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

was.”
    “So he just quit and walked out?” Barnes queried. “Where did he go?”
    “His uncle owns two very successful pubs, one in Hammersmith and one in Chiswick. He went there. He’d been champing at the bit to get out of here.” Flagg leaned across the table. “Actually, I think the boy was a bit scared of the tree. He didn’t like fire, and I don’t think he wanted to be near all them blazing candles. I didn’t much blame him, either.”
    Barnes wrote down the name in his notebook. Even though the boy had left the day before the murder, it wouldn’t hurt to verify his movements. “Where is he likely to have gone? Hammersmith or Chiswick?”
    “He’ll be at Hammersmith. The Lineman’s Tow is the name of the pub.”
    Barnes decided that they now had a pretty good idea of who might have had access to the open Bordeaux. Apparently everyone could have slipped in and doctored it with foxglove. But he wasn’t through asking questions. He closed his notebook and looked at Flagg. “What sort of person was Mr. Whitfield?”
    Flagg was taken aback. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your question. It’s hardly my place to . . .”
    “You’re not stupid, Mr. Flagg. Your employer has been murdered, so that means someone wanted him dead. It’s our job to find out who that someone might be, and you’ll do the late Mr. Whitfield a great service if you’re simply honest with me. What sort of man was he?”
    Flagg stared at Barnes for a long moment. “He wasn’t any worse than most men of his class.”
    “What does that mean?’
    “He wasn’t a kind man by any means, but he was fair and he treated us decently.” Flagg sighed. “Mind you, we didn’t like the way he’d treated Mrs. Murray recently. She deserved better.”
    “What did he do to her?”
    “Ever since he became acquainted with Mrs. Graham, he’s pushed Mrs. Murray aside.” Flagg sniffed disapprovingly. “Hardly the act of a gentleman.”
    “Isn’t Mrs. Murray his sister-in-law?” Barnes said, taking care to keep his tone casual.
    “Oh, yes, but up until he met Mrs. Graham, everyone assumed that Mr. Whitfield and Mrs. Murray would eventually marry. He always promised he’d take care of her, and frankly, unless he settled an allowance on her, I don’t think he could have taken care of her and still been married to Mrs. Graham.”
    “Mr. Whitfield was going to marry Mrs. Graham?”
    Barnes asked. He wanted to make sure he understood exactly what the man was telling him. “He actually told you this?”
    “Not directly.” Flagg chuckled. “He was hardly in the habit of discussing his personal business with me, but one does have eyes and ears. Two weeks ago he sent for his solicitor, and then he made an appointment with a jeweler.”
    “And those actions led you to believe he was going to propose to Mrs. Graham?”
    “Those, and the fact that Cook overheard Mrs. Murray and Mr. Whitfield having words on the subject,” Flagg replied. “Of course, Cook wouldn’t say precisely what she overheard. She does that, you know—pretends that she doesn’t like gossip—but she’s no better than anyone else.” He leaned across the table again. “But she told me that Mrs. Murray and Mr. Whitfield had some very strong words after the solicitor was here last week. Mrs. Murray is a lady; she never raises her voice. But Cook claims she was screaming her head off last week.”
     
“You look dreadfully tired, Dr. Bosworth,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took a chair opposite him. He was sitting behind his desk, his pale skin even paler after a night of hard work. His red hair was mussed and tufts of it were standing on end. There was a faint air of disinfectant about his person. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. This could have waited till later.”
    “Don’t be sorry. I was expecting you’d be here this morning.” Bosworth covered his mouth with his hand to hide a yawn. “That’s one of the reasons I came to my office—I was