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

the conservatory. I know Nina and I promised we’d not sell it off, but if you don’t do as I say, I’ll burn it to the ground, and

your precious orchids with it.”

Clark’s eyes widened, and his hands trembled in rage.

“You’re as bad as your father. He’s not even cold in his grave,

and you’re stepping into his shoes.”

“Mr. Clark,” the inspector shouted. He just wanted to

get this over with and get away from these odious, terrible

people. “Please, just show us your arms so we can be done

with it.”

Clark unbuttoned his cuffs and shoved away from the

fireplace. He stalked toward the inspector, his eyes were

blazing with rage, and his expression was so fierce that

Barnes, fearing for Witherspoon’s person, hurried over to

stand by his inspector.

Suddenly, Clark veered sharply to the left, leapt over an

embroidered footstool, and was out the double doors.

“Come back!” Witherspoon shouted as he charged after

him. Barnes blew into his police whistle and then ran after

the two men.

“Mr. Clark, I demand that you stop!” the inspector yelled

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227

as they rushed down the hall. Clark was heading for the side

door. “Stop, stop I say!” From behind him, he could hear the

pounding of feet as the others came running after them.

Clark was fast, but just as he got to the bottom of the

back stairs, something shot out from the shadows and went

directly under his feet. Clark stumbled and then slammed

down against the slate floor with a loud crash.

Witherspoon almost fell onto the fallen man, but he

managed to catch his balance at the last second. He

grabbed Clark by the shirt collar and hauled him up to his

knees.

Clark had slammed his head against the botton step, and

it was bleeding profusely. Barnes pulled him to his feet,

reached over, and shoved his shirtsleeves up to his elbow.

His right arm was covered with scratch marks. They were

healing, but they were plain for everyone to see.

“Mr. Clarence Clark, you’re under arrest for the murder

of Sir George Braxton.”

“The bastard was going to sell it,” Clark cried. “He

didn’t need the money, he was just doing it for meanness.

Just to make a few more pounds to add to his coffers. He

didn’t care that he was taking the only thing that made my

life worth living. He didn’t care a whit what he did to his

own flesh and blood.”

Two constables from outside raced in through the side

door and skidded to a halt. It was Constable Goring and

Constable Becker.

“Mr. Clark, you’ll soon have an opportunity to make a

statement.” Witherspoon motioned to the constables. “Take

him to Richmond station and charge him with the murder

of Sir George Braxton. Constable Barnes and I will be along

shortly to take his statement.”

“Yes, sir,” Goring replied. He took one arm, and Consta228

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ble Becker took the other. Goring nodded respectfully at the

inspector as they led the man off.

“You were right, sir,” Barnes said with a grin. “Samson

does know how to put up a good fight, he even knows how

to trip up his enemies.” He pointed to the corner.

Samson was sitting on his fat haunches, staring at the

two men.

“What’s taking them so long?” Betsy complained. “It’s been

hours.”

“It always takes a long time,” Mrs. Goodge replied.

“Catching murderers is hard.”

“Oh, dear, I do hope I’m right.” Mrs. Jeffries’ stomach

was in knots.

Betsy suddenly stood up from the table. “Someone’s

coming.” She ran down the back hall and threw open the

door. “It’s about time. What happened?”

“Just a moment, lass,” Smythe said as he, Wiggins, and

Hatchet stepped into the warm house. “Let’s get inside so

we only have to tell this once. The inspector is right behind

us, so Mrs. Jeffries better tell us her bit right quick.”

They hurried into the kitchen, took off their heavy coats,

and took their seats.

“I’ll make tea,” Mrs. Goodge said. “I’ve got the kettle

ready to boil, and I can listen while I get things ready.”

“We ‘ad to wait about for hours,” Wiggins said. “But

once we saw them leadin’ ‘im off, we went along to the station and waited till Smythe got there with the inspector and Barnes. We’re about froze to the bone.”

“That is quite true,” Hatchet agreed. “It got very cold,

especially when one is hiding outside in a copse of trees.”

“It was good of you to be so dedicated. Did he make an

arrest?” Mrs. Jeffries asked bluntly.

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229

Smythe nodded. “ ’E did.”

“Was I right?” she asked.

Wiggins laughed. “ ’Course you were right. He went a

bit bonkers and tried to make a run for it. But he didn’t get

very far.”

“Clarence Clark confessed,” Hatchet said. “Or so says our

good man Smythe here, who got it out of the inspector

when he was driving him to the police station in Richmond.

Now, tell us how you came to the correct conclusion.”

Mrs. Jeffries had already told the Betsy and Mrs. Goodge

who she suspected was guilty, she thought it only fair as the

men were on the scene to see it happen, so to speak. “I

wasn’t sure I had,” she admitted. “It was really the carolers

that put the idea in my mind.”

“The singing from last night? The Christmas carols?”

Betsy exclaimed.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “It was ‘Good King

Wenceslas’ that actually did it. When they started singing

the first verse, the bit about ‘When the snow lay round

about,’ and the part where it goes, “When a poor man came

in sight, ’it reminded me of Sir George going outside that

night.”

“Sir George wasn’t poor,” Hatchet interjected.

“Yes, I know,” she explained. “But it wasn’t about him

exactly, it was the image that sprang into my mind. A man

walking outside in the snow. It was hours before I could understand what the image was trying to tell me, but once I did, it all fell into place.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Goodge complained. “What’s

that got to do with anything?”

“The key to the murder was Sir George going out alone

that night,” she continued. “What would make him do

such a thing? He was a mean, nasty, selfish man, and if he’d

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merely heard something that bothered him, he’d have

called one of the servants. The only thing he cared about,

the only thing he showed any concern for was his cat, Samson. Then I