Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  “Are you sure everything is all right here?” He stared at

  her, his expression anxious.

  “Everything is fine, sir,” she assured him. “Now, sir, what

  on earth happened?”

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  Witherspoon nodded at the file he’d laid on the table

  next to his chair. “That’s the case file for the Muran murder,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “Chief Inspector Barrows wants me to have a look at it tonight.”

  “But that case has been solved.” She sent up a silent,

  heartfelt prayer of thanks. “Why does he want you to look

  at it? Is it being reopened?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story, and the truth is, even without him

  calling me into his office I was going to have a look at the

  case.”

  “Really, sir, why is that?”

  “Several reasons, actually.” He told her about his and

  Barnes encounter with Inspector Nivens in the records

  room and his suspicion that something was wrong.

  For a moment, she was silent, then she said, “If you

  were going to have a good snoop on your own, sir, then

  why are you so downhearted because the chief inspector

  has officially given you the case?”

  “But don’t you see? Now that’s it’s official, now that the

  chief has his doubts as well, it puts a great deal of pressure

  on me.”

  “What made Chief Inspector Barrows get involved in

  the matter?” she asked curiously.

  Witherspoon told her about the meeting with Russell

  Merriman. As she listened to his recitation of the day’s

  events, her mind raced with possibilities.

  “Now I’m to find the killer, providing, of course, it isn’t

  actually the man who’s going to hang for the crime.”

  “You’re sure Tommy Odell isn’t guilty,” she pressed.

  “No one can be absolutely sure,” he admitted. “But ever

  since he was convicted there were rumors and hints from the

  rank-and-file lads that something was wrong. To my shame,

  I looked the other way.” He shook his head. “Mrs. Jeffries,

  the trail has gone cold, the verdict is already in, and what’s

  more, I have a feeling that finding the real killer is going to

  be difficult if not impossible.”

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  “Of course it’s not impossible,” she said briskly. She

  could tell he needed reassurance. Sometimes he had very

  little faith in his own abilities. “If it were, then the Lord

  wouldn’t have put it on your plate.”

  “One doesn’t wish to be arrogant or appear to question

  the will of the Lord,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I do

  think it would have been better if the Almighty had given

  me this assignment a bit earlier. Tommy Odell’s scheduled

  to hang in a few weeks.”

  C H A P T E R 7

  Q

  The minute she could decently get away, Mrs. Jeffries left

  the inspector eating his dinner and hurried down to tell the

  others the good news.

  Wiggins and Fred were at the foot of the staircase, the

  dog’s tail wagging madly and the lad putting on his

  jacket.

  “Oh good, I’ve caught you in time,” she said. “Don’t be

  long on your walk. I’ve news. The inspector is on the case.”

  “Cor blimey, that’s a bit of a surprise.” Wiggins grinned

  broadly. “ ’Ow’d that ’appen?

  “It’s a long story, and I might as well tell everyone at

  once. We’l have a quick meeting as soon as you get back.

  Go along to Lady Cannonberry’s and tell her the news. It

  would be best if she were here as well.”

  Fred suddenly lunged forward and charged across the

  hall and through the kitchen door. “Fred!” Wiggins grabbed

  for the dog, missed, and almost slammed headfirst into the

  newel post. “Cor blimey, Fred, what’s got into you?”

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  They heard a shriek, followed by a loud crash and the

  sound of breaking crockery. “You wretched beast; leave

  my darling alone,” Mrs. Goodge shouted.

  Wiggins and Mrs. Jeffries rushed into the kitchen. Samson was standing in the center of the table, his fur on end, his tail twitching, and his ears pinned back. Fred was on his hind

  legs with his forepaws on the table’s edge, trying his hardest

  to get at the cat.

  The dog was growling and the cat was hissing like a

  steam engine. Mrs. Goodge was ineffectually waving a tea

  towel at the two combatants. An overturned chair and a broken tea mug were on the floor. “You silly mutt,” the cook cried. “Leave my Samson alone!”

  “No Fred,” Wiggins said, grabbing the animal’s collar

  and pulling him away from the table. Fred didn’t come willingly but kept making lunging motions toward the cat. Samson hissed, leapt onto the pine sideboard, jumped down to the floor, and then ran lickety split into the hallway where

  he turned and ran toward the safety of Mrs. Goodge’s room.

  “Oh, Mrs. Goodge, I’m awfully sorry. Please don’t be

  mad at Fred. He’s usually a good dog.” Wiggins kept one

  hand on Fred’s collar and used the other to lift up the overturned chair. Mrs. Jeffries picked up the broken pieces of crockery and laid them on the counter.

  “Not to worry, lad,” Mrs. Goodge said, laughing. “I’ve

  been waiting for this to happen. It was only a matter of time

  before Fred put Samson in his place. Mark my words:

  from now on Samson will give him a wide berth. It’s all for

  the best; we couldn’t have the dog slinking around here all

  the time being scared of my little darling.” She looked at the

  housekeeper. “Is the inspector ready for his pudding?”

  She nodded. “I’ll take it up when I go. But that’s not

  why I came down. We’re going to have another meeting tonight. The inspector is on the case.”

  It was well past midnight before Mrs. Jeffries went to her

  rooms. She changed into her bed clothes, turned off the

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  lamp, and sat down in her chair by the window. The rest of

  the household was asleep and the house was silent.

  Everyone, even Ruth and Smythe, had been able to attend

  their impromptu meeting. When Mrs. Jeffries had told them

  about Witherspoon getting the case, the relief on all their

  faces had been almost comical. Despite their brave words

  and their determination to solve this murder, having the inspector on board made their investigation much easier.

  She looked out into the dark night and pulled her wool

  housecoat tighter against the chill. A heavy fog had drifted

  in from the river, obscuring the faint glow of the gas lamp

  across the road. Staring at the tiny dot of light, Mrs. Jeffries relaxed and let her mind go blank.

  She didn’t try to think about the case, and she didn’t try

  to come up with any theories or see any patterns. She simply let the bits and pieces play about in her mind.

  Caroline Muran was shot twice, and what was she doing

  in that area in the first place? Why hadn’t they gone straight

  home? Why was she nervous that day? Had someone threatened her? Keit
h Muran was an English gentleman and was already selling the factory. What was the name of the sacked

  factory manager? Could he have been following them that

  night?

  Mrs. Jeffries sat there for a long time, letting her mind

  go where it would. Caroline’s cousins were poor relations

  and living on a small pension. Maybe they resented their

  wealthy cousin. Was Russell Merriman telling the truth,

  and had he really been in jail in California? Or maybe he’d

  been living in London under an assumed identity. As the

  last idea popped into her head, Mrs. Jeffries straightened

  up and blinked in surprise. Gracious, where did that notion come from? On their previous cases, she’d learned it was dangerous to ignore ideas that seemingly came out of

  nowhere. She decided she’d best mention the possibility

  that Merriman had been in London to the inspector over

  breakfast. She heard the downstairs clock strike the hour.

  She eased out of her chair and made her way to her bed.

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  But even though it was very late and she was very tired, it

  was almost dawn before she drifted off to sleep.

  “This isn’t going to be very pleasant,” Witherspoon muttered to Barnes as they climbed the short flight of stairs to the Muran house. “I imagine Mr. Muran thought all of this

  was over and done with.”

  “A bit of inconvenience won’t kill him, sir,” Barnes said

  as he lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. “If it was me,

  I’d want to know the truth about what happened that night.”

  “Let’s hope he’s in a cooperative mood,” Witherspoon

  said.

  A young maid opened the door. She drew back in surprise as she saw Barnes.

  “May we see Mr. Muran, please?” Witherspoon said

  quickly.

  The girl looked flustered. “I’ll see if he’s receiving.”

  She edged back, leaving the door open.

  “This isn’t a social call,” Barnes said.

  But by then the girl had gone.

  From inside the hallway they heard the sound of muffled voices, and then a moment later the maid stuck her head back out. “Come this way, please. The master will see

  you in his study.” She ushered them down the hallway and

  into an elegantly furnished sitting room.

  Keith Muran was standing by a fireplace at the other

  end of the room. He didn’t look pleased to see them.

  “Good morning,” he said curtly.

  “Good morning, sir. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon,

  and this is Constable Barnes. We’re sorry to disturb you,

  but we’ve come on some rather urgent business.”

  “What business?” He sat down in one of the cream-

  colored side chairs by the fireplace. “I’ve already retrieved

  my pocket watch from your premises. I can’t see what business you could possibly have to discuss with me.”

  “It’s not about your watch, sir,” Witherspoon said softly.

  “It’s about the murder of your wife.”

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  “Inspector Nivens assured me this was all over and done

  with,” Muran replied. “My wife’s murderer is going to be

  hanged very shortly.”

  “There are some questions, sir.” Witherspoon didn’t think

  it was going well, but he wasn’t about to give up and go

  away.

  “What questions?” Muran sighed heavily. “Inspector,

  I’ve no idea what is going on, but I assure you, I’ve told the

  police everything I can recall about that awful night.”

  “I know this must be painful, but, well, there are a few

  loose ends we must clear up.”

  “Loose ends?” he repeated. “This has something to do

  with Russell coming back, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s true, sir,” Witherspoon admitted. Chief Inspector Barrows hadn’t said anything about keeping Mr. Merriman’s involvement a secret. “I’m sure Mr. Merriman’s return from the dead, so to speak, must have been a shock

  to you.”

  “Most certainly,” Muran replied. “When Mr. Brandon

  told me the news, it was difficult to comprehend. Frankly, I

  didn’t really believe it till I saw him with my own eyes yesterday afternoon.”

  “As I said, Mr. Merriman isn’t satisfied that all the questions surrounding his sister’s death have been answered,”

  Witherspoon said.

  “Russell and Caroline were very close. She was devastated when she thought him dead,” Muran murmured. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please do sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” Witherspoon took a seat in an overstuffed

  easy chair and Barnes perched on the edge of an empire-

  style love seat.

  Muran waited until the two men had settled themselves

  and then he turned his attention to the inspector. “What is it

  you want to know?”

  “I’ve read your statement regarding what happened that

  night, and there’s a couple of questions that need clearing

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  up.” Witherspoon cleared his throat and tried to recall exactly what those questions might be.

  “But I’ve already told you,” Muran replied. “I told the

  police everything I can remember. Surely it was all in the

  police report.”

  “The report didn’t say why you went to Barrick Street in

  the first place instead of going home,” Barnes said bluntly.

  “But I explained to Inspector Nivens why we’d gone

  there that night.” Muran looked confused.

  “He didn’t put it in his report,” Witherspoon said.

  “My wife wanted to have a quick look at a building we

  were thinking of acquiring. She was considering buying

  another building and expanding the business,” Muran explained.

  “Wasn’t it rather late to be looking at a building?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Of course it was,” Muran replied. “But she wanted to

  have a look at the neighborhood. She was a very busy

  woman, Inspector, but once she had an idea in her head, it

  was difficult to sway her. She could be very stubborn. I told

  her it was a foolish idea, that she couldn’t get a decent look

  at a piece of property in the middle of the night, but she was

  adamant.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, sir,” Witherspoon said sympathetically. “I’m sorry to distress you, but it is important we ask these questions.”

  “Why is it important?” he asked. “Caroline’s killer has

  already been tried and convicted. I’ve answered questions

  and testified in court. Frankly, sir, this is most distressing. I

  understand that Russell is upset, but for God’s sake, he

  shouldn’t try to alleviate his guilt that he wasn’t here when

  she died by dredging all this up.”

  “Do you think that’s what he is doing?” Witherspoon

  queried. It didn’t really matter why Merriman had brought

  the matter up again; they were duty bound to continue the

  inquiry.

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  “Of course he felt guilty. Russell had always turned his

  back on his responsibilities so he could enjoy himself. He

  left everything to Caroline—all the work, all the worry, and

  all the decisions—while he rode off to h
ave a grand time. He

  was in jail, Inspector,” Muran added. “In California. Caroline thought he was dead. We’d been told he was dead.”

  “Well he isn’t dead, sir, and he isn’t happy with the way

  this case was handled, either,” Barnes said. “Would you

  mind telling us what happened once you left the hansom

  cab?”

  “We got out and started walking toward the building,”

  he replied. “Frankly, that’s really all I remember. The next

  thing I knew I was in the hospital and there were two policemen next to my bed.”

  “So you were knocked unconscious before your wife

  was shot?” Witherspoon clarified.

  “That’s correct,” Muran replied. “It was late, cold, and

  dark, Inspector. I hadn’t wanted to stop in the first place, so

  I was hustling Caroline along so we could get it over with

  and get home. It’s all very vague, but I recall someone suddenly just being there and then I don’t remember anything at all until I came to in the hospital.”

  “So you never really saw your assailant?” Witherspoon

  pressed.

  “That’s what I’ve just said,” he muttered.

  “How were you planning on getting home?” Barnes

  asked.

  “What?” Muran looked surprised by the question.

  “How were you planning on getting home?” the constable repeated. “You said it was cold and dark and you were in a hurry. You were in the middle of an industrial neighborhood and you’d not find a cab easily in that neighborhood. Yet you didn’t ask the hansom cab to wait for you.”

  “But I did, Inspector,” he said quickly. “I do remember

  that. I specifically told him to wait for us. But as soon as I’d

  paid him and we’d gone up the street a bit, he drove off.

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  I remember being annoyed, but Caroline said not to worry,

  that we’d find another one near the bridge. The building was

  close to Waterloo Bridge.” He sighed again. “Not that it mattered all that much; traffic was so awful that night we could have walked home faster than the hansoms were moving.”

  “I see,” Barnes said.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to

  harm your wife?” the inspector asked. “Did she have any

  enemies?”

  “Enemies?” Muran looked down at the carpet. “She was

  a kind and decent woman. No one would want to hurt her.

  It was a robbery, Inspector. We were stupidly at the wrong

  place at the wrong time and that’s all there was to it. It’s