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

door after dark.
    But Wiggins rose first. “I’ll get it. You two keep on talking.”
    “There’s nothing to talk about.” Betsy reached for a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. She smiled at Smythe. “You’d better hope that the inspector will give you your old position back—that is, if you’re interested in working.”
    Smythe had been the inspector’s coachman before he’d gone to Australia.
    Mrs. Jeffries sighed inwardly. She wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or annoyed. Smythe was home, and Betsy was obviously going to lead him on a merry chase. She hoped the girl didn’t go too far. The coachman adored her, but he had his pride. But then again, Betsy had been the one who’d stayed here and faced all the questions about their “postponed” wedding, so Mrs. Jeffries could understand the lass wanting a bit of her own back.
    “I think things are going to be very interesting,” Mrs. Goodge muttered in a voice low enough that only the housekeeper could hear her. “But at least we don’t have a murder to cope with, so the two of them should be able to work out their differences.”
    Mrs. Jeffries nodded. She could hear Wiggins speaking to someone upstairs. The voice was very faint, but she thought she recognized it. She heard the front door slam shut, and then Wiggins’ footsteps pounding along the hallway and down the back stairs.
    “That was Constable Barnes at the door,” Wiggins cried as he flew into the kitchen. “I sent him over to Lady Cannonberry’s to fetch the inspector.”
    Everyone went still. There was only one reason that Witherspoon would be called out at this time of the evening.
    “We’ve got us a murder,” Wiggins continued. “Leastways, that’s what the constable said. Should Smythe and I have a go at followin’ them?”
    The housekeeper nodded. In the past she’d learned it was wise to send the men along to get a firsthand report, whatever the situation might be.
    Smythe, with one final glare at his beloved, was already on his feet. He reached across the table and grabbed a pork chop and a slice of bread. “I’m hungry, so I’ll take this to eat on the way.”
    “We can catch ’em on Holland Park Road,” Wiggins said as he hurried toward the coat tree for his cap and jacket.
    “Be careful,” Mrs. Jeffries warned. “Don’t let anyone see you.”
    “And mind you take your scarf and gloves,” Mrs. Goodge said to the footman. “It’s cold out there, and I’ll not have you catching a chill.”
    “It’s not fair!” Betsy exclaimed. “I’ve been sitting here twiddlin’ my ruddy thumbs for six months, and the minute he walks in the back door, we get us a murder.”
    Wisely, Smythe refrained from saying the words that popped into his head.
    Bosworth had a very difficult time convincing the constable to call in his superiors. It was only because he was a police surgeon, albeit in a different district, that the man was persuaded to nip back to the station and call for a detective.
    “Dr. Bosworth, have we met before?” Gerald Witherspoon asked politely.
    “Yes, actually, we have. On one of your previous cases, I did the postmortem.” Bosworth could hardly admit that he’d been to the inspector’s house a dozen different times and that he was well acquainted with the inspector’s entire household. They frequently asked his advice about the murders Witherspoon investigated.
    “Ah, yes, I thought you looked familiar.” The inspector nodded. “This is Constable Barnes.”
    Barnes reached over to shake hands. He was an older man with a craggy face and a headful of iron gray hair. As he was well aware of Bosworth’s connection to the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens, his eyes were twinkling with amusement. “It’s nice to see you again, Doctor.”
    “It’s nice to see you, too, Constable.” Bosworth shook his hand. “I do hope I’ve not called you both out on a wild-goose chase.”
    “What happened here, Doctor?” Witherspoon