncomfortable.
    “Hardly. As I said before, I’d have never set foot in the man’s house if I hadn’t had to come here in my official capacity as the president of the Bankers Benevolent Society.”
    “And the reason you had to come, sir?” Barnes pressed.
    “Because Boyd sweet-talked our board into making him this year’s honorary chairman—a most presitigous position, I might add. Boyd and Sapington were our two final candidates for the honor, and this luncheon was to officially let Boyd know he’d got the prize. Poor Sapington. He’s worked very hard for the society, but that didn’t seem to make any difference to the board. All they could see was the huge donation that Boyd was prepared to make. Sapington can’t or couldn’t compete with that sort of thing. He’s quite willing to work for charity, but he doesn’t give much in the way of actual cash.”
    “Did Mr. Sapington know that he wasn’t going to get the chairmanship?” Barnes wondered if these sort of people ever did any work.
    “I don’t see how he could.” Gibbons sighed. “The board only made their final decision yesterday, and the luncheon’s been planned for a long time.”
    “When you arrived, did you notice anything unusual—I mean, other than the fire wagon?”
    Gibbons shook his head. “Just the fire brigade.”
    “Who told you Mr. Boyd was dead?”
    “Mrs. Rothwell, the housekeeper. She said luncheon was cancelled and that there had been a terrible accident.”
    “Then why didn’t you leave immediately?” Barnes asked.
    “Because by then the police had arrived, and before we could go, a constable had sent the butler in to ask us all to remain.”
    “So you sat in the drawing room waiting?”
    “Oh, no, Mrs. Rothwell insisted we eat. After all, luncheon was already prepared, so it was a shame to let the food go to waste.”
     
    “The inspector’s late this evening,” Mrs. Jeffries said to no one in particular as they milled about in the cozy kitchen.
    “Not to worry,” Mrs. Goodge said. “His supper is staying nice and warm in the oven. The longer it sits, the better a beef stew tastes, that’s what I always say.”
    “It tasted good tonight.” Smythe sank into his seat and reached for Betsy’s hand under the table. They’d had their supper earlier and even done the clearing up.
    Mrs. Jeffries frowned. “It’s past seven. He’s always home by now unless he’s on a case.”
    “Maybe he’s got a murder,” Wiggins said eagerly.
    Under the table, Smythe squeezed Betsy’s hand. She smiled at him, trying to let him know without words that she trusted him to find a way for them to continue their investigations. She wasn’t worried about their future together. They could have their marriage and their home, and do the work that was so important to both of them. She trusted he had a plan.
    Mrs. Jeffries glanced at Betsy and noted with some relief that the girl didn’t look as if the idea of a murder was going to cause her a flurry of nerves. The wedding was taking a lot of planning time, but the housekeeper was sure the lass could cope. Betsy was strong. She looked up at the clock again and told herself not to jump to conclusions; there were many reasons why the inspector might be late getting home.
    Fred, who’d been sleeping peacefully on the rug near the cooker, suddenly shot to his feet and charged for the back stairs. “That’ll be the inspector,” Wiggins muttered. He looked morosely in the direction the dog had disappeared. Fred had gotten a tad more attached to the inspector since Mrs. Goodge’s Samson had taken over