Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time by Emily Brightwell Read Free Book Online

drink for yourself. Do sit down and keep me company.”
    “Thank you, sir, I will.” She pulled out the chair, sat down, and took a sip of her sherry. She said nothing for a moment, giving him time to get some food in his stomach before she began asking questions. She knew he would willingly tell her about the day’s events; from his very first homicide, she’d made sure that he’d gotten into the habit of discussing his cases with his very discreet and understanding housekeeper. He’d once told her that talking with her about his work helped him enormously. “It does so enable me to keep everything straight in my own mind,” he’d said. She intended to do her best to insure that he continued to feel that way.
    “Was it dreadful, sir,” she asked sympathetically. She was one of the few that knew how squeamish he was about dead bodies.
    “It wasn’t pretty, the man was shot in the head. But as head wounds go, it wasn’t as nasty as it could have been.” He picked up his glass and took a quick sip. “The fatal wound was directly in the center of his forehead, but luckily there wasn’t much blood.”
    “Really?” A faint, uneasy feeling tugged at her, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep him up and chatting. It was late and the inspector was tired. “I thought head wounds bled profusely? Did the police surgeon have any idea why there was so little blood?”
    “I didn’t have time to ask him.” Witherspoon speared a piece of potato. “There were people everywhere, and frankly we got too busy taking statements. I’ll read his report tomorrow. He’s doing the postmortem at St. Mary’s in Paddington.”
    Drat. Mrs. Jeffries knew she had no right to be disappointed. But she had hoped their friend Dr. Bosworth would, by some miracle, be the one doing the postmortem. But Dr. Bosworth, who actually did know quite a bit about gunshots and the holes they made in human flesh, was assigned to another metropolitan police district and worked out of St. Thomas’ Hospital. “I see. Who was the victim, sir?”
    “An older man named Francis Humphreys. He was killed as he sat at the desk in his bedroom, and what’s more, there was a houseful of witnesses but all they heard was the gunshot.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t think this is going to be an easy murder to solve.”
    “Was it a robbery?” she asked.
    “I don’t think so,” he replied. “The housekeeper didn’t see that anything was missing from his room and as I said, the house was swarming with people, the killer wouldn’t have had time to do anything but shoot the poor man and then make a run for it.”
    “If the house was full of people, sir,” she asked, “how did the killer get in and out without being seen?”
    “We’re not certain, but it was probably through the small terrace off his bedroom. It’s up a floor from the ground, but there is a good sturdy trellis the assailant could have used to climb up and get into his room. As for getting out, there’s half a dozen doors and lots of windows. It took a few moments for the rest of the household to get to his room when they heard the shot, so it’s possible the killer could have used that time to his advantage.”
    She leaned back in her chair and listened as he continued with his meal. By the time his plate was clean, he’d given her every detail of the day. “Searching the house was rather awkward.” He shoved his chair back and stood up. “The constables had done a preliminary search as soon as they arrived, but Constable Barnes insisted it be done again under his direction. Odd, he usually trusts the lads to do things properly.”
    She got to her feet as well. Her mind was working furiously, taking in the few facts they had so far and trying to make sense of them. “Did you find anything useful, sir?”
    “We found nothing.” He yawned widely. “No open windows, no footprints, nothing that would point us in the direction