Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  trying to find out the truth,” Witherspoon protested. This

  was a decidedly awkward situation. “I can understand that

  having a murder conviction on your record might seem to

  be advantageous, but surely you’d not want to see an innocent man hanged.”

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  Nivens laughed harshly and took off his other glove. “I

  don’t give a toss about the likes of Tommy Odell. He’s a

  bloody thief.”

  “But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s a murderer.”

  “You’ve got everyone fooled, don’t you,” Nivens snarled.

  “You act so modest and humble, as though the last thing on

  your mind is recognition or advancement. But I know

  what you’re up to. You’ve not got me fooled.”

  “Inspector Nivens, I assure you I’ve no idea what you’re

  talking about,” Witherspoon replied. He wished the constable would return. Nivens face was going a very peculiar shade of purple. “I’m simply doing my job as best I can.”

  “Your job doesn’t include getting my conviction overturned,” Nivens cried.

  “It’s not your conviction. It’s the Crown’s,” the inspector shot back.

  “It’s mine,” Nivens shouted. “And I earned it fair and

  square. Tommy Odell is a murderer. He killed Caroline Mu-

  ran.”

  “What did he do with the gun?” Witherspoon jabbed his

  finger on the closed file. “You searched his home but you

  couldn’t find the weapon used in the crime. Where was it?”

  “He tossed it in the river or gave it to one of his mates.

  The gun isn’t important. He had Muran’s watch.”

  “He lifted that watch from Keith Muran earlier that evening,” Witherspoon replied. “That’s what Odell does. He’s a pickpocket, not a robber or a killer.”

  Nivens eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’m warning you,

  Witherspoon, I’ll not have you undermining me. I have

  friends in high places as well, and Chief Inspector Barrows

  won’t always be around to protect you.”

  Witherspoon refused to be intimidated. “It makes no

  difference to me how many friends you may or may not

  have. I’ll continue to do my job to the best of my ability.”

  “Your ability!” Nivens laughed harshly. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t seriously believe that you’ve managed to pull the wool over my eyes as well. Others may be foolish

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  enough to think you’ve solved all your cases on your own,

  but I know the truth.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Witherspoon

  gaped at him in amazement.

  “Oh, come now, stop playing the innocent. You know as

  well as I do that you’re not solving all these murders on

  your own.” He smiled maliciously. “I promise you, Witherspoon, if you blot my record with a bad conviction, I’ll expose your secret to the whole world.”

  “What secret? I’ve no secret.”

  “Don’t play me for a fool,” Nivens shouted. “I’m on to

  you. If you harm my service record, I’ll find out who is

  helping you if it takes me the rest of my life.”

  “Is everything all right, sir?” Barnes followed by two

  uniformed lads had quietly entered the room. The constable was holding two cups of tea, but his attention was focused on Nivens. “We heard shouting out in the hall.”

  “Everything is fine, Constable,” Nivens snapped out the

  words, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the door. The

  two constables standing behind Barnes moved aside to let

  him pass.

  “Are you all right, sir?” one of the younger lads asked as

  soon as the door had slammed shut behind Nivens. “We

  heard the voices and we weren’t sure what to do so we

  went and fetched Constable Barnes.

  “I’m fine.” Witherspoon forced a smile. In truth, the

  confrontation had upset him dreadfully. “Inspector Nivens

  and I were simply having a difference of opinion.”

  “Yes, sir.” They nodded and turned to leave.

  “Thanks, lads,” Barnes called over his shoulder. He

  handed a cup to Witherspoon. “You look like you could use

  this.”

  The inspector took a quick sip, closed his eyes for a

  brief moment, and then sat down. “Honestly, Barnes, I

  don’t know what Inspector Nivens is thinking. We can’t ignore facts. We can’t just pretend he’s done a decent job when his investigation was so bad it should embarrass a

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  first-year man on the force. What does he expect me to do,

  let an innocent man hang in order to bolster his service

  record?” He shook his head. “I don’t care what he threatens; I can’t do it.”

  Alarmed, Barnes said, “He threatened you, sir?”

  Witherspoon sighed heavily. Sometimes he wished he

  were still back in the records room. It was so very nice and

  peaceful there. “He didn’t actually threaten my person, but

  he did say that Chief Inspector Barrows wouldn’t always

  be around to protect me.”

  Barnes almost laughed. “The chief isn’t protecting you.

  Your record is, sir, and that won’t change no matter who is

  our chief inspector. You’ve solved more homicides than

  anyone on the force, sir, and you’ve done it fair and square.

  You’ve never roughed a suspect or threatened a source for

  information. Don’t worry, sir. As long as you keep on

  catching killers, Nivens can’t touch you.”

  Witherspoon smiled faintly. He was tempted to tell the

  constable that Nivens had accused him of having help

  with his cases, but the idea was so outlandish he wouldn’t

  dignify it by repeating it. There were times, though, when

  he did think that providence had smiled upon him with inordinate favor. Often he was at the right place at just the right time to make an arrest or stop a suspect from fleeing.

  He’d also noticed that clues and concepts and different

  ways of approaching a problem often seemed to come to

  him quite readily; but surely that was the result of good

  police work, his instincts, and his inner voice. He wished

  his inner voice would do a bit of talking about this case. “I

  do hope you’re right, Constable, because right now I don’t

  have a clue as to who murdered Caroline Muran.”

  The elderly woman came out of the side door of the Turner

  house and started toward the Kings Road. Betsy followed

  after her. The woman wore clothes that had seen better

  days—her brown bombazine dress was faded in spots and

  the burgundy feathers on her black bonnet drooped sadly.

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  Emily Brightwell

  The edges of the brown-and-burgundy-plaid shawl draped

  over her shoulders were badly frayed and some of the

  fringe was completely gone.

  When she reached the corner, instead of turning right

  toward the shops, she turned left. Betsy, who’d been walking a good distance behind, hurried after her. She reached the corner just in time to see the woman stepping into a

  building halfway down the block.

  Betsy ran toward the spot where her quarry had disappeared and then stopped. Blast, she thought, it’s a ruddy pub. She didn’t like pubs. They reminded her too much of
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  her impoverished childhood in the East End of London.

  She’d seen too many poor women ruined by places like

  this; places were they could go and trade their misery and

  hopelessness for the numbness of alcohol. Her grandmother had called them gin palaces. Her family had been poor, but unlike most of their neighbors, none of them had

  been drinkers. She guessed she’d been lucky. Pubs might

  be a bit more respectable than some of the places of her

  childhood, but she hated them nonetheless. Yet she’d gone

  into such places before and she’d do it again. She reached

  for the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

  The pub was the old-fashioned kind with a raw-hewn

  bench along each wall and a bar at the end. A barmaid stood

  behind the counter, pulling pints and chatting with two

  rough-looking workmen. On a bench along the far wall two

  bread peddlers, both of them women, sat talking quietly as

  they drank their beer. The long, flat baskets they used for

  their stock lay on the floor at their feet.

  Betsy gathered her courage, walked boldly up to the

  counter, and eased in beside her quarry. “Can I speak to you

  a moment?” she asked the rather startled woman. “I promise I’m not selling anything.”

  “Do I know you?” the woman asked. She’d recovered and

  was staring at Betsy with a rather calculating expression.

  “No, but I need some information you might have,”

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  171

  Betsy replied. “And I’m willing to pay for it. Let me buy

  you a drink and then let’s take a seat over there.” She

  pointed to the empty bench on this side of the pub.

  “I’ll have a gin.” She picked up her shopping basket and

  moved over to the bench.

  “Two gins,” Betsy called to the barmaid. She had plenty

  of coins in her pocket, and rather than try to worm anything useful out of the woman, it had suddenly seemed that it might be easier to just offer her money. Older ladies

  weren’t susceptible to flirtatious smiles and stupid flattery.

  “Here you go, dear,” the barmaid said, putting the two

  drinks on the counter.

  Betsy paid her, grabbed the glasses, and made her way to

  the bench. “Here you are.” She handed the woman her gin

  and sank down next to her. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  The woman shrugged. “I’ll talk as long as you keep

  buyin’. My name is Selma Macclesfield. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Laura Bobbins,” Betsy lied. “I work for a private

  inquiry agent and I need some information.”

  Selma Macclesfield stared at her skeptically. “A private

  inquiry agent. But you’re a woman.”

  “I didn’t say I was one.” Betsy smiled. “I said I worked

  for one. I know it’s odd, but the pay is better than doing

  domestic work, and my employer has found that often a

  woman such as yourself will talk more freely with another

  woman.” She leaned closer. “Especially about the more delicate matters that crop up every now and again. If you know what I mean.”

  “What do you want to know?” Selma took a quick drink.

  “Do you work for Mrs. Edwina Turner and her daughter, Lucy?” Betsy asked.

  Selma nodded and drank the rest of her gin. “That’s

  right.”

  Betsy stared in dismay at the now empty glass in the

  woman’s gnarled hand. “Uh, would you like mine?” She

  handed Selma her glass. “I’m not really thirsty.”

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  Emily Brightwell

  “Neither am I, but I like gin.” She took Betsy’s glass. “I

  work for the Turners because it’s the only job I can get. I

  can’t stand either of them. Mrs. Turner is going crazy as

  she gets older, and Miss Turner is a nasty sly boots that I

  wouldn’t trust further than I could throw her. They don’t

  like me much, either, but they keep me on because they’re

  too cheap to pay a decent wage and I’m all they can get. It

  works well for all of us.”

  Betsy was taken aback. “Uh, well, can you tell me if either of the Turner ladies were home on the night of January thirtieth? You might remember, it was the night—”

  “I know what night it was,” Selma interrupted. “That’s

  when their cousin was murdered. Miss Lucy was out that

  night, but I don’t know about the old lady. I wasn’t there

  myself.”

  “Then how do you know about Miss Lucy being out?”

  Betsy asked.

  “Because she flounced out before I left that night.

  They’d been gone most of the day, you see. They’d been

  shopping and had tea with Mrs. Muran. That always put

  Miss Lucy in a foul mood. When they come in, there was a

  note from Mr. Samuels sayin’ he’d not be callin’ around for

  Miss Lucy that night. That put the cat amongst the pigeons,

  I can tell you. Mrs. Turner was furious.”

  “Who is Mr. Samuels?” Betsy suspected she already

  knew the answer.

  Selma smiled slyly. “Alexander Samuels was Miss

  Turner’s uh—what’s the best way to say it—gentleman

  caller. Exceptin’ that he weren’t much of a gentleman, if

  you get my meanin’.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “He’s got plenty of money but no breedin’ to speak of,”

  Selma said bluntly.

  “Did Mrs. Turner disapprove of him?

  Selma laughed. “Course not, the old witch wouldn’t have

  disapproved of the devil himself if he had enough money,

  and Samuels is rich as sin.”

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  173

  “I don’t understand. Why was Mrs. Turner so furious?”

  “Because he wasn’t goin’ to be comin’ around anymore,”

  Selma explained. “Miss Lucy had been seein’ him quite

  regularly like, but he’d been showin’ signs he was losin’ interest. That’s what got Mrs. Turner all het up. That’s what caused the row that evening. Mrs. Turner told Miss Lucy

  she was a fool, that she wasn’t getting any younger, and that

  she’d ruined her chance to grab a rich one. Mind you, I’m

  not sure she ever had much of a chance. Men like Samuels

  aren’t fools. But the old woman didn’t see it that way. She

  kept screamin’ at Miss Lucy that she’d ruined it and now

  they were goin’ to be stuck for the rest of their lives playin’

  the poor relations. I almost felt sorry for Miss Lucy.”

  “Is that when Miss Turner left the house?”

  Selma looked pointedly at her empty glass.

  Betsy leapt to her feet. “Let me get you another one.”

  “Get me another two,” Selma ordered. “I’ve got lots to

  say.”

  C H A P T E R 1 0

  Q

  It had started to rain by the time the household gathered for

  their afternoon meeting. Ruth arrived just as the others

  were sitting down. She shook the water off her jacket, hung

  it on the coat tree, and slipped into her chair. “I won’t make

  a habit of being late, I promise.”

  “We’ve only just sat down.” Mrs. Goodge put a plate of

  apple tarts next to the teapot.

  “I’m sure you had a good reason.” Mrs. Jeffries began to
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br />   pour.

  Ruth smiled uncertainly. “I think perhaps I might. I’m not

  certain that what I heard has anything to do with our case.

  But as you’ve all told me, everything could be important.”

  “What did you find out?” Mrs. Jeffries handed her a cup

  of tea.

  “Most of our suspects know how to use a pistol.” She

  looked around the table at their faces. They all stared at her

  politely. “Oh dear, you already knew that, didn’t you.”

  “We didn’t,” Wiggins declared, “and that’s right important. Dr. Bosworth says most people are such bad shots it’s 174

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  175

  a wonder anyone actually hits their mark, and whoever

  shot poor Mrs. Muran knew what they was doin’.”

  “Or they got lucky,” Smythe muttered. “Bosworth said

  that was possible as well.”

  “Why don’t you start from the beginning.” Mrs. Jeffries

  put a tart on a dessert plate and gently pushed it toward

  Ruth.

  “Today I had lunch with my friend Marianna Bibbs,”

  Ruth continued. “Right after Caroline’s murder, she happened to be at a dinner party and several of the other guests knew both the Murans and the Turners. Naturally, the talk

  turned to crime in the streets and how dreadful it was. You

  know, the sort of polite but rather stupid things people say

  in those circumstances.” She took a quick sip of her tea.

  “One of the men happened to mention that it was too bad

  that Keith Muran hadn’t been armed. That if he’d had a

  weapon with him, he might have saved his wife’s life.

  Someone else at the table made the comment that having a

  gun wouldn’t save you unless you knew how to use it. Then

  the other fellow, I believe Marianne said his name was

  Jackson Miller, said that Muran did know how to use a

  weapon. That he’d gone shooting with him, and Muran was

  a good shot with both a rifle and a pistol.”

  “He wouldn’t have missed then,” Smythe commented.

  “But it couldn’t be him,” Betsy protested. “Dr. Bosworth

  said that Muran’s head wound was so bad that he spent several days in hospital. He couldn’t have shot his wife, got rid of the weapon, and then banged himself on the head

  hard enough to give himself a concussion.”

  “Why not?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. In her book, husbands were naturally suspect. “There was no one about. The street was empty. He’d have had plenty of time to do as he