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

’e said maybe they didn’t need a footman. I was scared if I asked for anythin’ extra that Mr. McCourt would say I cost too much to keep. If I lose this place, I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
    Witherspoon reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. He’d suspected that the lad had been scared to ask for medicine, and he was disgusted. He stood up and handed the money to the footman. “Here, take this, and tomorrow, I want you to go to the chemist’s and get some healing salve for your knuckles.”
    “Oh, I couldn’t, sir,” he replied.
    “Yes, you can.” He grabbed the boy’s hand and dumped the coins into his palm.
    “I’ll pay you back when I get my quarter’s wages,” he cried. “I promise.”
    “You don’t need to do that,” Witherspoon replied. “But when you’re grown up, if you ever see someone in need and you can help, then you must pay me back by assisting that person; do you understand?”
    Duncan grinned broadly. “Indeed, I do, sir, and thanks ever so much. My knuckles hurt so badly that I can’t sleep at night.”
     
    Witherspoon was dead on his feet by the time he trudged up the stairs at home. But before he could even get out his key, the door flew open.
    “You shouldn’t have waited up, Mrs. Jeffries!” he exclaimed as he stepped inside and took off his hat. “It’s very late.”
    “I don’t need much sleep, sir.” She reached for his bowler and put it on the coat tree. “I wanted to make certain you had a bite to eat before you retired.”
    He handed her his overcoat and scarf. “That’s very kind of you. I must admit, I’m starving.”
    “Go on into the dining room, sir, and I’ll bring your supper right up.”
    Five minutes later, he was sipping hot tea and tucking into a plate of lamb stew. “It was dreadful, Mrs. Jeffries.” He put down his cup and reached for a slice of bread. “Someone had actually used a sword and slashed both sides of the victim’s neck.”
    “That’s certainly an unusual way to murder someone,” she murmured. “Where on earth did the killer get such a weapon?” She already knew the answer to that question. Wiggins and Smythe had reported in and told them what they’d learned at the pub.
    “Oh, our victim was an Oriental antiquities collector, and the sword had been hanging in a display on the wall of his study,” the inspector said as he spooned up a bite of stew from his plate. “It certainly made it convenient for the killer. All he had to do was take the sword down off the display. There were three other swords there as well.” He popped the food into his mouth.
    “The display was within easy reach, then?” she asked.
    He shook his head, chewed, and swallowed. “No. Unless the killer was very tall, he or she would have to have stood on something, but there was a wooden stool in the study, and the murderer probably used that. According to what Barnes found out from the servants, the sword was something called a Hwando. It’s got a rather long blade and is from the Joseon dynasty.”
    “It’s Korean?” she clarified. She’d always been very interested in the Far East and had read a number of books and even attended several lectures on the various cultures in that part of the world.
    He took another bite of stew before he answered. “I suppose it must be,” he finally said. “We were so intent on getting the facts of the case that I’m afraid I didn’t pay too much attention to the details. But nonetheless, we gathered a substantial amount of information.” He told her about his interviews with the widow and the servants.
    Mrs. Jeffries listened carefully, occasionally asking a question or nodding in agreement. “You have learned a great deal, Inspector,” she said when he’d finished his narrative.
    Witherspoon shrugged modestly. “I wasn’t the only one, of course. The constables that did the house to house caught up with us as we were leaving. Unfortunately, no one at any of the adjacent