Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat Read Free Page A

herself, when they didn’t even have one to investigate. Not that she was thinking that someone ought to die just so she and the rest of the staff could indulge themselves. Goodness, no, that would never do. Murder was aterrible, terrible crime. It was impossible to think otherwise.
    Still, if someone did die, she thought wistfully, it would break the monotony of the household routine and give all of them a much-needed bit of excitement. She shook herself when she realized where her thoughts were taking her. Then she looked up and found the cook gazing at her with an amused expression on her face. There were moments, Mrs. Jeffries thought, when she was sure Mrs. Goodge could read her mind.

    “Mr. Tavistock, if you’ll just tell us how you came to find the body, please,” Inspector Gerald Witherspoon said gently to the portly, well-dressed gentleman.
    “Yes, I will, just give me a moment, please.” He swallowed and glanced down at the fat bulldog that sat at his feet, seeming to take strength in the animal’s presence. He lifted his head and ran a hand nervously through his wispy gray hair. His blue eyes were as big as saucers, and his elderly face was pale with shock.
    Inspector Witherspoon, a middle-aged man with thinning dark hair, a fine-boned, pale face and a mustache, smiled kindly at the witness he was trying to interview. The poor fellow was so rattled, the hands holding the dog’s lead trembled. Witherspoon didn’t fault the man for being upset. Finding a corpse generally had that effect on people. To be perfectly frank, it still rattled him quite a bit.
    “I’ve already told those constables.” Tavistock pointed a shaky finger at two uniformed police guarding the bench on which the body still lay. “I don’t think I ought to have to tell it again. It’s most upsetting.”
    “I’m sure it is, sir,” the inspector replied. He glanced at the policeman standing next to Tavistock. Constable Barnes, an older, craggy-faced, gray-haired veteran who worked with Witherspoon exclusively, stared impassively out at the scene.
    “Constable,” Witherspoon said, “have one of the lads take Mr. Tavistock home. We’ll have a look at the body and then pop over and take his statement when we’re finished.”
    Tavistock slumped in relief. “Thank you, Inspector. I live just across the Square.” He pointed to a large, pale gray home on the far side. “I don’t mind admitting I could do with a cup of tea.”
    Barnes signaled to a uniformed lad, and a few moments later the witness, with his dog in tow, was escorted home. Witherspoon stiffened his spine and started up the footpath toward the body. He’d put off actually having to see it till the last possible moment. But he knew his duty. Distasteful as it was, he’d look at the victim.
    He simply hoped it wasn’t going to be too awful.
    “She’s right here, sir,” the PC standing guard called out as soon as he spotted the inspector. “We did just like Constable Barnes instructed, we didn’t touch anything.”
    “Good lad.” Witherspoon swallowed heavily. He stopped next to the bench and looked down at the victim.
    “She’s not all that young,” Barnes murmured. He’d come back to stand at the inspector’s elbow. “And her clothes don’t appear to be tampered with.”
    “True,” Witherspoon replied. The victim was a middle-aged woman with dark brown hair peeking out of her sensible cloth bonnet. The hat skewed to the side revealed a few strands of gray at her temples. She wore a deep blue traveling dress with expensive gold buttons. Her feet, shod in black high button shoes, dangled off the end of the bench. “She’s tall,” Witherspoon muttered. “That bench is over five and a half feet long.” For a moment, he forgot his squeamishness. Except for the blood pooling underneath the bench she could almost be asleep. Her skin hadn’t taken on that hideous milk blue color he’d seen in other corpses. He rather suspected that meant she’d not