Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) Read Online Free

really.” Rosalind smiled wanly. “Honestly, perhaps it would be best if you all simply went home. This can’t be very pleasant.”
    There was a general murmur of agreement, and with much shuffling of feet and muttering among themselves, the group headed for the door.
    “Just a moment,” Bosworth called. There was something very wrong here; he could feel it. But these were wealthy, influential people, so he had to be careful.
    The little cluster of guests stopped and stared at him expectantly.
    “What’s wrong, Doctor?” Rosalind asked. “Why can’t they leave?”
    “I’d like one of you to tell me exactly what happened before Mr. Whitfield died.”
    “I can give you that information. There’s no need to detain our guests,” Rosalind said coolly.
    “I’m Maria Farringdon. Stephen said we were all turning blue,” a small, slender woman with gray hair supplied. “Then he clutched his chest and fell into his soup bowl. That’s when Mrs. Murray yelled for the butler to go get you.”
    “So he was still alive at that point?” Bosworth pressed. “And you’re sure about what he said?”
    “Honestly, Doctor, I don’t think it’s seemly for us to be standing by poor Stephen’s bedside, having a discussion of his last moments,” Rosalind snapped. “At least let’s go into the drawing room.”
    “Of course I’m sure,” Maria replied. “We all heard him quite clearly.”
    “His face contorted just before he went into the soup,” the man standing next to Maria Farringdon volunteered. “Don’t forget that.”
    “And he said there was something wrong with the light,” another fellow, this one holding the arm of an attractive older woman, added. “I thought it a very odd remark.”
    “Doctor, can we please go into the drawing room?” Rosalind Murray pleaded. “This is very unseemly.”
    “Yes, of course,” Bosworth agreed. “But do make sure that no one eats or drinks anything, and I do mean anything.”
    She stared at him in disbelief. “Doctor, have you gone mad? What on earth are you talking about?”
    “I think you’d better call the police,” Bosworth replied calmly. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to insist upon it.”
    “The police!” She gaped at him. “Why do we need the police? Didn’t Stephen have a stroke or a heart attack?”
    Bosworth could hear the others muttering and exclaiming in surprise, but he ignored them and instead looked back at the body on the bed. “There will have to be an autopsy. Mr. Whitfield may well have had a heart attack, but if he did, it wasn’t brought on by anything natural.”
    “What does that mean?” Rosalind Murray cried. “I don’t understand any of this.”
    “It means I think Mr. Whitfield was poisoned,” Bosworth announced. “That’s why I don’t want anyone eating or drinking anything.”
     
Betsy and Smythe stared at each other across the length of the kitchen. “Hello, Betsy,” he said.
    “Hello, Smythe,” she replied. She wasn’t sure what to do or even what she felt. She’d planned and thought about this moment for so long, but now that it was here, she was completely in the dark. She’d practiced dozens of mean, cutting things to say to him when he got back, thought often of how she was going to turn up her nose and pretend he meant nothing to her. But now that he was right here in front of her, she couldn’t do it. Despite the fact that he’d left her at the altar (at least in her mind), she found she could do nothing but stand like a silly ninny and drink in the sight of him. “How was your trip?”
    “It was fine,” he muttered. He felt frozen to the spot.
    “Take off your coat and sit down, Smythe,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “We’re just about ready to eat, and I’m sure you’re hungry.” She could see that both of them had been struck dumb by the sight of each other. Good. It meant they still loved each other, and she was wise enough to know that where there was love, there was hope that