Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict Page 5

  bottle of hand cream and placed it next to the lavender water. She didn’t really need it, but as the fellow was being so talkative, she thought she might as well buy from him.

  “The papers didn’t say anything about that.”

  “She owned Merriman’s Metal Works. My sister-inlaw’s nephew works there and he was really upset at her death. All of the employees were. She was one of the best

  employers in the whole country. She was getting ready to

  renovate a lot of their housing—” He broke off as the bell

  over the door rang and a matronly woman wearing a long

  blue cloak and carrying a basket stepped into the shop. He

  smiled at her nervously. “Good day, Mrs. Morecombe. Mr.

  Callow is in the back. Shall I get him for you?”

  “I don’t need medicine, so you can serve me, Albert.

  But you must be quick about it; I’ve a long list of items and

  several more stops to make this afternoon,” she replied, her

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  31

  glance moving quickly over Betsy, assessing her simple

  coat before dismissing her as no one of importance.

  Albert smiled apologetically at Betsy. “Will there be

  anything else, miss?”

  Betsy shook her head. She wasn’t going to get any more

  out of him. “No, thank you, this is quite enough.”

  Wiggins walked slowly up the pavement in front of the

  Muran town house. The ground floor was made of cream

  stone with the upper four stories done in light brown brick.

  A black door with a highly polished brass knocker and two

  brass side lamps was on the lower left side of the property.

  Wiggins peered through the black wrought-iron fence that

  separated a tiny wedge of grass from the pavement to the

  lower ground floor of the house, but he couldn’t see anything except that the stairs were neatly painted and the servants’ door was in neat repair. The rest of the house was well kept and tidy, but it wasn’t as grand as he’d expected.

  He saw the curtains twitch in the second floor of the

  house next door so he moved along. He’d only just arrived

  in the neighborhood, so he didn’t think anyone would notice him, but it never did to hang about too long in front of one spot.

  He pulled his jacket tighter. Even though a weak spring

  sun shone through the hazy mist, it was cold. Wiggins

  didn’t like that. If it was too chilly, people avoided going

  outside, which meant that he’d not be able to find anyone

  who’d talk to him. But he wasn’t going to give up yet.

  Still keeping his eye on the Muran house, he moved on

  down the street. Just as he reached the corner, a figure came

  up the servants’ steps. He stopped, knelt down, and pretended he was searching the pavement for something he’d lost. A young woman with a wicker basket over her arm

  stepped onto the pavement and walked briskly up the road.

  She wore a short black jacket over a blue broadcloth dress

  and a gray wool cap. From the cut of her skirt and color, he

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  Emily Brightwell

  was sure she was a housemaid. Cor blimey, he thought, today was his lucky day. He’d only been here for a little while.

  By the time she was close to him, he pretended he’d

  found what he was looking for and leapt to his feet.

  Surprised by his sudden movement, she stopped.

  “Oh, sorry, miss, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He smiled

  in apology.

  “That’s all right.” She ducked her head and stepped to

  one side to go around him.

  “I didn’t see you,” he continued. “If I had, I’d not have

  jumped up the way I did. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “You weren’t rude,” she mumbled as she quickened her

  pace.

  “Excuse me,” he said as he fell into step behind her, “I

  don’t mean to be forward, but I was hoping you might be

  able to help me.”

  “I’m in a hurry.” She cast him a swift, suspicious glance

  and moved even faster.

  “If I could just speak to you for a moment,” he said,

  doffing his cap respectfully. He was moving fast just to

  keep up with her.

  “Leave me be,” she mumbled. She gave him a quick,

  terrified look and increased her pace.

  Wiggins suddenly realized he was frightening the poor

  girl, so he stopped. “I’m sorry, miss,” he called. She was

  now almost running. “I’ve just lost my dog, that’s all. I was

  wondering if you’d seen it.”

  She didn’t bother to even look back at him. She simply

  dashed across the road and disappeared around the corner.

  Wiggins stared after her, wondering what could possibly

  make someone so frightened they wouldn’t even stop on a

  public street in broad daylight.

  Mrs. Jeffries peeked into the kitchen and saw that Mrs.

  Goodge was chatting with the butcher’s delivery boy.

  Checking that Samson wasn’t about to try and escape, she

  opened the back door and went outside. The small terrace

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  33

  was still damp from the morning mist, so Mrs. Jeffries kept

  to the paths as she crossed the communal gardens. There

  was no point in arriving at Lady Cannonberry’s with wet

  shoes.

  She had thought long and hard about the wisdom of her

  present course of action and had concluded that they really

  had no choice in the matter. Last night, the inspector’s

  words had made it very clear that he’d no desire to go poking about in a murder that to his mind was already solved.

  Furthermore, she had the impression he wanted to avoid

  confrontations with Nigel Nivens.

  She pursed her lips and took a deep breath. It was bad

  luck that the case had been handled by Nivens. She knew

  that he’d fight tooth and nail to make sure it was never reopened. Nivens didn’t care a whit about justice, and she thought him quite capable of letting an innocent man hang

  if it would serve his career.

  She stepped off the path and onto the grass leading to

  her destination. A moment later, she went down a short

  flight of stairs leading to a small white stone terrace and

  boldly knocked on the back door.

  A young scullery maid answered. “Hello, Mrs. Jeffries.”

  The maid bobbed a quick, respectful curtsey.

  “Hello, Molly.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled kindly. “Is your mistress at home?” She had no doubt she’d be welcomed here.

  “She is, ma’am. Please come inside.” Molly held open

  the door. “The mistress is in the kitchen, ma’am, having a

  word with cook.”

  Mrs. Jeffries followed the girl down a hallway and into a

  large well-kept kitchen, which was laid out almost identically to the one she’d just left. The homes on this garden had been built at the same time and were very much of the

  same design. But this kitchen floor was tiled in black and

  white squares and the walls were painted a pale gray-green,

  not the cheerful yellow of the inspector’s kitchen.

  Lady Ruth Cannonberry was sitting at the kitchen table

  with another woman who was wearing a cook’s apron and

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  Emily Brightwell

  hat. A large brown recipe book was laying open in front of

&
nbsp; the two of them.

  “Why, Hepzibah, this is a lovely surprise.” Ruth smiled

  in delight at her visitor. “Do say you’ll stay for some tea.”

  “That would be lovely,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.

  “We’ll continue this later, Mrs. Folger.”

  “Very well, ma’am,” the cook replied.

  Ruth got to her feet and hurried to her guest. Taking

  Mrs. Jeffries’ arm, she said to the maid, “Molly, bring tea

  to the morning room, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Molly replied.

  A few minutes later, they were taking their seats in a cozy

  sitting room that faced east. Unfortunately, there wasn’t

  much morning sunlight. But the walls were papered in a

  lovely pale yellow-and-white-flowered pattern, the curtains

  were delicate white lace, and there were beautiful pastoral

  oil paintings on the walls.

  “I’m so delighted you came over,” Ruth said excitedly.

  “Sometimes I feel quite guilty with the way I’m always

  dropping by to see all of you.”

  Ruth Cannonberry was an attractive middle-aged widow

  with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a lovely smile. She was the

  daughter of a country vicar who took the gospel message

  seriously and who had instilled in her a very active social

  conscience. She had definite ideas about the roots of poverty,

  women’s suffrage, and the evils of a hereditary class system. But she was also a sweet-natured woman who’d very much loved her late aristocratic husband, so for his memory’s sake, she did avoid chaining herself to railings in front of Parliament and actually getting arrested.

  She and Inspector Witherspoon were very fond of each

  other, but their relationship was continually threatened by

  her sudden absences from London. Unfortunately, she’d inherited her late husband’s relatives, most of whom were elderly, self-centered, and certain that every sniffle meant they were at death’s door. She was continually being called out of

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  35

  town to sit with some cousin, uncle, or maiden aunt who was

  sure they were on their deathbed. Ruth did it gladly, as it was

  in her nature to give when people needed help.

  “Nonsense, we enjoy your visits,” Mrs. Jeffries assured

  her. “You are welcome any time.”

  Molly brought in the tea on a silver tray and put it on the

  small table in front of the two women. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you, Molly,” Ruth replied. “How is Inspector

  Witherspoon today?” she asked Mrs. Jeffries as she reached

  for the silver teapot. She insisted that the household of Upper Edmonton Gardens call her by her Christian name, but she was sensitive to the fact that they might not be comfortable referring to their employer in such a manner.

  “He’s very well and looking forward to your coming to

  dinner this evening,” she replied. “Mrs. Goodge has a special meal planned, one I’m sure you’ll both enjoy.”

  “I’m sure we will.” Ruth poured their tea. “Mrs. Goodge

  is an excellent cook.”

  “That she is,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “But I didn’t come

  to talk to you about tonight. I came to ask for your help.”

  “You need my help!” Ruth cried in excitement. “But

  that’s wonderful. Does the inspector have a new case?”

  She dearly loved helping them with Inspector Witherspoon’s murders, and, like them, she was committed to making sure he never found out he was being helped.

  “That’s the difficult part.” Mrs. Jeffries added a lump of

  sugar to her tea. “He doesn’t know he’s actually got a case.”

  “He doesn’t know?” Ruth’s pale eyebrows rose in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Mrs. Jeffries sighed. “I’ve not

  explained it very well. Let me tell you what happened,

  and then after you hear what I’ve got to say, you can

  make up your own mind as to whether or not you want to

  help us.”

  “I’ll assist you in any way I can,” she began.

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  Emily Brightwell

  But Mrs. Jeffries held up her hand. “Wait until you’ve

  heard the facts of the matter, then make up your mind.”

  She told her about their visit from Blimpey Groggins,

  explaining who he was and his assertion that Tommy Odell

  was innocent. Then she took a deep breath and confided

  her doubts about how effective they could be in this kind of

  a situation. “So you see, unless we come up with compelling evidence that the man didn’t commit the murder, we can’t go to the inspector. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “I see the dilemma,” Ruth said softly. “You can’t ask the

  inspector to risk his career unless you can prove absolutely

  the man is innocent, and you’re afraid we’ll find just

  enough evidence to convince ourselves Odell isn’t guilty

  but not enough to convince the police or the Home Secretary.”

  Mrs. Jeffries picked up her teacup. “That’s my biggest

  fear. If we determine to our own satisfaction that the man

  wasn’t guilty, but we can’t convince the authorities to stop

  the execution, it will haunt us for the rest of our lives. I’m

  loathe to admit this, even to myself, but there’s a part of

  me that wishes we’d never heard of this case.” She sighed

  and closed her eyes. “I don’t mean that, of course. Working

  for justice is a privilege, not a burden. Of course we must

  find the truth, regardless of what it may do to the inspector’s career.”

  “You’re worried about Gerald?” Ruth frowned. “But

  surely he’d not be harmed by trying to do right.”

  “One would think that should be the case,” she replied.

  “But the original case was handled by Inspector Nigel

  Nivens.”

  “Oh dear.” Ruth looked disturbed. “That’s not good

  news. He’s not an honorable person.” She thought for a

  moment. “Then there’s only one thing to do.”

  “And what would that be?” Mrs. Jeffries asked curiously. She’d not been able to think of what to do about this situation.

  “We’ll have to make sure we have irrefutable evidence

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  37

  that Tommy Odell is innocent.” Ruth smiled brightly. “That

  shouldn’t be in the least difficult.”

  Constable Barnes didn’t know what made him do it. It generally wasn’t in his nature to spy on his superiors or eavesdrop just to satisfy his curiosity, but nevertheless, he couldn’t quite

  explain what had compelled him to hide against the stairwell.

  He’d come to deliver a box of evidence from Aldgate

  police station to the Metropolitan Police Force’s new premises at New Scotland Yard. It wasn’t a large box, but it was heavy enough that he hoisted it onto his shoulder rather

  than carrying it in his arms, so if one was looking at him

  from his right, his face would be obscured. He followed

  three people through the front door and into the foyer—

  two women and a man.

  Inside the heavy oak doors, Barnes veered to his right,

  intending to set the box down on the counter and ask the

  duty officer to send a constable to assist him. Then he

  heard Nivens’ voice.

  “Mr. Muran, I do hope you’ll forgive this dreadful
inconvenience. I’m afraid the move into our new premises has become a bit of an excuse for incompetence further down

  the ranks. Please be assured I’ve disciplined the men who

  are responsible for this. You shouldn’t have had to go all

  over town to retrieve your belongings now that the trial is

  over.”

  Barnes slowed his steps.

  “That’s quite all right, Inspector Nivens,” a cultured

  male voice with an upper-class accent replied. “As long as

  you’ve my watch, I don’t mind coming along to fetch it.”

  Barnes moved to the counter and nodded to the constable on duty, an older copper who Barnes had once walked a beat with in Leicester Square. “Can I leave this here a moment?” he asked, deliberately keeping his voice low enough so that Nivens wouldn’t recognize it.

  “I’ll look after it for you,” the constable replied, keeping

  his voice down as well.

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  Emily Brightwell

  Barnes nodded and then nipped back around the other

  side of the counter and positioned himself against the side

  of the stairwell. He moved into a spot where he could see

  and hear everything.

  “Thank you for being so understanding, sir,” Nivens

  replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flat

  package wrapped in brown paper. “Here you are, sir. I’ve

  got it all ready for you.”

  Barnes peeked out between the railings of the staircase,

  craning his neck to get a good look at Nivens’ visitors. The

  man was obviously Keith Muran. He was a decent enough

  looking chap, dark hair with a sprinkling of gray at the

  temples. He was clean shaven with nice, even features. He

  had the sort of looks that Mrs. Barnes would probably call

  distinguished.

  “Did they ever find the braclet?” one of the women

  asked. She was a tall, older woman with hair that was gray

  with a bit of brown left in it, deep set eyes with dark circles

  beneath them, and a thin, bony face. She was dressed in

  black.

  “No ma’am,” Nivens replied. “But we’re still looking.

  It’s on our missing list, and I’m sure it’ll turn up soon.

  Eventually, most jewelry does.”

  “Humph,” she replied. “It’s probably on the arm of

  some doxy. The shame of it. That bracelet was made by

  Giuilani and has been in our family for two hundred years.”

  “Mother, please,” the younger woman interrupted. “This