Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake by Emily Brightwell Read Free Book Online

tailor?”
    She started in surprise. “Pardon? Did I hear you correctly? Did you ask who was my husband’s tailor?”
    “That’s correct.” He hesitated for a moment. “Your husband claims he’s been on Bond Street shopping since four forty-five this afternoon. He says he went by his tailor’s. Unfortunately he neglected to give us the man’s name.”
    She smiled broadly. “He goes to Barkham’s.”
    “Thank you.” Witherspoon suddenly went blank. Now that he’d asked the one quesion on his mind, he found he simply couldn’t think of another one. Oh dear, this wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. “Er…Mrs. Frommer…er…uh, can you tell me what you think your husband andyour father might have been arguing about when you saw them in the garden today?” Yes, he thought, that was a good one.
    “I’ve no idea,” she answered. “Neither of them took me into their confidence.”
    “But you’re certain they were arguing?” he prompted. What if she were merely guessing or, even worse, simply making things up so her husband would look guilty? From what he’d seen of both the Frommers, there was no love lost between them.
    “As certain as I can be without having actually heard what they were saying.” She shrugged. “But as I told you earlier, they looked like they were quarreling fiercely.”
    “How long has your father lived here?” Barnes asked.
    “Since my mother died sixteen years ago.” She clasped her hands together in her lap.
    “Yes, I understand, your poor father probably couldn’t stand to be alone after losing your mother,” Witherspoon murmured sympathetically. He’d often found that a small dose of understanding went quite a long way and got one a great deal of information.
    “Oh no, that wasn’t it at all,” she explained. “He came here because after Mama died, he’d nowhere else to live.”
    Witherspoon frowned. “You mean he’d no home of his own?”
    “That’s right. You see, he’d lived in my mother’s house all of their married life. Mama was a Sheridan,” she said proudly, dropping the name of one of England’s oldest and wealthiest families. “I was already married and living here, so when she passed away, he had to leave. The house naturally went to one of my mother’s cousins. He was most put out about it too. He’d always thought Mama had left the house to him, but she couldn’t, couldshe? I mean, it belonged to her family, not to her. I don’t think Mama was always truthful with Papa, but then again, why should she be? He certainly wasn’t truthful with her.”
    “I see.” Witherspoon nodded encouragingly. “So your father couldn’t afford a home of his own—”
    “Oh he could afford it,” she interrupted. “He just didn’t want to live on his own. Not when he could live in an MP’s home.”
    “I see,” the inspector said. “Do you know if your father had any enemies?” That was always a good, straightforward question. Generally, though, it always got the same response. The victim was universally loved and hadn’t an enemy in the world.
    “Oh, lots of them, I should imagine,” she replied airily.
    “Oh, and who would these enemies be?” the inspector said quickly. Goodness, he hadn’t expected that reply.
    “I expect most of the neighbors disliked him,” she replied. “He was quite a nosy sort, my father. And he loved the sound of his own voice. He monopolized conversations and had opinions about everything. It didn’t matter to him whether his opinions were informed or intelligent, either. He wasn’t at all shy about sharing them. The neighbors used to run when they saw him coming down the street.”
    “That must have been difficult for him,” Witherspoon suggested.
    “Not at all,” she answered. “He never noticed. Honestly I’ve no idea how the man lived so long without realizing that he was so disliked. He could clear a room faster than a bad smell. People would make their excuses the moment he walked