Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) by Emily Brightwell

table.
    “Mr. and Mrs. Farringdon,” Flagg replied.
    “And what time did they arrive?”
    “It had just gone a few minutes past seven.” Flagg picked a nonexistent piece of lint off his jacket sleeve. “Dinner was to be served at eight, but Mr. Whitfield had asked the guests to come early to enjoy the Christmas decorations.”
    Barnes nodded in encouragement. It was always useful when people volunteered more information than they’d been asked. “I understand the Farringdons brought a bottle of Bordeaux with them. Did you immediately take charge of it?”
    “Mr. Whitfield wanted it opened right away, so after I hung up Mr. Farringdon’s cloak and Mrs. Farringdon’s jacket, I brought the bottle down here, opened it, put it on a silver tray, and took it back upstairs.”
    “Did you serve the wine?”
    “No, he served himself,” Flagg replied. “Mr. Whitfield didn’t like servants hovering about the room when he had guests. So I put the wine down and went back to my position in the front hall. That way I could be close if he needed me but also available to answer the door as well.”
    “Were you able to hear if Mr. Whitfield offered any of the Bordeaux to the Farringdons?”
    “I’m not sure.” Flagg’s broad face creased in a worried frown. “Right after the Farringdons arrived, Mrs. Graham and Mr. Langford knocked on the front door and I was busy with them. It took Mrs. Graham ages to get out of her coat and gloves.”
    Barnes was disappointed. It would have been interesting to find out what the Farringdons might have said when the Bordeaux was offered to them. “When the other guests went inside the drawing room, did you hear if Mr. Whitfield offered them the Bordeaux?”
    Flagg stared at him blankly. “Of course I heard. I was standing just out in the hallway. He offered everyone a glass of wine, but they all wanted sherry.”
    Barnes had no idea whether this line of inquiry was useful, but the inspector had said he wanted a complete accounting of where the bottle had been, from the moment it arrived in the house until it was taken into evidence.
    “By that time, Mr. Becker had arrived, but he only wore a topcoat so it took just a few seconds to put it on the coat tree,” Flagg continued.
    “When did Mrs. Murray go into the drawing room?” Barnes asked.
    “I don’t know. I don’t recall seeing her come down the stairs. But that doesn’t mean much: she nips about quietly and could easily have slipped in when I was putting the coats away,” Flagg replied.
    “When did Mr. Whitfield and his guests leave the drawing room?”
    Flagg looked puzzled. “You mean for dinner?’
    “I understand that Mr. Whitfield had one of those ‘Christmas trees’ done up,” Barnes explained. “Didn’t he take his guests in to see it?”
    “Oh, that.” Flagg snorted softly. “As soon as everyone had their drink, he took them into the morning room. It was just a pine tree with some painted glass and clay ornaments, some ribbons, and those wretched candles. That caused a bit of a to-do, I’ll tell you. One of the footmen actually quit over them silly candles, told me right to my face that he wasn’t going to stand there for hours on end and then walked straight out of the house without so much as a by-your-leave. But Mr. Whitfield didn’t care what sort of trouble the ruddy tree caused. He thought Mrs. Graham would find the tree amusing, and that was all that mattered to him.”
    “And did she find it amusing?” the constable pressed.
    Flagg shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
    Barnes decided to leave that line of questioning for another time. “When did your footman leave?”
    “It was the day before the dinner party, sir,” Flagg explained. “And truth to tell, it wasn’t a surprise. Some lads just aren’t cut out for service, and Jacob Prine was one of them. He’s a nice enough lad, but he hated working as a servant. Twice I cuffed him for talking back to Cook. Full of himself, he