Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat by Emily Brightwell Read Free Book Online Page A

victim had died. “Well, I can see talkin’ about it upsets you, miss,” he said sympathetically. “So I’ll not trouble you with any more questions. But could you tell me if you’ve seen a policeman…”
    “I’ve seen half a dozen coppers,” she snapped over her shoulder. “They’re all over the garden and the square.”
    “But I’m lookin’ for a particular one, miss,” he continued calmly. “An inspector. He’s my guv, he is. I’ve got a packet of food our cook sent over for ’im.”
    The girl turned and stared at him. “You work for one of them policemen?”
    “I work for the man in charge,” Wiggins bragged. “Inspector Witherspoon. If you’ve ’ad a murder ’ere, ’e’ll findthe killer. ’E’s ever so good at it, ’e is. Do you know where ’e is?”
    She stared at him for a moment. “I don’t know where he’s gone,” she finally said. “He were here earlier talkin’ to the mistress, but then he left.”
    “Left? You mean ’e’s gone back to the station?”
    “How should I know?” Once again she turned her back on him and began to sweep. “It’s not for the likes of me to stick my nose into anything that don’t concern me.”
    “But murder concerns everyone,” Wiggins protested. Then he clamped his mouth shut. His instincts were screaming at him to keep quiet for a moment. Something was going on here, something wasn’t right. He’d had dozens of conversations with servants that had been close to crimes or a crime scene, and not one of them had ever acted like this girl. She wasn’t excited or curious, and that just plain wasn’t right. He knew what a domestic’s life was like. Anything out of the ordinary, anything that took you away from the drudgery of your work, even for a few moments, was cause for excitement.
    But the girl wasn’t excited.
    She was angry. Wiggins chewed his lower lip as he thought about what to do next. He noticed her hands were clamped around the broom handle so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her shoulders were hunched defensively, and her expression was closed and grim.
    “Uh, miss,” he said tentatively, “I’m really sorry I startled you.”
    “It’s all right,” she muttered. “Now get on with you. I’ve work to do.”
    “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he continued, racking his brain for some way of prolonging the conversation. “I really didn’t. You won’t get in trouble will ya? I mean, you’ll not get the sack just because I stopped and spoke to ya?”
    “Not if you go away now,” she said. “But if you hang about chatting, they’ll toss me out on my ear. Now get off with you.”
    “Cor blimey, you must work for a strict household.”
    The girl laughed. “You could say that. Go on, go find your inspector.”
    Wiggins hesitated. He sensed he’d missed his opportunity to get any more information out of the girl, but he was loath to give up so easily. He opened his mouth to ask another silly question when the front door flew open and an older woman stuck her head out. “Fiona, get in here. You’re not to spend all day sweeping that pavement.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, “I’m just coming.” She picked up her broom and disappeared around the side of the house.
    Wiggins watched her leave and promised himself he’d come back later. He glanced at the house number and made a mental note that it was number six. It wouldn’t do to forget where the girl lived. That Fiona knew something. He’d bet his next meal on it.

    Timothy Heckston sat behind his huge rosewood desk and tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk pad. He was of late middle age but still had a head of thick blond hair, a sharp-pointed chin, thin lips and prominent cheekbones. “I’m sorry to be so unhelpful, gentlemen,” he said with a shrug. “But there’s little else I can tell you.”
    “Are you absolutely certain there are only seven keys to the garden, sir?” Inspector Witherspoon asked.
    “Eight, Inspector,”