Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize Read Online Free

worked together on murders, but unlike Witherspoon, he’d been on the force and on the streets longer and wasn’t as upset by blood and gore as his superior. “He was coshed on the head first, then he was stabbed. This killer really wanted the poor man dead. He or she used a fancy pair of garden shears as the murder weapon.”
    They’d examined the corpse upon arriving and Barnes had watched the inspector valiantly do his duty. Witherspoon was known to have his “methods” in solving murders, and one of those methods was to carefully examine both the death wounds and the way the body lay in relation to the immediate environment. At least that was how the inspector had explained it when he was giving a training class to new recruits. The constable was one of the few people who knew that, in reality, Gerald Witherspoon was squeamish and hated the sight of blood. Which was one of the reasons the constable admired him—no matter how distasteful or awful a corpse might be, Witherspoon put duty and justice before his own feelings. He’d carried out a thorough examination of both the body and the scene before allowing the police surgeon or anyone else near the body.
    Witherspoon took a gulp of air and then glanced over his shoulder into the conservatory. The police surgeon stood up and waved at the constable standing across the room by the door leading into the house. “Send the lads here with the stretcher,” he ordered. “Have them come around theside of the house. It’ll be easier to get the body out the garden door.”
    â€œLet’s move out of the way.” Witherspoon turned and moved outside onto the staircase. He took a deep breath before heading down to the back garden.
    â€œShould we go into the house, sir?” Barnes went after him. “The ladies who found the body are waiting for us.”
    â€œThey’re the ones that identified him?” Witherspoon’s voice trailed off as he reached the bottom step. He stopped and stared at the row of ferns lining the far side of the herringbone walkway. “I wonder what that is?” He pointed to a patch of red visible beneath the overhanging fronds of the largest fern. “And look, see, there’s a trail of dirt across the walkway.” He studied the thin line of soil and saw that it didn’t end at the bottom step, but continued up to the conservatory door. Annoyed, because he should have noticed it earlier, he made a mental note to be more observant. “Someone carried something down these steps.”
    Barnes shoved past him, bent down, and moved the fronds back far enough for them to get a good look. A squashed bulb and the scattered crimson blossoms of a flowering plant lay on a mound of fresh dirt which spilled out of a crumpled burlap bag. “This must have been it. They brought down a plant, the kind you buy at a florist or a proper nursery. It looks like someone’s just smashed it and then chucked it under here.”
    Witherspoon thought for a moment. “You’re a keen gardener, Constable, do you know what kind it is?” He’d no idea why that was important, but the question had popped into his head.
    â€œNo, sir, I just know the common ones, but I’ve not seen one like this before in an English garden. Though it does look a bit like some of the exotic ones the missus and I saw at Kew last summer.” He stood up and dusted off his hands. “Should we ask the lady of the house if she can identify it before we take it into evidence?”
    â€œThat’s a good idea. Surely she’ll know what sort of plants she has in her greenhouse.” He turned as the gate squeaked and two constables with an empty stretcher slung between them rounded the corner of the house. “Let’s go and have a word with the ladies.” He moved out of the way to let the constables pass. “Then we’ll come back and do a proper search of the entire