Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up by Emily Brightwell

but that’s only to be expected. Where else in this neighborhood could ya get a bucket of sand?”
    The inspector nodded. “Do you remember exactly what time it was that you came back from the greengrocer’s?”
    Duncan chewed his lower lip. “No, sir. All I know is that I was late. Mr. Haines ’ad told me to be back by half past four, and I know it was a bit later than that because I heard the church clock strikin’ the half hour and I was still waitin’ for the sand at the greengrocer’s. I waited a good ten minutes, sir, and I was gettin’ more and more nervous. Mr. Haines gets right angry if we’re late gettin’ ready for an occasion.”
    “How long does it take to get from the greengrocer’s to here?” Witherspoon asked. He was trying to determine the exact sequence of events.
    “About six or seven minutes, sir.” Duncan scratched his nose again, this time with his other hand.
    “When you came back, which door did you use?” The inspector struggled to keep his mind on the case, but it was difficult not to stare at the footman’s hands. Ye gods, what on earth did they make him do, scrub the lamps with carbolic soap? Didn’t they notice his flesh was torn and bloody? Why didn’t someone put some salve on his knuckles?
    “The servants’ door, sir. That’s the only one we’re allowed to use,” he replied. “When I got ’ere, the door was already open and Annie was standin’ in the hall screamin’ and Mr. Haines was tryin’ to put out the flames.”
    “Exactly where was the fire?” Witherspoon interrupted. “In the servants’ hallway?”
    “It was in front of the back stairs, sir,” he said. “The rug was on fire. Mr. Haines was stompin’ at it with ’is feet, but then ’e saw me and shouted at me to bring the sand, so I ran over and ’e grabbed the bucket and threw the sand on it. It put the fire out. By that time, everyone else ’ad come to see what all the fuss was about, and then Mr. Haines started in askin’ who’d left the paraffin lamp on the landing with the ruddy door open.”
    “Is that what caused the fire?” the inspector asked.
    Duncan shrugged. “That’s what everyone thought. The lamp was lyin’ on the floor with all the oil spilled out and the top part all cracked. If you leave the servants’ door open, it causes a terrible draft through the hallway. But no one would own up to ’avin’ set the lamp on the staircase mantel, now, would they? And I don’t think one of us did it. The only ones who handle the lamps is Mr. Haines or Mrs. Williams.”
    “When you were coming back from Beaman’s, did you see anyone who looked suspicious hanging about the area?”
    “I didn’t notice anyone,” he admitted. “But I was in such a rush to get back, I wasn’t payin’ any attention.”
    “When the fire had been put out, what did you do then?”
    “Mrs. Williams sent me to the kitchen to help take up the servin’ trays,” he replied. “The sand was spilled onto the rug, and the place was startin’ to stink to high heaven, so there weren’t no reason for me to go to the drawin’ room. It was a shame, too, as I was wearin’ my uniform and everythin’.”
    The inspector couldn’t think of anything else to ask the boy, and it was getting very late. “Thank you, Duncan. You’ve been very helpful. You may go now.”
    Duncan gave a quick bow of his head, got up from the chair, and started for the door.
    “Just a moment,” the inspector called. “I noticed your knuckles are so raw they’re bleeding. Can’t you get the housekeeper to put some salve on them for you?”
    Duncan dropped his gaze and stared at the floor. “I don’t like to ask, sir.”
    “Whyever not?” Witherspoon asked. “Your hands are in terrible shape. You could get a nasty infection.”
    “I don’t want to give them a reason to sack me.” He looked up at the inspector. “I overheard Mr. McCourt tellin’ Mrs. McCourt that she needed to cut back on household expenses, and then