Mrs. Jeffries & the Yuletide Weddings by Emily Brightwell Page B
Authors: Emily Brightwell
Ads: Link
low, he couldn’t hear a word.
He leaned to his right, trying to hear what a white-haired old dear on that side was talking about, and as Luty would say, he hit pay dirt.
“Eddie Butcher claims that she was being followed. He was outside cleaning the Morrisons’ gutters yesterday afternoon when she came out her front door. It had stopped raining for a bit, and Eddie was trying to get the job done so he could be paid. Anyways, he said there was a man that ducked out of the stairwell at the Hogart place, that’s the empty building just next to hers, and he trailed after her,” the woman said to her companion, a younger dark- haired woman with a basket containing a few wilting flowers on the counter in front of her.
“Don’t be daft,” basket lady scoffed. “Half the roughs in Barnsbury have been dossing in that stairwell. Besides, you can’t believe a word he says. Eddie lies. He makes up tales as easy as water chucks down a drainpipe. Who would possibly want to follow Agatha Moran? The woman was an old stick if there ever was one. My Daisy goes in and cleans at the hotel every month or so when they do the heavy work, and she says the woman is so proper she wouldn’t raise her voice if the ruddy room was on fire. She got murdered because she just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. These days, crime is getting terrible.”
“What’ll you have, sir?” The barman’s voice pulled his attention away from the women.
“A pint of bitter,” he said quickly.
“I’d not be so sure of that,” the other woman shot back. “She was murdered in Bayswater, and that area has more constables than a dog has fleas. Posh areas always get better patrollin’ than the rest of us. Besides, the Moran woman might be a proper old stick now, but have you ever wondered where she got the money for that hotel?”
“She saved it up from her wages,” basket lady snapped impatiently. “She used to be a governess—”
“Rubbish. No governess makes enough money to buy a house that size and turn it into a moneymakin’ business,” the other woman retorted. “You didn’t live here when Agatha Moran come along, but I did. She bought that property freehold and then spent thousands of pounds makin’ the place habitable. Believe me, there was plenty of gossip about her then. The place is huge and it’s got a big garden in the back. A place like that doesn’t come cheap.”
“Maybe she inherited money from her family.” Basket lady picked up her glass and drained it.
“Agatha Moran didn’t have any family.” The elderly woman smiled maliciously. “I told you, my friend cleans for her neighbor every now and again. She said she heard Miss Moran herself say that the reason she opened the hotel was so women like her, women with no family to fall back on, could have a decent place to live.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t have family at one time,” basket lady insisted as she slapped her empty glass onto the counter. “And I liked her. She was always very pleasant when she came into the shop. She never got impatient when I was servin’ other customers and always treated me with courtesy. I’m sorry she’s dead.”
“Well I’m sorry she’s dead, too.” The white-haired woman sniffed disapprovingly. “But I think there was someone followin’ her that day. You’re not the only one who knows someone. My friend Mary Thompson works in the house next door and she told me that there’s been two men showin’ up at the hotel in the last week. Both of them were nicely dressed—”
Basket lady interrupted. “They were probably bankers or lawyers. Agatha Moran was a businesswoman.”
“And a proper businesswoman would have gone to the bank or a solicitor’s office,” the other woman argued. She suddenly stopped speaking and stared straight at Smythe. “What are you lookin’ at?”
Smythe started in surprise. Blast a Spaniard, he really had forgotten how to handle himself when he was on the
He leaned to his right, trying to hear what a white-haired old dear on that side was talking about, and as Luty would say, he hit pay dirt.
“Eddie Butcher claims that she was being followed. He was outside cleaning the Morrisons’ gutters yesterday afternoon when she came out her front door. It had stopped raining for a bit, and Eddie was trying to get the job done so he could be paid. Anyways, he said there was a man that ducked out of the stairwell at the Hogart place, that’s the empty building just next to hers, and he trailed after her,” the woman said to her companion, a younger dark- haired woman with a basket containing a few wilting flowers on the counter in front of her.
“Don’t be daft,” basket lady scoffed. “Half the roughs in Barnsbury have been dossing in that stairwell. Besides, you can’t believe a word he says. Eddie lies. He makes up tales as easy as water chucks down a drainpipe. Who would possibly want to follow Agatha Moran? The woman was an old stick if there ever was one. My Daisy goes in and cleans at the hotel every month or so when they do the heavy work, and she says the woman is so proper she wouldn’t raise her voice if the ruddy room was on fire. She got murdered because she just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. These days, crime is getting terrible.”
“What’ll you have, sir?” The barman’s voice pulled his attention away from the women.
“A pint of bitter,” he said quickly.
“I’d not be so sure of that,” the other woman shot back. “She was murdered in Bayswater, and that area has more constables than a dog has fleas. Posh areas always get better patrollin’ than the rest of us. Besides, the Moran woman might be a proper old stick now, but have you ever wondered where she got the money for that hotel?”
“She saved it up from her wages,” basket lady snapped impatiently. “She used to be a governess—”
“Rubbish. No governess makes enough money to buy a house that size and turn it into a moneymakin’ business,” the other woman retorted. “You didn’t live here when Agatha Moran come along, but I did. She bought that property freehold and then spent thousands of pounds makin’ the place habitable. Believe me, there was plenty of gossip about her then. The place is huge and it’s got a big garden in the back. A place like that doesn’t come cheap.”
“Maybe she inherited money from her family.” Basket lady picked up her glass and drained it.
“Agatha Moran didn’t have any family.” The elderly woman smiled maliciously. “I told you, my friend cleans for her neighbor every now and again. She said she heard Miss Moran herself say that the reason she opened the hotel was so women like her, women with no family to fall back on, could have a decent place to live.”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t have family at one time,” basket lady insisted as she slapped her empty glass onto the counter. “And I liked her. She was always very pleasant when she came into the shop. She never got impatient when I was servin’ other customers and always treated me with courtesy. I’m sorry she’s dead.”
“Well I’m sorry she’s dead, too.” The white-haired woman sniffed disapprovingly. “But I think there was someone followin’ her that day. You’re not the only one who knows someone. My friend Mary Thompson works in the house next door and she told me that there’s been two men showin’ up at the hotel in the last week. Both of them were nicely dressed—”
Basket lady interrupted. “They were probably bankers or lawyers. Agatha Moran was a businesswoman.”
“And a proper businesswoman would have gone to the bank or a solicitor’s office,” the other woman argued. She suddenly stopped speaking and stared straight at Smythe. “What are you lookin’ at?”
Smythe started in surprise. Blast a Spaniard, he really had forgotten how to handle himself when he was on the
Similar Books
