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

making a silly fuss. She’d

spent most of her life on her own, moving from place to

place as her positions changed, and he was acting mean and

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Emily Brightwell

nasty. “Samson’s all right,” he said as he took his seat. “But

I wish he and Fred could learn to get along.”

“Fred’s got to stand up to him,” Betsy said. “I do wish

Smythe would hurry and get back. It’s awful out there.”

She and Smythe were engaged. He was the coachman and

a big brawny fellow who’d been all over the world on his

own, but she still clucked over him like a mother hen.

“I expect he’ll be here soon,” Mrs. Jeffries said. Just

then, Samson walked into the kitchen. He gave a meow,

glared at the rest of them, and hurried over to Mrs. Goodge,

who obligingly pushed away from the table to make room

for Samson on her lap. “There’s a good boy,” she said as he

jumped up and settled himself down. “You see, he’s sweet

as a baby lamb.” She looked at the others. “I can’t think

why everyone makes such a fuss about him.”

“That’s because he’s not clawed you.” Betsy grinned.

“He got a good lick in on my hand last week.”

“You got too close to his food dish,” the cook said. Not

wanting Samson’s hair in their tea, she eased her chair farther away from the table. “You know what he’s like about his food dish. He’s a sweet one, he is. You just have to be

gentle with him.”

Betsy glanced at Mrs. Jeffries and Wiggins. None of

them had the heart to point out that Samson wasn’t in the

least sweet and that the minute her back was turned he was

his usual nasty self. The cook loved the old beast far too

much to ever see him for what he really was!

Fred stuck his nose around the door, spotted Samson on

the cook’s lap, and then dashed over to Wiggins. He wedged

himself as close to the footman’s chair as physically possible. A moment later, he leapt up, his ears cocked toward the back door, and charged off.

Samson hissed at him as he ran past.

“He’s probably heard Smythe.” Wiggins stared at the disappearing brown and black dog. Fred began to bark as they heard the back door open. “That’s odd: Fred doesn’t bark at

Smythe.” Surprised, Wiggins got up and started for the hall.

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“Easy, Fred, this is a friend. You’re a good guard dog,

that’s right,” Smythe said.

Samson, obviously put out by the commotion, suddenly

leapt from Mrs. Goodge’s lap, hissed in Fred’s direction,

and then ran toward the cook’s quarters.

“Thanks, mate. I thought for a minute he was goin’ to

have my guts for garters,” said another cheerful voice.

Fred, followed by two men, trotted back to the kitchen

and settled next to the footman’s chair. Smythe was a tall,

muscular man in his mid-thirties with black hair, heavy features, and dark brown eyes. His companion was a short, chubby, ginger-haired fellow wearing a porkpie hat and a

long black greatcoat with a bright red scarf wound around

the neck.

Everyone looked at Smythe expectantly.

“This is my friend, Blimpey Groggins. ’E’s got something ’e’d like to discuss with us,” the coachman said hesitantly. Smythe wasn’t sure bringing Blimpey to the house was a good idea, but he’d not really had much choice.

Blimpey had been waiting for him outside the back garden

gate and had insisted he needed their help.

“How do you do, Mr. Groggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she

rose to her feet. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Ta, ma’am,” he replied politely. “I could do with a cuppa.

It’s right cold and miserable out there.”

Everyone waited until the two men had taken off their

coats and settled into chairs around the table. Smythe

squeezed Betsy’s hand as he slid into his spot next to her.

“I’m Hepzibah Jeffries,” the housekeeper said formally.

“And this is Mrs. Goodge, Betsy, and Wiggins.” She

pointed to each of them as she said their names. “You already know Smythe, of course.”

Blimpey nodded at each of them. “Cor blimey, Smythe,

your lady is a pretty one.”

Smythe blinked in surprise, but Betsy, not in the least offended, laughed. “Why thank you, Mr. Groggins,” she said.

“That’s very kind of you.”

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Emily Brightwell

“Would you care for a bun?” Wiggins shoved the plate of

buns toward their guest. “They’re real nice. Mrs. Goodge

made ’em fresh this mornin’.”

“Thank you, lad,” Blimpey helped himself and then

looked at Smythe expectantly.

The coachman cleared his throat. “Blimpey needs our

’elp,” he began. Blast a Spaniard, this was harder than he’d

thought it was going to be. He had to tread carefully here.

He didn’t want to say too much, but on the other hand, he

had to tell them enough so they’d know they could trust

Blimpey.

“Is Mr. Groggins in need of domestic assistance?” Mrs.

Jeffries asked softly.

“Call me Blimpey,” he said quickly. “And no, I’m not

needin’ domestic assistance of any kind, thank you. I’m

wantin’ your help to prevent a huge miscarriage of justice,

so to speak, and you’ve not got much time, either.”

“Miscarriage of justice,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated.

“Not got much time,” Mrs. Goodge echoed.

“What’s ’e on about?” Wiggins muttered.

“For goodness’ sakes, Blimpey, give ’em a bit of more

information than that,” Smythe said irritably.

“I fully intend to do just that,” Blimpey replied, “but I

thought it important to let everyone know right away that

we can’t be dillying about here. The lad’s life is at stake.”

He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “There’s a man by the name of

Tommy Odell that’s going to meet the hangman in less

than three Sundays unless you and your lot help.”

“Why do you think we can help this man?” she asked

calmly. She had a very good idea why he thought they

could help, but she wanted to learn a bit more before she

said too much.

Several people in London had figured out that Gerald

Witherspoon’s household staff were helping with his cases,

but those few were trusted friends. She needed to know

how Blimpey Groggins had learned their secret.

“Because it’s my job to know such things,” Blimpey

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said. “I’m a broker of sorts, Mrs. Jeffries, only instead of

stocks or coal or tea, I deal in information.”

“What kind of information?” Wiggins asked curiously.

Smythe held his breath. This was the rough part. If

Blimpey said too much,