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

batch of bakin’ to feed my sources.” The cook got to her feet. “The worst that can happen is, we’ll have extra if it turns out not to be a murder, but this time of year, a bit of extra sweets could come in handy.”
    “Smythe, can you and Wiggins lock up, please?” Mrs. Jeffries said as she followed the maid out to the hall. She understood that Betsy wasn’t ready to be alone with her fiancé as yet, and wanted to make it easy on the lass. “Oh, and Wiggins, can you nip over to Luty’s as soon as you get up? We’ll want them here for our morning meeting.”
     
“I do hope this doesn’t turn out to be a waste of your time,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she took her place at the table the next morning.
    “When will we know for certain whether or not it’s murder?” Luty Belle Crookshank asked eagerly. The elderly, gray-haired American wore a maroon day dress with white lace around the collar and cuffs. On her lap was a gray fur muff, and there was a better-than-even chance that inside that muff was a gun: a Colt .45 that Luty called a Peacemaker.
    “Wiggins is going to run down to the station to take the inspector’s watch to him.” Mrs. Jeffries held up the gold pocket watch. She’d lifted it out of Witherspoon’s coat earlier that morning. “Dr. Bosworth was doing the postmortem last night, so he ought to have had a report written and sent over to the station by midmorning.”
    “So when young Wiggins brings the inspector his forgotten pocket watch, he ought to be able to ascertain whether or not the victim was poisoned,” Hatchet said. He was a tall, robust man with a headful of white hair, a smooth complexion, and a devotion to Luty Belle that went beyond just serving as a butler. He was also articulate, well educated, and very clever, with his own network of resources gleaned from a past that he didn’t care to talk about.
    “But the postmortem will only tell us if it’s poison, not whether it’s murder,” Smythe said. He was in a sour mood. He’d tried his best to get Betsy alone so they could talk about their situation, but he’d been stymied at every turn. Last night she’d gone upstairs with Mrs. Jeffries, and this morning he’d waited for ages on the landing for her to come out of her room, only to discover that she was down in the kitchen and had been for hours. He knew she was deliberately keeping him at bay, and it was beginning to make him angry.
    “Of course it’ll be murder,” Mrs. Goodge said. “The man didn’t deliberately dose himself with foxglove.”
    “It could have been that the foxglove was meant for someone else,” Betsy pointed out.
    “I, for one, am going to proceed as though it’s murder and that Stephen Whitfield was the intended victim,” the cook said stoutly. “I’ve got some nice buns rising in the dry larder, a seed cake in the oven, and a set of jam tarts ready to go in as soon as the cake is done.”
    “Do you have anyone coming through today?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
    “The laundry lad will be here, and there’s a butcher’s order due to arrive,” the cook replied. “But I’ve sent notes to several of my friends, and I’m sure one of them will be here for early-afternoon tea, so we mustn’t have our afternoon meeting until at least half past four. I’ve got the names of everyone who was at the dinner party, so someone coming through this kitchen ought to know something useful about one of them.” Mrs. Goodge understood the value of gossip.
    “And I’m off to talk to the local shopkeepers,” Betsy announced as she got up. “By now, the fact that Whitfield died should be common knowledge.”
    “Stephen Whitfield.” Luty repeated the name, her expression thoughtful. “I know I’ve heard that name before.”
    “He’s probably an acquaintance of one of your friends,” Hatchet said. “Actually, if no one objects, I think I’ll see what I can learn about the Farringdons. They were the ones who brought the Bordeaux.”
    “And