Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings by Emily Brightwell Page A

the sound of it, he got out of here as fast as possible.” She laughed. “I think he was making a run for it, if you know what I mean.”
    “Did you happen to hear any sort of a response from the man? Did he say anything when Miss Moran raised her voice?”
    “Not too much,” she replied. “But when he reached the front door, he said something like—” She broke off with a frown. “I want to make sure I repeat what he said correctly.”
    “I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” Witherspoon gave her another encouraging smile.
    “He said, ‘You’ve no right to ask such a thing of me. The years haven’t been kind to me, either, and now that I’ve a real chance at happiness, I’m not going to risk it for someone I don’t even know.’ Then he opened the front door and left. He must have not closed it properly, because I heard her run down the hallway, and a second later, she slammed the door shut.” Her eyes grew troubled and she looked away. “I think she was crying by then. No, I tell a lie. I know she was. I could hear her sobbing.” She sighed. “I felt really awful for her, but I knew she wouldn’t appreciate any words of comfort. She wasn’t one to show her feelings. That’s what was so surprising about the whole incident. Agatha Moran has been my landlady for years, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard her raise her voice. It was frightening, Inspector, very frightening.”
    Witherspoon reached over and patted her hand. “I’m sure it was, Miss Bannister. Something had upset Miss Moran dreadfully, and I suspect that whatever trouble the poor woman had found had much to do with her murder. But you must take comfort in the fact that we’ll do our very best to find the person who took her life. Are you certain you didn’t catch a glimpse of the man? It would be useful if we had some sort of description of him.” He knew that Barnes would be able to get a description from Ellen Crowe, but it never hurt to have more than one.
    She shook her head. “I tried to move farther down the stairs to get a peek at him, but I wasn’t fast enough to see his face. All I saw was a tall, dark blur as he left. These eyes of mine are old. I’m sorry, Inspector. I wish I could help you.”
    “That’s quite alright, ma’am,” he said quickly. “Your statement is very useful, and I’m sure it’ll help us in our inquiries.”
    “Good. I liked Agatha Moran. She was decent to me and to everyone else in this house.”
     
    Smythe put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins together as he stepped out of the small shed used by the hansom cab drivers for having a quick cup of tea and taking a break. He’d been all over North London, and so far he’d not found out a blooming thing. He’d questioned all the drivers, but none of them had picked up a woman matching Agatha Moran’s description. But as there was also an omnibus stop two streets over from her house, it was likely she might have used the omnibus and not a cab.
    He pulled his coat tighter against the chill wind and started across the road. As he dodged past a cooper’s van, he spotted a pub and decided to try his luck. There was always gossip to be had in a pub.
    He pushed through the door of the Angels Arms Pub, paused just inside, and surveyed the area. It was a good, working-class establishment: plain whitewashed walls, wood floors scratched and scarred with age, and wooden benches along the walls. A small fire burned in the fireplace on the far side of the room, and people crowded up against the bar as all the tables and benches were full. He worked his way through the crowd to the bar and wedged himself between a lad in a porkpie hat and an elderly woman.
    The pub was busy, so it took a few minutes to get the barman’s attention, but he was in no hurry. He leaned slightly to his left trying to hear what the young man next to him was saying to his companion, a young woman wearing an overcoat and a maid’s cap.
    Their voices were so