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

case was over, she’d come along

with a problem and asked for their help. She and her butler

had helped solve that murder, and ever since they’d insisted

on being included in all the inspector’s cases.

“And Luty missed most of our last case,” the housekeeper

commented. “Oh well, it can’t be helped. They’re not due

back for three weeks.”

“They’ll never leave again.” Smythe grinned. “No matter how much her lawyers or her bankers press her.”

Luty had gone back to her home country to attend several company board meetings and meet with her American lawyers and bankers.

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“She’ll never forgive her lawyers for making her go now

that she’s going to miss a murder.” Betsy laughed. “But at

least Hatchet’s missing it, too. Not like last time when he

got to help and she didn’t.”

“She did a few bits,” Wiggins protested. “She might

’ave been ill, but she weren’t at death’s door. She gave us a

bit of ’elp.”

Mrs. Goodge looked up from the list she’d been writing

and gave them a good frown. “Come along now, we’ve got

to get cracking. Go on, Mrs. Jeffries, get us started.”

“You’re right, of course. We really ought to get on with

it.” She thought for a moment, wondering how one stopped

an execution, providing of course one had evidence someone was innocent. But she decided to cross that bridge when she came to it. The first thing they ought to do was

solve the actual crime. “Let’s see, uh, Mrs. Goodge, you’ll

do your usual activity. Do you have many people coming

along in the next few days?”

The cook did all her investigating right here in the cozy

warmth of the kitchen. Delivery boys, tinkers, rag and

bones sellers, mush fakers, and street vendors were all part

of the small army of people who trooped through the back

door on a regular basis. Additionally, she had a network of

former colleagues in the form of cooks, maids, tweenies,

and gardners that she wasn’t above using for information.

“No. The laundry boy came this morning and the street

vendors stay inside when it rains like this. But not to worry,

I’ve plenty of my old colleagues I can invite around. We’ve

plenty of supplies in the larders, so I can start baking right

away. Nothing gets people talking like some nice buns or a

good slice of seed cake.”

“Excellent.” The housekeeper turned her attention to

Betsy.

“I’ll start with the shopkeepers in the Muran neighborhood,” the maid said quickly. Betsy had a positive genius for getting trades people to talk. It was amazing how much

information about a victim or a suspect one could find out

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Emily Brightwell

from a friendly chat with a grocer or a fishmonger. She

glanced anxiously toward the window over the sink on the

far wall. “Maybe I can start today if the rain lets up a bit.”

“I’ll nip over to the Muran neighborhood as well,” Wiggins offered. “If Mrs. Muran owned a factory, she must ’ave

’ad lots of servants. One of them is bound to be out an’

about.”

“Not in this weather,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Look, none of

us can do much until the rain stops. So I’ve a suggestion:

let’s get everything done around here that we possibly can

so that when we do get a break in the weather, we can get

out without delay.”

The rain finally stopped, but by that time Inspector Witherspoon had come home. “Good evening Mrs. Jeffries,” he said as he put his umbrella in the blue-and-white-flowered

porcelain urn that served as an umbrella stand.

“Good evening, sir,” she replied. “Did you have a good

day?” She reached for his wet bowler hat.

“It was fine.” He shrugged out of his overcoat and hung

it on the coat tree. “Luckily, there isn’t much going on. I

spent the morning at the Yard and the afternoon doing paper work at Aldgate police station.”

“Would you care for a sherry before dinner, sir?” she

asked. She wanted to find out if he knew any details about

the Muran murder.

“That would be lovely,” he agreed. “But only if you’ll

join me.”

The inspector had been raised in very modest circumstances. He’d inherited a fortune and his huge house from his aunt Euphemia Witherspoon, so consequently he tended to

treat his servants as human beings. Smythe and Wiggins had

both worked for the late Euphemia Witherspoon, and the inspector, even though he had very little need for a coachman or a footman, had kept them both. He’d no idea how to

run a big house, so he’d hired Mrs. Jeffries, the widow of a

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27

Yorkshire policeman, to be his housekeeper and Mrs.

Goodge to be a cook. Betsy had arrived in the household by

collapsing with a fever on their doorstep. When she’d recovered, she’d stayed on as a housemaid.

They went down the hall to the drawing room and Mrs.

Jeffries poured both of them a glass of Harvey’s Bristol

Cream sherry. “I understand that they found Tommy Odell

guilty of that woman’s murder,” she began. The inspector

wouldn’t think it in the least odd that she wanted to discuss

criminal matters. It was one of their main topics of conversation.

“Yes.” Witherspoon nodded his thanks as he took his

drink. “Odd you should mention the fellow. Inspector

Nivens spoke to me about the case today as well.”

“It was Inspector Nivens’ case?” She pretended surprise, as the papers hadn’t mentioned Nivens’ name in the article she’d read and she’d bet her quarterly housekeeping

money that Nivens was furious over the ommision.

“It was indeed.” The inspector took a quick sip from his

glass. “He got the case because the victim’s pocket watch

turned up in a pawnshop after the murder. Apparently

Odell was easy to trace from that point.”

“According to the papers, it was Mrs. Muran that was

killed,” she said slowly. She tried to think about what details the paper had mentioned. She didn’t want to give away a detail they might have heard from Blimpey.

“For once, the papers got it correct.” He frowned and

shook his head. “The poor woman was shot in the head at

very close range. Frankly, Mrs. Jeffries, I’m glad I didn’t get

that one.”

“It sounds awful.”

“It was. The husband was hurt as well, but luckily he

wasn’t killed.”

“He was only wounded?” she said, deliberately getting

the facts wrongs. “I don’t recall what the papers said about

him.”

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Emily Brightwell

“He was hit