Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict Read online

  is no time to be concerned with such matters. Caroline was

  our dear cousin and now she’s gone.”

  She wore black, too, but her stylish hat had a hint of blue

  in its feathers and her jacket was trimmed with gold braid

  on the high collar and cuffs. Her hair was as black as her attire, her eyes blue, and her complexion perfect. Yet Barnes thought her nose was a trife too long and her mouth a bit too

  wide for her to be beautiful. But nonetheless, she was very

  pretty.

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  39

  She gave the older woman a worried frown. “You must

  apologize to dear Keith.”

  “No, no, Lucy, your mother has a right to speak her

  mind,” Muran smiled indulgently. “I know she meant no

  harm, and she’s perfectly correct. The bracelet is a precious

  family heirloom that should go to her once the police find it,

  providing of course, they do find it.”

  “We’ll do our very best, sir,” Nivens interjected. “I’ll

  put more men on the Soho pawnshops and notify you immediately when it turns up.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry. I’m not myself.” The older woman

  pulled a black handkerchief out of her muff and dabbed at

  her eyes. “Do forgive me, Keith. I’ve been out of my mind

  with grief since she was taken from us.”

  “Edwina, dear, there’s nothing to forgive. This has been

  a trying time for all of us.”

  “It’s almost over,” Nivens said helpfully. “Tommy Odell

  is set to hang in a few weeks. That ought to help.”

  Keith Muran said nothing for a long moment; he simply

  stared at Nivens. “I don’t think it will, Inspector. It certainly

  won’t bring her back to me, will it.”

  C H A P T E R 3

  Q

  “I don’t like that cat of yours.” Tom Briggs, the butcher’s

  boy, helped himself to a slice of freshly made bread from

  the platter next to the teapot. He glared at Samson, who

  was perched on a stool next to the hallway licking his

  paws.

  The cook eyed the lad speculatively. He was a bit

  cheeky, but sharp as a tack and observant to boot. Tom was

  only eleven or so, but those blue eyes of his saw lots more

  than most people. Plus, he loved to gossip. Not that she expected him to know anything about the Muran murder, but she liked the boy and it paid to keep him happy and

  chatty—you never knew when he’d learn a tidbit that might

  be useful in one of their future cases.

  “What have you got against my Samson?” she asked as

  she reached for a mug and poured herself a cup of tea.

  “He’s a sweet old boy.”

  “He is not,” Tom replied. “He hisses at me every time I

  set foot in the back hall. This morning he swiped at my ankles when I carried the meat into the wet larder. He’s a 40

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  41

  real terror, Mrs. Goodge. Look, he’s sittin’ there waitin’ for

  me to leave so he can have another go at me when I go

  down the hall.”

  “Nonsense.” The cook genuinely couldn’t understand

  why everyone, even animal lovers, hated her pet. “Just stay

  out of his way when he’s having one of his cranky moments and you’ll be fine.”

  Tom smeared apricot jam on his bread. “Mam says cats

  steal yer breath.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale,” the cook replied. Samson

  slept on her bed every night and she was still breathing properly.

  “What’s an old wives’ tale?” he asked curiously.

  “It’s something people say is true that actually isn’t true

  at all,” she replied. “Now look, you’d best be quick lad. I’d

  not see you get in trouble with your parents for bein’ late.”

  Tom stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. He liked it

  best when Mrs. Goodge had those nice buns, but the bread

  was good, too. “There’s no rush. Mam’s gone to help her

  sister and Dad’s goin’ to be so busy this morning; he’ll not

  notice what time I get back.”

  Samson stopped licking his paw and stared at the boy

  out of cold, green eyes. Tom wanted to sit right where he

  was until that beast got off the stool. He knew the cat was

  just waiting to get him. The nasty old thing was sitting at

  such an angle that it would be impossible to slip past without being in range of one of those big, ugly paws of his.

  Besides, he liked Mrs. Goodge. She always talked to him

  like he was a grown-up.

  “If your mother’s gone, shouldn’t you get back quickly

  to lend your father a hand?” Mrs. Goodge peered at him

  over the top of her spectacles.

  Tom shook his head. “He’s got help. Eldon—he’s my

  cousin—just lost his position, so he’s workin’ for us until

  he finds something else.”

  Mrs. Goodge didn’t want to run the boy off and she had

  no one else coming in until this afternoon so she decided to

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  Emily Brightwell

  let him eat his fill before she showed him the door. She

  crossed the kitchen to the dish rack next to the sink and

  grabbed the brown bowl that she used for cake making. A

  nice seed cake and a madeira would do nicely for her

  sources.

  As soon as Mrs. Goodge had her back to him, Tom

  stuck his tongue out at Samson. The cat blinked, narrowed

  his eyes, and twitched his tail. Tom thought he might have

  just made a mistake; maybe he should have tried being

  friends with the ugly beast.

  “Where’s Fred?” he asked. He looked at the empty

  brown rag rug where the dog was usually curled up asleep.

  Tom liked Fred.

  “He’s upstairs in Wiggins’ room,” she replied. “He and

  Samson don’t get along.”

  “Poor Fred.” Tom knew just how the dog felt. “Mam says

  Eldon will probably be with us for a long while. Mam says

  Eldon must be thick as two short planks to lose his position.

  It was dead easy. All he had to do was nail boxes shut.”

  Mrs. Goodge put the bowl down on her worktable,

  reached underneath, and got out her flour sifter. She was

  only half listening to the lad. “Is that so?”

  “Oh yes. Mind you, in one sense she’s glad. It was only

  because Eldon got the sack that she could go and help Aunt

  Helen. That’s her sister.”

  “Where does your aunt Helen live?” She got the tin cup

  she used for measuring dry ingredients from the shelf and

  set it next to the flour. “In the country?”

  “Oh no, she lives near Victoria Station. It’s not far at all.”

  Mrs. Goodge looked up at him. “Is your mam’s sister seriously ill?”

  Tom shrugged. “She’s not got the bad sick kind where

  you’re vomitin’ everythin’ you eat and have to take to your

  bed. She’s got the other kind.”

  “What other kind?”

  “The nervous disposition sort,” Tom explained. “Dad says

  she had a bad shock and Mam’s got to go spend some time

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  43

  with her. But I wish she’d come home. Mrs. Cubb comes in

  and does meals for us, but her c
ooking is right greasy. I miss

  my Mam. She makes the best toad-in-the-hole.”

  Mrs. Goodge nodded in understanding. That would explain why Mrs. Briggs was away from home even though her sister’s house was only a short omnibus or hansom

  ride away. “It’s very good of your mam to go and help

  out.”

  “Dad says Aunt Helen ought to stiffen her spine and get

  over her troubles.” He shoved the last of the bread between

  his lips just as Samson leapt down and strolled out into the

  hallway.

  Tom wasn’t going to waste this chance. He got to his feet,

  picked up his empty dishes, and hurried to the sink. “I’d best

  get going, Mrs. Goodge. Thanks ever so much for the food.

  That bread was really good.” He brushed past the cook as he

  ran for the door.

  “Here, just a minute.” Mrs. Goodge started after him.

  “What’s wrong with your aunt Helen?”

  “She’s got the melancholy,” Tom called over his shoulder. He skidded to a halt at the doorway and stuck his head into the hall, making sure that miserable cat wasn’t waiting

  to pounce on him as he rounded the corner. The hall was

  cat free.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Goodge clucked sympathetically. She

  was fairly sure she knew what the melancholy was and

  she also knew it happened to every woman of a certain

  age. “Eventually, even that goes away. Let’s hope it doesn’t

  last long for your poor auntie.”

  Tom shrugged. “Dad says she ought to be over it now.”

  Mrs. Goodge sighed inwardly. It wasn’t her place to

  speak of such things, especially to a young lad, but you’d

  think a grown man would have more sense. “Sometimes it

  takes some women longer than others,” she said gently as

  she joined him in the doorway.

  He started down the hall. “Dad says it’s been over a

  month now, so she ought to be over it.”

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  Emily Brightwell

  “A month!” Mrs. Goodge yelped. “Why, that’s no time

  at all.” If men had to go through what nature forced women

  to endure, she thought she’d bet her last quarter wages Mr.

  Briggs would be a bit more patient. “No time at all, I tell

  you. These problems can take years before they run their

  course.”

  “But why should it last so long?” Tom called over his

  shoulder as he jerked open the back door. “Dad says

  they’ve caught the bloke that did it so there’s nothing more

  for Aunt Helen to be scared about.”

  “What bloke?” Mrs. Goodge raced after the lad. “I mean,

  what are you talking about? What man?”

  Tom flew out into the garden. “I don’t know his last

  name, but he’s got the same Christian name as me, exceptin’

  that people call him Tommy and I’m just Tom.”

  Smythe was so frustrated he could spit nails, but he forced

  himself to appear calm. He’d spoken to every hansom

  driver in the West End and it had taken him hours to track

  down the cabbie that had driven the Murans on the night of

  the murder. To top it off, he wasn’t even sure he had the

  right one. He had a feeling the man might be having him

  on. But he couldn’t be sure.

  Smythe glanced around the small cabstand. Three drivers were taking their tea. Two were hunched over the camp stove and the third was sitting at the far end of a tiny table

  next to the stove with his feet propped straight out in front

  of him.

  “You’re sure it was the right people?” Smythe pressed,

  his question directed at the taller of the two drivers warming their hands by the stove. He was named Fletcher, and he was a burly, brown-haired fellow with a full beard. “The

  ones I need to know about.”

  “There were dozens of toffs wantin’ a cab that night.”

  Fletcher straightened up and stepped closer to the table. “I

  was workin’ that area and I remember pickin’ up a couple

  that matches your description.”

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  45

  “We all picked up people that matche his description,”

  the other cabbie said. “It was a busy night. The traffic was

  so thick it took hours just to get out of the West End. Most

  people coulda walked ’ome in the time it took to get down

  Oxford Street.”

  Fletcher ignored the other cabbie. “I’m thinkin’ you’re

  interested in that couple where the wife ended up murdered.” He stared speculatively at Smythe. “And they was the ones that I picked up that night.”

  “Get on with you, Fletcher, quit tellin’ such tales,” the

  driver sitting at the table said. “Stop pullin’ the poor

  feller’s leg.”

  “Mind yer own bloomin’ business,” Fletcher retorted

  good-naturedly.

  “You’re sure you’re not just sayin’ you know somethin’

  because I offered to pay for information?” Smythe asked.

  He was annoyed at himself for making such a mistake. It

  was always better to make sure your informant actually

  knew something before you offered to reach into your

  pocket. But he’d jumped the gun and stupidly walked into

  the hansom stand and announced he needed information and

  was willing to cross their palms with silver if they had it.

  Fletcher looked offended. “I’m not a liar.”

  “He’s not,” the driver sitting at the table added. “He’s a

  good Presbyterian.”

  Fletcher sighed and put his mug in the white tin bowl on

  the table that served as a sink. “Look, I’ll tell you what I

  told the copper that come ’round here afterwards, not that

  he seemed all that interested in what I was sayin’.”

  The cabbie who’d been warming his hands straightened

  up, pulled on his gloves, and moved to the open entrance.

  “You can trust what Fletcher tells ya,” he said to Smythe.

  “I’m off, lads. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  The second cabbie got to his feet. “I’d best be on my way

  as well.” He looked at Smythe. “I like takin’ the piss out of

  Fletcher, because he’s such a serious soul, but he tells the

  truth. He’s no liar.”

  46

  Emily Brightwell

  “I didn’t mean to offend ya,” Smythe said to Fletcher as

  soon as the two of them were alone. “But I need to be certain of what you’re sayin’. It’s a right important. Was the copper a uniform or a detective?”

  “Both,” Fletcher replied. He pulled his gloves out of his

  coat pocket. “I spoke to the police constable first, then a

  day or two later a detective come around and asked a few

  questions.”

  “You remember his name?” Smythe was fairly sure he

  knew who it had been.

  “Inspector . . . er Nivens, yes, that’s it. Not a very nice

  fellow.” He made a face. “Bit of a toff with his nose in the

  air, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know the type,” Smythe replied.

  “He was in and out of ’ere in two seconds flat.”

  “What did you tell ’im?”

  “I told ’im I’d picked them up that night,” he explained.

  “There’s always a line of folks after the concerts at St.

  James Hall. That time
of night the fares are good, people

  want to get home, and like Ricky said, there was no end of

  traffic. The man told me to take ’em to West Brompton and

  I started off in that direction. But we’d not gone more than

  a mile when he stuck his head out and told me to take him

  to Barrick Street on the other side of Waterloo Bridge. Corse

  that was a bit further than I’d expected to go, but I did what

  he wanted and took ’em across. Last I saw of them, they

  were walking down the road where I’d let ’em off.”

  Smythe wasn’t sure what to ask next. For a brief moment,

  he wondered if he’d completely lost the ability to do his own

  sleuthing. But then the obvious one popped into his head.

  “When they were in the cab, did you hear them talking?”

  The cabbie laughed. “Not likely. Between the horses

  hooves and rattle of the traffic, it’s too noisy to hear what

  your fares are sayin’ to each other.”

  “Do you remember how they were actin’?” he asked.

  Fletcher frowned. “Ya mean how they acted towards each

  other?”

  Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

  47

  “That, and if you noticed anything unusual about either

  of them.”

  He thought for a moment. “Not really. They acted like

  any other couple that’d been out for an evenin’. He helped

  her in and out of the carriage. There wasn’t anything odd

  about it exceptin’ Barrick Street was as deserted a place as

  I’ve ever seen.”

  “So you saw no one about?” Smythe prodded. Blast, he

  was hoping the man might have seen someone hanging

  about.

  “It’s an industrial area,” Fletcher explained. “Nothing

  but old warehouses and small factories. Most of those

  places don’t even have night watchmen.”

  Smythe’s mind had gone blank again. “Er, so you just

  let ’em off and that was the last you saw of ’em?” He felt

  like an idiot. He was almost repeating what the man had

  just told him.

  “That’s right.” Fletcher pulled a pair of black gloves out

  of his coat pocket. They were old and worn.

  “Do you remember anything else about them or about

  that night?” Smythe watched as the cabbie put on the gloves.

  There were holes in two fingers of one glove and the thumb

  of the other was split down the side.

  Fletcher picked his hat up off a stool and slapped it on