Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post by Emily Brightwell Read Free Book Online Page B

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    “I think you’d better sit down.” The inspector took her arm. “Let’s go into the drawing room, madam. I’m afraid I’ve some very bad news.”
    The color drained out of her face. But she said nothing. She took a deep breath and led the way across the foyer. They went through a set of double doors and into a beautifully furnished drawing room. Done in creams and gold, there were settees and overstuffed chairs, fringed shawls on the tables, brass sconces on the walls, and a floor polished to a high gloss. But the inspector barely took in the lavish furnishings. His attention was completely on the young woman who stared at him with huge, beseeching eyes. She looked positively terrified.
    But to her credit, she didn’t give in to the fear so evident on her face. “Something terrible has happened, hasn’t it?”
    “I’m afraid so,” Witherspoon said. He saw the housekeeper come into the room and make her way toward them.
    “It’s my husband, isn’t it? He’s hurt.”
    “It’s a bit worse than that. I’m dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Nye, but your husband was found dead this morning in Fulham.”
    She stared at them for a moment, her expression more puzzled than shocked. “Dead? But that’s ridiculous. Why would he be in Fulham?”
    “We don’t know why he was there, Mrs. Nye. We were hoping you could tell us that.”
    “Was it an accident?” She seemed very confused, as though she couldn’t quite take it in. “Did he fall and hit his head?”
    “It wasn’t an accident,” Witherspoon said gently. “Mr. Nye was murdered.”
    She gasped. “Murdered. You’re not serious. You can’t be. We’re not the kind of people that get ‘murdered’—” She broke off and her eyes filled with tears. “There must be some mistake. No one could murder Harrison/’ She turned away as sobs racked her body.
    The housekeeper looked inquiringly at the inspector. He nodded, and she slipped her arm around her young mistress’s shoulder. “There, there, Mrs. Nye.”
    “Why don’t you take Mrs. Nye up to her room,” Witherspoon instructed the housekeeper. It was obvious she was in no state to answer questions. “We’ll have a word with the staff.”
    “Come on, my dear,” the housekeeper said softly as she led the sobbing woman out of the room.
    Barnes walked over to the bellpull and gave it a tug. The butler appeared a moment later. “You rang, sir?”
    “I’m afraid we’ve some very bad news for the household,” Witherspoon said. “Mr. Nye was found murdered early this morning.”
    The butler’s mouth gaped open. “Murdered? Mr. Nye? But that’s … that’s … awful.”
    “Of course it is,” the inspector agreed. He moved toward a settee. “Mrs. Nye took the news rather badly. She’s resting in her room. Your housekeeper is taking care of her. But we’ll need to question the staff. Can you arrange it please.”
    He hesitated again, his expression uncertain. “Well, I suppose it’s all right.”
    The inspector understood the man’s quandary. The master of the house was dead, and the mistress was hysterical, so there was no one to give them instructions. Witherspoon sat down on the settee. “Of course it’s all right. I’m sure the staff wants to cooperate with the police. Now, why don’t you go and arrange things. I’ll take full responsibility for whatever happens.”
    Constable Barnes said. “Why don’t I go with him and interview the kitchen staff?”
    “Excellent idea.” The inspector nodded approvingly, then looked at the butler. “Take the constable to your kitchen and then come back. I’ll start with you.”

    Wiggins cautiously poked his head around the corner of Dunbarton Street and quickly stepped back out of sight. Blast a Spaniard! he thought. The whole street was crawling with police constables. He might have known. The inspector had probably ordered a house-to-house. Them ruddy constables would be there until they’d taken a statement from everyone who lived on