Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize by Emily Brightwell

but generally, unless the murder involves someone very important or the press is likely to get unreasonable, the chief gives us a few days before ordering the inspector to the Yard. But this summons came yesterday, the same day as the murder.”
    â€œAnd that’s not a good sign,” the housekeeper agreed. “The press hadn’t even had time to print anything.”
    â€œWhich means we’ve got something else to worry aboutas well as catching this killer,” the cook muttered. “Someone’s puttin’ their oar in the water and we don’t know who it is.”
    â€œTrue, but we’ll find out. I’ve got a source or two at the Yard who owe me a favor.”
    â€œBut still, it’s worryin’. There’s some on the Metropolitan Police that are jealous of Inspector Witherspoon’s success,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. “Some who’ll do anything to undermine him. People are like that, you know.”
    Taken aback by the undercurrent in the cook’s tone, Mrs. Jeffries glanced at her and saw that she had that faraway look on her face again.
    But Constable Barnes didn’t notice. He grinned broadly. “Stop worrying, Mrs. Goodge, this has happened before and we’ve weathered it. I’m off upstairs. I’ll see you ladies tomorrow.” He disappeared up the back stairs.
    A few moments later, they heard footsteps in the upstairs hall and the front door slammed shut as the two policemen left. Less than a minute later, the back door opened and they heard a babble of voices and the clatter of feet.
    â€œLordy, I thought they’d never get goin’,” said a female voice with a distinctly American accent.
    â€œMadam, I did tell you we ought not to come quite so early,” said a man with a very precise English accent. “It’s hardly a decent hour to descend upon people.”
    â€œFiddlesticks,” she snorted. “We ain’t descendin’, we’re coming for our morning meeting.”
    â€œAnd the household is always up and about,” Betsy added.
    â€œWe’re all ready for you,” Mrs. Jeffries said to the group trouping into the kitchen.
    They were led by a small, very elderly, white-haired woman wearing a blue dress as bright as the eye of a peacock feather, a matching hat with a two-foot azure veil trailing behind her, and brandishing a blue and white lace parasol. Pearl earrings hung from her ears and a matching necklace was draped around her neck. Luty Belle Crookshank loved colorful clothes, jewelry, and justice.
    Behind her came Hatchet, her butler. He was dressed in an old-fashioned black frock coat of excellent cut and quality, and in his hand, he carried a shiny black top hat that had been out of style now for a good ten years. But he, like his employer, wore what he liked. Despite being many years younger than Luty, he had a full head of thick snow-white hair. He carried himself with the dignity of an English admiral but the sparkle in his blue eyes made it clear he didn’t take himself or the world too seriously.
    Betsy and Smythe, who was carrying their daughter, completed the group.
    Amanda spotted Mrs. Goodge, shrieked with glee, and waved her chubby little arms. The cook threw down the dishtowel she’d been using to wipe the worktable and hurried over to claim her goddaughter.
    â€œShe’s been a right little terror this morning.” Smythe eased the toddler into Mrs. Goodge’s arms, pulled back the cook’s chair, and braced it against his body until the two of them were safely seated.
    â€œNonsense,” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed as she fluffed Amanda’s blonde curls, “I don’t believe a word of it, she’s my little sweetling.”
    â€œYour little sweetling tried to have a tantrum over putting on her clothes this morning.” Betsy dropped into thechair across from them. “But we soon put a stop to that, didn’t we.”
    Amanda