Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected Read Free Page A

Betsy,” the housekeeper replied calmly, “then I think it’s important we bring it out in the open and discuss it.” She turned her attention to the footman. “Do you really think that simply because we’ve proved ourselves to be quite good at solving murder that we’re actually causing them to happen?”
    Wiggins looked down at the floor and stared at the top of Fred, their mongrel dog’s head. “Well, if you put it like that, it does sound silly,” he admitted.
    “And do you think that if we stopped investigating the inspector’s cases, that murder would disappear from the city of London?” she continued.
    “’Corse not,” he said. “It’s just that sometimes I get this feelin’…”
    “Feelin’?” Smythe interjected. “What kind of feelin’?”
    Wiggins shrugged helplessly. “I’m not sure. But sometimes I feel right bad inside. ’Ere we are, sitting around bein’ bored doin’ the household chores and all of us wishin’ we ’ad a good excuse to get out and about and do a bit of snoopin’. Then the next thing you know, the inspector’s got ’imself a case and we’re all ’appy as larks and some poor person’s dead. It don’t feel right, that’s all.”
    Everyone gazed at him silently. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall and the far-off sound of street traffic coming through the open window of the kitchen.
    Finally, Mrs. Jeffries said, “Wiggins, I’m sorry you feel that way. Would you rather stay out of the inspector’s cases from now on?”
    “No,” he cried, his eyes widening in alarm. “I didn’t mean that. ’Elpin’ solve murders is important work, we’ve done a lot of good in this city—” He broke off and smiled sheepishly. “Oh, toss me for a game of tin soldiers, I don’t know what I’m on about tonight. Just leave it go, will ya? Must be this ’eat that’s makin’ me rattle on. We’re not such a bad lot, even if we do get bored every now and again and want us another murder.”
    “Good,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly. “I was hoping you’d come to that conclusion. I too think we do some very important work.”
    The fact that the entire household and their friends Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler, Hatchet, frequently helped solve the inspector’s murder cases was an importantpart of their lives. Not that dear Inspector Witherspoon had any idea he was getting help, of course. That would never do.
    Gerald Witherspoon had been a clerk in the records room when he’d inherited this house from his late aunt Euphemia. He’d also inherited a modest fortune. Smythe and Wiggins had come with the house; Mrs. Jeffries, Mrs. Goodge and Betsy were later additions. How fortunate, Mrs. Jeffries thought as she surveyed the faces around the table, that all of them were dedicated to the man and to solving murders.
    They were really quite good at it.

    Inspector Gerald Witherspoon tried not to look directly at the body sprawled on the floor next to an unopened keg of beer. He didn’t much care for corpses. Especially the ones that still had knives sticking out of their backs.
    “Doesn’t look like he’s been dead long, sir,” Constable Barnes said. “The body’s still warm.”
    Witherspoon suppressed a shudder.
    “Mind you, the heat could account for the body temperature,” Barnes said casually, getting to his feet and brushing his hands off. His craggy face creased in worry. “How long ago was he found?”
    “Only moments after the murder occurred,” Witherspoon murmured. He hoped that Barnes wasn’t waiting for him to examine the body; he wasn’t sure if he could. He felt rather faint. Must be the heat, he told himself.
    “Don’t you want to have a look, sir?” Barnes asked, stepping back respectfully.
    “Oh no,” Witherspoon said quickly. “We’d best wait for the police surgeon. I wouldn’t want to destroy any evidence.”
    As there was nothing but a dead man with a knife stuckbetween his shoulder blades, the constable