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

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

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.

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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