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

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MRS. JEFFRIES APPEALS THE VERDICT

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2006 by Cheryl Arguile.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form with

out permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 1-4362-7255-6

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

This book is dedicated to Jeong Hong Lee,

also known as Joseph Lee,

a truly intelligent man who understands the importance of heroes,

and, of course, to the Immortal Admiral Yi Soon Shin

C H A P T E R 1

Q

“I expect it’s just as well that we missed that one,” Mrs.

Jeffries said as she put the newspaper to one side and

picked up her teacup. “They seem to have caught the fellow fairly easily, so there isn’t much of a mystery to the crime.” Mrs. Hepzibah Jeffries was a plump, middle-aged

woman with auburn hair and dark brown eyes. She was the

housekeeper to Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of the Metropolitan Police Force.

“From the account I read, it seems a simple robbery

gone bad,” Betsy, the blonde-haired maid agreed. She put

the cone of sugar she’d just brought in from the dry larder

on the worktable and got the sugar hammer out of the

drawer. She laid the heavy wooden utensil next to the cone

so the cook would have it at the ready. “But it’s odd that

someone was actually killed. Most robbers simply grab a

purse and make a run for it.”

“Perhaps the husband put up a fight,” Mrs. Jeffries speculated. Crime was an important topic around the household, 1

2

Emily Brightwell

and even the ones they weren’t directly involved with were

discussed at great length.

“Maybe he put up a fight, but it was the poor woman

that was killed.” Betsy came to the table. “Did Smythe say

what time he’d be back?”

“He didn’t say,” Mrs. Goodge, the cook, said as she

came out of the hallway and shuffled over to the table. She

was an elderly, portly woman with gray hair and spectacles. She’d cooked for some of the finest households in all of England, but she wouldn’t trade being a cook to a simple

police inspector for a position as head chef at Buckingham

Palace. “But I imagine he’ll be back for his morning tea,”

she continued as she took her seat. “There’s not much he

can do at the stables on a day like today. It’s not fit for man

nor beast out there. Oh good, I see you’ve got the sugar out

for me.”

“Do you want one of us to pound it off for you?” Mrs.

Jeffries asked. “With this weather it’s gotten very hard.”

She knew the cook’s rheumatism had been acting up, and

smashing just the right amount of sugar off the cone was

difficult if your joints ached.

“Ta, Mrs. Jeffries, I’d appreciate the help. Good gracious, what’s all that racket?” she broke off as heavy footsteps pounded down the back staircase.

A moment later, Wiggins, the footman, burst into the

kitchen. “I’m goin’ to kill that bloomin’ bully.” Wiggins

was generally a good-natured lad with dark brown hair,

pale skin, and round apple cheeks. He didn’t look very

good-natured at the moment. “The mean old thing’s gone

and chased Fred under the table on the landing again.”

“You didn’t hurt my lamb, did you?” Mrs. Goodge glared

at the footman. “Where is he? What have you done with

him?”

“Last I saw he was sittin’ on the top of the bannister

hissin’ at my poor Fred.”

“Fred’s got to learn to keep his nose to himself,” Mrs.

Goodge cried. “Samson would leave him alone if he did.”

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

3

“It’s your fault,” Betsy told him. “You’re the one that

brought the cat here. If you’d left him in Richmond—”

“He’d ’ave starved to death,” Wiggins said defensively.

“I was tryin’ to do a kindness. Fat lot of good it’s done me.”

“Of course you were,” Mrs. Jeffries said soothingly. Samson was a big, orange tabby that the footman had brought home when they’d finished their last case. The staff helped

Inspector Witherspoon with his cases, not that he had any

idea they were helping, of course. The cat had belonged to

the victim and was universally hated. In order to save the animal from certain death, Wiggins had rescued it. But there was a good reason the beast had been so disliked in its previous household: he had a nasty disposition.

Mrs. Goodge and Samson had taken one look at each

other and it had been love at first sight. Unfortunately, the animal’s disposition hadn’t improved in regards to the rest of the household, especially Fred. He was a mongrel dog that

Wiggins had brought home several years ago and he earned a

solid place in the hearts of everyone, including the inspector.

Fred hated Samson. Even worse, he was just a bit scared

of the cat. Samson knew it as well and delighted in laying

in wait for the poor mutt and then springing out and swiping one of his big paws across Fred’s nose. Fred, occasionally wanting to assert his territorial rights, would sometimes gather his courage and shove his nose under the cat’s tail.

This usually resulted in a great deal of screeching, running,

clawing, barking, or yelping, depending on who managed

to get the upper paw, so to speak.

“And I for one am very grateful,” Mrs. Goodge said

quickly. “It’s nice having a companion like Samson. Keeps

me company at night when the rest of you have gone up to

bed. When you get to be my age, you don’t need as much

sleep as you young people.”

Wiggins instantly felt like a worm. Poor Mrs. Goodge

loved Samson, and here he was