Mrs. Jeffries & the Silent Knight Emily Brightwell (easy books to read in english .txt) 📖

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criminal classes was the man’s business.

“ ’Course I do, Smythe, I was just bein’ polite. So, your

inspector caught the Braxton murder. I’m not surprised.”

Blimpey took a sip of his beer. “They’ll want that one solved

quickly. It’s embarrassin’ for the government when a toff

gets killed in his own back garden. Makes it seem like we’re

not a tidy, safe little country.”

“We’ve more or less got until Christmas to get the thing

sorted out,” Smythe murmured.

“What do you need from me?” Blimpey asked.

“Anything you can find out would be ‘elpful.”

“I’ve already got a bit of information about Sir George.”

“You goin’ to share it?” Smythe took a drink of his beer.

“If the price is right,” Blimpey replied with a laugh.

“But then again, old mate, you’ve always paid up. Now, let

me tell you what I know about your dead baronet, and then

you can tell what else you need me to find out.”

Smythe nodded. “That’s fair.”

“Sir George had a bit of reputation as a bad one,” he continued. “He’s one of them ponces that thinks because he’s got a title that he owns the world. His title, by the way, is

an old one, it was created by James the First in 1614.”

“Has the estate always been at Richmond?” Smythe

asked.

“Nah, the Richmond property was bought by Sir

George’s father about sixty years ago. Unlike a lot of aristocratic families, this one’s managed to hang onto their money.”

“How much do they ‘ave?”

“Plenty,” Blimpey replied. “I don’t know exactly what

the family is worth, but it’s a good deal more than most

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aristocrats in this country. The Braxtons were smart; they

got out of land and started puttin’ their money into factories and overseas investments. One of Sir George’s ancestors sold off the original estate and used that money to seed his

investments. The family has either been clever or lucky ever

since, ‘cause they’ve managed not only to ‘ang onto their

wealth, but to make it grow.”

“Money is always a good motive for murder,” Smythe

mused, “and Sir George obviously wasn’t a pauper.”

“Far from it,” Blimpey continued. “And what’s more, the

title can go either way.”

“Either way?” Smythe raised an eyebrow. “What does

that mean?”

“It means it can be inherited by a daughter if there isn’t

any sons,” Blimpey explained.

“Are you sure about that?” Smythe asked. “I’ve never

‘eard of such a thing.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Blimpey shot back. “I

don’t get my facts wrong. The title can go to a female as

well as a male, and it did just that about a hundred years

ago. It went to Bartholomew Braxton’s daughter, Georgina.

She was Sir George’s grandmother.”

“Does it go to the eldest?”

Blimpey shook his head. “Not necessarily. It’s a bit

complicated.”

“But Sir George has three daughters, so if it doesn’t go to

the oldest, who gets it?”

“In the case of this many females and no males, the title

goes into what’s called abeyance until there’s only one

woman left in the direct line. Then she gets the title, and it

passes on through her line when she dies. Or in some cases

of female inheritance, the crown can step in and give the title to one of the daughters.” Blimpey looked a bit embar92

Emily Brightwell

rassed. “Truth is, Smythe, I’m not really sure which of these

situations applies to the Braxton title. My man who sorts

out really complicated peerage matters went off on a drunk,

fell into the Thames, and drowned. It’s not easy findin’ people who know this kind of thing, you know.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Smythe agreed.

“It all gets very complicated,” Blimpey continued, “but

take my word for it, one of Sir George’s daughters is going

to end up being Lady Braxton in her own right.”

“And that might be worth killin’ for,” Smythe muttered.

“That’s right, but then again, titles don’t mean what they

used to, do they?”

“I don’t know, seems to me that there’s plenty that would

still kill to get one. Maybe one of his daughters did.”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose,” Blimpey said. “But the

ladies in question are all a bit long in the tooth, if you get

my meanin’. Now, who else was there the night he was

killed?”

“Gracious, this is place is huge,” Witherspoon said as he

stepped into the conservatory. “And very warm.”

“Of course it’s warm, I’m growing orchids.” A tall, thin

man dressed in a brown jacket, mud-splattered trousers, and

high black boots stared at Witherspoon. “I’m Clarence

Clark.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve been trying to have a word with you for

quite some time now,” Witherspoon replied. He stared at

his surroundings as he moved farther inside the greenhouse.

There were plants everywhere. Rows upon rows of seedlings,

flowers, cuttings, green plants, and flowering orchids.

Along the side of the conservatory was a worktable that

stretched the length of the long building. Underneath it, he

could see stacks of pots, buckets, baskets, and even bundles

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93

of newspapers. Next to the door was a large glass cabinet

filled with bottles, tins, and different-colored boxes.

“I’ve been busy, the flowers require a great deal of work

and effort. I can’t leave them on their own.”

“Mr. Clark, your cousin has been murdered. I really do

need to speak to you, is there somewhere we can sit down?”

Witherspoon’s day had just started, and he was already getting tired.

“I know perfectly well that Sir George has been murdered. But that doesn’t mean that life completely stops for the rest of us. We can talk here.” Clark dashed to the worktable. “I really have too much to do to waste my time sitting and chatting.”

“I’m sure you do, sir, but as you’re admitted, there has

been a murder, and I must ask you some questions.”

Clark didn’t appear to hear. He’d stopped in front of a

pale purple flower that the inspector assumed was an orchid.

He was staring at the plant with a worried frown. “Oh, dear,

she’s turning brown about the edges. That shouldn’t be happening, she only came to blossom two days ago. I knew I shouldn’t have used that soil mixture.”

“Mr. Clark,” Witherspoon snapped. “I must have your

attention.”

Clark reluctantly drew away from the plant and looked at

the inspector. “What is it you want to know?”

For a moment, Witherspoon’s mind went completely

blank. Then he caught himself. For goodness sakes, he knew

what he