A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer Read Online Free Page A

yellow dried flowers sat atop the buttercup-colored fringed shawl on a table at the far side of the room. Clustered beside it in a nice, cozy circle was a deep brown horsehair settee and two mustard-coloured velvet balloon-backed chairs. On the opposite wall, a door was half open and Constable Barnes leaned against the doorjamb.
    Nivens’s lip curled when their gazes met. He jerked his head toward the French doors. “We’d best get cracking. The Chief Inspector wants this cleared up as soon as possible.”
    “Is he still here?” Witherspoon asked, taking care to avoid looking in the direction that Nivens indicated. He wanted to put off looking at the dead woman until the last possible moment. It was quite difficult to ignore her. She did have a rather large knife poking out of her back.
    “He’s having a quick word with the victim’s husband,” Nivens replied. “But he’ll be back directly. Maybe you’ll have this case solved by then.” His voice dripped sarcasm but Inspector Witherspoon didn’t appear to notice.
    Constable Barnes, a craggy-faced man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a ruddy complexion, glared at Nivens’s back and stifled a rude remark. Stupid git! He didn’t like Inspector Nivens; mostof the constables who’d worked with him didn’t like him. But he had to tread carefully here; the man was assigned to this case. Thank goodness the Chief had had the good sense to call in Inspector Witherspoon. God knows what kind of muck up Nivens would have made of it.
    “You’ll want to have a look at the body, sir.” Barnes directed his comment to Witherspoon. “The police surgeon should be here any moment now.”
    Witherspoon smiled briefly and steeled himself. He wished Constable Barnes wasn’t so keen on always getting him to examine the corpse. But it was his duty, so he’d best get it over with. He stepped across the room and knelt down by the fallen woman. But he couldn’t bring himself to look, not quite yet. He gazed out the window pane to the balcony and beyond that, to the vague outline of skeletal tree limbs and bushes. “Is that a garden?”
    “Yes, sir,” Barnes replied, “we’ve had the lads out there having a look round, tramping about in the darkness, but they’ve found nothing.”
    “We’ll search it again tomorrow morning,” Witherspoon said.
    “I’ve already given those instructions,” Nivens snapped. He’d come over and stood over them, his pale face set in a scowl, his mouth compressed into a flat, thin line. From the backlighting of the gas lamps on the wall behind him, Witherspoon could make out the sheen of hair oil on his dark blond hair.
    “Uh, I say, did you want something?” The inspector didn’t mind being a tad squeamish about corpses in front of Barnes, but he didn’t wish tomake a spectacle of himself in front of Inspector Nivens.
    “I want you to tell me what you make of that.” Nivens pointed to the body.
    “What’s the victim’s name?”
    “Hannah Cameron.” Nivens tapped his foot impatiently. “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it.”
    Witherspoon, grateful that his dinner had been several hours ago, forced himself to look down. She lay slumped on her side directly inside of the door. Her hair was a faded blond, going gray at the temples, and her face, now deathly white, was long and narrow. Her eyes, open still, were blue. She’d been wearing a green velvet dress. She did not look like a happy woman. Even in death, there was an air of joylessness about her that filled Witherspoon with regret. But whatever she had been in life, whether harridan or saint, no one had had the right to shove a knife in her back and kill her. “She’s dead.”
    “Of course she’s dead,” Nivens cried. “That’s why you’re here. For some odd reason, the Chief Inspector seems to think you’re the only person capable of handling a simple homicide.”
    “I don’t think it’s simple,” Witherpsoon muttered. They never were. He steeled