Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  asking, “Who would like to go next? Or should we let Wiggins do his explaining before we go any further?”

  “His information certainly sounds intriguing,” Ruth

  said.

  Wiggins smiled self-consciously. “It might be nothing,

  but then again, you never know. When I got to Drayton

  Gardens this morning, two ladies come strollin’ out the

  front door of the Muran house like they owned the place.

  So I followed them.” He took a quick sip of tea and told

  them how he’d had a feeling the women might be important so he’d trailed them to the tea shop. “I got lucky enough to get a table close to ’em so I heard everything

  they was sayin’.” He repeated the conversation he’d overheard. “Then I followed ’em to a little house in Chelsea.”

  “What if they were just visiting the Muran house?” Betsy

  speculated.

  “They might be Caroline Muran’s cousins,” Mrs. Goodge

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  added. “My sources mentioned that she had cousins living

  in Chelsea. It’s probably these two.”

  Mrs. Jeffries said nothing for a moment. “I expect you’re

  right. Constable Barnes said there were two women with

  Keith Muran when he came and collected his watch from

  the Yard.”

  “You’ve spoken to Constable Barnes?” Mrs. Goodge

  asked.

  “Yes. I’ll tell you all about it in a few minutes.” She

  glanced at Wiggins. “Are you finished?”

  “That’s all I found out.” Wiggins decided not to talk

  about the boardman he’d taken to the pub. The old fellow

  hadn’t known anything, and he didn’t want the others to

  think he’d been larking about in a tavern instead of snooping for clues.

  “You’ve done well today,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She turned

  her attention to Lady Cannonberry. “Ruth, you go next.

  Did you have any luck today?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think I did,” she said, smiling eagerly. “But I’m not certain it has anything to do with the murder.”

  “Tell us anyway,” Mrs. Goodge instructed. “We never

  know what’s useful and what isn’t until after the case has

  been solved.”

  “It’s about Caroline Muran’s brother. It’s so sad, really.

  He also came to a tragic end.” She told them the gossip

  she’d gotten from Olga Spreckles. When Ruth was finished,

  she leaned back in her chair and waited to see what the others thought. When several moments passed without any of the others making any comments, she feared the worst. “Oh

  dear, I was afraid it wasn’t going to be very useful.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “You’ve given us

  an enormous amount of good information. It is strange that

  both brother and sister should die like that.”

  “And now we know that the marriage was a surprise to

  all of Caroline Merriman’s friends,” Betsy commented.

  “That could be significant.”

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  “Why’d she want to get married at her age?” Wiggins

  asked curiously. “Sounds like she were a bit of a spinster,

  what with her running the factory and giving money to them

  ladies that chain themselves to fences.”

  “They don’t only chain themselves to fences,” Ruth said

  defensively. “The women’s sufferage movement is dedicated to giving women the same rights under the law as men. That’s very important.”

  “Oh, I weren’t sayin’ it were wrong,” Wiggins said

  hastily. “I quite admire ’em. I think everyone should be able

  to vote and have a decent position. Bein’ poor is awful and

  it’s been my observation that woman seem to be more poor

  than men. Leastways there seems to be more of ’em, especially in the more miserable parts of the city. I didn’t mean any offense.”

  “None taken,” Ruth replied with a smile.

  “I quite agree with Wiggins,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly,

  “and one of these days, we’ll have a nice old natter about

  the rights of everyone, but right now, let’s get back to

  the matter at hand.” She glanced at the carriage clock on the

  pine sideboard. “Time marches on and I don’t want to be

  late getting the inspector’s chicken in the oven.”

  “I wonder how Mr. Muran’s first wife died,” Betsy said.

  “I think that might be something worth pursuing,” Mrs.

  Jeffries muttered. “Do you happen to know the lady’s Christian name?” she asked Ruth.

  “I can find out.” Ruth’s pale brows drew together. “I’ve

  heard something about her, but I can’t recall what it might

  have been. I believe she might have been ill for quite some

  time before she died. It should be easy enough to find out

  the details.”

  “That would be most helpful,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “There’s a hint of scandal in that direction.” Mrs. Goodge

  wrinkled her face as she concentrated. “I heard that Lucy

  Turner, that’s Caroline Muran’s cousin and probably the

  younger of the two women Wiggins followed today, had set

  her cap for Keith Muran.”

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  101

  “The older one was her mama,” Wiggins added. “What’s

  her name?”

  “Edwina Turner,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “She and her

  daughter apparently live off a small pension from her late

  husband. He was an army officer in India. When he died,

  Edwina and Lucy came back to London to live.”

  “They might have wanted Mrs. Muran dead,” Wiggins

  suggested. “Maybe Miss Turner wants to marry him now

  that he’s a widower.”

  “It’s possible,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But I don’t think

  so. The gossip I heard is that Miss Turner’s pride took a

  beating when Muran married her cousin. Besides, the

  house they’re living in belonged to Caroline. It now belongs to the estate, and they may or may not be allowed to go on living there.”

  “This is all very interesting,” the housekeeper murmured. She wondered what, if anything, it all meant.

  They seemed to be learning a great number of facts, but

  were they facts that would actually solve this case before

  poor Tommy Odell was hanged? “Why don’t you let me

  go next. My information dovetails nicely with what

  we’ve heard so far.” She told them of her meeting with

  Constable Barnes and the little bit of eavesdropping he’d

  done.

  “Was the constable suspicious of this case as well?”

  Ruth asked.

  “Apparently so, but that’s not all I found out.” She gave

  them the details of her meeting with Dr. Bosworth, emphasizing Bosworth’s conviction that the weapon in the case was a pistol. She glanced at Wiggins. “Perhaps your idea

  about finding out what sort of weapons our suspects have

  isn’t so far-fetched.”

  “I’ll keep tryin’,” he promised. “But first I’ve got to find

  a servant that’ll talk to me.”

  “This case is a bit of a mess,” Betsy said, sighing. “I

  don’t understand anything yet. It’s so sad: first her brother

  dies and then poor Caroline gets murdered.”

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  Emily Brightwell
>
  “Not to worry, we’ll sort it out eventually, and one of

  them at least will have justice,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “Can I finish?” Mrs. Goodge asked.

  “Oh dear, I am sorry, you should have said something.”

  The housekeeper smiled apologetically at the cook. “I

  didn’t realize you still had more to report.”

  “No harm done.” The cook made sure she had everyone’s attention before she resumed speaking. “I’d not waste too much time worrying about Caroline’s brother.”

  “But the poor bloke died in a foreign country,” Wiggins

  protested.

  “No he didn’t.” She smiled smugly. “Russell Merriman

  isn’t dead.”

  “Not dead?” Wiggins repeated.

  “But Olga was certain,” Ruth exclaimed. “She went to

  his memorial service.”

  “I’ve no doubt that they had a service for him,” Mrs.

  Goodge continued, quite enjoying herself. Today she’d

  struck gold. Her old friend, Ida Leacock had popped in for

  morning coffee, and when Mrs. Goodge had mentioned

  Caroline Merriman’s murder, Ida supplied her with the information that Caroline’s supposedly dead brother had turned up very much alive. “But he didn’t die in America.

  It was some sort of mistake. He got put in jail.”

  “Your source was sure of this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  Dozens of question were now whirling about in her head.

  “Absolutely.” Mrs. Goodge reached for her tea cup. “Ida’s

  niece works as a housekeeper to a Mr. John Brandon—he’s

  Russell Merriman’s solicitor. Helen, that’s the niece, gave

  Ida all the details about his return from the dead.”

  “Cor blimey, that’s about the strangest thing I ever ’eard.

  I think we ought to keep our eye on this bloke,” Wiggins

  said. “You don’t see dead people popping back up alive

  very often.”

  “Wiggins is right,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured with a frown.

  “We need to find out all that we can about the situation.” If

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  Inspector Witherspoon were on the case, it would be fairly

  simple. She’d have come up with some story about someone having seen the late Mr. Merriman and put him on the hunt, so to speak. “But without the inspector’s help, I’m

  not sure where to begin.”

  “We could begin with Mr. Groggins,” Betsy suggested.

  “Doesn’t he deal in knowing things that go on in London?

  Shouldn’t he be able to get us at least enough information

  to get started?”

  “Wouldn’t Russell Merriman be staying with Mr. Mu-

  ran?” Ruth asked. “After all, it is his house.”

  “But neither of the Turner women mentioned it when

  Wiggins was eavesdropping today. If Merriman was at the

  Muran house, they’d likely have mentioned it,” the cook

  pointed out.

  “I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “That sort of news has

  the whole neighborhood taking notice, but from what Wiggins said when he went back there today, it was very quiet.

  But that’s not all we have to find out about him. We need to

  know when he arrived back in England.”

  “I’ll see if any of my acquaintances know anything,”

  Ruth offered.

  “And we’ll ask Smythe to go along and have a word with

  Mr. Groggins tomorrow,” Mrs. Jeffries added. She grinned

  at the cook. “You’ve quite enjoyed this, haven’t you.”

  Mrs. Goodge took another sip of tea before answering.

  “Indeed I have. It’s not often that I get the goods, so to

  speak, on the rest of you. Most of my information is generally just background gossip.”

  “You did well, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy said. “I’m afraid

  my information won’t hold a candle to this.” But she didn’t

  begrudge the cook her moment of glory. She deserved it.

  Mrs. Goodge laughed and then said, “I’m afraid I’ve not

  learned much of anything else.”

  “Shall I go next, then?” Betsy asked. “Seems to me we’ve

  all had us quite a day and we’ve lots to tell before it gets too

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  late. We don’t want the inspector coming home early and not

  finding his dinner ready.”

  Betsy needn’t have worried about Witherspoon getting

  home earlier than usual. Today the inspector was going to

  be very late indeed.

  At the new offices of Scotland Yard, Constable Barnes

  and Inspector Witherspoon were sitting in two straight-

  backed chairs outside of Chief Inspector Barrows’ office.

  “Nivens has many powerful friends, sir. Are you certain

  about this?” Barnes asked. He was still in shock over Witherspoon’s decision to take the matter to their superior.

  Barnes had been hoping for some sort of involvement, but

  he hadn’t been expecting the mild-mannered Witherspoon

  to make a full-frontal assault.

  “I’m quite sure, Constable,” the inspector replied.

  “Frankly, this case has been worrying me since we had

  that encounter with Inspector Nivens in the canteen.” He

  pursed his lips and shook his head. “I understand Inspector

  Nivens’ desire to solve a homicide. He’s an ambitious

  man, and that is one of the routes to advancement.” An image of the brand-new records room popped into his head and he sighed wistfully. It was a lovely room. He wouldn’t

  have minded being in charge of it. Filing was really very

  important.

  “Wanting advancement is understandable, sir,” Barnes

  said.

  “But not at the expense of justice.” The inspector was

  glad that he’d made it very clear to his superiors that he

  wasn’t interested in moving up any further. Gracious, it was

  difficult enough solving the murders that cropped up with

  incredible regularity on his patch. He’d no desire to be in a

  position where he had to take on even more.

  “What made you change your mind about Nivens, sir?”

  “His manner,” Witherspoon replied. “He was so defensive about a few simple comments. Well, it did make me wonder. Mind you, I had managed to put the incident out of

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  my mind until today. Gracious, all we were doing was

  looking for a file. Yet he was so worried we might be looking for the Odell file that he climbed all the way to the top of the building to see what we were doing?”

  “You think he might have fiddled with the evidence, sir?”

  Barnes cast a quick glance at the closed office door and

  wondered who was inside with the chief. As far as Barnes

  knew, there weren’t any major cases going on right now.

  Witherspoon spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t go so far as to

  say he did anything of that nature, but I suspect he didn’t

  conduct as thorough an investigation as he ought to have

  done. I want to make sure that the chief inspector is satisfied that the investigation was conducted properly.”

  The inspector had tried his best to stay out of this case,

  but he couldn’t ignore his own conscience. Constable Barnes

  comments that day in the canteen had bothered him, and

  his conversation that evening with Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t help

  put his fears to
rest, either. After today’s strange behavior,

  well, he couldn’t turn his back on the matter. He pulled out

  his pocket watch and noted the time. “I wonder how long

  the chief is going to be?”

  Just then the door opened and Barrows stuck his head

  out. “Ah, Witherspoon, goodness, this is a coincidence. Either that or you must be one of those clairvoyants they have at the music halls. I was getting ready to send a constable to

  fetch you. Do come into my office. You, too, Constable. I’d

  like a word with both of you.”

  Barnes heart sank as he followed his inspector into the

  office. Nivens had beaten them to the chief. He must have

  had already made his complaint.

  Barrows went behind his desk and sat down. Sitting

  opposite the chief was another man. He stared at them curiously out of a pair of deep-set blue eyes.

  “Inspector Witherspoon, Constable Barnes, this is Russell Merriman.” Barrows waved Witherspoon into the only other empty chair in the room. Barnes took up a position

  next to him.

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  Russell Merriman appeared to be in his forties, with thinning dark blond hair that was going gray at the temples. He was clean shaven and well groomed, but there were dark circles under his eyes. He wore a beautifully cut black suit with a gray waistcoat, black and gray cravat, and a pristine white

  shirt. But despite the expensive clothes and the manicured

  fingernails, Barnes noted the faint pallor of Merriman’s pale

  skin. “Prison pallor” is what coppers generally called it.

  “How do you do, sir,” Witherspoon said respectfully.

  Constable Barnes nodded.

  Russell Merriman rose to his feet and held out his hand.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said

  softly as the two men shook hands, “and I’m hoping you

  can help me.”

  “I’ll certainly try, sir,” Witherspoon replied, his expression a bit confused. He didn’t have a clue who Russell Merriman might be.

  To Barnes’ surprise, Merriman extended a hand toward

  him as well, nodded in acknowledgement of the introduction as they shook hands, and then sank back into his chair.

  “I expect you’re wondering what this is all about,” Barrows said to the inspector.

  “I am a bit curious, sir.”

  “Mr. Merriman has come to us about his late sister,”

  Barrows explained. “I’m sure you recall the case, Inspector. Mrs. Muran and her husband were accosted by a robber on their way home. Unfortunately, she was killed during the course of the crime.”