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

to Mrs. Muran’s solicitor?” They were headed for

the law offices of Brandon and Wells, just off Russell Square.

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“I’m not sure,” Witherspoon said, sighing again. “But

maybe if we learn a bit more about the lady, we’ll come up

with something. Honestly, I was hoping Mr. Muran might

have been a bit more helpful. But apparently, he can’t remember anything.”

“I expect getting coshed on the head could do that. But

I still think it’s odd, sir. Why wasn’t he killed as well as Mrs.

Muran?” Barnes was very mistrustful of situations that didn’t

make sense, and this murder didn’t make sense at all. Even

the information he’d gotten from Mrs. Jeffries in their meeting this morning wasn’t particularly helpful. The inspector’s household had learned a good number of facts, but none of them were shedding much light on the identity of

the killer. Not yet anyway.

“Perhaps whoever did the killing only wanted her

dead.” Witherspoon cocked his head to one side as another

idea popped into his mind. “Gracious, that’s what we’ve

got to do. That’s the answer.” His housekeeper was right,

sometimes it paid to listen to his “inner voice.”

Over breakfast this morning, she’d said, “You’ve simply

got to trust yourself, sir. Listen to your instincts. That inner

voice of yours hasn’t failed you yet.”

“What’s the answer, sir?” Barnes stared at him curiously.

“Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face, Constable,”

Witherspoon said happily. “We’ve simply got to find the

reason that someone would want her dead while having an

equally compelling reason to keep him alive.”

Barnes blinked in surprise, caught himself, and said,

“You mean like someone thinking that he might be easier to

deal with than she was. You know, in a business sense, sir.

From what Mr. Merriman told us, his sister tended to be

more concerned with principles than profits when it came

to her business.”

Witherspoon stared at him. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean.”

“Uh . . .” Barnes struggled to think of the right way to say

it. “Like you pointed out, sir, the killer wanted only her dead.

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She controlled the business, and maybe the killer thought

that with her gone, Mr. Muran, who isn’t a businessman at

all, would be easier to deal with.” He held his breath, hoping

he’d not gone too far. But he had to somehow introduce the

idea that Witherspoon should have a look at John Addison.

“That’s one possible motive,” Witherspoon agreed. “I’m

sure there are lots of others. After we see the solicitors, I

want to see Roderick Sutter. Frankly, I’m surprised that Inspector Nivens never even bothered to interview the man.”

“I’m not,” Barnes muttered.

Wiggins hovered behind a post box on the Fulham Road

watching as Constable Barnes and the inspector got into a

hansom cab. As soon as the cab moved off, he came out from

his hiding place and turned down Drayton Gardens. If he was

lucky, he might find someone who’d talk to him. He slowed

his pace and tried not to look directly at the Muran house.

Just then, a maid came up the ground floor steps and

onto the street. She had a shopping basket over her arm.

Wiggins recognized her immediately; it was the girl he’d

frightened. Without thinking, he moved to block her path,

whipped off his cap, and blurted the first words that came

into his head. “Excuse me, miss, but I’ve come to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?” She came to a full stop.

“For scaring you the other day,” he replied. “It’s made

me feel right terrible. I’ve come back here three times,

hoping to see you so I could say how sorry I was.”

She said nothing for a moment, and then she smiled

faintly. “You’ve tried to find me?”

“Just to say I was sorry, miss. It’s not nice to scare young

ladies.” He couldn’t quite recall what he’d said to her on their

first encounter, so he tried to avoid saying too much now.

She cast a quick look over her shoulder toward the house

and then looked back at Wiggins. “Did you ever find your

dog?”

He grinned. “Yes. He’d just run off ahead of me.”

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“Good,” she said, starting toward the Fulham Road. “I

like dogs.”

“May I walk with you, miss?” He put his cap on and hurried to catch up with her. “I’d be pleased to carry your shopping basket.”

“You can walk with me, but I’ll hold onto the basket

myself if you don’t mind.” She cast him a quick, sideways

glance.

She wasn’t a particularly pretty girl, but she wasn’t

homely, either. Her eyes and hair were brown and her complexion quite pretty. He wasn’t quite sure what approach to take. “Are you a housekeeper, miss? You’re awfully young

and pretty to be in such a position.”

She laughed in delight. “No, I’m just a housemaid. But

Mrs. Turner hasn’t the faintest idea of how a proper household should be run, so she sends me off to do the shopping.”

“Is that your mistress, then?” he asked. They were nearing the Fulham Road and he wanted to make sure they were deeply engrossed in conversation before she went into the

shops. “Mrs. Turner?”

The girl made a face. “No, my mistress passed away recently. Mrs. Turner and her daughter are simply family cousins. Poor relations, if you know what I mean. But

they’ve barged in to try and take over everything. Not that

it matters to me; I’m looking for a new position. I shan’t be

staying there much longer.”

“You’re looking for a new place, then?” He grinned

broadly. “Perhaps I can be of ’elp. I know several households that might be needing more staff.” This wasn’t a lie, either. Mrs. Jeffries had commented that two of their neighbors were looking for servants.

“Really?” She looked at him, her expression hopeful.

“I’ve got recommendations.”

“That’d be good,” he replied.

“And I can get another from our current housekeeper.

She took ill right after the mistress died, but I know her address and can easily get a letter from her.”

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Wiggins felt a bit uncomfortable. But he ruthlessly

pushed the feeling to one side. He would do his best to help

the girl secure another job, but in the meantime, he’d find

out what he could. “That would be most helpful, miss. My

name is Wiggins, and I work in Holland Park.”

“My name is Charlotte Brimmer.” She smiled shyly.

“Would