Mrs. Jeffries Speaks Her Mind Read Online Free PDF

furniture filling the room was upholstered in a dark sapphire and rose striped fabric.
    Bernadine Fox stared at her two visitors. They were sitting in front of the fireplace; she was on the center of the sofa and Witherspoon was on her right. Barnes had taken a straight-backed chair by the hearth. She was a small, slender, rather attractive middle-aged woman with blue eyes and streaks of gray in her dark brown hair. She wore a gray skirt and a high-necked white blouse with an onyx and gold pin at her neck. “I wouldn’t have even seen her if I hadn’t glanced out the window.” She bit her lip and looked away.
    Witherspoon nodded sympathetically. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”
    She sniffed, pulled a white handkerchief out of her sleeve, and dabbed at her eyes. “It certainly was. One doesn’t expect to see one’s neighbor lying in the garden.”
    Barnes looked up from his little brown notebook. “What time was this, Mrs. Fox?”
    “It was just past ten o’clock,” she replied.
    “You looked at the clock?”
    “Yes”—she pointed at the grandfather clock standing by the door—“and I noted the time. I was wondering if Olive—Miss Kettering—was going to come over for a cup of coffee.” She sighed.
    “Was it Miss Kettering’s habit to come over each morning?” the inspector asked.
    “It wasn’t a habit, but she did occasionally come by and we’d have our morning coffee together. I was all alone here, as I’d let my maid go to a funeral, and I knew she was alone as well.”
    “They all went to Elsa Grant’s funeral, is that correct?” Barnes asked.
    She nodded. “Yes, that’s right. She was Miss Kettering’s cook. Her death was sad, but certainly not unexpected. She’d been ill on and off for some time.”
    “This flat is beautiful.” Witherspoon glanced around the room as he spoke. “Did Miss Kettering let it furnished?”
    “Certainly not,” she replied. “The furnishings and the fixtures are all mine. It was nothing but bare walls when I rented the place.”
    Witherspoon nodded. “Do you live here alone?”
    “Yes. I moved in when my husband passed away.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I have a maid, but she doesn’t live in, and before you ask, I pay the maid’s wages, not Miss Kettering.”
    “How long have you lived here?” Barnes asked.
    “Five years, but what does that have to do with Olive’s death?”
    The constable smiled slightly. “It’s just routine, ma’am,” he assured her.
    “Can you tell us everything that happened this morning?” Witherspoon asked softly.
    “There isn’t much to tell.” She shrugged. “I went to the window to see if the rain had let up—I knew Olive wouldn’t venture out if it was still storming. When I looked out, I saw her lying on the ground. I grabbed my cloak and rushed out. At that point, I didn’t know she’d been shot.” Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes.
    “Please go on,” the inspector prompted. “I know this is difficult, but the more we know, the faster we can catch the person who did this to her.”
    She nodded. “Yes, of course. As I said, I rushed out and when I reached her, I saw straightaway that she’d been shot. For a moment, I simply stood there, blinking my eyes, sure that I was seeing things. Then I realized I had to fetch the police.”
    “Had the rain completely stopped by then?” Barnes asked.
    “I think so.” She frowned slightly. “Oh, to be honest, I don’t remember. I don’t remember much of anything except running toward Faroe Road. I had my cloak over my head so I don’t . . . actually, I think the rain had stopped. Yes, yes, it had. I remember now. When I got there, I saw the constable up the road so I screamed and waved my arms. He came straightaway and when I told him what I’d seen, that someone had been shot, he blew his whistle and summoned more help. Then we came back here.”
    Witherspoon eased back against the cushions. “What time are the