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

been payin’ better recently,” he said, casting a

quick glance over his shoulder toward the curtained doorway that seperated the shop from the private areas of the establishment. “Mr. Winkles doesn’t like me gossiping, but

it gets right boring in here. The only reason the Turners are

paying on time is because Mr. Muran sends along a check

every month.” He looked over his shoulder again. “And

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from what I’ve heard, we’re not the only shop getting a

check from him. Bertie, he’s my friend who works at the

greengrocers just up the road, he says that Mr. Muran pays

up there every month, and Lorna—she works at the dressmakers on Tibbalt Street—told me that Mr. Muran had settled all of Miss Lucy’s outstanding debts there as well.

Miss Lucy owed them a lot of money. Mind you, she does

wear the loveliest dresses.”

“It sounds like your Mr. Muran must be very fond of

these ladies,” Betsy murmured.

The clerk smirked. “He’s fond of Miss Lucy all right.

Bertie’s mum says they’ve known each other for years. Mrs.

Turner helped nurse Mr. Muran’s first wife when she was ill.

Bertie’s mum says she expects Miss Lucy thought she’d

have a crack at marryin’ Mr. Muran, when the first Mrs. Mu-

ran passed on, but then she made the mistake of introducin’

him to her cousin. He went and married her instead, and then

the last we heard, that poor lady had up and died as well.”

“Some men don’t seem to be able to hang onto their

wives,” Betsy said, giving him another flirtatious smile.

“It’s so nice to talk to someone who’s aware of what’s going on in his neighborhood. You know ever so much; I’ll bet all the young ladies love to talk with you.”

He blushed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s nothing really. But I

do like takin’ an interest in what goes on around here, and

believe me, I hear plenty.”

Just then, the door opened and two women stepped inside the shop. A second later, the curtains behind the counter parted and a small, elderly man stuck his head out. “Jon,

don’t dawdle about gossiping; you’ve customers.”

“Yes Mr. Winkles,” Jon replied.

Betsy put her purchases in her basket, smiled at Jon, and

hurried out of the shop. When she got outside, she stopped

and looked up and down the busy road. But she couldn’t

see what she wanted.

“Excuse me,” she said to a middle-aged woman with a

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shopping basket over her arm. “But could you direct me to

the greengrocers?”

Roderick Sutter lived in a two-story brick house near Putney

Bridge. He was a tall, middle-aged man with thinning light

brown hair, brown eyes, and a weak chin. He didn’t look

pleased to see the two policemen. “I’ve no idea why you’re

here, Inspector,” he said as he led them into a sparsely furnished drawing room. “According to the newspapers, this case was solved and the miscreant responsible for Mrs. Muran’s murder is going to hang.”

“There are some questions concerning the case,” Witherspoon replied.

“What do you mean?” Sutter flopped down on a gray

threadbare settee. He did not invite the two policemen to

take a seat. “How can there be questions? The man has already been tried and judgment passed. I believe he’s going to hang in a few days.”

“That’s irrelevant, sir. There are still some important

questions to be answered,” Barnes said quickly. “The first of

which is, Where were you on the night of January thirtieth?”

Sutter’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a very simple question, sir,” Witherspoon added.

Like Barnes, he was a tad put out to be kept standing. It was

very rude. “Where were you on the night of January thirtieth? The night Mrs. Muran was murdered.”

“You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with it,”

Sutter blustered. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Could you please just answer the question, sir.” Barnes

watched the man carefully.

“I was here,” Sutter replied. “And frankly, I resent this

sort of question being asked in the first place.”

“Why do you resent it, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “Surely

you must realize the police would have questions for you.

After all, Mrs. Muran did sack you only a few days before

she was murdered.”

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“Some would say that was a powerful motive,” Barnes

said softly. “You and Mrs. Muran were overheard having a

very loud argument the day she dismissed you.” Barnes

had heard this tidbit on his own.

Sutter had gone pale. “This is absurd. Surely you’re not

suggesting that I had anything to do with Mrs. Muran’s

murder. For God’s sake, she was killed during a robbery!”

“That’s what the killer may have wanted us to think,”

Witherspoon said. “Why don’t you tell us in your own words

about your last meeting with Mrs. Muran. That might go a

long way to getting this matter cleared up nicely, don’t you

think?”

Sutter swallowed and then nodded. “It was a few days

before she was killed. I was supposed to be the managing

director, but my title was really just for show; she made all

the decisions. I wish I’d known how involved she was going to be before I agreed to take the position.”

“Who actually hired you?” Witherspoon asked.

“Mrs. Muran.” He smiled bitterly. “To be fair, she told

me she was involved with the business, but I foolishly

didn’t think that meant she’d be there eight or nine hours a

day. For goodness’ sakes, she was married. Why wasn’t she

home taking care of her husband like any decent woman

should be?”

“Are you married, sir?” Barnes cast a quick, meaningful

glance around the small, bare room. There were no pictures

on the wall, the few pieces of furniture were old and faded,

and a pair of limp green curtains hung at the window.

“No,” Sutter snapped. “I’ve always been too busy to

have a wife. I’ve always worked long hours in my positions

and when I took this one, I assumed I’d do the same, but

there was no need. She was always there, always making

decisions and undermining my authority.”

“It sounds as if you resented her,” the constable said.

“Of course I resented her; she wouldn’t let me do my job.”

“Could you tell us about the argument, please,” Witherspoon prompted.

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141

Sutter got a hold of himself. “I was in the office. She

came in and announced that I had to go, that I was sacked.

I can’t say that it was