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

even so, hearing anything might be difficult. But he wasn’t going to give up. He knew he had sharp ears and he wasn’t going to be

defeated by a bit of chatter and the clink of silverware.

The waiter brought the women their tea and a tray of

cakes. Wiggins eased his chair a tad closer to them.

“This is almost as expensive as a hansom would have

been,” a familiar voice complained. “I don’t see why we

couldn’t have had a cab.”

“The exercise is good for both of us,” a soft voice said

in reply.

“Are you going to do something about that cook?” the

older woman asked. “I’ll not have someone of that class

being impudent to me. She practically accused me of stealing food.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mama. You’re imagining things

again.”

“It’s true I tell you. When I went into the kitchen this

morning to ask them to send up more bacon, cook asked

me if I knew what had happened to the apple turnovers that

were left over from yesterday’s tea.”

“Had you eaten them?” the younger woman asked.

“Certainly not!”

“Are you sure, Mama? Sometimes you do things and

then you forget that you did them. You must try to do better

at remembering things. I don’t want this opportunity ruined

by you doing something silly. Remember what happened

the last time. If you hadn’t forgotten she was coming to dinner that night, I’d have been married to him instead of her.”

C H A P T E R 4

Q

Smythe pushed open the door of the Dirty Duck Pub and

stepped inside. It was just after opening, but the place was

already crowded. Day laborers, counting clerks, and dock

workers stood two deep at the bar.

Blimpey was sitting in his usual spot near the fireplace;

he saw Smythe and waved him over. “It took ya long enough

to get here,” he said by way of greeting.

“Sorry, I meant to come by yesterday, but I ran out of

time.” Smythe pulled a stool out and sat down. He was

afraid the same thing was going to happen today. Despite

getting up at the crack of dawn, he was already behind the

schedule he’d set for himself.

“Doin’ a bit of looking into things on yer own, were ya?”

Blimpey nodded in understanding. “Your usual?” He signaled the barmaid as he asked the question.

“That’ll do me.” Smythe grinned apologetically. He

didn’t want Blimpey to think he’d been deliberately avoiding

him. “Yesterday I started lookin’ into this mess of yours, and,

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well, one thing led to another. I wasn’t deliberately puttin’

you off. I know you’ve got information for me.”

“Two pints, please.” Blimpey gave the woman their order

and turned back to Smythe. “Stop explainin’. I know you’d a

been here if you could. Look, I hope my comin’ round to the

inspector’s house didn’t land you in the drink. But I’m a bit

desperate ’ere. The lad’s innocent and they’re fixin’ to

stretch his neck.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Smythe replied. “But like Mrs.

Jeffries told ya, we can’t make any promises.”

Blimpey sighed. “I know. Anyways, let’s get on with it.

Like I told ya the other day, there’s a few bits and pieces

about the case I didn’t tell the others.” He broke off as their

beer arrived, nodding his thanks at the barmaid as she set

their glasses on the table.

“What kind of bits and pieces?” Smythe picked up his

beer and took a sip. It was a bit early in the day for him, but

he didn’t want to offend Blimpey.

“Despite what I said to the others about Mrs. Muran being raised Quaker and not having enemies, there was more than a few who benefited from her death.”

“Like who?” Smythe asked.

“Like Addison’s Brass Works. They were wantin’ to buy

out Merriman’s, but Mrs. Muran wouldn’t sell. I’ve got it

on good authority that now that she’s dead, her husband

has already started talking to Addison’s again.” Blimpey

smiled cynically. “So much for him waitin’ a decent interval and respectin’ her wishes or her way of doin’ things.”

Smythe raised his eyebrow. “That is a bit quick.”

“The poor woman wasn’t even cold before Addison’s

had sent their man over to have a chat with the widower.

Seems to me that when a company acts that fast, there’s

more to it than meets the eye.”

“You’re not seriously suggestin’ that the owners of Addison’s Brass Works actually murdered Mrs. Muran in order to buy her factory?” Smythe stared at Blimpey incredulously. “It’s one thing for the widower to rush into sellin’

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the place, but quite another to suggest that a respectable

business would stoop to murder to obtain someone else’s

factory.”

“Don’t be daft, man. Remember who you’re talkin’ to.”

Blimpey put his beer down and leaned closer, his expression dead serious. “It’s my business to know what goes on in this city, and take my word for it, there’s been more than

one murder done to acquire something as profitable as Merriman’s. It’s a gold mine. They make high-quality product and there’s a waiting list to get their goods. Even Her

Majesty’s government has to take their turn in the queue to

get their orders filled. Addison’s needs Merriman’s.”

“Why?” Smythe wondered if Blimpey was exaggerating. “If Addison’s wants another factory so badly, why not build their own?”

“They can’t. They’ve not got the money nor the brains to

do it properly,” Blimpey declared. “Addison’s is on the verge

of bankruptcy. What’s more, I know for a fact that John Addison was in London the night Mrs. Muran was murdered.”

Smythe stared at him. He couldn’t quite believe Blimpey

was right, but on the other hand, as he’d pointed out, he

was in a position to know such things. Besides, if he’d

learned anything in the last few years it was that people

murdered one another for the strangest of reasons. “John

Addison is the owner?”

“That’s right. The company is in Birmingham. But he

came to London a couple of days before Mrs. Muran was

murdered and took rooms at the Fortune Hotel in Knights-

bridge. He’s been there ever since.”

“If his company is almost bankrupt, how could he afford

to buy Merriman’s?” Smythe took another sip of his drink.

“He can’t, but on the strength of the acquisition, the

Birmingham and London Bank has agreed to give him a

loan. As I said, Merriman’s is a gold mine—plenty of cash

in the bank