and settled next to the footman’s chair. Smythe was a tall,
muscular man in his mid-thirties with black hair, heavy features, and dark brown eyes. His companion was a short, chubby, ginger-haired fellow wearing a porkpie hat and a
long black greatcoat with a bright red scarf wound around
the neck.
Everyone looked at Smythe expectantly.
“This is my friend, Blimpey Groggins. ’E’s got something ’e’d like to discuss with us,” the coachman said hesitantly. Smythe wasn’t sure bringing Blimpey to the house was a good idea, but he’d not really had much choice.
Blimpey had been waiting for him outside the back garden
gate and had insisted he needed their help.
“How do you do, Mr. Groggins,” Mrs. Jeffries said as she
rose to her feet. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Ta, ma’am,” he replied politely. “I could do with a cuppa.
It’s right cold and miserable out there.”
Everyone waited until the two men had taken off their
coats and settled into chairs around the table. Smythe
squeezed Betsy’s hand as he slid into his spot next to her.
“I’m Hepzibah Jeffries,” the housekeeper said formally.
“And this is Mrs. Goodge, Betsy, and Wiggins.” She
pointed to each of them as she said their names. “You already know Smythe, of course.”
Blimpey nodded at each of them. “Cor blimey, Smythe,
your lady is a pretty one.”
Smythe blinked in surprise, but Betsy, not in the least offended, laughed. “Why thank you, Mr. Groggins,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you.”
6
Emily Brightwell
“Would you care for a bun?” Wiggins shoved the plate of
buns toward their guest. “They’re real nice. Mrs. Goodge
made ’em fresh this mornin’.”
“Thank you, lad,” Blimpey helped himself and then
looked at Smythe expectantly.
The coachman cleared his throat. “Blimpey needs our
’elp,” he began. Blast a Spaniard, this was harder than he’d
thought it was going to be. He had to tread carefully here.
He didn’t want to say too much, but on the other hand, he
had to tell them enough so they’d know they could trust
Blimpey.
“Is Mr. Groggins in need of domestic assistance?” Mrs.
Jeffries asked softly.
“Call me Blimpey,” he said quickly. “And no, I’m not
needin’ domestic assistance of any kind, thank you. I’m
wantin’ your help to prevent a huge miscarriage of justice,
so to speak, and you’ve not got much time, either.”
“Miscarriage of justice,” Mrs. Jeffries repeated.
“Not got much time,” Mrs. Goodge echoed.
“What’s ’e on about?” Wiggins muttered.
“For goodness’ sakes, Blimpey, give ’em a bit of more
information than that,” Smythe said irritably.
“I fully intend to do just that,” Blimpey replied, “but I
thought it important to let everyone know right away that
we can’t be dillying about here. The lad’s life is at stake.”
He turned to Mrs. Jeffries. “There’s a man by the name of
Tommy Odell that’s going to meet the hangman in less
than three Sundays unless you and your lot help.”
“Why do you think we can help this man?” she asked
calmly. She had a very good idea why he thought they
could help, but she wanted to learn a bit more before she
said too much.
Several people in London had figured out that Gerald
Witherspoon’s household staff were helping with his cases,
but those few were trusted friends. She needed to know
how Blimpey Groggins had learned their secret.
“Because it’s my job to know such things,” Blimpey
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
7
said. “I’m a broker of sorts, Mrs. Jeffries, only instead of
stocks or coal or tea, I deal in information.”
“What kind of information?” Wiggins asked curiously.
Smythe held his breath. This was the rough part. If
Blimpey said too much, then everyone at the table would
soon figure out that he’d been using Blimpey as a source
for all their cases. On the other hand, if Blimpey didn’t tell
them enough, they’d have a hard time taking his concern
seriously.
“All kinds,” Blimpey grinned proudly. “I can honestly
say that my customers come from all levels of our fine society. Just last week I had an insurance company hire me to find out if a warehouse had been deliberately set afire.”
Wiggins leaned forward eagerly. “And ’ad it?”
“Nah. Much to the insurance company’s annoyance, the
fire was an accident. The warehouse owner had just taken
in partners and didn’t need to burn down the building.
Mind you, it did work out for the fellow—now he gets a
brand new building—but that’s neither here nor there. The
point is, in the course of my work, I’m often privy to information that works both sides of the road, so to speak.”
“What does that mean?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. She
eyed their visitor suspiciously.
Mrs. Jeffries was fairly certain she knew exactly what it
meant, but she said nothing.
Blimpey shrugged and took a quick sip of his tea.
“There’s no delicate way to say this except to just come out
and say it. Sometimes I get information about the less respectable members of our society, and recently I’ve come across something that leads me to believe a great miscarriage of justice is about to take place, namely that poor Tommy Odell is goin’ to swing for a murder he didn’t
commit.”
“And how do you know Mr. Odell isn’t guilty of this
crime?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
“Cause I know Tommy—he’s a pickpocket, not a killer.”
Blimpey shook his head in disgust. “I know that sounds odd
8
Emily Brightwell
to you lot, but Tommy’s a good lad. He’d no more take a life
than he would cut off his own hand. But they caught him
with the goods so they laid the blame on him. He didn’t do
it. I need you lot to prove it before they hang him.”
“When is he due to be executed?” Mrs. Jeffries took a
sip of her own tea.
“April ninth.” Blimpey shook his head sadly. “He’s a
nice bloke, is Tommy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“That’s not much time,” Mrs. Goodge mused.
Mrs. Jeffries gave her a quick, surprised look. The cook
was the one person she thought might balk at helping
someone like Blimpey, or even believing him in the first
place. “Why do you think we can be of service?” she asked
softly. “Shouldn’t you take your concerns to the police?”
Blimpey stared at her for a long moment and then said,
“I’ve just told ya, Mrs. Jeffries. My business is information. Did you really think you and the others in this house could help Inspector Witherspoon solve over twenty murders without some of us catchin’ on? Don’t be daft. There’s plenty that know what you’ve been up to, but as you’ve also
got a reputation for gettin’ it right and keepin’ innocent
people off the gallows, most of us keep what we know to
ourselves.”
“And you think we can help Mr. Odell?” she repl
ied.
Her voice and manner were very calm, but inside her spirits soared. She wasn’t certain she liked people knowing what they’d been up to, but in all honesty it was rather exciting to know there were people who recognized and approved of what they’d done.
“If you can’t, the lad’s a goner,” Blimpey said bluntly.
“I’d ’ave been here sooner but the missus and I was out of
the country.” He smiled self-consciously. “We had us a bit
of a holiday. We went to the South of France to get away
from the miserable weather, and when I got back yesterday
I found out poor Tommy Odell was in the nick and facing
the grim one. So I come along here and waited for Smythe,
hoping you’d be able to help.”
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
9
“You and Smythe are old friends?” Betsy asked.
“We go back a bit. Blimpey grinned. “Smythe used to
work for one of my old customers, Euphemia Witherspoon, your inspector’s late aunt. She was a character, she was. Nice woman, too. Sad to see the likes of her go.”
“Could you give us a bit more of the circumstances of
Mr. Odell’s troubles?” Mrs. Goodge asked. “I’ve not heard
of any murders done recently.”
“It was in the papers.” Betsy pointed to the newspaper
lying at the far end of the table. “He was sentenced last
week.”
“That’s right, but the murder itself were a couple of
months back,” Blimpey said easily. “Just after that baronet
out in Richmond was killed. A woman named Caroline
Muran was shot during a robbery. She died. Her husband
was coshed on the head, but he lived. Mrs. Muran’s bracelet
was stolen as well as the husband’s watch. That’s how they
nicked Tommy: he’d sold the watch to a pawnbroker and it
was spotted by a copper.”
“How did Tommy get the watch?” Smythe asked.
Blimpey shrugged. “He’s a pickpocket. He claimed he
lifted it hours before the killing. Look, I know it don’t
seem right, my wantin’ you to help a thief, but thieving
isn’t murder.”
“You’re convinced he’s telling you the truth?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.
“Of that, I’m sure.” Blimpey nodded emphatically.
“Tommy takes care of his mum. His biggest worry about
facin’ the hangman is who is goin’ to take care of her when
he’s dead. Can you help or not?”
“Would you mind giving us a few moments to discuss
it?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. She had no idea what they ought to
do. They’d had people come to them for help before, but
those had all been murders that were unsolved. How one
went about trying to prove someone was innocent when
they’d already been convicted was quite a different kettle
of fish.
10
Emily Brightwell
Blimpey pulled his pocket watch out of his pocket. “I’ve
an appointment nearby at eleven o’clock. If it’s all the
same to you, I’ll be back around noon.”
“That will be fine.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded.
They waited until Smythe had seen their guest to the
back door before they started talking. “Sorry I wasn’t able
to give you any warnin’,” he said as he slipped back into
his seat, “but he waylaid me at the back garden gate.”
“That’s quite all right,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She surveyed
the faces around the table. Everyone looked as bemused as
she felt. “Am I right in assuming we’re all a bit surprised
by this latest turn of events?”
“Cor blimey, it’s the last thing I expected to come walkin’
in on a rainy day,” Wiggins admitted. “But on the other
’and, it’s a bit flatterin’ to know that there’s people out
there that know what we’ve been up to and think we’re
doin’ a right good job.”
“Yes, well, that’s true,” the housekeeper replied. “But we
mustn’t let it go to our heads.” In truth, though, she was as
pleased by the knowledge as the footman. Modesty might
be a virtue, but recognition was very gratifying indeed.
“But it is nice,” Betsy grinned. “I mean, I know we don’t
want all and sundry knowing our business, but a bit of
recognition is exciting.”
Mrs. Goodge nodded vigorously in agreement, whether
she was agreeing with Betsy or Mrs. Jeffries wasn’t apparent. “But what are we goin’ to do about this problem?” she asked plaintively. “It doesn’t seem right not to do something, especially if the fellow is innocent.”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” Smythe muttered. He
still wasn’t sure how much the rest of them might have
gleaned from Blimpey’s arrival today.
“How well do you know this Blimpey Groggins?” Mrs.
Jeffries asked.
Smythe shrugged, trying to look casual. This was the
one question he’d been dreading. He didn’t fancy lying
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
11
about his relationship with Blimpey, but on the other hand,
his pride wouldn’t stand for him admitting that he’d gotten
most of his information on their last dozen cases directly
from Blimpey. “I know ’im well enough. Truth of the matter is, I’ve used him a time or two when we were really stuck on a case. His information is always good.”
“Yes, but does that mean the pickpocket is innocent of
to know.”
“Even if ’e’s innocent,” Wiggins said slowly, “ ’e’s still
a criminal. Seems to me that ought to be taken into consideration before we make a decision.”
“Wiggins, I’m surprised at you.” The cook stared at him
in disbelief. “Surely you’re not saying a man ought to be
hung over stealing a pocket watch.”
Wiggins blushed and looked down at the tabletop.
“Course not, but well, it’s not like ’e’s a workin’ bloke that
was pulled in off the streets for a crime ’e didn’t commit.
Oh, I don’t know what I’m sayin’. Course we ought to ’elp
this feller if ’e’s innocent. Especially now, bein’ as we’ve
got a bit of a reputation for upholdin’ justice.”
“I’m not sure we can,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured. “The
crime was weeks ago, the trail is cold, and frankly, even if
we found out who the real killer might be, we’d need irrefutable proof of guilt before we could get an execution stopped.”
“We’ve got to try,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly. “If we turn
our backs on even one innocent person, then all the good
we’ve done will be undone. Take my word for it, I’m old
and I know these things.”
“Don’t look now, sir, but Inspector Nivens just came in.”
Constable Barnes struggled to keep the contempt out of his
tone as he stared across the crowded canteen. Barnes was a
tall, gray-haired policeman who’d been on the force more
years than he cared to recall, and he was now working
12
Emily Brightwell
almost exclusively with Inspector Gerald Witherspoon. He
considered it part of his job to shield his inspector from the
likes of people like Nive
ns.
Witherspoon glanced up from his lunch of boiled cabbage, carrots, and stringy beef. He looked at Barnes out of a pair of deep-set blue eyes obscured by a pair of spectacles. His thinning hair was dark brown and graying a bit at the temples, his complexion pale, and his nose a shade on
the long side. All in all, he didn’t look like a man who’d become famous for solving murders. He looked like a person who ought to be in charge of the records room, which is
precisely what he’d done before Mrs. Jeffries had come to
be his housekeeper. “Inspector Nivens is here in the police
canteen?”
Barnes grinned. “Surprising, isn’t it. He usually eats
lunch with one of his fancy political friends at a private
club. I expect he’s come to gloat. They sentenced that pickpocket for the Muran murder yesterday.”
“Sad business, wasn’t it.” Witherspoon agreed with a
shake of his head.
Barnes nodded. “Murder usually is, but at least this one’s
got Nivens what he’s wanted. Let’s just hope he doesn’t let
solving one murder go to his head.”
Witherspoon took a quick bite of cabbage. “Be fair,
Constable, he did solve the case.”
“The killer fell into his lap. That case wouldn’t even
have been assigned to him if he’d not stumbled across the
victim’s watch in that pawnshop. From the pawnshop to
the killer was so easy even a child could ’ave done it.”
Barnes snorted in derision. He loathed Nivens. The man
was a boot-licking bully who’d used his political friends at
Whitehall to muscle his way up the Metropolitan Police
ladder. The rank and file police constables hated the fellow; Nivens blamed others for his mistakes, took credit for others work, bullied subordinates, and was suspected
of skirting the edge of decency in getting confessions out
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
13
of suspects. “Now that Odell’s been convicted, he’ll try and
use that as a way of getting assigned more murders.”
“He’s in division K,” Witherspoon murmured. “If there’s
a murder in that district, it’ll probably come to him.”
Barnes shook his head. Sometimes the inspector was so
innocent. “Most of the murders they give you aren’t in your
division,” he pointed out. “But you get them because you’re
good at what you do, sir. Oh blast, he’s seen us and he’s
coming over.”
Witherspoon took another quick bite of his food. By the