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Mrs. Jeffries and the Alms of the Angel (A Victorian Mystery)
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About Mrs. Jeffries And The Alms Of The Angel
Product Description When a wealthy widow is murdered, Mrs. Jeffries investigates what happens when money can't buy your life in this all-new installment in the beloved Victorian Mystery series.Margaret Starling wasn’t the sort of woman anyone expected to be murdered. She was on the advisory board of the London Angel Alms Society, she was an active member of St. Peter’s Church, and, best of all, she was always willing to lend a hand to a friend or a neighbor in need of advice. She was also a wealthy upper-class widow. But money alone won’t protect you when someone decides it’s high time you met your maker. Margaret’s next-door neighbor considered her an odious busybody, the Reverend Reginald Pontefract wished she’d never set foot in St. Andrew’s, and half the advisory board of the London Angel Alms Society heartily hoped she’d come down with a case of the gout before the next quarterly meeting. All in all, Margaret wasn’t as well regarded as she’d always thought she was. But Mrs. Jeffries and Inspector Witherspoon know that justice isn’t a popularity contest, and they won’t rest until they sift through the suspects to catch a sinister scrooge. About the Author Emily Brightwell is the New York Times bestselling author of thirty-eight Inspector Witherspoon and Mrs. Jeffries books. Visit her website at emilybrightwell.com. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 Darkness could conceal numerous sins, but on this December night the killer needed it to hide only one. The traffic from the busy street outside the five-story house would cover any noise the victim might make, and she was the only one to worry about; the servants were gone. She was alone and that wasn't just luck, either. It was good planning. The assailant glanced to the right, confirming that the house next door had already closed the curtains for the evening. Again, good planning. Moving faster now, the murderer hurried down the cobblestone walkway and into the garden proper. It was black as sin, but that was of no concern. The slayer had been here many times before. The garden was huge, especially for a London house. It was separated from its neighbor by a hedge of now barren gooseberry bushes. A strip of grass stood between the shrubbery and an old uneven cobblestone path that ended at the edge of the small kitchen terrace. Across the lawn were two huge oak trees, now bare and stripped of their leaves, and a seven-foot-tall statue of an angel with outstretched arms. Rosebushes, cut back for the winter, stood sentinel at the far end of the property next to a garden shed. Stopping at the edge of the terrace, the killer put down the sack. Giving the burlap a well-placed kick, the murderer laughed as an enraged series of shrieks and screeches came from the depths of the bag. Good. That should get the old witch outside. The air had turned colder and it was well past time to deal with the matter at hand. The cat would be released when it was finished. It was important that "Gladstone" be alive in the days to come-not that the murderer cared whether the foul-tempered feline lived or died, but it wouldn't do to have anyone notice the animal had gone missing only this morning. The police weren't complete fools, and the plan could go awry if they managed to connect Gladstone's disappearance with tonight's task. Catching the creature had been easy: The kitchen door was always held open with a brick. The miserable cow didn't care that her servants might freeze, but she did want her ill-mannered cat to come and go as he pleased. Only minutes after the scullery maid had propped open the door early this morning, a few ounces of fresh fish on the side of the terrace had done the trick. Gladstone loved to eat-loved it so much, it barely registered when he was scruffed, picked up, and tossed into a heavy burlap potato bag. The catnapping had been done early enough to avoid anyone on the street noticing a wiggling sack or hearing G
