Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  to be happier when they’ve something to do other than take

  care of a home and children. Take me, for instance. I can

  honestly say I prefer working in the shop over doin’ housekeepin’.” She took another quick sip of tea, but before Betsy could think of anything useful ask, Mrs. Briggs continued speaking. “Cleaning and cooking and washing clothes is hard work and dead boring if you ask me. I used

  to think there was something wrong with me for feeling that

  way, and I felt ever so much better when Helen mentioned

  that Mrs. Muran was like that, too. More interested in running her business and bein’ out and about the world, she was. Of course, some would say she was like that because

  she had no children, but I don’t think that’s true. I’ve children but I’d much rather be behind the counter than at home rolling out pie crusts or scrubbing floors.”

  Betsy started to ask another question, but her mind suddenly went blank. Perhaps it was the rapid pace of Mrs.

  Briggs’ speech or maybe she simply couldn’t think of what

  to ask.

  “Mind you,” Mrs. Briggs continued, “Helen’s problem

  is only going to get worse if she doesn’t take herself out

  and about.”

  “Is she afraid of being murdered?” Betsy interrupted,

  relieved that something had popped into her head.

  “Funny you should say that,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “I

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  73

  think that might be the case. She keeps sayin’ she’s upset

  over Mrs. Muran’s death, but I don’t think I believe her.

  She liked the woman, but she’d only worked for her for

  since she’d married Mr. Muran. He was the one who decided that Mrs. Muran needed help running the household if she was out everyday—”

  “Why is my saying that funny?” Betsy interrupted again.

  “I should think being afraid of a killer would be normal.”

  “But they caught her killer.”

  “Maybe your sister doesn’t think they caught the right

  person,” Betsy said.

  Mrs. Briggs stared hard at her. “How on earth did you

  know that? I’ve told Helen the police don’t make that sort

  of mistake and that of course they’ve caught the right person, but she won’t listen. She’s sure that they’ve got the wrong man.”

  “How can she be sure?” Betsy asked softly. Her head

  hurt and she’d be lucky if she remembered half of what

  Mrs. Briggs had said.

  “Well, I’m not one to be telling tales out of school, but

  Helen thinks that Mrs. Muran was afraid of something.

  She said that on the day that Mrs. Muran was murdered the

  poor woman was as jumpy as a cat. Why, she was so nervous she had Helen tell Miss Turner—that was her cousin—

  that she wasn’t at home. Mrs. Muran was never one to do

  something like that. Helen says it was almost like she knew

  something awful was going to happen. Mind you, Helen’s

  got a good imagination.”

  “Would you care for more tea?” Ruth asked her guest, Olga

  Spreckles.

  Ruth was working her way through the membership of

  their women’s group. She’d already had tea with two other

  women today, but they’d known nothing about Caroline

  Muran except that she’d been murdered.

  “Thank you, that would be nice.” Olga handed Ruth her

  delicate china cup. “I was so glad to get your note. It’s been

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  ages since we’ve seen one another. I thought you were out

  of town.”

  Olga was a chubby woman in her late fifties. She wore a

  pale yellow day dress festooned with lace at the collar and

  overlaid with a brown-and-green-striped jacket. A huge hat

  adorned with feathers, flowers, and a trailing veil sat atop

  her iron gray hair.

  “I arrived home a few days ago,” Ruth murmured. “I

  was concerned about you. You weren’t well the last time

  I saw you.”

  Olga beamed in delight. “How kind of you; but it was

  only a cold. I’m quite over it.”

  “Good, I’m relieved you’re well.” Ruth frowned slightly.

  “Wasn’t it awful about Caroline Muran. You knew her,

  didn’t you? Sometimes she came to our group.” She held

  her breath, praying that Olga would know something about

  the case.

  “We were well acquainted. It was because of our acquaintance that she started coming to our lectures. She was practically my neighbor.” Olga shook her head sadly. “Poor

  woman, I’m so glad they caught the blackguard that murdered her. She was the sweetest soul. Very simple and plain in her tastes, though she could afford anything she fancied.”

  “Olga, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up,”

  Ruth apologized.

  Olga waved her hand impatiently. “Don’t be silly. Of

  course you’d be curious. It’s only human nature to want to

  know things about people. Not that most of us admit it, of

  course. But that’s simply the way we’re made.”

  “You’re very understanding,” Ruth replied. She liked

  Olga Spreckles. Despite her wealth and position, she was

  quite an intelligent, compassionate woman. “I’m sorry you

  lost your friend.”

  “We weren’t terribly close, but I did like and respect

  Caroline very much. She was a rather private person, very

  orderly and predictable in her habits. At least that’s what

  we all thought before she married Keith Muran. Most of us

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  75

  hadn’t a clue she was even seeing him. Then one day I see

  the announcement of the marriage in the Times. ”

  “You hadn’t met him before they were married?” Ruth

  asked casually.

  “No one had,” Olga exclaimed. “Everyone in our neighborhood was wildly curious when it happened. No one had any idea she was contemplating such a thing.” She broke

  off and grinned. “Oh I shouldn’t say such things, but that

  marriage set tongues wagging.”

  “Gracious, why was that?” Ruth asked easily.

  “Because Caroline wasn’t the sort one ever thought of

  as being in the least interested in a husband. Then one day

  she up and marries the very handsome Keith Muran. From

  the gossip I heard, even her brother was surprised, and I

  shouldn’t have thought that, considering Russell’s life, there

  would be anything in this world to surprise him.” She sighed.

  “Oh well, poor Russell was at least spared knowing his sister was murdered. Perhaps the two of them have met in heaven. At least one hopes so.”

  “When did her brother die?” Ruth fiddled with the linen

  serviette on her lap.

  “I’m not sure of the exact date.” Olga frowned. “But it

  was sometime last year.”

  “What happened to him?” Ruth had no idea if this was a

  useful question or not, but as she couldn’t think of anything

  else, it would have to do.

  “He died when he was in America. I’m not very clear on

  the details, and it wasn’t the sort of thing one could mention,

  but his obituary suddenly appeared in the Times and that’s

  how everyone found out he’d died. It was a very simple announcement as well. Odd isn’t it, how the same family can produce two such different pe
ople.”

  “I expect it happens more often than we realize,” Ruth

  murmured.

  “It was such a tragedy.” Olga put her cup down on the

  table and leaned back. “They were raised very plainly. I believe their mother was a Quaker. Caroline was studious and 76

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  serious while Russell wasn’t very serious about anything at

  all, especially his duty to take over the family business. He

  was a terrible disappointment to their father.”

  “How sad that both of them are dead,” Ruth said. She

  had no idea if she was learning anything useful.

  “The gossip had it that that’s why Caroline was left control of the factory instead of her brother. Their father’s will gave Caroline a majority interest in the business. But to be

  fair, he left Russell the house. Rumor had it that Caroline

  actually bought Russell’s share of the company several

  years back, but if that’s true, I’ll warrant that he’d not much

  left of that money by the time he died.”

  “I take it he wasn’t very good with money,” Ruth said

  softly.

  “It slipped through his fingers like water.” Olga shrugged.

  “It was the usual vices—liquor and gambling. Apparently he

  wasn’t much good at either activity. But the poor fellow’s

  dead now, may he rest in peace.”

  “Did Russell Merriman and Keith Muran get along?”

  Ruth asked, unsure of why this particular question had

  popped into her head. Investigating murder was actually

  much more difficult than she’d imagined. On the previous

  cases she’d helped with, Mrs. Jeffries had usually given

  her some suggestions as to what information she ought to

  obtain. But her only instruction this time was to find out

  what she could. She didn’t think she was doing very well.

  “I never heard that there was any problem between the

  two men, but Russell did move out shortly after the marriage. Perhaps he felt awkward living with two newlyweds.”

  “So Caroline and Russell lived together before she married Keith?” Ruth picked up her teacup.

  “Oh yes, despite the differences in their characters, they

  were very close. Caroline was quite upset when Russell

  left the country.”

  “As you said, let’s hope brother and sister have reunited

  in heaven,” Ruth said quietly.

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  77

  “Oh, I do hope so. I know it broke Caroline’s heart when

  she got the telegram telling her about Russell’s death.”

  “And you’ve no idea how he died?”

  Olga shook her head. “No. But I do know his death was

  very painful to Caroline. But she never spoke of the matter.”

  “I wonder exactly where it was he died?” Ruth took a

  sip of her now cold tea.

  “It was in one of those western states.” Olga’s brows

  furrowed as she concentrated. “Oh dear, what’s the name

  of that big state at the very end of the country?”

  “California.”

  “That’s it.” Olga nodded. “That’s right, I remember now.

  My tweeny told me that the telegram came from a place

  called Los Angeles. Russell died while he was in jail

  there.”

  C H A P T E R 5

  Q

  Constable Barnes stood in front of the huge redbrick building that was New Scotland Yard and took a deep breath. The day was overcast and the damp from the river had seeped

  into his bones. He hoped he wasn’t here on a fool’s errand.

  More importantly, he hoped he wasn’t doing something that

  would ruin his career and the inspector’s. Not that he ought

  to be terribly concerned about the matter; after all, he was

  getting close to his pension, and Witherspoon had plenty of

  money, so neither of them would starve. Besides, what could

  happen? He was simply going to have a look at a file. If

  anyone asked what he wanted with it, he’d simply tell them

  he thought it might relate to one of their current cases.

  The mournful bleat of a boat horn sliced through the

  noisy traffic of the embankment, startling him out of his

  reverie. He straightened his shoulders and started across

  the paving stones to the door. He’d best get this over with.

  For goodness’ sakes, it was only a file. It wasn’t like he was

  out to pinch the queen’s jewels. He climbed the short flight

  of stairs and stepped inside the building.

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  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  79

  “Good day, Constable Barnes,” the constable on duty

  behind front counter said.

  “Morning,” he replied. “Miserable day out, isn’t it?

  Looks like it’s going to rain soon.” Barnes didn’t know the

  constable’s name, but he wasn’t surprised the fellow knew

  him. He’d become quite well known since he’d been working with the inspector. Usually, he enjoyed the extra bit of attention, but today he hoped he didn’t run into too many

  people who recognized him.

  “Are you here to meet Inspector Witherspoon?” the constable asked. “He’s not come past me, and I’ve been on duty for an hour.”

  “Oh no, I’m just here to have a gander at one of your

  files.” He hurried toward the staircase.

  “You’ll want the records room, then,” the constable continued. “Good luck finding it. Since we’ve moved into this building they can’t find a ruddy thing. It wouldn’t surprise

  me in the least if a whole room went missing.”

  Barnes laughed and kept on going. He climbed the stairs

  to the first floor but didn’t stop there. The records room

  was all the way at the top of the building. Whether the file

  was properly stored there or not remained to be seen, but he

  had to start somewhere. He passed several constables but

  none that knew him personally. By the time he reached the

  top floor, he had to stop on the landing to catch his breath. He

  was huffing and puffing like a train engine. Then he started

  down the hallway toward a large room at the very end.

  Barnes reached the doorway, grasped the knob, and took

  a quick look behind him to make sure no one was watching.

  But the corridor was empty, so he stepped inside.

  Rows of wooden cabinets were lined up across the room

  like soldiers standing at attention. Along the walls shelves

  were filled with boxes, files, stacks of paper, and metal lock

  boxes. Opposite the door was a tall, narrow window that let

  in the gray morning light. He crossed the green linoleum

  floor and looked out at the view. For a moment, he was almost dizzy; he wasn’t used to being up so high. From this 80

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  height, the boats and barges plying the Thames seemed almost like toys. But he didn’t have time to stand here gawking; he had to find that file. Barnes turned and surveyed the room, wondering where on earth he ought to start. Just then

  the door opened and Inspector Witherspoon stuck his head

  into the room.

  Barnes gaped at him. “Good morning, sir.” He’d no idea

  what the inspector was doing here. Blast, that stupid constable on the front desk must have mentioned he’d come up here.

  “Hello, Barnes,” Witherspoon said, stepping into the

  room. “The d
uty constable said you’d come up here.”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” Barnes silently vowed to stop being so

  chatty.

  Witherspoon stared at him expectantly. “I thought we

  were meeting at Ladbrook Grove.”

  Barnes cleared his throat. “Well, sir, as I was coming in

  this morning, it suddenly struck me that there was something about that Lamotte case we’re working on that seems awfully similiar to some other cases I’ve heard about. So I

  thought I’d come along and have a quick look at the files

  before I met up with you. Was there any particular reason

  you came here today?”

  Witherspoon stared at him, his expression incredulous.

  Barnes was sure he was doomed. But then the inspector

  said, “Why, that’s remarkable; I had the exact same thought.

  That’s what brought me here today. Gracious, Constable,

  we’ve worked together so long now that we’re even starting

  to think in the same manner as one another.”

  Barnes hid his relief behind a weak smile.

  “I thought I’d have a look at the Compton case file.”

  Witherspoon headed for a shelf at the far end of the room.

  “Is that the file you were after?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s the one.”

  “The items taken from the Compton premises were very

  much like the things stolen from the Lamotte offices.”

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  81

  “That’s what I thought, sir,” Barnes replied. They were

  currently working on a case of theft. Several typewriters had

  been stolen from the offices of Lamotte and Lamotte, Insurance Brokers. Barnes wasn’t in the least interested in the Compton case, yet he had to tread carefully. It wouldn’t do

  to arouse the inspector’s suspicions about what he was really

  doing here today. “There were a couple of typewriters stolen

  from the Compton offices. I wanted to see if they were ever

  recovered or if the name of the fence was in the file.”

  “They were recovered,” Witherspoon said brightly. “Gracious, Barnes, we’re onto something here, I can feel it.

  Come along, then. Let’s have a good look.”

  “Wouldn’t it be in one of the cabinets, sir?” Barnes asked.

  “The most recent files are always stored on the shelves,”

  Witherspoon replied. “The Compton case was less than six

  months ago, so I’ll warrant that we’ll find the file just about

  here.” He pulled down a file box, flipped it open, and then