A Mrs. Jeffires Mystery 11 - Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer by Emily Brightwell

the counter of The Three Stags pub. “What’ll you ’ave?” he asked, turning to the young man standing next to him. Smythe kept his voice casual; the bloke was really no more than a lad. Dark blond hair combed back haphazardly over a longish face, deep-set hazel eyes and a slightly protruding mouth.
    “A pint of bitter, please.” The young man grinned, revealing front teeth that stuck out. But despite the smile, his eyes were puzzled. Smythe knew he was wondering why a perfect stranger had befriended him and hustled him into the nearest pub.
    “Two pints of bitter,” Smythe called to the barman. He turned back to his companion. “You worked round ’ere long?”
    “Two years.”
    “Got a name?”
    “Harry Comstock. What’s yours?”
    “Joe Bolan,” Smythe lied quickly. With Inspector Nivens sniffing around this neighborhood, it wouldn’t do to use his own name when he was snooping about. “Well, ’arry, ’ow do you like the area? I’m thinkin’ about tryin’ to find work ’ereabouts.”
    “Neighborhood’s posh, but the wages ain’t. The rich are a tight-fisted lot with their money. Don’t much like to share with a workin’ man. But there’s always a few jobs goin’.”
    “Where do you work?” Smythe knew very well where Harry Comstock worked. That’s why he’d befriended the man.
    “Communal garden for a block of Mayfair houses. I’m the gardener and the caretaker. Don’t pay a lot, but it keeps the rent paid for the missus.” Harry moved his bony shoulders in a shrug. “What kinda work you lookin’ for?”
    “I’ve been a coachman most of my life,” Smythe said. He wondered how to get around to the subject of the murder. It was so long since he hadn’t paid for information, he hoped he hadn’t forgotten how to get someone talking. He shouldn’t have used Blimpey Groggins so much on the last few cases. Cor blimey, he was getting as tongue-tied as a schoolboy. But that’s what came of having money. Made you soft and dulled your wits. The thought of his money momentarily depressed him. Determinedly, Smythe pushed that problem to the back of his mind and concentrated on why he was here. Getting information from Harry Comstock. “But I was thinkin’ about lookin’ about for somethin’else. Not much call for private coachmen these days. I’ve done a bit of diggin’ in my time. Any jobs goin’ where you work?” He nodded to the publican as their drinks were shoved under their noses.
    “Nah.” Harry took a long swig from his mug. “The gardens ain’t that big and they’ve just taken on another boy to help me. The residents’ll not pay for three when they can get by on two.”
    “Give you a lot of grief, do they?” Smythe took a sip from his own mug.
    “Just some of ’em.” Harry suddenly laughed. “Odd thing is the worst one of the lot up and got herself murdered.” He sobered just as suddenly when he realized what he’d said. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful of the dead.”
    “Don’t fret, ’arry,” Smythe said easily. “I’m a workin’ man myself. I know what puttin’ up with the gentry is like. But tell me about this murder. Who got done in?”
    “Well.” Harry eagerly began to tell all he knew, which wasn’t much. But he had a wonderful imagination and those facts that he didn’t know, he easily made up.
    Dutifully, Smythe listened to the bloke. Harry, interspersing his tale with quick sips of beer, got happier and happier the longer he talked. Perhaps it was the beer or perhaps it was just that the lad hadn’t had anyone to talk to but a privet hedge or an elm tree in a while, but within moments, his tongue was moving faster than a steam engine. “And like I said, I’m not surprised she got herself killed. She’s not got many friends.”
    “Uh…” Smythe tried to interrupt with a question, but Harry appeared to be deaf.
    “No one likes that woman. Not even her husband. Mind you”—Harry took another quick swig of bitter—“he’s