Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected Read Free

long,” Smythe suggested. “It’s about time for another one; we ’aven’t ’ad us a good one since March.”
    “I don’t want another one yet,” Wiggins cried. “It’s too bloomin’ ’ot to be dashing about all over London lookin’ for clues and—”
    “You never want us to have one,” Betsy said accusingly, glaring at the young footman.
    “That’s not true,” Wiggins said defensively. “I just don’t like the idea of some poor person gettin’ murdered just so’s we won’t be bored, that’s all.”
    “Smythe wasn’t advocating killing anyone.” Mrs. Goodge jumped into the argument too. “He was merely saying that Hatchet’s only reason for not wanting to stay too long at Lord Lovan’s was because he didn’t want to chance missing one.”
    “Really, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly, “none of us like murders, but the fact is they do happen. Why,none of us came to work for the inspector with any idea that we’d end up investigating his cases.”
    She was referring to the fact that Inspector Gerald Witherspoon, formerly a clerk in the records room, was now, thanks considerably to their efforts, Scotland Yard’s leading investigator of homicides. The fact that no one, including the inspector, could account for his phenomenal success, was also their doing.
    “What’s the matter,” Betsy asked, “don’t you like investigating?”
    “’Corse I like it.” Wiggins frowned. “It’s just that I don’t want to ’ave one now, that’s all. It’s too bloomin’ ’ot.”
    “You just don’t want anything comin’ up and takin’ you away from Maureen,” Smythe teased. “Mind you, I don’t blame ya, lad, she’s a fine-lookin’ girl.”
    “Maureen’s got nuthin’ to do with it,” Wiggins protested, but his round apple cheeks turned bright red and he couldn’t quite look the coachman in the eye.
    Mrs. Jeffries decided that debating murder and talking about their friends Luty and her butler, Hatchet, were one thing. Teasing poor Wiggins about his romantic endeavors was something else. “Well,” she said firmly, “I don’t think it’s up to any of us when a murder will happen. Generally, those decisions are made by someone else.”
    “I’d think you’d be chompin’ at the bit for another one,” Smythe said, taking a long sip of his ale. “You missed the last one.”
    “He didn’t really miss it,” Betsy said. “He only had a broken leg.”
    “That’s right,” Mrs. Goodge put in, “and he did his fair share even then.”
    Mrs. Jeffries beamed approvingly as she saw the footman’s blush fade and a pleased grin cross his face. Thehousehold was learning. A smile and a few words of praise went a long way to taking the sting out of a bit of teasing.
    “And a fine job ’e did too,” Smythe added.
    “Well, I didn’t do all that much,” Wiggins said modestly. “And it’s not that I don’t like snoopin’ about and askin’ questions; me and Fred enjoy gettin’ out and helpin’. It’s just that sometimes I get this awful feelin’ that we’re…” He paused, his face creased in concentration.
    “We’re what?” Mrs. Jeffries prompted. She was genuinely curious now. Wiggins was no fool, something was bothering him, something important.
    “I don’t know how to put it.” The footman shook his head. “But sometimes I almost get the feelin’ that we’re makin’ a murder ’appen just so we can ’ave an excuse to get out and ’unt down the killer.”
    “Don’t be daft,” Mrs. Goodge scoffed.
    “That’s silly,” Betsy cried.
    “Don’t be so stupid, lad,” Smythe said.
    Mrs. Jeffries frowned at them all. “Just a moment now. Don’t be too quick to judge Wiggins’s words. His concern is important.”
    “But, Mrs. Jeffries.” Betsy pushed her plate of cheese, bread and pickled onion to one side and leaned forward. “None of us would ever wish death on someone else. Wiggins is just bein’ fanciful.”
    “But if it’s bothering him,