Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up Read Free Page B

“Not to worry, sir. If you get called out, then I need to be called as well. I’ve only just arrived, myself. Too bad it’s so dark. We can’t see too many details of the house. But this is a posh neighborhood. These are full-sized houses, sir, not town houses.”
    “Yes, and I imagine we’ve been sent for because the victim is a very rich man,” the inspector muttered. The two men started toward the walkway leading to number 12. Two uniformed policemen stood at the door. They recognized the inspector and stood just that bit straighter as he approached.
    To the rank and file of the Metropolitan Police Force, Gerald Witherspoon was a legend. Not only had he solved more cases than anyone, but he was known to always mention the good work of subordinates in his reports. He gave credit where credit was due and frequently defended his men against unfair criticism and pressure from above. Witherspoon, of course, didn’t notice the two policemen seemed to have grown an inch or two, but Barnes did, and he smiled to himself.
    “Good evening, officers,” Witherspoon said. “I’m—”
    “We know who you are, sir,” one of them interrupted. “And the police surgeon is already inside waiting for you. He’s sent for the mortuary van.” He opened the front door and stepped aside so they could enter.
    The foyer was patterned in black-and-white tiles with a wide staircase on the far left of the space. Directly in front of the two policemen was an enormous round table with an intricately carved claw-foot on top of which stood a tall blue and white ceramic vase. The walls along the sweep of the staircase were covered with paintings of pastoral scenes, old-fashioned portraits, and, oddly enough, one large wall hanging in a bright red fabric covered with white Oriental lettering. Another table, this one with carvings over every surface except the top, stood in the crook of the stairs. A long hallway with a red-and-gold-patterned carpet led off to the rooms on the far side of the stairs. Overhead was a crystal chandelier.
    “You’re right, sir,” Barnes muttered as a door along the hall opened and a policeman stepped out into the hall. “These people are rich.”
    “Inspector Witherspoon, the body is in here, sir,” the constable called.
    Barnes took the lead. He knew the inspector was rather squeamish about bodies.
    “Gracious, that smells like paraffin,” Witherspoon muttered to no one in particular as he followed the constable.
    “It is, sir.” The constable held the door open for them. “They had a small fire here earlier today, and it’s stunk up the whole house.”
    They stepped inside, and then both of them stopped and simply stared. It was a man’s study, but it contained such colorful objects that it could easily have been a display at the British Museum. Ceramic plates and vases, all in brilliant hues and of different sizes, were arranged along the bottom shelf. On the shelf directly above stood a long line of carved figurines in muted shades of green, amber, and lavender, two bronze or brass statues of a seated Buddha, and a row of boxes of various sizes. In the corner was a huge brass gong housed in a six-foot black, wooden case. A tall rosewood armoire with long, narrow drawers and gold handles was on the far side of the open double doors. A set of five-foot-tall ceramic vases in green and gold flanked the now open doors. Above the doors, a series of swords were arranged in an artful display. There was a set of empty hooks at the bottom, and hanging from one of the hooks was a bundle of mistletoe.
    The study opened onto a drawing room, and the body was lying half in the study and half in the drawing room. The inspector steeled himself and walked toward the corpse. He swallowed heavily when he saw the body was drenched in blood.
    Barnes brushed past him and blocked his view. “How long has the man been dead?” he asked the constable at the door.
    “Not more than three hours, sir,” the constable