Mrs. Jeffries and the Best Laid Plans by Emily Brightwell Page B
Authors: Emily Brightwell
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about.” She laughed. “Cook flat out told him if she couldn’t go to Helen’s funeral, she’d be moving on, and so did the tweeny and the upstairs maid.”
“So Mr. Boyd relented and gave you permission,” Barnes pressed. “Was he angry about it?”
“He wasn’t happy, but he had a difficult time hanging onto servants in the first place so he’d not much choice. Cook came up with a menu for a cold luncheon that let him salvage his pride and act as if he were being generous in saying we could go, but I’m sure he planned on making everyone’s life miserable for having the nerve to challenge his authority.” She laughed again. “What he didn’t know was that all of us were still planning on leaving.”
“Including you?” Witherspoon watched her closely.
“Including me, Inspector,” she admitted. “I’m going to Australia. I’ve got enough money saved to open a business and build a life for myself. Cook’s going to retire, and the upstairs maid is getting married. The tweeny and the downstairs girl won’t have any problem finding work as they’re both fully trained.”
“What time did you leave the house that morning?” Barnes asked.
“Early,” she replied. “The food was all ready and in the wet larder. I’d made sure that Mary—she’s the downstairs girl—had set the table properly, and I’d left Mr. Boyd’s breakfast on a warming plate in the dining room. We left at half past seven; the funeral was set for ten o’clock, but it was in Helen’s village church so we had to get to Paddington Station in time for the 8:10 train.”
“So you went to the funeral and then came back. Can you tell us what you saw when you arrived home?” Witherspoon shifted in his seat, his backside had gone quite numb. If the rest of the furniture was this uncomfortable, he knew Glover had to be lying. Napping on one of these chairs would be like trying to sleep on a bed of rocks.
“Mr. Boyd had insisted we return in time to serve luncheon, so we came back straightaway after the funeral.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “You’d have thought he and his guests could serve themselves, but oh, no, we had to come back. We barely had time to pay our respects to Helen’s family. But I digress. We arrived home to find the fire wagon outside and the fire brigade all over the place.”
“Were Mr. Glover and Miss Clarke here?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, it was Mr. Glover who told us that Mr. Boyd was dead.” She shrugged. “I know I sound heartless, but he wasn’t a very nice person. I was one of the few relatives the man had, but do you think he’d let me live here as family? He did not. He put me to work as his housekeeper and insisted I call him Mr. Boyd.”
“You said he had a problem keeping staff,” Witherspoon said. “What exactly did you mean?”
“People wouldn’t stay,” she replied. “When one is in service, taking care of a single man rather than an entire family is supposed to be one of the easier situations. But he was as hard to please as a houseful of maiden aunts. Good gracious, if there was a speck of dust on the furniture he’d scream like a banshee.
If cook was a minute late getting food on the table, he’d go into the kitchen himself and humiliate the woman, and he made the poor butler’s life a living hell.”
“Did Leeson plan on leaving as well?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.
“He was going to retire.” Hannah Rothwell grinned broadly. “The poor man deserves some peace and quiet after what he’s been through with my cousin.”
“Why did he stay?” Witherspoon asked curiously.
“Lawrence paid well,” she replied. “That’s the only reason any of us stayed. But even decent wages don’t make up for being treated badly. Not these days.”
Witherspoon thought about asking if Boyd had enemies and then changed his mind as the question had already been answered. Instead, he said, “Had Mr. Boyd recently sacked anyone who might want to extract revenge
“So Mr. Boyd relented and gave you permission,” Barnes pressed. “Was he angry about it?”
“He wasn’t happy, but he had a difficult time hanging onto servants in the first place so he’d not much choice. Cook came up with a menu for a cold luncheon that let him salvage his pride and act as if he were being generous in saying we could go, but I’m sure he planned on making everyone’s life miserable for having the nerve to challenge his authority.” She laughed again. “What he didn’t know was that all of us were still planning on leaving.”
“Including you?” Witherspoon watched her closely.
“Including me, Inspector,” she admitted. “I’m going to Australia. I’ve got enough money saved to open a business and build a life for myself. Cook’s going to retire, and the upstairs maid is getting married. The tweeny and the downstairs girl won’t have any problem finding work as they’re both fully trained.”
“What time did you leave the house that morning?” Barnes asked.
“Early,” she replied. “The food was all ready and in the wet larder. I’d made sure that Mary—she’s the downstairs girl—had set the table properly, and I’d left Mr. Boyd’s breakfast on a warming plate in the dining room. We left at half past seven; the funeral was set for ten o’clock, but it was in Helen’s village church so we had to get to Paddington Station in time for the 8:10 train.”
“So you went to the funeral and then came back. Can you tell us what you saw when you arrived home?” Witherspoon shifted in his seat, his backside had gone quite numb. If the rest of the furniture was this uncomfortable, he knew Glover had to be lying. Napping on one of these chairs would be like trying to sleep on a bed of rocks.
“Mr. Boyd had insisted we return in time to serve luncheon, so we came back straightaway after the funeral.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “You’d have thought he and his guests could serve themselves, but oh, no, we had to come back. We barely had time to pay our respects to Helen’s family. But I digress. We arrived home to find the fire wagon outside and the fire brigade all over the place.”
“Were Mr. Glover and Miss Clarke here?” Barnes asked.
“Yes, it was Mr. Glover who told us that Mr. Boyd was dead.” She shrugged. “I know I sound heartless, but he wasn’t a very nice person. I was one of the few relatives the man had, but do you think he’d let me live here as family? He did not. He put me to work as his housekeeper and insisted I call him Mr. Boyd.”
“You said he had a problem keeping staff,” Witherspoon said. “What exactly did you mean?”
“People wouldn’t stay,” she replied. “When one is in service, taking care of a single man rather than an entire family is supposed to be one of the easier situations. But he was as hard to please as a houseful of maiden aunts. Good gracious, if there was a speck of dust on the furniture he’d scream like a banshee.
If cook was a minute late getting food on the table, he’d go into the kitchen himself and humiliate the woman, and he made the poor butler’s life a living hell.”
“Did Leeson plan on leaving as well?” Barnes looked up from his notebook.
“He was going to retire.” Hannah Rothwell grinned broadly. “The poor man deserves some peace and quiet after what he’s been through with my cousin.”
“Why did he stay?” Witherspoon asked curiously.
“Lawrence paid well,” she replied. “That’s the only reason any of us stayed. But even decent wages don’t make up for being treated badly. Not these days.”
Witherspoon thought about asking if Boyd had enemies and then changed his mind as the question had already been answered. Instead, he said, “Had Mr. Boyd recently sacked anyone who might want to extract revenge
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