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

Heckston corrected. “Eight keys. Each house on the square is issued one, and the gardener has one as well.”
    “Yes, of course, Mr. Tavistock told us that.” Witherspoon nodded.
    “Are you still in possession of Mrs. Baldridge’s key, sir?” Barnes asked. “I believe she, uh, gave it back to you.”
    Heckston broke into a grin. “Heard about that, did you? She didn’t give it to me, sir. She threw it at my head.”
    Barnes smiled. “We understand Mrs. Baldridge is a great lover of hollyhocks.”
    “Silly woman couldn’t understand that the wretched things wouldn’t grow in the garden.” He stood up, walked across the room to a small cupboard next to the door. Taking a small key out of his pocket, he unlocked the cupboard and opened it. “You’d have thought we were deliberately trying to upset her. I was as gentle as possible…” he stopped and a frown crossed his face. “That’s odd. It’s not here.”
    Witherspoon glanced at Barnes and then said, “What’s not there, sir?”
    “The key.” Heckston turned and stared at them, his expression puzzled. “Mrs. Baldridge’s key isn’t there. It’s gone.”
    “Are you sure, sir?” Barnes asked. He and the inspector had both risen to their feet. They crossed the room and stood behind Heckston’s shoulder. The cupboard was lined with three rows of hooks. The top two rows had keys of various sizes hanging from them with small, white labels affixed beneath them. The bottom row, the row labeled “Garden Keys” was completely empty.
    Heckston pointed to the last hook on that row. “Mrs. Baldridge’s key was right here.”
    “Could it have been misplaced, sir?” Barnes asked.
    Heckston shook his head. “No one opens this cupboard but me, sir. I always keep it locked.”
    “What about other members of your household?” Witherspoon prodded.
    “Other than myself, there’s only my wife who has a key. She’d have no reason to bother with garden keys.”
    “When was the last time you saw the key, sir?” the inspector asked quickly. He’d found that if one kept up a steady stream of questions, one sometimes found that the person one was questioning didn’t have time to make up any lies.
    “The last time.” Heckston frowned. “Let’s see. I suppose it must have been last week. Yes, yes, that’s right. I opened up the cupboard to get the key to the wine cellar.”
    “Was it possible the key fell out or was accidentally taken?” Barnes pressed.
    “No, as you can see, the hooks are rounded so that keys can’t be knocked off accidentally.”
    “Was anyone else in the room with you?” Witherspoon asked. “I mean, did anyone else know where the key was kept?”
    Heckston hesitated. “Well, I suppose so. I opened the cupboard in front of the whole garden committee. We were having a meeting, you see. We always meet in the study. It keeps things more businesslike, moves the whole process along a bit faster, if you know what I mean. Long meetings are so tireseome.”
    “So you’re saying, sir,” Barnes said quietly, “that everyone on the square knew where the spare key was kept?”
    Heckston nodded glumly. “I’m afraid so.”
    “Which means that anyone could have taken the key. No offense meant, Mr. Heckston, but that lock doesn’t look to be very sturdy.” Witherspoon said. Drat. This wasn’t going to be an easy one to solve.

CHAPTER 3

    The household gathered back at Upper Edmonton Gardens at four that afternoon. Everyone was there, even Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet. Luty Belle was an elderly, wealthy, rather eccentric American. White haired and dark eyed, she had a penchant for brightly colored clothes and an acerbic tongue that masked a heart as big as her native country. Hatchet, her butler, was tall, dignified and constantly trying to force his mistress to watch her manners.
    “Really, madam.” Hatchet sniffed as they took their places at the table. “You might have managed to be a bit kinder to Countess