Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  have an accomplice. She thought of Mrs. Goodge’s explanation. It was a tad far-fetched, but it was certainly possible. And what’s more, by coshing himself over the head, 184

  Emily Brightwell

  Muran instantly took himself off the suspect list. Even the

  inspector hadn’t seen any reason to doubt the man’s story.

  She made a mental note to be sure to mention to Constable

  Barnes that they ought to search the empty buildings near

  the murder scene.

  She felt her eyelids grow heavy and she began to drift

  toward sleep. Wiggins was right, she thought. What we’ve

  got to do is find out who wanted Mrs. Muran dead and Mr.

  Muran alive. But that’s the trouble, she told herself sleepily. All of our suspects benefit with Mrs. Muran dead and Mr. Muran alive. John Addison will be able to buy the business, Mr. Muran will have lots of money, Roderick Sutter would have revenge for being fired, and the Turner women

  might get to be ladies of the manor and not poor relations.

  She drifted off to sleep. In her dreams, she walked in a

  heavy fog and she was frightened. She knew she was near

  the river. The fog would drift about, sometimes heavy,

  sometimes so wispy she could see the embankment. She

  knew she had to find the way home, that she had something

  important to do, something that was a matter of life and

  death.

  From all around her, came the sound of voices. “I lost

  my position over twenty quid,” a man’s hard tone rang out.

  She whirled about, but all she could see was heavy mist.

  “I stepped out to get my shawl,” a woman replied. Even in

  her sleep she knew dreams didn’t need to make sense.

  “She threw the salt cellar at the day girl.” That voice

  sounded a bit like Wiggins. “We’re no closer to finding who

  murdered Caroline Muran,” Mrs. Goodge declared. “He

  must ’ave had an accomplice,” Smythe added.

  Mrs. Jeffries sighed in her sleep. She wanted to tell them

  she was sorry, that she’d tried her best to solve the case, but

  it was simply too difficult. But naturally, as she was asleep,

  she couldn’t get her voice to work properly.

  Betsy suddenly appeared at her side. “Do you think I’ll

  miss my chance?”

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  185

  Mrs. Jeffries awoke with a start and sat up. Her pulse

  pounded and her mind raced as Betsy’s words repeated

  themselves in her head. Facts, theories, and ideas all came

  together in that lightning bolt fashion that made things

  make perfect sense. “Good gracious, that’s it. He changed

  everything.”

  She looked toward the window and saw that it was still

  dark outside, but she knew she couldn’t go back to sleep.

  She got up, lighted the lamp on her desk, and then sat

  down. She had to think. She had to be sure. Yet even if she

  was sure, how on earth was she going to prove it?

  Betsy was sitting at the kitchen table when Smythe came

  downstairs. A teapot, two cups, and a plate of buns were in

  front of her. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten,” she

  said softly.

  “Course I didn’t forget. I just had to be extra careful

  coming downstairs so I don’t wake that silly dog. Even

  with a door between us, Fred’s got sharp ears.” He leaned

  over and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “I thought I saw

  a crack of light comin’ from Mrs. Jeffries’ rooms as well.”

  He slipped into the chair next to her. “I think she might be

  up and about.”

  “Do you think she knows?” Betsy looked toward the back

  staircase.

  Smythe shrugged. “Even if she did, she wouldn’t care.

  We deserve a bit of time to ourselves, and the only way we

  can be alone together is early of a mornin’ when everyone

  else is asleep. She’d understand.”

  Since their engagement, they had gotten in the habit of

  occasionally getting up early so they could have some time

  together. The others in the household tried their best not to

  constantly intrude upon the couple, but between their work

  and the inspector’s cases, it was almost impossible to have

  any privacy. So they’d hit upon this idea, and so far, it had

  worked well.

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  “We do have a wedding to plan.” Betsy poured the tea

  and handed him his mug. “That takes time. There are a lot

  of decisions that have to be made. Speaking of which, we

  do need to pick the day.”

  “Pick the one you like. Any day will do me.” He took a

  quick sip of the hot liquid.

  “You can’t just pick any old day.” Betsy stared at him irritably. Sometimes men were such dolts. “We’ve got to see what else people have planned for the month.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” Smythe had noticed that

  when it came to wedding plans, he frequently said the

  wrong thing.

  “It’s got everything to do with it,” she sighed. “I want

  people to come, not send their regrets because we picked

  the wrong day and they had other plans. That’s why we’ve

  got to think it through carefully. We don’t want to pick a

  day there’s an important social event. Isn’t Ascot in June?

  I’ll want Lady Cannonberry there and Luty and Hatchet.

  But they’ve got social obligations, too, and we’ve got to

  take that into account.”

  “Rubbish,” he said, putting his mug down. Sometimes

  Betsy didn’t realize her own worth. Sometimes the insecure, frightened girl who’d collapsed on the inspector’s doorstep took over and made her say silly things. “You’re

  more important than a flower show or a race meeting. It’s

  our wedding! Other people can make their plans around

  us. Do you think Luty or Hatchet or Ruth would go to a

  bloomin’ race meeting rather than come to our wedding?”

  “Well, no, but there’s no need to make things awkward

  for anyone.” She looked down at her lap, embarrassed that

  she’d made a fuss. Of course their friends would put them

  first. “I just want everything to be perfect.”

  “It will be.” He lifted her chin, forcing her eyes to meet

  his. “It’s going to be the best day of your life, Betsy. I promise you. You can have anything you want. You know that.

  We can have a reception at the Palace Hotel or we can take

  a grand tour of the Continent, go to America, or do anything

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  187

  you like. You just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to

  you.”

  Smythe had made a fortune in Australia and invested it

  wisely and well. He’d been good friends with the inspector’s late aunt, Euphemia Witherspoon. When he’d come back from Australia, he stopped in to see his old friend.

  He’d found her in very poor health and surrounded by a

  pack of servants that were taking terrible liberties. They’d

  been robbing her blind and practically imprisoning her

  in her own home. Smythe had run all of them off except

  for the youngest, Wiggins. When Euphemia had realized

  she was dying, she’d made him promise to stay on for a


  bit and watch out for her nephew, Gerald Witherspoon.

  He’d agreed and he’d stayed. Inspector Witherspoon had

  moved in and hired Mrs. Jeffries and Mrs. Goodge. Betsy

  had come, and before you could say bobs-your-uncle, they

  were investigating murders and looking out for one another. They’d become family.

  Unfortunately, Smythe hadn’t told them he was rich.

  He’d then been stuck with the problem that as he’d not said

  anything about having so much money, the others in the

  household might not take kindly to thinking he’d deceived

  them all these years. When he and Betsy had fallen in love,

  he’d finally told her. Mrs. Jeffries had guessed the truth,

  but the others still thought he was just a coachman.

  “All I want is you,” she said softly. “But a nice wedding

  wouldn’t hurt, either. You know we can’t make too big a

  fuss, don’t you?”

  He sighed. “I know, but we don’t have to skimp, either.

  We’ll have us a proper wedding and do it right.”

  “You said you might have a way for us to keep on with

  our investigations,” she said hopefully.

  They’d known that once they were married, things at

  Upper Edmonton Gardens would change. Smythe would

  want to give her a home of their own and he’d not want her

  working as a maid, not even for someone as good as Inspector Witherspoon.

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  “There might be.” He hesitated. He’d still not thought

  the whole thing through, and it might not work out. Like

  Betsy, he knew that once they wed, things would change.

  He liked investigating murders as well, and he was determined that he’d find a way for them to continue their work, even if they no longer lived in the inspector’s household.

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Gracious, you two are up early.” Mrs. Jeffries swept

  into the kitchen. “Oh dear, am I intruding?” She’d given

  them as much privacy as she possibly could, but if her theory about the murder was correct, they had much to do and she had to get started.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. J.” Smythe grinned broadly. He’d

  not been ready to share his thoughts on how they could

  continue their investigations with his beloved quite yet.

  “You’re up early yourself.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” She looked hopefully at the teapot.

  “Is there enough in there for me?”

  “There’s plenty.” Betsy was already up and moving to

  the sideboard for another cup. “Why couldn’t you sleep? Is

  your stomach bothering you again?”

  “It wasn’t indigestion.” Mrs. Jeffries sat down. “It was

  this case. Something is going to happen today, and we’ve

  got to prepare as best we can.”

  “Bloomin’ ada, you know who did it!” Smythe exclaimed.

  “Thank goodness. I was terrified we weren’t going to

  solve this one.” Betsy smiled happily and handed Mrs. Jeffries her mug.

  “Well, I don’t precisely know who did it,” Mrs. Jeffries

  explained. “But I’ve narrowed the field a bit.”

  “What does that mean?” Mrs. Goodge asked. She was

  standing in the doorway, holding a smug-looking Samson

  in her arms. Her tone had been just a tad irritated.

  “Excellent, you’re up,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “We must get

  Wiggins up as well. I’m going to need all of you.”

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  189

  “What’s going on?” The cook put the cat down and

  came on into the kitchen. She stared suspiciously at the

  teapot. “Have you been meetin’ without me?”

  “No, Betsy and I just snuck down early to make some

  weddin’ plans.” Smythe got to his feet. “Mrs. Jeffries come

  down because she’s figured it out, and I’ve got to go get

  Wiggins.”

  “I’ll put more water on to boil,” Betsy said.

  Mrs. Goodge looked at the housekeeper. “Thank goodness you’ve figured it out. This case has been keeping me awake at nights.”

  “I’m not precisely sure,” Mrs. Jeffries explained. “But

  I’ve a feeling we’re on the right track, so to speak.” Blast,

  what if she were wrong.

  Samson, who’d walked over to his empty food bowl,

  meowed loudly.

  “Just a minute, precious,” the cook called over her

  shoulder.

  “I’ll explain everything as soon as we’re all assembled,”

  Mrs. Jeffries said firmly.

  By the time the cat was fed and the fresh tea brewed,

  Wiggins and Smythe had come downstairs.

  “Should I go get Lady Cannonberry?” the footman

  asked.

  “Not yet, but we will need her later,” Mrs. Jeffries

  replied. “Now, I’m going to have to ask all of you to do some

  very specific tasks today. Wiggins, I want you to get over to

  the Muran household and find your friend Charlotte.”

  “I don’t think she’ll be up this early,” he said.

  “Don’t be daft, lad. By the time you have your tea and

  get over there, she’ll be in the kitchen helping to get breakfast,” Mrs. Goodge said. “Not all households are like this one. Most places make the servants get up at the crack of

  dawn.”

  “Once you speak to Charlotte,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected,

  “you must tell her the truth about us, about what we do, but

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  then you must swear her to secrecy. What we need her to

  do might be very important.”

  “You want me to tell her about our snoopin’?” Wiggins

  asked incredulously. “About our workin’ on the inspector’s

  case?”

  “Tell her you work for a private inquiry agent, and then

  promise to help her find a new position,” Betsy suggested

  quickly. “That’s what I always do and it generally works

  fairly well.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said to Betsy.

  She turned back to Wiggins. “Tell Charlotte that once she’s

  inside the Turner house, she’s to keep watch. If she sees either of the Turner women adding anything to the food that’s to be served at luncheon, she’s to come and get you. You’ll

  need to be standing watch close by. Can you do that?”

  Wiggins nodded. “What’ll I do if she tells me she’s seen

  something?”

  Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “You’ll find the inspector and tell him what you know.”

  They all began to protest at once, but she held up her

  hand for silence. “Don’t worry, I’ve come up with a story

  to mask our actions on this case. We’re in a position where

  we may have to let him know we’ve been helping. But if

  that happens, we’ll deal with the consequences as best we

  can.”

  “You think one of them is going to use poison?” Mrs.

  Goodge asked.

  “I think it’s very possible,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. She

  looked at Smythe. “Can you find Russell Merriman?”

  “I’ve no idea what he looks like,” he replied. “But if you

  give me a description, I can suss ’im out. Do we even know

  where he’s staying?”

  “He’s staying at the Muran house,” Mrs. G
oodge interjected. “Sorry, I forgot to mention that yesterday. He moved in a day or so ago.”

  “Then findin’ ’im will be pretty easy. What do you want

  me to do?”

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  191

  “Keep an eye on him,” she replied. “If my theory is correct, someone is going to try to kill him today. The trouble is, I’m not exactly sure who it’s going to be, so we’ve got

  our work cut out for us.”

  “You don’t know who it is?” Mrs. Goodge pulled her

  shawl tighter against the early morning chill.

  “I’m fairly sure it’s one of three people,” Mrs. Jeffries

  said. “Betsy, can you get to the Turner house and find

  Selma Macclesfield?”

  “I can,” Betsy said uncertainly. “Mrs. Jeffries, it’s not

  like you to be so unsure of the identity of the killer. Are

  you sure we’re not moving too quickly. We don’t want to

  make a mistake.” She was voicing the doubts she could see

  on the faces of the others.

  Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “I know it

  sounds as if I don’t know what I’m doing, but you’ve got

  to trust me.”

  “We do trust you,” Mrs. Goodge said. “But you’ve just

  admitted the killer could be one of three people. We don’t

  want to expose ourselves without need. If we go tearing

  about and interferrin’ in the inspector’s case and the killer

  isn’t caught, it’ll not go down very well.”

  “I do understand that,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “I

  wouldn’t ask any of you to expose yourselves if I wasn’t

  sure it was absolutely necessary.”

  “But you don’t know exactly who the killer is?” Smythe

  pressed.

  “It’s one of three people,” she repeated, picking the pot

  up and starting to pour. She could understand their concerns, but really, you’d think by now they’d have learned to trust her. She wasn’t sure if she was offended or not.

  Mrs. Goodge cocked her head to one side and stared at

  the housekeeper speculatively. “In the past you’ve always

  been sure.”

  “I’m certain the killer is going to strike today,” she said.

  She handed Wiggins his tea. “But that’s all I’m sure of, and

  that’s why I’m going to need everyone’s help.”

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  “You’ve not steered us wrong yet,” Wiggins declared as

  he took his tea. “You know what’s what. I trust you, Mrs.