Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up Read Online Free

replied.
    “Mr. McCourt had guests for tea at half past four, and it’s only now half past seven.” He looked at Witherspoon. “We’ve not moved the body, sir. Even the police surgeon didn’t move him.”
    “There was no need to,” a voice said from the drawing room. A tall, thin man with black hair and a clean-shaven face came into the study. “It was obvious what killed the poor fellow. He bled to death when both his arteries were severed by that.” He pointed to a sword lying on the floor beside the body. “I’m Dr. Benton, the police surgeon. You must be Inspector Witherspoon and Constable Barnes.”
    “We are,” Witherspoon replied. He took a deep breath and forced himself to move closer to the victim. Barnes, to his credit, had already knelt down by the corpse. He reached for the sword. It was sharp, curved, and lethal looking with a carved metal scabbard. “We’ll need to take this into evidence,” Barnes said as he got to his feet. He offered the weapon to the inspector. “Did you want to have a look at it, sir?”
    Witherspoon didn’t, but he took it anyway. “My gracious, what is this thing? I mean, I can see that it’s a sword, but I’ve never seen one quite like this.”
    “It’s an Oriental weapon of some sort,” the doctor replied. “I believe I heard the butler refer to it as a long Hwango or Hwando or some such thing, but it’s most definitely your murder weapon. It’s quite sharp, so you might want to instruct your men to handle it very carefully.”
    The inspector nodded and waved the constable over. “See if you can find something to wrap this thing in without disturbing the bloodstains.” Holding the sword by the scabbard, he put the tip on the ground and eased the hilt toward the constable, who took it and left the room.
    Witherspoon turned his attention back to the dead man. In life, he’d been short, rather stout, and fair-haired, with a bushy handlebar mustache. The inspector made himself kneel down and examine the fatal wounds. It was difficult to see, because of the blood, so he reached toward the victim’s shirt and pushed the fabric to one side. He swallowed convulsively as bile rose in his throat. “Ye gods, the poor man has been stabbed on both sides of his throat.”
    “They were more like slashes than stabs,” the doctor replied. “Once the arteries were severed, he bled to death in minutes.”
    “Why didn’t he call for help? Was he alone here?” Witherspoon asked.
    “I’m afraid I can’t answer that,” Dr. Benton said as he headed toward the hall door. “May I take the body now? I think I just heard the mortuary van, and I’d like to get him back to the morgue for the postmortem.”
    Surprised, Barnes said, “You’ll be doing the postmortem tonight?”
    Benton stopped in the doorway. “Yes, I’ll send you my report tomorrow morning.” He disappeared.
    “Have you seen enough, sir?” Barnes got to his feet.
    “Yes, most definitely.”
     
    Ruth normally would have gone round to the back entrance of the inspector’s house, but as she was in a hurry, she paid the driver and dashed up the front steps. She banged the knocker hard and waited impatiently. After what seemed ages but was in reality only a few moments, the door opened. “Why, hello,” Mrs. Jeffries said, her expression surprised. “I thought you were shopping with the inspector?”
    “We were, but there’s been a murder and we’ve no time to lose!” Ruth exclaimed. She charged past the housekeeper into the house. She had no doubt whatsoever about her welcome. As one of the select few who “helped” the household with the inspector’s cases, she knew precisely what to do. Holding her heavy skirt, she raced down the hallway toward the back steps. “Is everyone in the kitchen?”
    “For the most part,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she hurried after her. “Smythe has gone home for the day, but we can easily fetch him back.” She was suddenly very excited, and as a good, decent