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

to Witherspoon. “You look like you could use

this.”

The inspector took a quick sip, closed his eyes for a

brief moment, and then sat down. “Honestly, Barnes, I

don’t know what Inspector Nivens is thinking. We can’t ignore facts. We can’t just pretend he’s done a decent job when his investigation was so bad it should embarrass a

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first-year man on the force. What does he expect me to do,

let an innocent man hang in order to bolster his service

record?” He shook his head. “I don’t care what he threatens; I can’t do it.”

Alarmed, Barnes said, “He threatened you, sir?”

Witherspoon sighed heavily. Sometimes he wished he

were still back in the records room. It was so very nice and

peaceful there. “He didn’t actually threaten my person, but

he did say that Chief Inspector Barrows wouldn’t always

be around to protect me.”

Barnes almost laughed. “The chief isn’t protecting you.

Your record is, sir, and that won’t change no matter who is

our chief inspector. You’ve solved more homicides than

anyone on the force, sir, and you’ve done it fair and square.

You’ve never roughed a suspect or threatened a source for

information. Don’t worry, sir. As long as you keep on

catching killers, Nivens can’t touch you.”

Witherspoon smiled faintly. He was tempted to tell the

constable that Nivens had accused him of having help

with his cases, but the idea was so outlandish he wouldn’t

dignify it by repeating it. There were times, though, when

he did think that providence had smiled upon him with inordinate favor. Often he was at the right place at just the right time to make an arrest or stop a suspect from fleeing.

He’d also noticed that clues and concepts and different

ways of approaching a problem often seemed to come to

him quite readily; but surely that was the result of good

police work, his instincts, and his inner voice. He wished

his inner voice would do a bit of talking about this case. “I

do hope you’re right, Constable, because right now I don’t

have a clue as to who murdered Caroline Muran.”

The elderly woman came out of the side door of the Turner

house and started toward the Kings Road. Betsy followed

after her. The woman wore clothes that had seen better

days—her brown bombazine dress was faded in spots and

the burgundy feathers on her black bonnet drooped sadly.

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The edges of the brown-and-burgundy-plaid shawl draped

over her shoulders were badly frayed and some of the

fringe was completely gone.

When she reached the corner, instead of turning right

toward the shops, she turned left. Betsy, who’d been walking a good distance behind, hurried after her. She reached the corner just in time to see the woman stepping into a

building halfway down the block.

Betsy ran toward the spot where her quarry had disappeared and then stopped. Blast, she thought, it’s a ruddy pub. She didn’t like pubs. They reminded her too much of

her impoverished childhood in the East End of London.

She’d seen too many poor women ruined by places like

this; places were they could go and trade their misery and

hopelessness for the numbness of alcohol. Her grandmother had called them gin palaces. Her family had been poor, but unlike most of their neighbors, none of them had

been drinkers. She guessed she’d been lucky. Pubs might

be a bit more respectable than some of the places of her

childhood, but she hated them nonetheless. Yet she’d gone

into such places before and she’d do it again. She reached

for the handle, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

The pub was the old-fashioned kind with a raw-hewn

bench along each wall and a bar at the end. A barmaid stood

behind the counter, pulling pints and chatting with two

rough-looking workmen. On a bench along the far wall two

bread peddlers, both of them women, sat talking quietly as

they drank their beer. The long, flat baskets they used for

their stock lay on the floor at their feet.

Betsy gathered her courage, walked boldly up to the

counter, and eased in beside her quarry. “Can I speak to you

a moment?” she asked the rather startled woman. “I promise I’m not selling anything.”

“Do I know you?” the woman asked. She’d recovered and

was staring at Betsy with a rather calculating expression.

“No, but I need some information you might have,”

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171

Betsy replied. “And I’m willing to pay for it. Let me buy

you a drink and then let’s take a seat over there.” She

pointed to the empty bench on this side of the pub.

“I’ll have a gin.” She picked up her shopping basket and

moved over to the bench.

“Two gins,” Betsy called to the barmaid. She had plenty

of coins in her pocket, and rather than try to worm anything useful out of the woman, it had suddenly seemed that it might be easier to just offer her money. Older ladies

weren’t susceptible to flirtatious smiles and stupid flattery.

“Here you go, dear,” the barmaid said, putting the two

drinks on the counter.

Betsy paid her, grabbed the glasses, and made her way to

the bench. “Here you are.” She handed the woman her gin

and sank down next to her. “Thank you for talking to me.”

The woman shrugged. “I’ll talk as long as you keep

buyin’. My name is Selma Macclesfield. What’s yours?”

“I’m Laura Bobbins,” Betsy lied. “I work for a private

inquiry agent and I need some information.”

Selma Macclesfield stared at her skeptically. “A private

inquiry agent. But you’re a woman.”

“I didn’t say I was one.” Betsy smiled. “I said I worked

for one. I know it’s odd, but the pay is better than doing

domestic work, and my employer has found that often a

woman such as yourself will talk more freely with another

woman.” She leaned closer. “Especially about the more delicate matters that crop up every now and again. If you know what I mean.”

“What do you want to know?” Selma took a quick drink.

“Do you work for Mrs. Edwina Turner and her daughter, Lucy?” Betsy asked.

Selma nodded and drank the rest of her gin. “That’s

right.”

Betsy stared in dismay at the now empty glass in the

woman’s gnarled hand. “Uh, would you like mine?” She

handed Selma her glass. “I’m not really thirsty.”

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“Neither am I, but I like gin.” She took