Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans by Emily Brightwell Page A

do this morning. Mr. Boyd’s solicitor and the vicar will be here soon.”
    “Are they meeting Mr. Boyd’s family here?” Witherspoon asked curiously. That was a bit of luck; he’d been planning on speaking to the victim’s lawyer.
    “They are coming to see me, Inspector. I’m Lawrence’s cousin as well as his housekeeper. We’ve got to arrange the funeral.” She walked to the settee, sat down, and gestured at the two chairs. “Please take a seat.”
    They seated themselves and Barnes took out his notebook. Witherspoon wasn’t sure where to begin. It hadn’t occurred to him that the housekeeper might be the victim’s kin. “You’re Mr. Boyd’s cousin?”
    “I just said I was,” she replied.
    “Did he have many relatives?” Barnes asked. Finding out how many heirs were left to squabble over the spoils was always a good place to start a murder investigation.
    “He had some cousins in Scotland, but he hasn’t seen or spoken to them in years,” she replied. She smiled faintly at Barnes. “But I’m not the sole heir, believe me. If I know Lawrence, and I did, I suspect he’s left his estate to some ridiculous charity or an art museum.”
    “Mr. Boyd was a generous man, I take it,” the inspector commented.
    “Gracious no.” She laughed heartily. “Lawrence was a mean-spirited, nasty excuse for a human being. But he did love getting his name put about on everything. That’s why he was always giving charities and societies money.” She leaned slightly forward. “So far, he’s got his name on a park bench, a plaque at Clapham Foundling Home, and at least three annual prizes at the Amateur Artists Guild. There’s the Lawrence Boyd Prize for the best pastoral watercolour, the Lawrence Boyd Prize for the most outstanding cityscape done in oils, and . . . oh, bother, I can’t remember what the third one was, but it was something equally silly. I think some of the groups he belonged to simply made up prizes so they could get a bit of cash out of him.”
    “I see.” Witherspoon took a deep breath. Sometimes, he was glad he had so few relatives. At least no one of his own blood hated him. “Er, can you give us an account of the household’s movements yesterday?”
    “We went to a funeral, Inspector.” She looked at him as though he were a half-wit. “I believe you were informed of that fact yesterday. Have you forgotten?”
    “No, ma’am, I haven’t forgotten. What I’m asking for is more detail,” he explained patiently. “I’d like an accounting of everything that happened yesterday from the time the household awoke until you all returned from the funeral.”
    Her lips pursed disapprovingly, but she shrugged. “All right, well, let’s see. I got up at half past five, which is an hour earlier than usual.”
    “Why was that?” Barnes asked.
    “I knew we were going to the funeral, and as there was also a luncheon planned, we had to take extra time to get everything ready.”
    “Mr. Boyd didn’t mind his staff leaving on the day he had a social engagement?” Witherspoon asked.
    “He was furious.” She smiled broadly. “But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Helen had worked here, and we were all very fond of the girl.”
    “Helen was the person who died?” Witherspoon interrupted. He wanted to keep everything straight in his own mind. These were the sort of details that might turn out to be important.
    “Yes.” She nodded. “Helen Cleminger. She was a housemaid here for four years. She was from a small village outside St. Albans, and when she took ill, she went home. Unfortunately, she didn’t recover. She caught pneumonia this winter, and it kept getting worse and worse. It finally killed the poor girl. She was only twenty-two. But as I was saying, he could hardly object to the staff wanting to pay their last respects. Oh, he tried to bully us into not going. But these days, servants have more choices. No one has to work here. There are plenty of positions