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

believe him?” Wiggins didn’t want

Hatchet getting suspicious about her activities.

“My lawyers are always stoppin’ by with something or

other for me to read or sign.” She grinned. “So he probably

didn’t think anything of it. Now, let me tell you what I

found out.”

“Uh, Luty, I’ve got a question. ‘Ow am I supposed to get

this information you give me to the others?”

Luty grinned again. “Oh, I’ve got that all figured out,

you just say you dropped by to say hello and see how I was

feelin,’ and that I happened to mention my lawyer had been

here and told me all sorts of good stuff about that murder in

Richmond.”

He was afraid that was what she was going to suggest.

“But Luty, if I do that, they’ll be on to us. Mark my words,

they’ll know I told you about the inspector gettin’ the

case.”

“You really think so?” Luty asked curiously. “Hmm,

you’re probably right. Well, don’t fret, I’m sure you’ll come

up with some story or other about how you found out.”

“Me? But I’m not much good at that sort of thing,” he

protested.

“Sure ya are. You do it all the time,” she shot back. “Now

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Emily Brightwell

quit complainin’ and listen. Julie is going come lookin’ for

me any minute.”

“All right,” he muttered.

“Josiah told me that, accordin’ to the terms of Sir

George’s will, the daughters share the estate equally.”

“That’s it?”

“He said it was real straightforward. God knows how the

man found out in such a small amount of time, but he did.

Except for a few bequests to his housekeeper, it all goes to

his three daughters.”

“What about Clarence Clark? He’s family as well, doesn’t

‘e get anything?”

Luty shook her head. “No, but that’s probably because

Sir George didn’t think he needed anything from him.

Clark got his bit when Sir George’s father died.”

“What do ya mean?”

“Clark was given a small allowance and granted the use

of his rooms in the family home for his lifetime.”

Wiggins brightened. “That means the daughters can’t

toss ‘im out. That’s good.”

“Mrs. Crookshank, where are you?” Julie’s voice could be

heard coming from the kitchen.

“Nells bells, she’s come lookin’ for me already.” Luty

peeked out into the hall and then frantically motioned at

Wiggins.

“Mrs. Crookshank!” Julie called again.

“Hurry.” Luty shoved him out into the hall. “Once she’s

finished looking in the front storage rooms, she’ll head this

way. Git goin’.”

Hopkins and Flannerty were in the ground-floor offices of a

nicely appointed building on Fenchurch Street. The inspec

Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

189

tor and Barnes were standing in a small foyer in the outer

office, waiting to speak to one of the partners.

“This is a busy place,” Barnes muttered. Clerks carrying

bits of paper and notebooks dashed in and out of the double

doors, two men in old-fashioned frock coats were conversing

in low tones near the windows, and at each of the many

desks, young men were frantically scribbling.

From one of the offices down the hall a door opened, a

clerk hurried out and came toward them. “Mr. Flannerty

can see you now,” he said.

As they stepped into the office, a tall, black-haired man

with blue eyes rose to his feet. “I’m Ian Flannerty.”

“Good day, sir. I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is

Constable Barnes. We’ll try not to take up too much of

your time, Mr. Flannerty, but we’d like to ask you a few

questions.

He nodded in acknowledgement of the introductions

and pointed to two chairs front of his desk. “I’ve been expecting you. Please have a seat.”

They sat, and Witherspoon waited until Barnes pulled

out his notebook and his pencil. Then he said, “I’m sure you

know why we’ve come.”

“You’re here about Sir George Braxton,” Flannerty

replied. “I know he was murdered, Inspector. What do you

want to ask me, sir?”

“You had an appointment to see Sir George on the eighteenth, is that correct?”

“We were supposed to be at his home at ten o’clock that

morning,” he said softly. “I was just getting ready to leave

for the station when I got the message that he’d died.”

“Did a messenger bring you the news?” Barnes asked.

“No, we received a telegram from Nina Braxton. Natu190

Emily Brightwell

rally, I immediately sent her a reply. We sent our condolences to her and the rest of the family.”

Witherspoon thought for a moment, and then he asked,

“Did the telegram say that he’d been murdered, or simply

that he’d died?”

“It said he’d been murdered.” Flannerty looked amused

by the question. “Miss Braxton is well known for her bluntness, Inspector. She wasn’t one to mince words about any subject. However, we were still very shocked, of course.”

“Yes, I suppose you must have been,” Witherspoon said.

“Why were you going to see him?”

Flannerty sighed. “I wanted to speak to him about some

of Miss Nina’s investment choices. She’s been handling all

their financial matters for several years now.”

“We knew that, Mr. Flannerty,” the inspector said

quickly.

“Did you object to taking financial orders from a

woman?” Barnes asked bluntly. He watched Flannerty as he

spoke, wanting to see his face as he answered the question.

There were a number of men who would have bitterly resented a woman like Nina Braxton. He and the inspector had discussed the problem in the cab on the ride here, and

they’d decided to get it out of the way immediately.

“Not at all, Constable,” Flannerty laughed. “Believe it or

not, the Braxtons aren’t our only clients where the woman

handles the family money. I’ve a great deal of respect for the

female mind.”

“But you were going to see Sir George about Miss Nina’s

investments. So even if you respected her mind, you

thought something was wrong, correct?” Barnes asked.

“I did.” Flannerty put his elbows on the desk and entwined his fingers together. “Nina Braxton has done an excellent job of handling all the Braxton investments since Sir Mrs. Jeffries and the Silent Knight

191

George handed her the reins several years ago. But this past

year, she’s made some choices that I thought were wildly

speculative.”

“Wildly speculative,” Witherspoon repeated. “I don’t

quite understand.” He knew very little about finances. His

investments were handled by a nice firm just up the road

from here that sent him a statement every quarter and rarely

asked him to make any decisions whatsoever.

“Nina Braxton was buying into enterprises that could

make a great deal of money if they were successful,” he explained, “but they were highly risky and, therefore, quite