Mrs. Jeffries & the Silent Knight by Emily Brightwell (kiss me liar novel english txt) 📗

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from the old man or Mrs. Merryhill because the hedges ain’t

been trimmed nor the leaves raked.”

“Is Mr. Clark your superior?” Witherspoon asked.

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

49

“He’s some sort of cousin to Sir George.” Grantham

sniffed loudly and yanked a dirty handkerchief out of his

pocket. He blew his nose. “And he fancies that he runs

everything outside the house, I can tell ya that.”

“I see.” Witherspoon didn’t see at all. But he decided

he’d try and sort out the intricacies of the chain of command

in the gardening world at a later time. “Can you tell us

about finding the body?”

“It was disgustin’, it was.” Grantham said firmly. “A person doesn’t like to see that sort of thing, especially not in the middle of the night.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was quite unsettling,” Witherspoon said

sympathetically. “Could you please give us a few more details of how you came to find Sir George?”

“It was really more early this morning than the middle of

the night,” he said. “I was lyin’ there tryin’ to keep warm.”

He snorted derisively. “It was bleedin’ cold last night, but

do you think the old blighter’d give me a bit more coal for

the fire, he bleedin’ well wouldn’t, and Mr. Clark wouldn’t

give me any, either, and he had plenty, ’cause there’d just

been a delivery to the greenhouse so he could keep his stupid plants warm, but do you think he’d part with a lump or two . . .”

“Isn’t the house kept reasonably warm?” Witherspoon

interrupted.

“How would I know?” Grantham blew his nose again. “I

sleep out in the shed and believe you me, by the wee hours

of the mornin’ it was cold enough to break the balls off a

bull—”

“We understand it was cold, can you get on with it,”

Barnes pressed.

“But bein’ cold is the important bit,” Grantham cried.

“That’s the reason I was awake. Despite how miserable I

50

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was, I’d managed to fall asleep, but something woke me up,

I think it was one of them ruddy icicles falling off the side of

the shed. They do that when they get too heavy. Anyway,

something woke me up, and it were so cold I couldn’t get

back to sleep. I laid there for awhile, then I ‘eard something

outside.”

“What exactly, did you hear?” Witherspoon asked.

“The cat,” Grantham’s eyes narrowed. “It was that

bleedin’ beast that belonged to Sir George. The dumb thing

‘ad finally found it’s way home and was caterwaulin’ like a

banshee to be let inside.”

“You don’t like animals?” Barnes asked curiously.

“I like a nice hound or a good horse as well as the next

man,” Grantham said. “But I hated that ruddy cat. Samson’s

the meanest thing on four legs. He’d just as soon scratch

you as look at you. You’d try and pet him, and he’d almost

take your arm off.” He shook his head. “Everyone but Sir

George hated the ruddy thing, and everyone was glad when

it looked like he’d run off. But the gov’ loved him, so we all

put up with the beast’s nasty manners. Well, we’d no choice

in the matter, had we?”

“Did you go to let the animal inside?” Witherspoon

probed. He did wish the fellow would get on with it. At the

rate these interviews were going, they’d be here until the

spring thaw.

“Nah, I thought I heard a door slam, so I figured someone else had let it in.” He shrugged. “I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. But a few minutes later, I heard the

bleedin’ cat again. I got up, put my clothes on, and went

outside.”

“So it was the cat crying that made you go outside?”

Barnes asked.

“That’s right, Samson wasn’t one to give up when he

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

51

wanted to be let in. It’s not like the little blighter has anything else to do, is it? Samson was there all right, he was sittin’ smack on top of Sir George’s body and screamin’ like a

fishwife.”

“The cat was on top of Sir George’s body?” Witherspoon

was horrified. It seemed so very undignified.

“Huddled right in the center of Sir George’s back. Samson was so miserable, he even let me pick him up and take him inside.”

Witherspoon couldn’t believe it. “You took the cat inside

before you tended to Sir George? Good gracious man, why

would you do such a thing?”

“I had to,” Grantham exclaimed. “I tried shoving old

Samson off so I could see what was wrong with the master,

but the bloomin’ cat would just jump back on top of him.

Cat hates getting his paws wet.”

“Why didn’t you just give him a good whack to clear

him off?” Barnes asked.

“Because Samson knows how to put up a good fight, just

ask anyone that works here. A couple of months ago, one of

the footman reached down to shove the beast off a footstool

in the kitchen, and Samson tore his arm up. He don’t just

give you a scratch or two, that cat jumps ya with all of his

claws out.”

“Yet he let you pick him up?” Barnes asked.

“It surprised me, too,” Grantham said. “I finally picked

him up and took him into the house, just to get shut of him

so I could see what was wrong with Sir George.”

“Wasn’t the house locked?”

“Sir George’s bedroom door was wide open. I tossed Samson inside and went running back to the pond. But there were nary I could do, he was dead. So I went back into the

house through Sir George’s bedroom to rouse the house52

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hold. Miss Charlotte come runnin’ first, and as she went out,

I went on to get Mrs. Merryhill.”

“Miss Charlotte went outside to see him? She was alone?”

Barnes probed. He knew it was going to be important to get

the sequence of events correct. He had a feeling it might be

the only way they’d solve this case.

“What time was this?” Witherspoon asked. He thought

perhaps this case might need a good time line. In previous

cases his time lines had been very useful.

“It must have been about half past four or a quarter to

five. I don’t own a watch, so I can’t say for certain.”

Betsy stood on the corner and stared at the row of shops

spread along Marsh Glen Road. There were people about on

the street, but nowhere near as