Mrs. Jeffries and the Merry Gentlemen by Emily Brightwell

year of each other and Orlando and I lost touch.”
    â€œHow old were you when you lost your mum?” Witherspoon had no idea why he was pursuing this line of inquiry, but somehow, he felt it might be important.
    â€œSixteen. By that time, both Orlando and I were making our way in the world, me in New York and him in England. A few years back, I had business here and I looked him up. I was pleased to see he was doing so well for himself but, then again, he always did have a good head for money.”
    It occurred to Witherspoon that Kimball might well be the dead man’s heir. He glanced around the elegantly furnished drawing room. The room reeked of wealth and he’d learned that money was often the motive for murder. “What is your occupation, Mr. Kimball?”
    Kimball cocked his head to one side. “Occupation, well, I guess you could say I’m a professional gambler.”
    * * *
    Downstairs, Barnes gave the second maid, Mary Gunnerson, an encouraging smile. She was a slender young girl with a longish face, very pale skin, brown hair, and such a terrified expression you’d think the poor lass was facing a firing squad. “Don’t be nervous, Mary, just tell me again what you heard yesterday afternoon.”
    Mary chewed her lower lip. “I don’t know that I ought to repeat it, sir. Mrs. Clarridge doesn’t like us to gossip.”
    â€œThis isn’t gossip, Mary,” he explained patiently. “This is a murder investigation and what you overheard could be very important. I want to make sure I understood exactly what you were saying.” He was making her repeat herself because when she’d rushed through it so quickly the first time, he wasn’t sure he’d understood the lass.
    â€œWell, sir, as I told you before, Mrs. Green had sent me upstairs yesterday to ask Mrs. Clarridge for the keys to the spice cupboard. She’d run out of nutmeg, sir, and needed it for the puddin’, but just as I reached the top of the back stairs, I heard Mr. Edison. He was yellin’ something fierce and I don’t mind tellin’ ya, it scared me to death. Mr. Edison never raises his voice. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there.”
    â€œWhere exactly was Mr. Edison when you heard this?” Barnes was very tired. He’d worked a full day shift before tonight and he was feeling his age in every bone in his body, but he knew this might be important so he forced himself to listen closely.
    She pointed up. “In his sitting room. It’s toward the back of the house—that’s why I could hear him so clearly when I come up the staircase. Anyways, he was yellin’ that they were happy to make money off him when things went right so it was only fittin’ that if things went south—that’s the words he used, sir—then they had to take the loss.”
    â€œDo you know who Mr. Edison was arguing with?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I think it might have been Mr. Ralston or it could have been Mr. Bagshot. But Mr. Edison often opened the door himself, so I don’t know.”
    Barnes nodded. In his interview with Kitty Long the only thing she’d mentioned was Downing’s argument with Edison two days ago. She’d not mentioned anyone named Bagshot or Ralston coming to the house yesterday. But then again, he’d not asked that specific question. He sighed inwardly; sometimes getting complete information out of people was a bit like pulling hen’s teeth. “What happened then? Did you hear anything else?”
    â€œNo, sir. Mrs. Clarridge came down the hall and hustled me back to the kitchen. She said it wasn’t fittin’ for us to be eavesdroppin’ on Mr. Edison’s personal troubles.”
    Barnes looked up from his notebook. “Do you know either Mr. Bagshot’s or Mr. Ralston’s Christian name?”
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t, but I expect Mrs. Clarridge