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

properties saw or noticed anything unusual. But that’s to be expected; the house next door was empty, and everyone else had their doors and windows tightly shut because of the cold.”
    “And the constables found nothing untoward when they searched the area?”
    He shook his head and reached for his teacup. “Nothing. Mind you, everyone knew we already had the murder weapon, and it was dark by the time they began searching. I’ve ordered another search for tomorrow morning.”
    “Do you have any suspects, sir?”
    He frowned. “I suppose everyone who was at the tea party could be considered a suspect.”
    “I thought most of the guests had already left the premises when the murder occurred,” she commented.
    “Not all of them.” Witherspoon took a sip of tea. “Arthur Brunel was the one who sent for the police, and Constable Barnes had quite an interesting interview with one of the housemaids. A young girl named Annie.”
    “The one who cracked the rim of the Chinese plate?”
    He nodded. “She said that when she was bringing up a tray, she overheard a woman asking one of the other guests why on earth he’d come to the McCourt house—” He broke off and grinned. “She didn’t like to admit it, but she deliberately stopped and listened. She was in the hallway and heard the man say quite clearly that he only came so that he could see her.”
    “Who is the ‘her’?” She frowned in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”
    “I didn’t, either, but then the maid told me that the voice didn’t belong to Mrs. McCourt, so the only other woman it could have been was Mrs. Leon Brunel.”
    “And who was the man?”
    Witherspoon sighed. “Annie said she didn’t recognize his voice, so we’ll have to try and sort it out ourselves. But you must admit, a conversation like that does put the cat amongst the pigeons.”

CHAPTER 3
    Witherspoon and Barnes were back at Victoria Gardens bright and early the next morning. In the pale light of a cold winter’s day, Witherspoon directed a small army of constables in searching the communal gardens and the immediate area surrounding the McCourt home.
    Barnes had popped into the kitchen of Upper Edmonton Gardens this morning when he’d stopped to fetch the inspector. He’d had a short but useful chat with Mrs. Jeffries and the cook. When he and Witherspoon had first begun to work together, he’d soon realized the inspector was getting far more information than they were uncovering in the normal course of their police work. It hadn’t taken brilliant detecting on his part to realize Witherspoon’s household and friends were the ones doing the helping. He’d debated long and hard with himself before he’d revealed to the housekeeper that he was onto them, but the truth was, he admired what they were doing. They were smart and discreet, and they had sources that the average policeman couldn’t hope to compete with. All in all, it had worked out nicely.
    Constable Griffiths smiled apologetically as he approached Witherspoon and Barnes. “Sorry, sir, but the only things we’ve found are a couple of old burlap bags, a broken umbrella, and a pencil case. All the items look as if they’ve been out here for weeks, sir.”
    “Tell the lads to go over the grounds one more time and then go and help with the house to house,” the inspector instructed.
    “Yes, sir.” Griffiths bobbed his head respectfully and left. As soon as he was gone, Barnes said, “Let’s hope we can find a witness from somewhere around here.” He pursed his lips. “This time of year with everyone out and about for the holidays someone must have seen something.”
    “I’d not count on it, Constable,” Witherspoon replied. “Half the houses here are probably empty because people have gone to Scotland for Christmas.”
    “And if you ask me, that makes no sense at all.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Scotland is more wet, cold, and miserable than London.”
    “Agreed, but