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

stared at her hopefully.

“Today it didn’t seem like I was making any sort of progress

at all. There was nothing in the second set of reports from

the constables that we sent out to speak to potential witnesses. They only found two people who were in the area that night. One of them was drunk and the other was a

watchman who was doing his rounds and didn’t see or hear

anything.”

“But at least you sent lads out to make certain there

were no witnesses,” she pointed out. “That’s very important, sir. As you always say, details can make or break a case.” He’d never said any such thing, or if he had it was

because he’d heard it from her first, but it was the truth.

“What else did you do today, sir?”

Witherspoon hesitated. “I had a rather unsettling meeting with Inspector Nivens.”

“What did he want?” she asked in alarm.

“He was very upset, actually,” he said, draining his

glass. “He seems to think that I’m deliberately trying to reverse his conviction.”

“It’s not his conviction,” Mrs. Jeffries forced herself to

keep calm. “It’s the Crown’s. He was merely the officer on

the case.” She now understood what had upset her inspector

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so badly. Nivens had obviously been his usual obnoxious

and threatening self. “But you’ve dealt with Nivens before

and I’m sure you handled him properly today.”

“Well, I did my best to make him understand I wasn’t

out to harm his career.” He was glad he’d told her about the

altercation. He was beginning to feel ever so much better.

“But I couldn’t tell Chief Inspector Barrows I’d not look

into the matter, could I. Furthermore, my conscience

wouldn’t let me ignore the issue. Right after Nivens left,

Russell Merriman came to see me.”

“At the Yard?”

“Oh, no, I was at Ladbroke Station, but he’d been to the

Yard and they’d told him where we were. Naturally, he

wanted to know if we were making progress.”

“I hope you told him you were, sir.” Mrs. Jeffries believed in taking every opportunity to boost the inspector’s confidence.

“I told him the investigation was moving along as well as

could be expected, but that we still had a great deal more

work to do. He seemed satisfied with the reply. He was on

his way to the solicitor’s office. He said he was going to do

what was right and take over running the estate. He said that

was the way his sister would have wanted it.” Witherspoon

shook his head. “It should have been an awkward conversation, but it wasn’t. Merriman’s eyes filled with tears when he mentioned his sister, but somehow it wasn’t a sad moment. It’s odd, isn’t it, what you can sense about people.”

“Not everyone can do that, sir. But then, that’s why

you’re such an excellent detective. You’re very good at getting people to talk freely, and, of course, you’re very perceptive.” She got up and reached for his empty glass.

“Would you like another, sir?”

Witherspoon flushed with pleasure. “Oh, I shouldn’t, but

as it’s been such a distressful day, I will have another. We

interviewed Helen Maitland. She was the Murans’ housekeeper.”

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“She no longer works there?” Mrs. Jeffries baited the

hook.

“Oh, no, she hasn’t worked there since Mrs. Muran was

murdered. She had quite a tale to tell, though I’m not certain what it might mean.” He told her about his meeting with the housekeeper.

Mrs. Jeffries took her time pouring his sherry, but even

moving at a snail’s pace, she finally had to hand him his

glass. “That’s very interesting, sir. Did you see anyone else

today?”

“We interviewed John Addison. His firm was, well, actually still is, trying to buy Merriman’s.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink. “He’s a rather peculiar

fellow.”

“In what way, sir?”

“Our coming to see him didn’t seem to bother him in

the least. His whole manner was odd. It was almost as if he

considered the whole enterprise nothing more than a challenge.” He told her about their encounter with Addison.

The hall clock struck the hour as Betsy stuck her head

into the drawing room. “Good evening, sir,” she said to

Witherspoon. “Are you ready for your dinner?”

“Oh, yes.” He got up. “I’m actually quite hungry.”

“Go ahead and bring it up,” Mrs. Jeffries told her. “I’ll

serve tonight.”

Mrs. Jeffries stayed in the dining room while the inspector ate his meal. She chatted as she served him his leg of mutton and stewed apples with clotted cream. By the

time she poured his after-dinner cup of tea, he was relaxed

and she’d learned every detail of his day. During the meal,

she’d also managed to convey practically all the information the household had gathered. She’d save the few bits she hadn’t been able to mention to the inspector for Constable Barnes.

“I’ll take my tea up with me.” Witherspoon got to his feet.

“Ask Wiggins to take Fred for his walk. Poor old fellow. I’ve

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not spent much time with him lately.” He put his hand over

his mouth to cover a yawn.

“I’m sure you’ll make it up to him.” Mrs. Jeffries

handed him his cup. “Sleep well, sir.”

As soon as he’d gone upstairs, she piled the dirty dishes

on a tray and took them down to the kitchen. As they

cleared up, she told the others everything she’d learned.

“It’s all useful, I suppose,” Mrs. Goodge muttered as she

headed for her room. “But let’s face it, we’re still no closer

on figurin’ out who actually murdered Caroline Muran.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Wiggins said. “We’ve learned lots

and lots. It’ll all come together and make sense when it’s

supposed to. Come on, Fred, time for bed.”

“Is the back door locked?” Mrs. Jeffries asked of no one

in particular as she went toward the back stairs.

“It’s locked and bolted.” Smythe took Betsy’s hand and

fell in step behind the housekeeper.

The household went up to their beds.

Mrs. Jeffries went into her quarters and closed the door.

She leaned against the cold wood for a moment as Mrs.

Goodge’s last words rang in her cars. Despite everything,

the cook was right. They weren’t any closer to finding the

killer. Her worst fears were going to be realized and they

were all going to be racked with guilt for the rest of their

lives. They’d let an innocent man hang. Oh, don’t be daft,

she