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

woman, she knew she shouldn’t be. A murder meant that some poor soul had lost his or her life.
    They flew down the steps, uncaring of the racket they made on the thinly carpeted staircase.
    Mrs. Goodge, who’d just sat down to give her feet a rest, looked up as the two women rushed into the kitchen. “Goodness me, what’s wrong? Is there a fire?”
    Phyllis, who’d been putting the last of the teacups into the cupboard, froze in place, while Wiggins, who was still at the table, leapt up.
    “We’ve got a murder,” Ruth blurted out. She glanced at the housekeeper. “Oh dear, I don’t mean to take over. I should have let you tell them.” Though she was the widow of a lord, Ruth Cannonberry had been raised in very modest circumstances. She was the daughter of a country vicar who took the biblical instruction to “love one’s neighbor as oneself” very seriously. Consequently, she believed in working for social justice by helping the poor and oppressed and reforming the English class system, riddled as it was with inequality. When she was with the Witherspoon household, she insisted they call her by her first name, but she understood that in front of outsiders or the inspector, they’d be uncomfortable with such an arrangement and would then address her as “Lady Cannonberry.” She was very fond of Inspector Witherspoon and only restrained herself from some of the more radical actions of her women’s suffrage group because she didn’t wish to embarrass him. She loved to help on his cases and was happy to use her upper-class connections to ferret out information.
    Mrs. Jeffries waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t worry about that. Sit down and tell us what happened.” She pulled out her chair at the head of the table.
    Ruth took her spot next to Wiggins. “Gerald and I were shopping on Oxford Street when all of a sudden Constable Griffiths appeared and announced that a man by the name of Daniel McCourt had been murdered.”
    “’Ow did Griffiths know where to find ya?” Wiggins asked curiously.
    Ruth thought for a moment. “I don’t really know. I suppose Gerald must have mentioned we were going to shop on Oxford Street.”
    “What does it matter how the constable found them?” Mrs. Goodge complained. “Let her get on with it. We’ve a murder to solve!”
    “Of course I don’t have much in the way of information,” Ruth said quickly. “But here’s what I do know. Constable Griffiths spoke quite freely in front of me, so I’ve got the address of the murder victim. He lived at number twelve Victoria Gardens in Kensington. That’s close by.”
    Wiggins got up again and started for the coat tree. “Should I nip over and get Smythe on my way there?”
    Mrs. Jeffries winced inwardly. She hadn’t decided what they’d do about Betsy if they got a murder. What if she did want to be actively involved right from the start? Mrs. Jeffries pushed that thought from her mind and decided they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Right now they had to get down to business. “Absolutely.”
    “What about Luty and Hatchet?” Ruth asked. “They both get quite annoyed if they’re not informed immediately.”
    “They won’t be home,” the cook said quickly. “They’re at Lady Darren’s Christmas Ball.”
    “We’ll tell them about it tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Jeffries looked at the footman. Wiggins had put on his coat and was winding a long scarf around his neck. “When you get to Victoria Gardens, see if you can find out what time the murder took place. That’ll give us a starting point.”
    “We’ll see what we can suss out,” Wiggins promised as he put on his gloves. He started for the back door, and Fred, the household’s brown and black mongrel dog, jumped up from his spot by the cooker and trotted after him. Fred wagged his tail hopefully. The footman paused and patted the dog’s head. “Sorry, Fred old boy, but walkies will ’ave to wait until I get back. You stay ’ere and