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

but that’s not what the

driver told me, so one of them is lying. If it’s the driver, then

I think that puts Muran off our list.”

“I don’t see how.” the cook said.

“Because if Muran had asked the driver to wait, then

that means he couldn’t have killed her. He’d not do it in

front of a witness.” Betsy cuffed Smythe on the arm. “You

clever man. No wonder I said I’d marry you.”

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“Eliminating people off our suspect list is a very good

idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Does anyone have any other suggestions as to how we can go about it?”

“I think we ought to be very practical,” Wiggins declared. “We need to know where all our suspects were that night. Whoever killed Mrs. Muran had to go to Barrick

Street and do the evil deed, so he or she wouldn’t be where

they claimed to be, would they?”

“That’s very practical,” Ruth said. “But I think it might

be difficult obtaining that information. The murder was

weeks ago, so people might not recall where they’d been.”

“Oh, but they would.” Mrs. Jeffries’ eyes gleamed with

excitement. She had the sense that they were starting to

move in the right direction. “Ruth, do you recall what you

were doing on the day your father passed away?”

“I remember every single detail. I was in the garden

helping Mama pick gooseberries when our housekeeper

came running to tell us poor Papa had collapsed in the . . .”

she broke off as understanding dawned. “Oh yes, now I see

what you mean. When something awful happens to someone important in your life, you know exactly what you were doing.”

“Caroline Muran was important to a good number of

people.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled triumphantly. “And I’ll warrant every one of our suspects can recall exactly where they were on the night she died.”

“I hate to admit this,” Betsy said, looking confused.

“Maybe it’s me being thick, but exactly who are our suspects?”

At breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Jeffries told the others

everything she’d learned from Witherspoon the night before.

He’d come home tired and discouraged, but over a glass of

sherry and a sympathetic ear, she’d found out about his interviews with Keith Muran, John Brandon, and the Turner women.

“I don’t think having police constables huntin’ about

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Barrick Street for a witness is goin’ to do much good,”

Smythe commented. He took a quick bite of toast. “Not at

this late date.”

“You never know,” Betsy said brightly. “I’m always

amazed at what tidbits people can remember.”

“Should I pop over to Lady Cannonberry’s?” Wiggins

asked. There was one last fried egg on the platter in the

center of the table, but he’d had three already and he didn’t

want to make a pig of himself.

“She’s stopping by here on her way to her Ladies Missionary Society meeting at the church.” Mrs. Goodge reached over, scooped the egg up, and dumped it on Wiggins’ plate. “I’ll tell her when she gets here. Eat this, lad; it’ll just go to waste if you don’t.”

“Our inspector didn’t learn very much yesterday,” Smythe

complained. “Leastways not as much as I’d ’ave liked.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Betsy stated. “He found out about

Sutter getting sacked for stealing.”

“But we already knew that, so it’s not going to do us

much good,” he countered. “I was ’opin’ our inspector had

learned somethin’ we didn’t know.”

“But he did.” Mrs. Jeffries put her cup down. “He found

out that Mrs. Muran hadn’t wanted to go to the concert that

night. She’d been thinking of staying home.”

“And Lucy Turner talked her into going,” Mrs. Goodge

added.

“And that it was Mrs. Muran who insisted on going to

see that empty building,” Wiggins pointed out. “Leastways

that’s what Mr. Muran claims.”

Mrs. Jeffries didn’t say anything for a moment. She was

thinking. “You know, I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Why not?” the cook asked.

“Why would Mrs. Muran be looking at a new factory

building when we know she had already gotten the estimates

to purchase and renovate the row houses for the workers?

John Brandon had taken them around to her house that very

day.”

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“Maybe she hadn’t made up her mind,” Mrs. Goodge

suggested. “Brandon only brought her estimates, not contracts. Maybe she wanted to have a look at the empty building before she made her final decision. Brandon told the inspector she was very concerned about unemployment.”

“That’s possible.” Mrs. Jeffries got to her feet and

reached for the empty platter. Betsy began clearing the

breakfast plates.

“Leave that,” Mrs. Goodge ordered. “All of you get on

out and get cracking. See what you can learn. I’ll clean up

in here.”

“But you must have time for your sources,” the housekeeper protested.

The cook waved a hand dismissively. “My sources

aren’t coming by for a bit, and like you said, we’re running

out of time.”

“We’d like to see Mr. John Addison,” Constable Barnes told

the man behind the desk.

The clerk stared at him for a long moment then raised

his arm and gestured at a bellboy. “I’ll see if Mr. Addison

is receiving.”

Barnes sighed inwardly. “This isn’t a social call. Now,

just tell us the fellow’s room number and we’ll see to it

ourselves.”

The clerk blinked, clearly taken aback by the constable’s harsh tone in such a fine establishment. “It’s 204,” he said. “But I hardly think it wise . . .”

But the two policeman weren’t really listening; they

were on their way toward the staircase. They ignored the

curious looks of the other guests as they climbed the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Room 204 was the second room down the hall.

Barnes rapped sharply on the door.

“Just a moment,” said a hoarse, male voice. Then the door

opened and a man with his collar undone stuck his head out.

He started in surprise. “Gracious, you’re the police.”

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“Are you John Addison?” Barnes asked politely.

“That’s right.” The man had curly gray hair, a florid complexion, and very bushy eyebrows. “What do you want?”

“May we come in, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “We’ve

some questions we’d like to ask you.”

Addison opened the door wider and stepped back. “Come

in, then. I’ve an appointment shortly, but I can spare a few

minutes. What’s this about?”

The bed was still unmade and the wardrobe door was

standing open, but the elegant room was tidy. There was a

claw-foot table and two green silk