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

the Verdict

17

“The police and the courts aren’t quick to admit they’ve

made a mistake,” Smythe said.

“And that’s why I’m hesitating,” Mrs. Jeffries blurted.

“It’s not that I don’t want to help; it’s just that for us, the

truth might be very hard to live with if we fail to stop the

execution.”

The cook looked around the table, her expression troubled. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. We can’t turn our backs on someone who might be innocent just to protect

our own feelings. If we find evidence Tommy Odell is innocent, we take it to the inspector. If that doesn’t work, we find us a newspaper or a member of Parliament or someone

in the Home Office who’ll listen. But we don’t hide our

heads in the sand and pretend it’s best not to do it at all

rather than risk failin’.”

Everyone stared at her in stunned silence.

“Cor blimey, Mrs. Goodge, you’ve missed yer callin’.

They needs the likes of you in Parliament.” Wiggins stared

at her in admiration.

The cook nodded regally. “Thank you, Wiggins. Perhaps one of these days women will actually get the chance to run for public office. But as that’s not likely to happen in

my lifetime, I do hope I’ve at least changed the minds of

those sitting around this table.”

“You’ve changed mine,” Betsy said quickly.

“And mine,” Smythe added.

“Me, too,” Wiggins nodded vigorously.

“Thank you, Mrs. Goodge, for reminding us where our

duty actually lies.” Mrs. Jeffries smiled softly. “You’re

right, of course. I just wanted everyone to be aware that we

may face some sad consequences ourselves if we fail.”

She glanced at the clock. It was almost noon. “Let’s put

some food on the table. I’m sure Blimpey will be a bit hungry when he gets here.”

Blimpey was delightfully surprised by the unexpected

meal. “You didn’t ’ave to go to this trouble,” he said as he

tucked into a plate of shepherd’s pie.

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Emily Brightwell

“It’s no trouble,” Mrs. Jeffries replied politely. “Now, if

you don’t mind answering a few questions while you have

your meal, we’ll see what we can do to help.”

Blimpey swallowed hastily. “Don’t mind at all. Would it

be easier if you asked me questions, or should I just tell ya

what I know?”

“Why don’t we try both,” she replied. “We’ll all ask

questions, but if there’s anything we don’t ask that you

think is pertinent, then by all means, speak up.”

“When did the murders take place?” Mrs. Goodge

asked. She had a vague idea from the newspapers, but as it

hadn’t been a very interesting case, she’d not paid much

attention.

“It was the evenin’ of January thirtieth,” he said. “Mr.

and Mrs. Muran were walkin’ down Barrick Road, which

is on the other side of the Waterloo Bridge, when it happened. Mr. Muran was hit over the head with something and Mrs. Muran was shot. That’s how I know for sure

Tommy didn’t do it: he’d never hurt a woman. He’d never

hurt anyone.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered. “What

time of night was it?”

“From what my sources tell me, it was almost eleven

o’clock.”

“Did they take a walk every evenin’ at the same time?”

Smythe asked.

Blimpey shoved another bite of pie into his mouth and

shook his head. “As far as I can tell, they weren’t takin’ a

walk at all. They’d been to a concert at St. James Hall, which

is this side of the river and in the West End. On their way

home, they’d had the hansom stop and let them off.”

“Were they close to their house?” Betsy asked.

“The Muran house is in West Brompton. That’s miles

from where the murder happened.”

“Why did they stop then?” Wiggins asked.

Blimpey shrugged. “That’s a good question, and I’m

not sure the police ever even asked it.”

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

19

Mrs. Jeffries ignored that. “What sort of people were the

victims?”

“Wealthy,” Blimpey stated. “Mrs. Muran owns the

Merriman Metal Works Factory in Clapham. They’re rich

people, not the sort to get out and go for a stroll in a commercial neighborhood on their way home from a concert.”

“Perhaps it was because they were rich that they were

picked as victims,” Mrs. Jeffries speculated.

Blimpey shook his head. “Nah, Mrs. Muran dressed as

plain as a pikestaff. She were raised Quaker, so she’d not

have been sportin’ fancy clothing. Her man would have

been in a proper suit and hat, but that’d not have marked

them as wealthy.”

Smythe frowned thoughtfully. “So they just happened to

be in the wrong place at the wrong time, is that it?”

“That’s what the police would have you believe.”

Blimpey looked disgusted. “No disrespect meant to your

inspector, but the police made a right old cockup of this

case. They didn’t ask the right questions, they didn’t interview witnesses. They just found out that Tommy was the one who fenced that pocket watch and nabbed him for it.”

“Do you know who was in charge of the case?” Betsy

asked curiously. She hoped it wasn’t one of the inspector’s

colleagues that they knew and liked.

“Course I do,” Blimpey said. “It was Inspector Nigel

Nivens.”

C H A P T E R 2

Q

Mrs. Jeffries shot Wiggins a warning look and he managed to clamp his mouth shut. They loathed Nivens, but it wouldn’t do their inspector any good if that information

was known. “I take it Inspector Nivens was the one who arrested Tommy Odell?”

Blimpey nodded. “That’s right. Nivens come across the

pocket watch Tommy had lifted from Mr. Muran at a

pawnshop. The watch was fairly distinctive, and since the

murder, Nivens had been on the lookout for it.”

“How was it distinctive?” Mrs. Goodge asked. Life had

taught her it was important to get the details right.

“There was an engraving on the inside of the face plate.

It read, ‘To my beloved Keith from his adoring wife.’ Keith

is Mr. Muran’s Christian name. Nivens put pressure on the

pawnshop owner and they had poor old Tommy down at

the nick in two shakes of a mare’s tail.”

“What’s the name of the pawnshop?” Smythe asked. He

thought it awfully peculiar that a pawnshop that was in the

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Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

21

habit of receiving stolen goods would be easily intimidated

by a police inspector.

“Murdoch’s. It’s on Albion Road in Soho. The owner’s

a nasty little toad named George Rumsfield. He rolled on

Tommy pretty fast.”

“Any idea why?” the coachman pressed.

“My sources tell me that Rumsfield didn’t want to have

anything