Mrs. Jeffries in the Nick of Time by Emily Brightwell Page B

were called away.” She rose from the chair by the window and crossed the room, her black skirt rustling as she walked. “Mrs. Eames said you wanted to speak to me again.”
    Barnes slipped his little brown notebook out of his jacket pocket and flipped it open.
    “We need to ask you a few more questions,” Witherspoon said. “I’ll try to make this as brief as possible.”
    “Then we might as well be comfortable.” She gestured toward the furniture in front of the fireplace. “Please sit down,” she said as she sank down on a chair.
    Witherspoon took a spot at the end of the couch and Barnes sat on the loveseat, both of them now facing her.
    “Mrs. Prescott, did your uncle own a gun?” the inspector asked.
    Her brows drew together in surprise. “He owned a revolver. But what does that have to do with his death? He was murdered by an intruder. Surely you don’t think someone broke in here, found Uncle Francis’ weapon, and then shot him with it. The very idea is absurd. The house was full of people.”
    “That appears to be the case, however, we must be thorough in our investigation,” the inspector responded calmly. “Do you know where he kept it?”
    She sighed irritably. “He kept it in a hidden compartment at the bottom of his valise.”
    “May we see it, please?”
    “It’s in the storeroom on the third floor. I’ll send one of the maids up to get it.” She started to rise, but the constable was already on his feet.
    “Don’t trouble yourself, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
    She eased back against the seat. “Mrs. Eames can show you where it is.”
    “Did you see any strangers hanging about the premises yesterday?” Witherspoon shifted into a more comfortable position.
    “No, I saw no one.” She crossed her arms in front of her and looked toward the window.
    “Do you know of anyone who wished your uncle harm?” Witherspoon was asking the questions as they popped into his head.
    “As far as I know, Uncle Francis had no real enemies.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Or if he did, he certainly never mentioned anyone to me.”
    “What about Mr. Kirkland?” Witherspoon watched her carefully. “According to one member of your household, Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Humphreys hated one another.”
    She was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “You asked if I knew anyone who would want to harm Uncle Francis. His feud with Mr. Kirkland has gone on for years and even though there were bad feelings between them, I don’t think Mr. Kirkland would wait over twenty years to commit murder.”
    “Why were the two gentlemen at odds?” Witherspoon asked.
    She smiled wryly. “I don’t know. My uncle wouldn’t discuss the matter. All he ever said was that he loathed the man. That’s why we were so surprised when Mr. Kirkland showed up at the house for tea. None of us had any idea he was coming, but he insisted Uncle Francis had invited him.”
    He made a mental note to speak to Leo Kirkland as soon as possible. “And you’ve no idea why your uncle invited Mr. Kirkland to tea?”
    “None, Inspector. As I said, we were all surprised when Mr. Kirkland arrived, but he insisted he’d received an invitation so I could hardly refuse to let him in the house.”
    “How long have you resided here?” The inspector glanced at the clock on the fireplace and saw that it was already past three.
    “Two years. My husband had just passed away and as Uncle Francis had recently become widowed himself, he invited me to come live here. The house is huge and though Mrs. Eames is perfectly competent as a housekeeper, he needed someone to take over the running of the house. He’s not very social, but even so, a man in his position needs someone to act as his hostess.”
    “Yes, of course.” Witherspoon nodded. “I don’t wish to distress you, Mrs. Prescott, but it would be most helpful if you tell me what happened yesterday. Was there anything odd or unusual that you noticed? Anything at