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

Jeffries drew her chair back when there was a loud knocking on the front door.
    “I’ll get it,” Betsy said, dashing for the stairs.
    Mrs. Goodge kept muttering under her breath as she got tea ready, and Mrs. Jeffries, wisely, held her peace. She’d let the cook fume for a few minutes, get the poison out of her system and then they’d have a nice little chat about the best way to deal with Aunt Elberta. Perhaps the others could take turns taking the old dear out to Holland Park.
    Betsy returned clutching an envelope.
    “Is that for the inspector?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
    “No, it’s for Smythe.” Curious, but not wanting to let it show, Betsy carefully placed the envelope at Smythe’s usual place at the table. “I wonder who’s writing to him? It’s an awfully posh envelope…” She was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening.
    Wiggins, accompanied by Fred, dashed into the room a few minutes later. “Am I late?”
    “No, Wiggins,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
    “Good.” Wiggins slid into his chair and beamed at them. “I found out ever so much today…”
    “I’m glad someone has,” Mrs. Goodge interrupted, and then she too broke off as the back door opened again.
    This time it was Smythe. He swaggered into the kitchen, a cocky grin on his face, and tossed off a jaunty salute to the others. “’Ello, ’ello,” he said. “What a day I’ve ’ad. You’ll not believe what all I’ve found out…”
    “You’ll not believe my day either,” Mrs. Goodge complained.
    “You’ve got a letter, Smythe,” Betsy interjected hastily, hoping to get him to shut up about how much he’d accomplished before Mrs. Goodge worked herself up into a fit.
    Smythe’s cocky grin faded. “A letter?” He picked up the envelope. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the neat handwriting and he paled as he realized who it was who’d written him. Blast! He’d told that stupid sod not to contact him here. Conscious they were all staring at him, he slipped the letter into the pocket of his waistcoat, ploppeddown next to Betsy and busied himself pouring out a mug of tea.
    “Is something wrong, Smythe? You’ve gone a bit white about the mouth,” Betsy said. “Are you feeling all right?”
    “I’m fine, lass.” He tried to smile and knew he was doing a bad job of it. He’d kill that ruddy man when he got his hands on him. “Just a bit winded from gettin’ back ’ere so fast.”
    “Aren’t you going to open it?” she asked curiously. It wasn’t often one of the staff got a letter, especially one in a posh envelope.
    “There’s no time to now,” he explained quickly. “I saw Luty and Hatchet comin’ right behind me. We’ve probably got a lot to get through, so I’ll read it later.”
    “My turn won’t last long,” Mrs. Goodge said.
    Mrs. Jeffries closed her eyes briefly and hoped they could get through this with a minimum of fuss. The cook was already out of sorts, Betsy was dying of curiosity about Smythe’s letter, Wiggins probably wouldn’t think to be tactful when he started bragging about what he’d learned and goodness knows what Luty and Hatchet had found out.
    By the time Luty and Hatchet arrived a few moments later, the rest of the tea things were on the table, Mrs. Goodge’s fury had dulled to a slow simmer and Smythe’s color had returned to normal.
    “Who would like to go first?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
    Luty waved her hand. “If’n it’s all the same to everybody, I’d like to say my piece.” She plunged straight ahead when no one objected. “I found out quite a bit about Brian Cameron. Seems he don’thave much luck with wives. His first one died off from influenza right after she had a child. Brian up and married the second one less than a year after the first one died. Some said it weren’t decent, but the man did have two orphan babies he told everyone they needed a mother.”
    “Was your source absolutely sure that the first Mrs. Cameron’s death was due to natural