Mrs. Jeffries and the Mistletoe Mix-Up by Emily Brightwell Page B

relationships, but he sensed that something wasn’t right between these two. But that wasn’t his concern. He turned his attention to Leon. “You do understand we’ll need to know the name of your solicitor and the time you arrived home last night.”
    “He got home at eight o’clock, just in time for dinner,” Glenda said. “And the solicitor’s name is Jonathan Harwood. He has offices at number six Warwick Way in Pimlico.” Even though she was answering the inspector, her eyes never left her husband’s face.
     
    Smythe entered the Dirty Duck Pub and stopped inside the door. It was just past opening time, and the place wasn’t crowded yet. He scanned the room and spotted his quarry sitting alone at a table near the fireplace. He headed toward him.
    Blimpey Groggins glanced up and grinned broadly as he saw Smythe. Blimpey was a short, portly fellow with ginger-colored hair, red cheeks, and a round face. “Hello, hello! It’s always nice to see one of my favorite customers. Are ya here for business or are ya just stoppin’ in to wish me a Merry Christmas?”
    Smythe raised an eyebrow as he yanked out the stool and sat. “Come on now, Blimpey, pull the other one. You know good and well why I’m ’ere.”
    “’Course I do, but that don’t mean we can’t be civil and wish each other the best of the holiday season.” Groggins held up two fingers toward the barman. “You’ll ’ave a pint. So, yer guv caught the McCourt case.”
    “’E did. Seems like every Christmas ’e gets a real tangled one to sort out.” Smythe wasn’t surprised that Blimpey already knew why he’d come. It was Blimpey’s job to know everything that went on in London. He was an information dealer, and Smythe was one of his best customers.
    Groggins had once been a thief, with second-story work as his specialty. But after an unfortunate fall from an upper-floor balcony that resulted in a painful dog bite to his backside, he’d decided to find another way to make a living. Blessed with a phenomenal memory, Blimpey realized that with a bit of thought and effort on his part, he could put his ability to good use and make a handsome livelihood. He had sources in all the police stations, the courts, the financial district, the different commercial districts, the banks, the docks, and even the newspaper offices. His clients ranged from insurance companies looking to make sure a fire had been an accident to thieves wanting to know whether their latest fence was trustworthy. Blimpey treated all of his clients with both discretion and respect while charging them an arm and a leg. Smythe wasn’t lazy, and he did do a fair bit of investigating himself, but his philosophy was that it would be foolish not to avail himself of an expert when he could well afford to do so.
    As a much younger man, Smythe had been the coachman for Euphemia Witherspoon, the inspector’s late aunt. He’d saved his wages and, with the blessings of his employer, gone to Australia to try his luck at prospecting and his luck had been very good. He’d come back to London with more money than he’d ever dreamed of and stopped in to pay his respects to his former employer. He’d found Euphemia Witherspoon lying in a sickbed. By her side was a very young footman named Wiggins, the only one of her many servants trying to take care of her. Smythe sent him for a doctor, but not before the lad had told him that the other servants had been stealing from their mistress and selling the goods. Smythe had used the threat of the law to send them packing. The doctor did his best, but despite his professional care, the woman was dying. Before she passed away, she’d made Smythe promise to stay on in the house and ensure that her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon, wasn’t taken advantage of as she’d been. Smythe had honored that promise, and in doing so, he’d ended up richer in family and friends than he’d ever thought possible.
    The barman put their pints on the table, and Smythe