Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  time he’d swallowed, Nivens was at their table. He nodded

  curtly at the two men. “Witherspoon, Barnes.”

  Nivens was a middle-aged man with dark blond hair and

  cold gray eyes. Clean shaven, he was of medium height

  with a slight portliness that couldn’t be disguised by the

  expensive black greatcoat he wore. A black bowler hat dangled from his fingers, and there was a copy of the Policemen’s Gazette tucked under his arm.

  Witherspoon smiled politely and Barnes contented himself with a grunt.

  But Nivens appeared not to notice the tepid reception.

  “You’d best be on your toes, Witherspoon.” He whipped

  out the newspaper and waved it at the two policemen.

  “You’re not the only one who can catch ruthless killers.

  You ought to read what the judge said to Tommy Odell

  when he was sentenced for Caroline Muran’s murder.”

  “I have read it,” Witherspoon said softly.

  “I’d like to go to the execution,” Nivens continued. “Too

  bad they did away with public hanging; it would be a deterrent for others, show them what happens when they disregard the law.”

  “Murder is a horrific crime,” Witherspoon commented.

  He didn’t wish to engage in a debate with Nivens, but he

  didn’t agree with him, either. He wasn’t in the least sorry

  that public executions had been banned. The idea of watching someone die, even someone who might deserve the 14

  Emily Brightwell

  punishment, was grotesque. He couldn’t imagine any human being enjoying such a spectacle.

  “Do you ever want to see any of yours hang?” Nivens

  continued chattily.

  “No.”

  “I wish I could be there,” Nivens said eagerly. “It isn’t

  fair that they’ll let the press into the hanging shed but they

  won’t let us in to watch. I’d love to see that nasty little

  woman-killer swing from the neck until he’s as dead as

  that poor woman he shot.”

  Witherspoon lost what remained of his appetite. He

  pushed his lunch away.

  “It’s odd that a pickpocket would be carrying a gun,”

  Barnes said. He watched Nivens carefully and was rewarded

  by seeing an angry flush creep up the man’s fat cheeks.

  “You sound like Odell’s counsel,” Nivens snapped. “But

  the fact is he was carrying a weapon. When the husband

  tried to fend him off, Odell panicked and shot the woman.”

  “Why didn’t he shoot the husband?” Barnes asked. A

  lot of coppers had wondered about this case; there was

  something really odd about the whole business. “Why bash

  him over the head if he had a gun? You know as well as I do

  that you can’t count on knocking someone out, even if you

  strike them with something like a brick. But a gun is generally very reliable, especially at close range.”

  Nivens shoved the newspaper back under his arm.

  “How the devil should I know why the fellow acted the way

  he did. Like most people of his class, he’s stupid. He

  pawned Mr. Muran’s pocket watch less than a mile from

  where he’d done the killing.” He glared at them. “You’d

  best watch what you say, Constable Barnes, the chief inspector won’t want questions about a closed case being bandied about. The department is still smarting over the

  licking we took from the press over those Ripper murders.”

  “Constable Barnes was simply making a comment,”

  Witherspoon said quickly.

  “Humph,” Nivens snorted. “Then I’ll thank him to keep

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  15

  his comments to himself. I’ll not have the two of you wandering about asking questions about my case. Do you understand? This was my case; I solved it and I won’t let you or anyone else ruin it for me.”

  “I assure you, Inspector,” Witherspoon said earnestly,

  “we’ve no interest in this case whatsoever.”

  Nivens said nothing for a moment, then he turned on his

  heel and stalked toward the door, almost knocking over a

  constable who had the misfortune to wander in his path.

  “I want to make sure you all understand that we’ve no

  guarantee we’ll be successful if we undertake this endeavor,” Mrs. Jeffries said. They had been debating the issue for almost an hour now and it was almost noon.

  “We’ve no guarantee we’ll be successful on any of our

  cases,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out. “So I don’t see that we’ve

  anything to worry about with this one.”

  “But like Mrs. Jeffries says, the inspector won’t be able

  to give us any bits and pieces on this one,” Wiggins countered, “and that’ll make a big difference. We might not find out anything.”

  “Of course we’ll find out things,” Mrs. Goodge argued.

  “People don’t stop talking about a murder just because

  someone’s been arrested and sentenced to hang. There’s

  plenty of information out there, and there’s no reason we

  can’t find out every little detail of what happened that

  night.”

  “Maybe we can get a copy of the police file,” Betsy

  mused.

  “We’ve no reason to ask the inspector whether or not he

  even has access to the file,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “It wasn’t his

  case.”

  “Are you sayin’ we shouldn’t do this?” Smythe asked

  the housekeeper. He was amazed that it was Mrs. Goodge,

  who wasn’t exactly a champion of the criminal classes, who

  was arguing so vehemently for their intervention. He’d

  have thought that with something like this, the chance to

  16

  Emily Brightwell

  prove someone innocent, it would be Mrs. Jeffries wanting

  them to take it on.

  She shook her head. “No, not at all. I’m merely trying

  to make sure that we all understand we might not succeed. I don’t want anyone feeling disappointed or guilty if we can’t prove Mr. Odell innocent. The task might be

  impossible.”

  “But why would it be so different?” Betsy asked. “As

  Mrs. Goodge pointed out, people will still be talking about

  the case. They’ll still be clues for us to follow up.”

  “Yes, but without the inspector actively on the case,

  we’ll need an enormous amount of evidence to get anyone

  to take notice.” She didn’t want to have to point out that

  on most of their previous cases, she’d used a deductive-

  reasoning method that relied half on instinct and half on

  evidence to catch the killer. She wasn’t sure that would

  work on this murder. The trail was cold and she had a feeling that the timing of an investigation had a direct bearing on her own sense of urgency. Perhaps she wouldn’t be able

  to pull it off this time.

  “Then we’ll get the evidence,” Smythe promised.

  “Even with evidence,” she continued, “it’ll have to be

  very compelling to get an execution stopped.”

  Smythe had had enough. They could go on arguing for

  hours, but they didn’t have that much time. “This isn’t like

  you, Mrs. J. What’s really botherin’ you?”

  She hesitated before she answered. She was almost

  afraid that voicing her concern aloud would make it come

  to pass. It was silly, but she felt it nonetheless. “My worst

  fear is that
we’ll find enough to convince ourselves the man

  didn’t commit the murder, but we won’t get enough to convince the authorities not to hang him.”

  “Cor blimey, that’d be a terrible thing,” Wiggins said

  softly.

  “I’d not like trying to sleep at night knowing an innocent man had been hung because we weren’t clever enough to save him,” Betsy murmured.

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  17

  “The police and the courts aren’t quick to admit they’ve

  made a mistake,” Smythe said.

  “And that’s why I’m hesitating,” Mrs. Jeffries blurted.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to help; it’s just that for us, the

  truth might be very hard to live with if we fail to stop the

  execution.”

  The cook looked around the table, her expression troubled. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We can’t turn our backs on someone who might be innocent just to protect

  our own feelings. If we find evidence Tommy Odell is innocent, we take it to the inspector. If that doesn’t work, we find us a newspaper or a member of Parliament or someone

  in the Home Office who’ll listen. But we don’t hide our

  heads in the sand and pretend it’s best not to do it at all

  rather than risk failin’.”

  Everyone stared at her in stunned silence.

  “Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, you’ve missed yer callin’.

  They needs the likes of you in Parliament.” Wiggins stared

  at her in admiration.

  The cook nodded regally. “Thank you, Wiggins. Perhaps one of these days women will actually get the chance to run for public office. But as that’s not likely to happen in

  my lifetime, I do hope I’ve at least changed the minds of

  those sitting around this table.”

  “You’ve changed mine,” Betsy said quickly.

  “And mine,” Smythe added.

  “Me, too,” Wiggins nodded vigorously.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Goodge, for reminding us where our

  duty actually lies.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled softly. “You’re

  right, of course. I just wanted everyone to be aware that we

  may face some sad consequences ourselves if we fail.”

  She glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. “Let’s put

  some food on the table. I’m sure Blimpey will be a bit hungry when he gets here.”

  Blimpey was delightfully surprised by the unexpected

  meal. “You didn’t ’ave to go to this trouble,” he said as he

  tucked into a plate of shepherd’s pie.

  18

  Emily Brightwell

  “It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Jeffries replied politely. “Now, if

  you don’t mind answering a few questions while you have

  your meal, we’ll see what we can do to help.”

  Blimpey swallowed hastily. “Don’t mind at all. Would it

  be easier if you asked me questions, or should I just tell ya

  what I know?”

  “Why don’t we try both,” she replied. “We’ll all ask

  questions, but if there’s anything we don’t ask that you

  think is pertinent, then by all means, speak up.”

  “When did the murders take place?” Mrs. Goodge

  asked. She had a vague idea from the newspapers, but as it

  hadn’t been a very interesting case, she’d not paid much

  attention.

  “It was the evenin’ of January thirtieth,” he said. “Mr.

  and Mrs. Muran were walkin’ down Barrick Road, which

  is on the other side of the Waterloo Bridge, when it happened. Mr. Muran was hit over the head with something and Mrs. Muran was shot. That’s how I know for sure

  Tommy didn’t do it: he’d never hurt a woman. He’d never

  hurt anyone.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “What

  time of night was it?”

  “From what my sources tell me, it was almost eleven

  o’clock.”

  “Did they take a walk every evenin’ at the same time?”

  Smythe asked.

  Blimpey shoved another bite of pie into his mouth and

  shook his head. “As far as I can tell, they weren’t takin’ a

  walk at all. They’d been to a concert at St. James Hall, which

  is this side of the river and in the West End. On their way

  home, they’d had the hansom stop and let them off.”

  “Were they close to their house?” Betsy asked.

  “The Muran house is in West Brompton. That’s miles

  from where the murder happened.”

  “Why did they stop then?” Wiggins asked.

  Blimpey shrugged. “That’s a good question, and I’m

  not sure the police ever even asked it.”

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  19

  Mrs. Jeffries ignored that. “What sort of people were the

  victims?”

  “Wealthy,” Blimpey stated. “Mrs. Muran owns the

  Merriman Metal Works Factory in Clapham. They’re rich

  people, not the sort to get out and go for a stroll in a commercial neighborhood on their way home from a concert.”

  “Perhaps it was because they were rich that they were

  picked as victims,” Mrs. Jeffries speculated.

  Blimpey shook his head. “Nah, Mrs. Muran dressed as

  plain as a pikestaff. She were raised Quaker, so she’d not

  have been sportin’ fancy clothing. Her man would have

  been in a proper suit and hat, but that’d not have marked

  them as wealthy.”

  Smythe frowned thoughtfully. “So they just happened to

  be in the wrong place at the wrong time, is that it?”

  “That’s what the police would have you believe.”

  Blimpey looked disgusted. “No disrespect meant to your

  inspector, but the police made a right old cockup of this

  case. They didn’t ask the right questions, they didn’t interview witnesses. They just found out that Tommy was the one who fenced that pocket watch and nabbed him for it.”

  “Do you know who was in charge of the case?” Betsy

  asked curiously. She hoped it wasn’t one of the inspector’s

  colleagues that they knew and liked.

  “Course I do,” Blimpey said. “It was Inspector Nigel

  Nivens.”

  C H A P T E R 2

  Q

  Mrs. Jeffries shot Wiggins a warning look and he managed to clamp his mouth shut. They loathed Nivens, but it wouldn’t do their inspector any good if that information

  was known. “I take it Inspector Nivens was the one who arrested Tommy Odell?”

  Blimpey nodded. “That’s right. Nivens come across the

  pocket watch Tommy had lifted from Mr. Muran at a

  pawnshop. The watch was fairly distinctive, and since the

  murder, Nivens had been on the lookout for it.”

  “How was it distinctive?” Mrs. Goodge asked. Life had

  taught her it was important to get the details right.

  “There was an engraving on the inside of the face plate.

  It read, ‘To my beloved Keith from his adoring wife.’ Keith

  is Mr. Muran’s Christian name. Nivens put pressure on the

  pawnshop owner and they had poor old Tommy down at

  the nick in two shakes of a mare’s tail.”

  “What’s the name of the pawnshop?” Smythe asked. He

  thought it awfully peculiar that a pawnshop that was in the

  20

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  21

  habit of receiving stolen goods would be easily intimidated

  by a police inspector.

>   “Murdoch’s. It’s on Albion Road in Soho. The owner’s

  a nasty little toad named George Rumsfield. He rolled on

  Tommy pretty fast.”

  “Any idea why?” the coachman pressed.

  “My sources tell me that Rumsfield didn’t want to have

  anything to do with murder,” Blimpey sighed. “But Tommy

  didn’t kill anyone. He lifted that watch off Keith Muran

  earlier that evenin’. He used the old bump-and-run dodge.”

  “How do you know?” Betsy asked. “I mean, if Tommy

  had already been arrested when you returned from your

  holiday, how do you know any of these details? I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s important for us to know how reliable our information is.”

  “And you can’t see the police lettin’ me into Tommy’s

  cell for a little chat, is that it?” Blimpey grinned and looked

  at Smythe. “She’s not just pretty; she’s smart, too. You’d

  best hang onto this one, Smythe.”

  “You don’t ’ave to tell me that,” the coachman replied.

  “She’s got a good point.”

  “Course she does, and her askin’ it makes me all the

  more glad I come to you. It shows ya all know what you’re

  about.” Blimpey sobered. “Tommy didn’t tell me any of this

  directly. I got it from one of my sources who’s managed to

  make contact with Tommy in the nick. He’s a reliable fellow. Used to be a solicitor, so you’ve no worry about the details. They’re correct.”

  “Yes, of course, I’m sure your man is quite dependable.

  Do go on,” Mrs. Jeffries urged.

  “Well, as I was sayin’, Tommy lifted the watch, but

  Tommy’s mother took sick when he got home that night so

  he didn’t fence the goods till almost two weeks later.”

  “Which gave the police plenty of time to have a description of the stolen items circulated to every constable in the city,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

  22

  Emily Brightwell

  “That’s right.” Blimpey took a quick sip of tea. “And it

  led ’em straight to poor Tommy.”

  “What else have your sources told you about the case?”

  Mrs. Goodge asked.

  Blimpey thought for a moment. “Are you wantin’ details

  of the crime or the case in general?”

  “Either,” the cook replied.

  “Caroline Muran was practically a saint; she treated the

  workers at her factory decently, her servants loved her,

  and no one seems to have had a reason to want her dead.”