pleased, and what’s more, those buildings were all empty.
I’ll bet they were never searched. He could have hidden the
gun somewhere in one of them then come out, coshed himself on the head, and toppled over next to his poor wife’s body. It would have been as easy as baking a treacle tart.”
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“More likely, if Muran did it, he had an accomplice,”
Smythe said. “But Mrs. Goodge’s theory is possible. Maybe
we ought to put a flea in the inspector’s ear about searching
the empty buildings.”
“I’ll have a quick word with Constable Barnes,” Mrs.
Jeffries said. “I wonder if Lucy Turner could have been the
accomplice. She was his mistress.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Betsy said. “I heard
something today that suggests she might not have been. She
was seeing another man. His name is Alexander Samuels,
and he’s rich as sin.”
“Cor blimey, guess she wasn’t so crazy about Mr. Mu-
ran as we thought,” Wiggins said.
“Gracious, that does cast a different light on the matter.”
Mrs. Jeffries caught herself. Speculating like this wasn’t
going to help them. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.
Let’s let Ruth finish.”
“There isn’t much else to tell,” she said. “Once I found
out that Keith Muran knew how to handle a gun I decided
to find out if the Turner women were decent shots. That’s
why I was so late—I went see my friend Harriet Turnbull
and had a word with her. Harriet’s the widow of General
Roland Turnbull. Edwina Turner’s husband served under
him in India. But Harriet’s been out of town so today was
the first time I was able to speak to her. Harriet claims that
both the Turner women can shoot.”
“She was certain of this?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.
“Oh, yes,” Ruth replied. “During one of the uprisings in
India, Edwina helped out in the field hospital. Harriet told
me that Edwina was known for keeping a loaded pistol on
her lap as she nursed the wounded. She bragged she knew
how to use it.”
“What about Lucy?”
“Lucy knows how to use a gun,” Ruth replied. “Harriet
was certain of that, but she didn’t know how skilled she
was with the weapon. I know it isn’t much, but I hope it
helps us.”
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177
“Everything helps,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And you’ve
learned a sight more than me. All I heard was that Edwina
Turner has been going wrong in the head for months now.
She’s taken to burying things in the back garden.”
“Maybe she buried the gun,” Wiggins suggested excitedly.
The cook shook her head. “No, she’d need a shovel or a
spade to do that properly, and my source told me that the
woman digs in the dirt with her bare hands. She’s not right
in the head.”
“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t commit the murder,”
Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Apparently, she’s able to function
normally most of the time.” She glanced around the table.
“Who’d like to go next?”
“I will.” Betsy told them about her meeting with Selma
Macclesfield. She didn’t mention that she’d followed the
woman into a pub and plied her with gin to loosen her
tongue. “She says that Mrs. Turner was furious at Lucy
that afternoon. The old woman was convinced that Alexander Samuels wasn’t going to see Lucy anymore. They had a terrible row about it.” She gave them all the ugly details
and then she sat back in her chair, shaking her head in
amazement. “It must be awful when your own mother
speaks to you like that. It must have made Lucy Turner feel
utterly worthless. I feel sorry for her.”
“I don’t think either woman has had a very happy life,”
Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Something niggled in the back of
her mind, but it was gone so fast she couldn’t grasp what it
meant. “Wiggins, did you learn anything today?”
“No,” he admitted morosely. “I didn’t hear a bloomin’
thing exceptin’ Charlotte complainin’ that she was bein’
loaned out to the Turners tomorrow to help serve at a
luncheon for Mr. Muran.”
“I take it you’ve had no further luck on finding out where
all our suspects were that night?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“It’s right ’ard tryin’ to find out where people where,” he
said defensively. “I spent bloomin’ ’ours walkin’ about and
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talkin’ to anyone who’d stand still for thirty seconds. But I
didn’t ’ave much luck today.”
“I’m sure you’ll do better tomorrow.” Betsy patted him
on the arm.
“Of course you will,” the housekeeper reassured him.
Mrs. Jeffries had actually been hoping that Wiggins would
find out a few more details about who had been where on
the night of the murder. It would have helped sort things
out a bit. But he’d done his best and she didn’t want him
feeling bad about his abilities. “You always come through
in the end.”
The footman beamed proudly. “I do my best.”
“I found out something useful,” Smythe said. “I ’ad a
word with the driver, and he admitted to me that Muran
had asked him to wait that night.”
“Then Muran was telling the truth,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.
“Not only was he tellin’ the truth, but I don’t see ’ow he
could be the killer unless he was workin’ with an accomplice.” Smythe declared. “If the driver had waited like he was supposed to, he’d have been a witness.”
“None of this makes sense,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered.
“You’re right, if the cab had waited, there would have been
a witness to the whole thing.”
“Not necessarily,” Wiggins said. “I mean, if the hansom
was turned the wrong way, he’d have not been lookin’. The
killer could ’ave come up, banged Muran on the head, shot
Mrs. Muran, and disappeared before the cabbie even
turned his head to look. It’s a dark road and the only gas
lamp is on the corner. Seems to me whoever did this killin’
is right bold and brazen. They’d not make much noise
coshin’ someone on the skull, and they could be gone in
the blink of an eye after the shots were fired.”
The inspector was late getting home, but despite being exhausted he was quite happy to tell Mrs. Jeffries about his day. She handed him a sherry and took her usual spot opposite him. “Are you making progress, sir?”
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
179
“It’s difficult to tell.” Witherspoon frowned. “But we’re
doing the very best that we can.”
He looked away for a moment. “And I’m now virtually
certain he didn’t do it. It’s not that I’ve uncovered evidence
or anything like that; it’s more a feeling. Mrs. Jeffries,
what am I going to do if I fail? I don’t think I could live
with myself if that man hangs for a murder I’m sure he
didn’t commit.�
��
“You simply have to find the real killer,” she said
stoutly. Deep inside, she shared the same fears as the inspector, but right now wasn’t the time to wallow in her own doubts. Witherspoon worked best when he was sure of himself and confident in his own abilities. “You’re very good at what you do, sir. I’m sure you’re making progress.”
“Do you really think so?” He stared at her hopefully.
“Today it didn’t seem like I was making any sort of progress
at all. There was nothing in the second set of reports from
the constables that we sent out to speak to potential witnesses. They only found two people who were in the area that night. One of them was drunk and the other was a
watchman who was doing his rounds and didn’t see or hear
anything.”
“But at least you sent lads out to make certain there
were no witnesses,” she pointed out. “That’s very important, sir. As you always say, details can make or break a case.” He’d never said any such thing, or if he had it was
because he’d heard it from her first, but it was the truth.
“What else did you do today, sir?”
Witherspoon hesitated. “I had a rather unsettling meeting with Inspector Nivens.”
“What did he want?” she asked in alarm.
“He was very upset, actually,” he said, draining his
glass. “He seems to think that I’m deliberately trying to reverse his conviction.”
“It’s not his conviction,” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to
keep calm. “It’s the Crown’s. He was merely the officer on
the case.” She now understood what had upset her inspector
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so badly. Nivens had obviously been his usual obnoxious
and threatening self. “But you’ve dealt with Nivens before
and I’m sure you handled him properly today.”
“Well, I did my best to make him understand I wasn’t
out to harm his career.” He was glad he’d told her about the
altercation. He was beginning to feel ever so much better.
“But I couldn’t tell Chief Inspector Barrows I’d not look
into the matter, could I. Furthermore, my conscience
wouldn’t let me ignore the issue. Right after Nivens left,
Russell Merriman came to see me.”
“At the Yard?”
“Oh, no, I was at Ladbroke Station, but he’d been to the
Yard and they’d told him where we were. Naturally, he
wanted to know if we were making progress.”
“I hope you told him you were, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries believed in taking every opportunity to boost the inspector’s confidence.
“I told him the investigation was moving along as well as
could be expected, but that we still had a great deal more
work to do. He seemed satisfied with the reply. He was on
his way to the solicitor’s office. He said he was going to do
what was right and take over running the estate. He said that
was the way his sister would have wanted it.” Witherspoon
shook his head. “It should have been an awkward conversation, but it wasn’t. Merriman’s eyes filled with tears when he mentioned his sister, but somehow it wasn’t a sad moment. It’s odd, isn’t it, what you can sense about people.”
“Not everyone can do that, sir. But then, that’s why
you’re such an excellent detective. You’re very good at getting people to talk freely, and, of course, you’re very perceptive.” She got up and reached for his empty glass.
“Would you like another, sir?”
Witherspoon flushed with pleasure. “Oh, I shouldn’t, but
as it’s been such a distressful day, I will have another. We
interviewed Helen Maitland. She was the Murans’ housekeeper.”
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181
“She no longer works there?” Mrs. Jeffries baited the
hook.
“Oh, no, she hasn’t worked there since Mrs. Muran was
murdered. She had quite a tale to tell, though I’m not certain what it might mean.” He told her about his meeting with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Jeffries took her time pouring his sherry, but even
moving at a snail’s pace, she finally had to hand him his
glass. “That’s very interesting, sir. Did you see anyone else
today?”
“We interviewed John Addison. His firm was, well, actually still is, trying to buy Merriman’s.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. “He’s a rather peculiar
fellow.”
“In what way, sir?”
“Our coming to see him didn’t seem to bother him in
the least. His whole manner was odd. It was almost as if he
considered the whole enterprise nothing more than a challenge.” He told her about their encounter with Addison.
The hall clock struck the hour as Betsy stuck her head
into the drawing room. “Good evening, sir,” she said to
Witherspoon. “Are you ready for your dinner?”
“Oh, yes.” He got up. “I’m actually quite hungry.”
“Go ahead and bring it up,” Mrs. Jeffries told her. “I’ll
serve tonight.”
Mrs. Jeffries stayed in the dining room while the inspector ate his meal. She chatted as she served him his leg of mutton and stewed apples with clotted cream. By the
time she poured his after-dinner cup of tea, he was relaxed
and she’d learned every detail of his day. During the meal,
she’d also managed to convey practically all the information the household had gathered. She’d save the few bits she hadn’t been able to mention to the inspector for Constable Barnes.
“I’ll take my tea up with me.” Witherspoon got to his feet.
“Ask Wiggins to take Fred for his walk. Poor old fellow. I’ve
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not spent much time with him lately.” He put his hand over
his mouth to cover a yawn.
“I’m sure you’ll make it up to him.” Mrs. Jeffries
handed him his cup. “Sleep well, sir.”
As soon as he’d gone upstairs, she piled the dirty dishes
on a tray and took them down to the kitchen. As they
cleared up, she told the others everything she’d learned.
“It’s all useful, I suppose,” Mrs. Goodge muttered as she
headed for her room. “But let’s face it, we’re still no closer
on figurin’ out who actually murdered Caroline Muran.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Wiggins said. “We’ve learned lots
and lots. It’ll all come together and make sense when it’s
supposed to. Come on, Fred, time for bed.”
“Is the back door locked?” Mrs. Jeffries asked of no one
in particular as she went toward the back stairs.
“It’s locked and bolted.” Smythe took Betsy’s hand and
fell in step behind the housekeeper.
The household went up to their beds.
Mrs. Jeffries went into her quarters and closed the door.
She leaned against the cold wood for a moment as Mrs.
Goodge’s last words rang in her cars. Despite everything,
the cook was right. They weren’t any closer to finding the
killer. Her worst fears were going to be realized and they
were all going to be racked with guilt for the rest of their
lives. They’d let an innocent man hang. Oh, don’t be daft,
she told herself as she pushed away from the door. We’ve
still time.
From the landing outside, she heard Betsy say, “Thank
&
nbsp; goodness I’ve not missed my chance.”
“What do you mean, lass?” Smythe’s voice was a harsh
whisper through the heavy door.
“Lucy Turner is a beautiful woman, but if she was Mu-
ran’s mistress, she missed her chance to have a husband
and children by wasting her whole life pining after a man
she couldn’t have.”
“We’ve neither of us missed our chance.” Smythe’s
voice faded.
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183
Mrs. Jeffries got undressed, doused the lights, and then
went to sit in her chair by the window. She stared at the gas
lamp across the road and tried to make her mind go blank,
but nothing happened. She simply couldn’t stop herself
from thinking.
She decided it was no use, and she might as well go to
bed. She got up and slipped beneath her covers. Closing her
eyes, she tried her best to sleep, but she lay there wide
awake. She was annoyed with herself for being unable to
put herself in that state that usually helped her see the true
nature of the crime. Instead, she was laying here in the dark
staring at the ceiling while unrelated bits and pieces popped
willy-nilly in and out of her head. John Addison hadn’t
been bothered at all by the police turning up and questioning him. Perhaps that meant he was one of those people who considered themselves so much cleverer than the rest
of the human race. People like that never thought they’d be
caught. Then again, now that Russell Merriman was back,
perhaps that had put a damper on Addison’s plans. Perhaps
Merriman’s return changed a lot of plans.
She rolled over onto her side and stared at the window.
And Addison had been in town on the night of the murder.
It was really too bad they didn’t know for certain if he’d
left the hotel that night. She closed her eyes and sighed.
She might as well let her mind do what it wanted. Obviously, she wasn’t going to be able to control her thoughts in any sort of coherent, logical fashion.
Muran might have had an accomplice. That certainly
could have worked if he’d really wanted to rid himself of
his wife, but then again, there also seemed to be ample evidence that he genuinely loved Caroline. Yet appearances could be deceiving, and the fact was, the man had been
widowed twice before the age of fifty. She rolled onto her
back and stared up at the ceiling again. Perhaps he didn’t
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