then I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Luty declared. “A disappearin’ woman and a dead man in the same house within days of each other.” She snorted. “Somethin’ funny’s goin’ on, that’s for sure.”
“I quite agree,” Hatchet added. “One extraordinary event might be explainable, but two? No, Mrs. Jeffries, you were right to send for us. Something strange is indeed going on in that household.”
“So what do we do now?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She glanced anxiously in the direction of her larders. Her provisions were low and she had to do a bit of baking to feed her sources. People loosened their tongues better over a slice of cake or a good currant bun.
“Well,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly, “I think we ought to proceed as we usually do. Though there is something we must keep in mind.”
“What’s that?” Wiggins asked, picking up his mug and taking a sip.
“We did promise Nanette we’d find her friend.”
“But you said they was probably connected,” Smythe declared.
“Might be connected,” she corrected. “Then again, one thing may have nothing to do with the other. We did make a promise. We must honor our word.”
“Does that mean we can’t get crackin’ on this ’ere murder?” Wiggins asked the question that all of them were thinking.
“It means,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly, “that we might have to do both.”
CHAPTER 3
“We’d best take statements tonight,” Inspector Witherspoon said to Barnes. “I think we’d better have a quick word with the members of the household.”
“Right, sir,” Barnes agreed. He stifled a yawn and cast a longing glance at the loaded tea trolley. Tea would be nice right about now. Then he remembered the victim might have been poisoned and suddenly he wasn’t quite so thirsty. “Do you want to speak to everyone together or should I bring them in one at a time?”
“One at a time, I think,” Witherspoon said. “This is, after all, a suspicious death. Start with the elderly gentleman. We might as well hear what he’s got to say so he can get to bed. People that age need their rest. Have the police constables take statements from the servants.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes said, moving smartly toward the door. As soon as he’d disappeared, the inspector took a few moments to study his surroundings. No shortage of money here, he thought, as his gaze flicked about the huge room.
An elegant crystal chandelier, ablaze with light, cast a bright glow over the exquisite furnishings. Oil paintings in ornate gold frames and family portraits were beautifully set off by the pale, wheat-colored walls. Dark panelling, its wood shining in the reflected glow of the chandeliers, covered the lower half of the walls. The furnishings were as elegant as the house itself: settees in heavy blue and gold damask, two groupings of high-backed upholstered velveteen chairs and tables covered with silk-fringed shawls. Heavy royal-blue curtains were draped artistically across the windows.
His gaze came to rest on the tea trolley. He wondered if he ought to take it into evidence.
“What’s all this nonsense, then?”
Witherspoon whirled about just as Barnes and the elderly gentleman entered the drawing room. “What’s the matter?” the man snapped at the inspector. “Cat got your tongue? Why are you still here and why does this person”—he pointed his cane at Barnes—“insist I make a statement like I’m some kind of a criminal? Underhill choked on one of those wretched mints he was always popping in his mouth. That’s all I’ve got to say on the subject.”
“And you are?” Witherspoon asked politely.
“Neville Grant. I own this house.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Grant,” the inspector said apologetically, “but there is some question as to how Mr. Underhill met his death.”
“What do you mean?” Grant sputtered. “There’s no question as to how he died. He choked to death. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Then you’ll
“I quite agree,” Hatchet added. “One extraordinary event might be explainable, but two? No, Mrs. Jeffries, you were right to send for us. Something strange is indeed going on in that household.”
“So what do we do now?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She glanced anxiously in the direction of her larders. Her provisions were low and she had to do a bit of baking to feed her sources. People loosened their tongues better over a slice of cake or a good currant bun.
“Well,” Mrs. Jeffries said slowly, “I think we ought to proceed as we usually do. Though there is something we must keep in mind.”
“What’s that?” Wiggins asked, picking up his mug and taking a sip.
“We did promise Nanette we’d find her friend.”
“But you said they was probably connected,” Smythe declared.
“Might be connected,” she corrected. “Then again, one thing may have nothing to do with the other. We did make a promise. We must honor our word.”
“Does that mean we can’t get crackin’ on this ’ere murder?” Wiggins asked the question that all of them were thinking.
“It means,” Mrs. Jeffries said firmly, “that we might have to do both.”
CHAPTER 3
“We’d best take statements tonight,” Inspector Witherspoon said to Barnes. “I think we’d better have a quick word with the members of the household.”
“Right, sir,” Barnes agreed. He stifled a yawn and cast a longing glance at the loaded tea trolley. Tea would be nice right about now. Then he remembered the victim might have been poisoned and suddenly he wasn’t quite so thirsty. “Do you want to speak to everyone together or should I bring them in one at a time?”
“One at a time, I think,” Witherspoon said. “This is, after all, a suspicious death. Start with the elderly gentleman. We might as well hear what he’s got to say so he can get to bed. People that age need their rest. Have the police constables take statements from the servants.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes said, moving smartly toward the door. As soon as he’d disappeared, the inspector took a few moments to study his surroundings. No shortage of money here, he thought, as his gaze flicked about the huge room.
An elegant crystal chandelier, ablaze with light, cast a bright glow over the exquisite furnishings. Oil paintings in ornate gold frames and family portraits were beautifully set off by the pale, wheat-colored walls. Dark panelling, its wood shining in the reflected glow of the chandeliers, covered the lower half of the walls. The furnishings were as elegant as the house itself: settees in heavy blue and gold damask, two groupings of high-backed upholstered velveteen chairs and tables covered with silk-fringed shawls. Heavy royal-blue curtains were draped artistically across the windows.
His gaze came to rest on the tea trolley. He wondered if he ought to take it into evidence.
“What’s all this nonsense, then?”
Witherspoon whirled about just as Barnes and the elderly gentleman entered the drawing room. “What’s the matter?” the man snapped at the inspector. “Cat got your tongue? Why are you still here and why does this person”—he pointed his cane at Barnes—“insist I make a statement like I’m some kind of a criminal? Underhill choked on one of those wretched mints he was always popping in his mouth. That’s all I’ve got to say on the subject.”
“And you are?” Witherspoon asked politely.
“Neville Grant. I own this house.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Grant,” the inspector said apologetically, “but there is some question as to how Mr. Underhill met his death.”
“What do you mean?” Grant sputtered. “There’s no question as to how he died. He choked to death. I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Then you’ll
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