Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict Read online

  and settled next to the footman’s chair. Smythe was a tall,

  muscular man in his mid-thirties with black hair, heavy features, and dark brown eyes. His companion was a short, chubby, ginger-haired fellow wearing a porkpie hat and a

  long black greatcoat with a bright red scarf wound around

  the neck.

  Everyone looked at Smythe expectantly.

  “This is my friend, Blimpey Groggins. ’E’s got something ’e’d like to discuss with us,” the coachman said hesitantly. Smythe wasn’t sure bringing Blimpey to the house was a good idea, but he’d not really had much choice.

  Blimpey had been waiting for him outside the back garden

  gate and had insisted he needed their help.

  “How do you do, Mr. Groggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she

  rose to her feet. “Would you care for some tea?”

  “Ta, ma’am,” he replied politely. “I could do with a cuppa.

  It’s right cold and miserable out there.”

  Everyone waited until the two men had taken off their

  coats and settled into chairs around the table. Smythe

  squeezed Betsy’s hand as he slid into his spot next to her.

  “I’m Hepzibah Jeffries,” the housekeeper said formally.

  “And this is Mrs. Goodge, Betsy, and Wiggins.” She

  pointed to each of them as she said their names. “You already know Smythe, of course.”

  Blimpey nodded at each of them. “Cor blimey, Smythe,

  your lady is a pretty one.”

  Smythe blinked in surprise, but Betsy, not in the least offended, laughed. “Why thank you, Mr. Groggins,” she said.

  “That’s very kind of you.”

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  Emily Brightwell

  “Would you care for a bun?” Wiggins shoved the plate of

  buns toward their guest. “They’re real nice. Mrs. Goodge

  made ’em fresh this mornin’.”

  “Thank you, lad,” Blimpey helped himself and then

  looked at Smythe expectantly.

  The coachman cleared his throat. “Blimpey needs our

  ’elp,” he began. Blast a Spaniard, this was harder than he’d

  thought it was going to be. He had to tread carefully here.

  He didn’t want to say too much, but on the other hand, he

  had to tell them enough so they’d know they could trust

  Blimpey.

  “Is Mr. Groggins in need of domestic assistance?” Mrs.

  Jeffries asked softly.

  “Call me Blimpey,” he said quickly. “And no, I’m not

  needin’ domestic assistance of any kind, thank you. I’m

  wantin’ your help to prevent a huge miscarriage of justice,

  so to speak, and you’ve not got much time, either.”

  “Miscarriage of justice,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated.

  “Not got much time,” Mrs. Goodge echoed.

  “What’s ’e on about?” Wiggins muttered.

  “For goodness’ sakes, Blimpey, give ’em a bit of more

  information than that,” Smythe said irritably.

  “I fully intend to do just that,” Blimpey replied, “but I

  thought it important to let everyone know right away that

  we can’t be dillying about here. The lad’s life is at stake.”

  He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “There’s a man by the name of

  Tommy Odell that’s going to meet the hangman in less

  than three Sundays unless you and your lot help.”

  “Why do you think we can help this man?” she asked

  calmly. She had a very good idea why he thought they

  could help, but she wanted to learn a bit more before she

  said too much.

  Several people in London had figured out that Gerald

  Witherspoon’s household staff were helping with his cases,

  but those few were trusted friends. She needed to know

  how Blimpey Groggins had learned their secret.

  “Because it’s my job to know such things,” Blimpey

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  7

  said. “I’m a broker of sorts, Mrs. Jeffries, only instead of

  stocks or coal or tea, I deal in information.”

  “What kind of information?” Wiggins asked curiously.

  Smythe held his breath. This was the rough part. If

  Blimpey said too much, then everyone at the table would

  soon figure out that he’d been using Blimpey as a source

  for all their cases. On the other hand, if Blimpey didn’t tell

  them enough, they’d have a hard time taking his concern

  seriously.

  “All kinds,” Blimpey grinned proudly. “I can honestly

  say that my customers come from all levels of our fine society. Just last week I had an insurance company hire me to find out if a warehouse had been deliberately set afire.”

  Wiggins leaned forward eagerly. “And ’ad it?”

  “Nah. Much to the insurance company’s annoyance, the

  fire was an accident. The warehouse owner had just taken

  in partners and didn’t need to burn down the building.

  Mind you, it did work out for the fellow—now he gets a

  brand new building—but that’s neither here nor there. The

  point is, in the course of my work, I’m often privy to information that works both sides of the road, so to speak.”

  “What does that mean?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. She

  eyed their visitor suspiciously.

  Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain she knew exactly what it

  meant, but she said nothing.

  Blimpey shrugged and took a quick sip of his tea.

  “There’s no delicate way to say this except to just come out

  and say it. Sometimes I get information about the less respectable members of our society, and recently I’ve come across something that leads me to believe a great miscarriage of justice is about to take place, namely that poor Tommy Odell is goin’ to swing for a murder he didn’t

  commit.”

  “And how do you know Mr. Odell isn’t guilty of this

  crime?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

  “Cause I know Tommy—he’s a pickpocket, not a killer.”

  Blimpey shook his head in disgust. “I know that sounds odd

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  Emily Brightwell

  to you lot, but Tommy’s a good lad. He’d no more take a life

  than he would cut off his own hand. But they caught him

  with the goods so they laid the blame on him. He didn’t do

  it. I need you lot to prove it before they hang him.”

  “When is he due to be executed?” Mrs. Jeffries took a

  sip of her own tea.

  “April ninth.” Blimpey shook his head sadly. “He’s a

  nice bloke, is Tommy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “That’s not much time,” Mrs. Goodge mused.

  Mrs. Jeffries gave her a quick, surprised look. The cook

  was the one person she thought might balk at helping

  someone like Blimpey, or even believing him in the first

  place. “Why do you think we can be of service?” she asked

  softly. “Shouldn’t you take your concerns to the police?”

  Blimpey stared at her for a long moment and then said,

  “I’ve just told ya, Mrs. Jeffries. My business is information. Did you really think you and the others in this house could help Inspector Witherspoon solve over twenty murders without some of us catchin’ on? Don’t be daft. There’s plenty that know what you’ve been up to, but as you’ve also

  got a reputation for gettin’ it right and keepin’ innocent

  people off the gallows, most of us keep what we know to

  ourselves.”

  “And you think we can help Mr. Odell?” she repl
ied.

  Her voice and manner were very calm, but inside her spirits soared. She wasn’t certain she liked people knowing what they’d been up to, but in all honesty it was rather exciting to know there were people who recognized and approved of what they’d done.

  “If you can’t, the lad’s a goner,” Blimpey said bluntly.

  “I’d ’ave been here sooner but the missus and I was out of

  the country.” He smiled self-consciously. “We had us a bit

  of a holiday. We went to the South of France to get away

  from the miserable weather, and when I got back yesterday

  I found out poor Tommy Odell was in the nick and facing

  the grim one. So I come along here and waited for Smythe,

  hoping you’d be able to help.”

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  9

  “You and Smythe are old friends?” Betsy asked.

  “We go back a bit. Blimpey grinned. “Smythe used to

  work for one of my old customers, Euphemia Witherspoon, your inspector’s late aunt. She was a character, she was. Nice woman, too. Sad to see the likes of her go.”

  “Could you give us a bit more of the circumstances of

  Mr. Odell’s troubles?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I’ve not heard

  of any murders done recently.”

  “It was in the papers.” Betsy pointed to the newspaper

  lying at the far end of the table. “He was sentenced last

  week.”

  “That’s right, but the murder itself were a couple of

  months back,” Blimpey said easily. “Just after that baronet

  out in Richmond was killed. A woman named Caroline

  Muran was shot during a robbery. She died. Her husband

  was coshed on the head, but he lived. Mrs. Muran’s bracelet

  was stolen as well as the husband’s watch. That’s how they

  nicked Tommy: he’d sold the watch to a pawnbroker and it

  was spotted by a copper.”

  “How did Tommy get the watch?” Smythe asked.

  Blimpey shrugged. “He’s a pickpocket. He claimed he

  lifted it hours before the killing. Look, I know it don’t

  seem right, my wantin’ you to help a thief, but thieving

  isn’t murder.”

  “You’re convinced he’s telling you the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.

  “Of that, I’m sure.” Blimpey nodded emphatically.

  “Tommy takes care of his mum. His biggest worry about

  facin’ the hangman is who is goin’ to take care of her when

  he’s dead. Can you help or not?”

  “Would you mind giving us a few moments to discuss

  it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She had no idea what they ought to

  do. They’d had people come to them for help before, but

  those had all been murders that were unsolved. How one

  went about trying to prove someone was innocent when

  they’d already been convicted was quite a different kettle

  of fish.

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  Emily Brightwell

  Blimpey pulled his pocket watch out of his pocket. “I’ve

  an appointment nearby at eleven o’clock. If it’s all the

  same to you, I’ll be back around noon.”

  “That will be fine.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded.

  They waited until Smythe had seen their guest to the

  back door before they started talking. “Sorry I wasn’t able

  to give you any warnin’,” he said as he slipped back into

  his seat, “but he waylaid me at the back garden gate.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She surveyed

  the faces around the table. Everyone looked as bemused as

  she felt. “Am I right in assuming we’re all a bit surprised

  by this latest turn of events?”

  “Cor blimey, it’s the last thing I expected to come walkin’

  in on a rainy day,” Wiggins admitted. “But on the other

  ’and, it’s a bit flatterin’ to know that there’s people out

  there that know what we’ve been up to and think we’re

  doin’ a right good job.”

  “Yes, well, that’s true,” the housekeeper replied. “But we

  mustn’t let it go to our heads.” In truth, though, she was as

  pleased by the knowledge as the footman. Modesty might

  be a virtue, but recognition was very gratifying indeed.

  “But it is nice,” Betsy grinned. “I mean, I know we don’t

  want all and sundry knowing our business, but a bit of

  recognition is exciting.”

  Mrs. Goodge nodded vigorously in agreement, whether

  she was agreeing with Betsy or Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t apparent. “But what are we goin’ to do about this problem?” she asked plaintively. “It doesn’t seem right not to do something, especially if the fellow is innocent.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” Smythe muttered. He

  still wasn’t sure how much the rest of them might have

  gleaned from Blimpey’s arrival today.

  “How well do you know this Blimpey Groggins?” Mrs.

  Jeffries asked.

  Smythe shrugged, trying to look casual. This was the

  one question he’d been dreading. He didn’t fancy lying

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  11

  about his relationship with Blimpey, but on the other hand,

  his pride wouldn’t stand for him admitting that he’d gotten

  most of his information on their last dozen cases directly

  from Blimpey. “I know ’im well enough. Truth of the matter is, I’ve used him a time or two when we were really stuck on a case. His information is always good.”

  “Yes, but does that mean the pickpocket is innocent of

  murder?” Mrs. Goodge exclaimed. “That’s what we’ve got

  to know.”

  “Even if ’e’s innocent,” Wiggins said slowly, “ ’e’s still

  a criminal. Seems to me that ought to be taken into consideration before we make a decision.”

  “Wiggins, I’m surprised at you.” The cook stared at him

  in disbelief. “Surely you’re not saying a man ought to be

  hung over stealing a pocket watch.”

  Wiggins blushed and looked down at the tabletop.

  “Course not, but well, it’s not like ’e’s a workin’ bloke that

  was pulled in off the streets for a crime ’e didn’t commit.

  Oh, I don’t know what I’m sayin’. Course we ought to ’elp

  this feller if ’e’s innocent. Especially now, bein’ as we’ve

  got a bit of a reputation for upholdin’ justice.”

  “I’m not sure we can,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “The

  crime was weeks ago, the trail is cold, and frankly, even if

  we found out who the real killer might be, we’d need irrefutable proof of guilt before we could get an execution stopped.”

  “We’ve got to try,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly. “If we turn

  our backs on even one innocent person, then all the good

  we’ve done will be undone. Take my word for it, I’m old

  and I know these things.”

  “Don’t look now, sir, but Inspector Nivens just came in.”

  Constable Barnes struggled to keep the contempt out of his

  tone as he stared across the crowded canteen. Barnes was a

  tall, gray-haired policeman who’d been on the force more

  years than he cared to recall, and he was now working

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  Emily Brightwell

  almost exclusively with Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He

  considered it part of his job to shield his inspector from the

  likes of people like Nive
ns.

  Witherspoon glanced up from his lunch of boiled cabbage, carrots, and stringy beef. He looked at Barnes out of a pair of deep-set blue eyes obscured by a pair of spectacles. His thinning hair was dark brown and graying a bit at the temples, his complexion pale, and his nose a shade on

  the long side. All in all, he didn’t look like a man who’d become famous for solving murders. He looked like a person who ought to be in charge of the records room, which is

  precisely what he’d done before Mrs. Jeffries had come to

  be his housekeeper. “Inspector Nivens is here in the police

  canteen?”

  Barnes grinned. “Surprising, isn’t it. He usually eats

  lunch with one of his fancy political friends at a private

  club. I expect he’s come to gloat. They sentenced that pickpocket for the Muran murder yesterday.”

  “Sad business, wasn’t it.” Witherspoon agreed with a

  shake of his head.

  Barnes nodded. “Murder usually is, but at least this one’s

  got Nivens what he’s wanted. Let’s just hope he doesn’t let

  solving one murder go to his head.”

  Witherspoon took a quick bite of cabbage. “Be fair,

  Constable, he did solve the case.”

  “The killer fell into his lap. That case wouldn’t even

  have been assigned to him if he’d not stumbled across the

  victim’s watch in that pawnshop. From the pawnshop to

  the killer was so easy even a child could ’ave done it.”

  Barnes snorted in derision. He loathed Nivens. The man

  was a boot-licking bully who’d used his political friends at

  Whitehall to muscle his way up the Metropolitan Police

  ladder. The rank and file police constables hated the fellow; Nivens blamed others for his mistakes, took credit for others work, bullied subordinates, and was suspected

  of skirting the edge of decency in getting confessions out

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  13

  of suspects. “Now that Odell’s been convicted, he’ll try and

  use that as a way of getting assigned more murders.”

  “He’s in division K,” Witherspoon murmured. “If there’s

  a murder in that district, it’ll probably come to him.”

  Barnes shook his head. Sometimes the inspector was so

  innocent. “Most of the murders they give you aren’t in your

  division,” he pointed out. “But you get them because you’re

  good at what you do, sir. Oh blast, he’s seen us and he’s

  coming over.”

  Witherspoon took another quick bite of his food. By the