Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict by Emily Brightwell (black authors fiction .TXT) 📗

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

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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.

36

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