CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Emily Brightwell
THE INSPECTOR AND MRS. JEFFRIES
MRS. JEFFRIES DUSTS FOR CLUES
THE GHOST AND MRS. JEFFRIES
MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES STOCK
MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE BALL
MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE TRAIL
MRS. JEFFRIES PLAYS THE COOK
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MISSING ALIBI
MRS. JEFFRIES STANDS CORRECTED
MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE STAGE
MRS. JEFFRIES QUESTIONS THE ANSWER
MRS. JEFFRIES REVEALS HER ART
MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE CAKE
MRS. JEFFRIES ROCKS THE BOAT
MRS. JEFFRIES WEEDS THE PLOT
MRS. JEFFRIES PINCHES THE POST
MRS. JEFFRIES PLEADS HER CASE
MRS. JEFFRIES SWEEPS THE CHIMNEY
MRS. JEFFRIES STALKS THE HUNTER
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE SILENT KNIGHT
MRS. JEFFRIES APPEALS THE VERDICT
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE BEST LAID PLANS
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE FEAST OF ST. STEPHEN
MRS. JEFFRIES HOLDS THE TRUMP
MRS. JEFFRIES IN THE NICK OF TIME
MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE YULETIDE WEDDINGS
Anthology
MRS. JEFFRIES LEARNS THE TRADE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2009 by Cheryl Arguile.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
eISBN : 978-1-101-15115-0
1. Jeffries, Mrs. (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Witherspoon, Gerald (Fictitious character)—
Fiction. 3. Police—England—Fiction. 4. Housekeepers—England—Fiction. 5. Weddings—England—
Fiction. 6. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.R46443M643 2009
813’.54—dc22 2009029943
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is dedicated to Blake Michael Fredericks
with great anticipation of all of his years to come;
and to Jim Andrews, in grateful remembrance
of all of his marvelous gifts.
CHAPTER 1
Agatha Moran didn’t consider herself a cruel woman, merely a determined one. She collapsed her umbrella and stood in the darkness staring through the drizzle at the house. She put her bare hand on the top of the wet wrought iron fence surrounding the courtyard to steady herself and gather her courage. She’d been in such a state this afternoon, she’d forgotten her gloves. Even with her umbrella, she’d gotten soaked to the skin, and she’d stomped through so many standing pools of water, her feet were freezing as well. But she ignored her discomfort. She had more important concerns than her own misery. All she cared about was making sure it was stopped.
All the way here, she’d wondered if she’d have the courage to go through with it. Agatha laughed harshly, amazed she’d ever had any doubts about her own course of action. No matter how difficult, it was a task that had to be completed. Too much was at stake to give up now.
Across the expanse of the tiny cobblestone courtyard, she could see straight in through the window. The drawing room was packed with guests. She smiled grimly. Good. This was perfect; an audience was just the weapon she needed. If she knew her quarry, and she was sure she did, then her appearance at this particular tea party should be enough to stop this madness. She hadn’t wanted to do it this way, but she had no choice. Some people were simply too stupid to be reasonable.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for the latch on the gate. A gloved hand grabbed her arm and jerked her backward with such force, she stumbled but managed to grab on to the railing to keep from falling.
Her assailant whirled her around, but before she could utter so much as a sound, the knife plunged straight into her heart. She gasped as the blade was yanked out and thrust back in again and then again. As her knees buckled, she looked down, surprised to see a long wooden handle jutting from her torso.
By the time she collapsed onto the pavement, she didn’t see anything at all.
The home of Inspector Gerald Witherspoon was very quiet. Though it was late afternoon, at this time of year it was already dark outside. In the kitchen, the housekeeper, Mrs. Jeffries, and the cook, Mrs. Goodge, were enjoying a cup of tea as they waited for the others in the household to come home.
Wiggins, the footman, was out on some mysterious errand of his own, which both women were sure was buying Christmas presents. Betsy, the maid, was gone to the dressmaker’s and her fiancé, Smythe, the coachman, was at the stables. The inspector was, of course, at the Ladbroke Road Police Station.
Mrs. Jeffries heard the back door open. She glanced at the household’s mongrel dog, Fred, who was sleeping on his rug by the cooker. He didn’t move, didn’t leap up and race for the back door. He simply lay there. “It must be Smythe returning,” she laughed. “Fred’s just thumping his tail.”
“Humph,” Mrs. Goodge snorted. She was a portly, elderly woman with gray hair which she bundled neatly under a floppy cook’s hat. She wore a clean white apron over her dark blue dress and sensible high-topped black shoes. She pushed her wire-framed spectacles back up her nose. “That dog is gettin’ so lazy he barely gets up when Wiggins comes in, either. Smythe should count himself lucky he gets a tail wag or two.”
Smythe stuck his head in the kitchen. “Is it safe to come in? Is she here?”
“She’s at the dressmaker’s,” Mrs. Jeffries said with a smile.
He sighed in relief and stepped into the room. He took off his heavy black overcoat as he walked, pausing just long enough to toss it onto the coat tree. Smythe was a tall, muscled man closer to forty than thirty. His features were harsh, his complexion slightly rud
dy, and his black hair had more than a few strands of gray. But the hardness of his features was softened somewhat by his ready smile and deep brown eyes. “Good, it’ll give us a chance to ’ave a bit of a natter.” He pulled out the chair and sat down.
“She’ll not be gone long,” Mrs. Goodge warned. “She’s only havin’ the weddin’ dress fitted. The rest of the trousseau is already finished and ready to be delivered this Saturday.”
“I’ll keep my ears open for the door,” he replied. He turned his attention to the housekeeper. “Have you had a chance to speak to the inspector?”
“I discussed the matter with him before he left for the station this morning.” She poured him a cup of tea and put it in front of him. “I was going to tell you but you were out the door before I had a chance.”
“I had to meet the plumber at the flat before eight. He was worried that gettin’ that new kitchen sink in is goin’ to be an all-day job so I had to get there before he started pul lin’ out the old one,” he replied.
“Yes, well, I hope everything went according to plan,” she continued. “But in answer to your question, the inspector is quite happy to come to a new arrangement about your and Betsy’s living situation. However, he did want me to make it very clear that just because you’re getting married, there’s no reason you must leave the house. We can turn the attic into a flat for the two of you.” She had suggested that to the inspector; truth to tell, she really did hate the idea of the two of them leaving. Even if they’d both be here every day, it wouldn’t be the same.
Smythe smiled gratefully. “That’s kind of him, but I think it’s best if we move into our own flat. It’ll make Betsy feel good to have a home of her own.”
“She has a home,” Mrs. Goodge said before she could stop herself. “Both of you do. This is your home and movin’ into that flat is goin’ to cost such a lot of money. And what about our cases? What if we get one early in the mornin’ or late at night? What’ll we do then? You’ll not be here. You’ll be livin’ somewhere else.”
Mrs. Goodge was referring to the fact that their employer was now the most famous police detective in London. Before he’d inherited this house, Witherspoon had been quite happily working in the records room at Scotland Yard. But when he’d hired Mrs. Jeffries as his housekeeper, she’d put a stop to that nonsense. She’d seen his true potential and made sure his talent wasn’t wasted on putting old cases away in file boxes.
In the years since then, Inspector Witherspoon had solved more murders than anyone in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force. His superiors were amazed by his uncanny ability to unravel even the most complex of cases.
Gerald Witherspoon was as surprised by his newfound ability as anyone else, but that was only to be expected. He had no idea his entire household helped him on each and every investigation. They’d come together from a variety of diverse backgrounds and grown to be a family as they’d investigated the inspector’s cases. Now with Betsy and Smythe set to marry and move out, Mrs. Goodge was terrified that everything would change.
Smythe smiled at her. “Now you’re not to be frettin’, Mrs. Goodge. We’ll always be here for our cases. You know that. We’ll only be around the corner so even if we get a case in the dead of night, Wiggins could nip round and fetch us.”
“But livin’ in a flat is so expensive,” she protested. She’d been in service since she was twelve and couldn’t imagine living in a house one had to pay for oneself. The very idea filled her with dread.
“I’ve saved my wages for years. We’ll manage just fine.” He looked away as he spoke, unwilling to meet her eyes. Truth was, he was richer than most aristocrats and he’d been hiding it from some of the people he loved for far too long.
Smythe’s connection to this house started long ago, when he’d been hired as a young coachman by Inspector Witherspoon’s aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. Then he’d had a chance to go to Australia to seek his fortune. He’d gotten lucky and actually made a huge amount of money, all of which he’d invested wisely. When he’d returned to England, he’d stopped to pay his respects to his old employer and found her dying.
It was then that he’d met Wiggins. Of all Euphemia’s servants, the young lad had been the only one trying to take care of the poor woman. Smythe had taken charge; he’d sacked all the other servants, sent Wiggins to find a good doctor, and hired a domestic agency to bring in cleaners to disinfect the house.
But despite his efforts and the best medicine money could buy, Euphemia Witherspoon continued to deteriorate.
Yet as she lay dying, she set into motion the circumstances that led to Smythe’s current dilemma. She’d made him promise he’d stay on and see that her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, was settled in properly, and more importantly, wasn’t taken advantage of the way she had been.
As fate would have it, by the time he’d fulfilled his promise, it was too late. He’d gotten involved with all of them and he didn’t want to go. From the first evening Mrs. Jeffries had presided over the servants’ supper table, he’d been impressed with her good humor, insight, and intelligence. When Mrs. Goodge had first come along, she’d been a bit of a snob, but she’d cooked the most mouthwatering meals he’d ever had. And then there had been Betsy. She’d been a mere slip of a lass but he’d fallen half in love with her on sight.
Then they started solving murders, and he’d realized that Betsy, despite the difference in their ages, had feelings for him as well.
But his biggest mistake had been in not telling all of them how much money he had right from the beginning. He’d let them think he was simply a coachman. Eventually, as he and Betsy had gotten closer and fallen in love, he told her the truth. He’d not start their life together by keeping secrets from her. That wasn’t right. Mrs. Jeffries had figured it out as well. But Mrs. Goodge and Wiggins had no idea he was wealthy. And he hated the idea they’d think he’d deliberately kept it from them, when it hadn’t really been that way at all. Now he couldn’t very well tell the cook that not only was he not in the least concerned about paying the rent on his new flat, but that he’d bought the entire building. But despite all the changes coming their way, he was determined that he and Betsy would still help with the inspector’s cases.
Mrs. Goodge leaned toward him, her expression earnest. “But it will be lonely here without you and Betsy.”
Smythe reached over and patted her hand. “We’ll be here every day. It’s not goin’ to be that different except that in the evenin’, instead of goin’ upstairs, we’ll go around the corner to our flat.”
Mrs. Goodge stared at him for a moment and then sat back in her chair. “Don’t mind me; I’m just behavin’ like a silly old woman who’s scared everythin’ is goin’ to be different once you two leave.”
“You’re not silly,” Smythe said quickly. “You’re not old and nothin’s goin’ to change.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected. “All of us, including Betsy and Smythe, will still do our parts in our investigations.”
“And we’ll all still be together,” he added.
Mrs. Goodge smiled but said nothing. Yes, they all did their parts, and her contribution wasn’t going to be altered by a wedding. Her sources, as she called them, would still troop through the kitchen on a regular basis. With every case they had, she had an army of delivery lads, chimney sweeps, fruit vendors, laundry boys, and tinkers sitting at this very table. She plied them with tea and treats and learned all sorts of useful information. All she had to do was mention the names of their victim and suspects; if there was gossip to be had, she’d get it all.
That didn’t always work, but one of the few advantages of getting old and having had to work for your living was that you had many other places to go for help. She’d scul leried and cooked in some of the finest houses in the kingdom and now had a vast number of former associates she could call upon for information.
She did her part, and she intended to keep on doing it until they laid her in the ground. Helping the
cause of justice had given her long and sometimes bitter life a genuine sense of meaning. She’d wasted far too many years doing what society had told her was right and proper: never stepping out of her place and making sure that no scullery maid or kitchen gardener dared step out of theirs, either. But in these last years of her life, she was profoundly grateful she’d been given a chance to atone for being such a foolish old snob. Oh, she wasn’t frightened about her place in their investigations changing; she was scared that despite all their best efforts, the family they’d made would drift apart.
They heard the back door, and this time, Fred leapt up and raced toward the hallway.
They heard Betsy say, “Close your brolly, Wiggins. We’re in the house now and an open one is bad luck.”
“Ruddy thing is stuck,” Wiggins muttered. “There, got it. Cor blimey, it’s late. Do you think they’ve started without us? Hello old boy, glad to see me, are you?”
Wiggins and the dog came into the kitchen first. The animal was butting his head against the footman’s knees, demanding a bit of attention. He reached down and stroked the dog’s back with one hand while taking off his gray flat cap with the other. He was a good- looking young lad in his early twenties. Brown hair fell forward on his face; his cheeks were round and pink from the cold, and he was grinning broadly. “Hello. Sorry to be late, but it’s awful out there. One minute it’s pourin’ it down and the next it stops. Lucky for Betsy we met up at the omnibus stop. She forgot her umbrella. Is that seed cake? Cor blimey, we’ve not ’ad seed cake in ages.”
“Hello, everyone.” Betsy came in at a more sedate pace and went toward the coat tree. She took off her outer garments and hung them on the peg next to Smythe’s overcoat. She was a slender blonde in her midtwenties with blue eyes, porcelain skin, and lovely features. “It’s so cold out there. I meant to be home much sooner but the dressmaker took ages to do the fitting.” She slipped into the chair next to Smythe. Under the table, he grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze.
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