Mrs. Jeffries and the Midwinter Murders Berkley Prime Crime titles by Emily Brightwell the inspector and mrs. jeffries mrs. jeffries dusts for clues the ghost and mrs. jeffries mrs. jeffries takes stock mrs. jeffries on the ball mrs. jeffries on the trail mrs. jeffries plays the cook mrs. jeffries and the missing alibi mrs. jeffries stands corrected mrs. jeffries takes the stage mrs. jeffries questions the answer mrs. jeffries reveals her art mrs. jeffries takes the cake mrs. jeffries rocks the boat mrs. jeffries weeds the plot mrs. jeffries pinches the post mrs. jeffries pleads her case mrs. jeffries sweeps the chimney mrs. jeffries stalks the hunter mrs. jeffries and the silent knight mrs. jeffries appeals the verdict mrs. jeffries and the best laid plans mrs. jeffries and the feast of st. stephen mrs. jeffries holds the trump mrs. jeffries in the nick of time mrs. jeffries and the yuletide weddings mrs. jeffries speaks her mind mrs. jeffries forges ahead mrs. jeffries and the mistletoe mix-up mrs. jeffries defends her own mrs. jeffries turns the tide mrs. jeffries and the merry gentlemen mrs. jeffries and the one who got away mrs. jeffries wins the prize mrs. jeffries rights a wrong mrs. jeffries and the three wise women mrs. jeffries and the alms of the angel mrs. jeffries and the midwinter murders Anthologies mrs. jeffries learns the trade mrs. jeffries takes a second look mrs. jeffries takes tea at three mrs. jeffries sallies forth mrs. jeffries pleads the fifth mrs. jeffries serves at six Mrs. Jeffries and the Midwinter Murders 9 Emily Brightwell Berkley Prime Crime New York BERKLEY PRIME CRIME Published by Berkley An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC penguinrandomhouse.com Copyright © 2021 by Cheryl A. Arguile Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader. BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Brightwell, Emily, author. Title: Mrs. Jeffries and the midwinter murders / Emily Brightwell. Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2021. | Series: A Victorian mystery; 40 Identifiers: LCCN 2021022238 (print) | LCCN 2021022239 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593101087 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593101094 (ebook) Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. Classification: LCC PS3552.R46443 M635 2021 (print) | LCC PS3552.R46443 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54-dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021022238 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021022239 Printed in the United States of America 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is dedicated to the Very Reverend Jeffery Paul with thanks and gratitude for all his help, and to St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Carson City, Nevada Chapter 1 "How much longer is your wife going to keep us waiting?" Ellen Swineburn glared at the empty chair opposite her father before turning her attention to the others around the elegantly set table. Percy, her brother, drummed his fingers on the top of the silver napkin ring around his serviette. Next to him, Marcella Blakstone, their houseguest, took another sip from the aperitif she'd carried in from the drawing room. Ellen pursed her lips in disapproval. Marcella was her stepmother's friend and, like her stepmother, was immune to the subtle nuances that separated the genuinely well bred from upstart pretenders. The frown disappeared off her thin, horsey face as her gaze met that of the Reverend Daniel Wheeler, the handsome nephew of the very same stepmother who was keeping everyone waiting for their dinner. "Be a bit patient, Ellen," Jacob Andover, her father, replied. "I'm sure Harriet's on her way down. She wouldn't deliberately keep everyone waiting." "You said that ten minutes ago," Percy interjected. He pushed his spectacles up his thin nose. "I'm hungry and we've waited long enough. I say you tell Mrs. Barnard to start serving." Jacob sighed and reached for the small bell at the side of his plate. Picking it up, he rang it, and a moment later, the housekeeper, who was waiting in the adjoining butler's pantry with the serving maid, stepped through the door and stopped just inside the huge dining room. "Ah, Mrs. Barnard, send one of the maids upstairs to see what's keeping Mrs. Andover." "She's not upstairs, sir. I don't think Mrs. Andover has come out of the conservatory as yet," Mrs. Barnard replied. "Then send the maid to the conservatory and tell her we're waiting," he instructed. "Right away, sir." Mrs. Barnard disappeared. "Thank you, Father," Ellen said before looking again at Daniel Wheeler. The good reverend was tall, well proportioned, and youthful looking for someone she knew to be forty-one. Brown haired with just a sprinkling of distinguished-looking gray at his temples, he had a lean, attractive face, his complexion was smooth, and his deep-set eyes were a warm brown. She found it difficult to believe that someone as refined, well educated, and intelligent was a blood relative of her very common stepmother. "One hates to be insistent, but we do have guests and we can't keep them waiting for their suppers." She gave Daniel a bright smile as she spoke. "Please, Ellen, don't be concerned on my account," Daniel said quickly. "I'm sure Aunt Harriet will be here soon and then we can all enjoy a lovely meal together." "You were late getting home today." Ellen slipped her serviette out of her napkin ring. "Did you find something interesting in your research?" "I did indeed. There isn't much known about the real life of Saint Matthew, but I find that reading the history of Israel from that time period provides fascinating details on how he must have lived and what he had to endure to be a follower of our Lord." "Do you enjoy doing research?" Marcella Blakstone asked. "Very much." He took a sip of water. "Of course he does," Ellen cut in, annoyed that Marcella was trying to interject herself into their conversation. She shot the attractive, blonde-haired widow a stern frown. "He'd hardly have come here all the way from America if he didn't." "Well, I, for one, find mucking about in libraries very tedious," Percy said. "I like being outdoors and breathing fresh air." "As do I." Daniel grinned. "But I also like mucking about in libraries, and the Reading Room of the British Museum is wonderful." "But I'm sure there must be some wonderful libraries in California." Marcella smiled again. "I've always wanted to visit San Francisco. It sounds like such a colorful city." Mrs. Barnard reappeared, her broad face creased with concern. "Excuse me, sir, but the conservatory door is locked and there's no answer. I've sent Marlene down to the kitchen to get the other key." "It isn't like Mrs. Andover to be late for dinner." Jacob rose to his feet and moved toward the hallway. "I'll go and see what's happened. She might have fallen asleep." "Well, do hurry it up, we're all hungry," Ellen called after him. Jacob stepped into the hall, his footsteps making no sound on the new, thick carpeting Harriet had just had installed. Mrs. Barnard was right behind him, but he walked so fast, it was hard for her to keep up with him. They reached the end of the long hall. The conservatory door was directly opposite the servants' stairs leading to the kitchen. Jacob raised his fist and banged lightly against the wood. "Harriet, Harriet, are you alright? Have you fallen asleep?" He paused, listening for a reply, but heard nothing. He banged again, this time hard enough to rattle the sconces halfway down the corridor, and then again before putting his ear to the wood. There was still nothing but silence. "Are you certain she's not upstairs?" he asked the housekeeper. "I'm certain, sir," Mrs. Barnard replied. "Right before I brought the trolley up with the first course, the upstairs maid told me she'd taken some extra blankets into Mrs. Andover's room and she wasn't there nor was she in her study." "What about the library or the little drawing room?" "She isn't in any of those places, sir. I've looked. Oh good, here's Marlene with the key." The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and then handed the key to the housekeeper. But before she could move, Jacob grabbed it, shoved it into the keyhole, and unlocked the door. He stepped inside, followed by Mrs. Barnard and the housemaid. Alarmed now, he rushed past the two huge ferns standing either side of the door, irritably brushing a dangling frond out of his way. "Harriet, Harriet, are you in here? For God's sake, we've been waiting for fifteen minutes." The short corridor opened into an oblong-shaped room. The floor was cream-and-white tile, which contrasted beautifully with the green metal of the conservatory skeleton and the heavy glass of the walls. On the far side there was an outside door flanked by two polished brass urns overflowing with massive blossoms of white jasmine. Barrels with blooming red and pink geraniums, begonias, African violets, and Christmas cactus were placed around the perimeter. Interspersed among them were colorful ceramic pots, plant stands filled with exotic greenery, and urns with vibrant blooms from all over the world. A set of white wicker furniture with red upholstered cushions and two matching chairs stood next to a round table with three straight-backed chairs. One of the chairs had overturned. "Oh my God, Harriet." Jacob broke into a run as he saw his wife lying on the floor next to the upended chair. Mrs. Barnard gasped and Marlene screamed as she saw her mistress sprawled on the floor. Harriet Andover lay on her back, her attention focused on the ceiling. Tendrils of hair had slipped out of her chignon, her eyes were open, her tongue protruded, and there was a snakelike red-and-black sash wound around her neck. Jacob dropped to his knees. "Oh my God, Harriet, Harriet, what's happened to you?" He grabbed his wife by the shoulders and began to shake her gently. "Harriet, Harriet, for God's sake, speak to me." The others, alerted by the maid's scream, came racing inside. "My Lord, what's all the fuss about?" Percy demanded. He skidded to a halt, causing his sister to stumble into his back and Marcella Blakstone to dodge to one side to avoid crashing into both of them. Daniel Wheeler came in last. For a long moment, no one said anything; they simply stared at the fallen woman. Marcella Blakstone's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh Lord, what's wrong with her? Has she had a stroke or a heart attack?" "Harriet, Harriet, wake up." Jacob shook her again. "For God's sake, speak to me." "Goodness, I hope she's alright," Marcella cried. "Why isn't she waking up? Why isn't she saying anything?" "Of course she's going to be alright," Ellen snapped. But then her voice trailed off as Daniel Wheeler shoved past her and the others, dodged around Jacob, and knelt down on the other side of his aunt. He stared at her, his gaze moving quickly over her face and body before fixing on her neck. Then he put a finger under her nose and grasped her wrist with his other hand. "What are you doing?" Jacob demanded, but Daniel ignored him and merely raised his other hand for silence. "Don't raise your hand to me, I asked what you're doing," Jacob barked. "Please, Jacob, I've some experience in these matters. I'm trying to find her pulse." "Find her pulse?" Jacob repeated. "That's ridiculous, she's merely fainted or had some sort of attack or some such thing." But Daniel ignored him, dropping her wrist and reaching toward her neck. He pushed the length of fabric to one side and shoved his fingers against her skin. After a few moments, he leaned back and studied her, his attention focused on the red-and-black-plaid cloth and her chest. Then he looked at Jacob. "She's no pulse and she's not breathing. She's gone." "How do you know that? You're not a doctor." Jacob eased his wife's shoulders onto the floor. "She's merely unconscious." "Jacob, I'm so very sorry, but as I said, I've had some experience in this area. I'm familiar with both illness and death. I helped the doctors at my parish in Carson City as well as the mission houses in San Francisco and Sacramento. My dear aunt is gone. She's been called home to the Lord." "She can't be gone, she can't be," Jacob insisted. "We'll call the doctor. Yes, that's right, we'll get the doctor." "I'm afraid you're going to have to call the police." Leaning over, he pulled the red-and-black sash to one side and showed them the deep indention on her neck. "Someone has strangled her." ÒWe sent for you as soon as we saw the ligature around the poor womanÕs neck,Ó Griffiths said to Inspector Witherspoon as he led the way down the corridor to the conservatory. "Has the body been moved?" Witherspoon asked as they stepped inside. "Yes, but not by much. Mr. Andover, the victim's husband, didn't realize she was dead and moved her about." Griffiths pointed to the center of the room. "She's over there, sir. I've had the family wait in the drawing room. They're all very upset." "Thank you, Constable." Gerald Witherspoon was a man of medium height with a pale, bony face, spectacles, and thinning brown hair. "Has the police surgeon been notified?" His steps slowed as he spotted the body. He didn't like corpses, the truth was he was dreadfully squeamish, but he knew his duty. "Yes, sir, it's Dr. Procash. He should be here soon." The inspector steeled himself and knelt down by the dead woman. Constable Griffiths knelt down on the other side. Witherspoon gently moved what looked like a thick, dressing gown sash to one side and stared at her neck. "She was strangled." "It looks like it, sir," Griffiths said. "Her name is Harriet Andover?" Witherspoon clarified. "And I take it she's mistress here." "Yes, sir. Her husband is Jacob Andover. They found her body when she didn't come in for dinner." "Do we know what this is?" Witherspoon pointed at the length of flannel wound loosely around her neck. Griffiths glanced over his shoulder toward the door. "No one has said, sir, but when I came in, I overheard one of the maids say it looked like the sash to Mr. Andover's dressing gown." Excerpted from Mrs. Jeffries and the Midwinter Murders by Emily Brightwell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
