Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans Read Online Free

staff can disappoint you.” He stared hard at Glover as he spoke and was rewarded by seeing the man’s cheeks turn deathly pale.
    “Yes, sir.” Glover’s voice was barely audible. He looked as if he were going to be ill. “I’ll see you at the luncheon, sir. Thank you very much for inviting me.”
    “I want to speak to you afterward.” Boyd smiled, “Come into my study after the others have left.”
    “You want to speak to me?” Glover’s voice was now a high-pitched squeak. “Really? About what sir?”
    “We’ll discuss it then,” Boyd replied. “Go along, now. I want to work for a little longer”
    “Yes, sir.” Glover backed up toward the door as he spoke, then whirled about and hurried out.
    Boyd watched him through the small window that overlooked the back garden. Glover’s head was bowed and his shoulders slumped as he trudged across the wet lawn to the main house.
    “You’ve reason to look worried,” Boyd muttered. But he was determined not to let the ugliness of what was coming ruin his perfect day. He could deal with Glover after the luncheon, after Gibbons made everything nice and official. He picked up his cigar from the ashtray on the small table, struck a match, and lit the end. He turned back to the painting and studied it as he smoked. It was very good, but there was a detail or two that he still thought could use a bit more work.
    He put the cigar down and picked up his brush. He had enough time to correct the shape of the cat’s head. For the next twenty minutes, he concentrated on making the delicate brush strokes that would perfect the painting. He heard the door open again, but he didn’t bother looking away from his work. “I told you I’d see you after luncheon, Glover. Now take yourself out of here and leave me in peace. I’ve got another ten minutes more work to do.”
    But there was no reply, merely the sound of footsteps crossing the hard wood floor. Alarmed now, Boyd tore his gaze away from the painting and whirled around. His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth gaped open in shock. But before he could speak, something hard and heavy crashed into the side of his head. Moaning, he slumped to his knees. The assailant raised his hands and hit him again, this time harder, landing the blow smack in the back of his victim’s skull.
    Boyd swayed to one side, but his attacker grabbed him by the back of his smock just as he toppled to the floor and maneuvered him toward the settee. Working swiftly, the killer managed to shove, push, and pull Boyd until he was lying on the settee with his feet hanging over the end and his head at the other end, battered side down.
    Working quickly, the assailant checked for a heartbeat, but there was nothing. Lawrence Boyd was well and truly dead.
    The murderer stood up and grabbed the tin of turpentine off the table, pausing for a brief moment to look at the painting before continuing on with the grim task of pouring the paint remover on the dead man. It was important to make sure it soaked Boyd’s smock and the settee. The tin was almost full, so the liquid splashed everywhere as it dispersed, dousing the muslin table runner, the floor, and the bottom of the easel.
    Then the assailant picked up the cigar and tucked it neatly between Boyd’s now lifeless fingers, reached for the matches, struck one, and tossed it at the muslin runner.
    The killer tossed the remainder of the turpentine about the room, soaking the old carpet remnant by the side table and splattering the limp curtains on the little window by the door. The killer struck another match, and within moments, the curtains were blazing and the carpet smoking.
    The killer moved to the doorway, took one last look around, and smiled in satisfaction before opening the door and stepping outside. By the time help arrived, it would be too late; the entire studio would be up in flames and with it, the evidence that murder had been done. This would simply be an unfortunate accident.
    That was