“Who inherits her estate?” Mrs. Jeffries wanted to get to
the heart of the matter. In her experience, which was quite
extensive, she’d discovered that people killed for money,
love, or vengeance. Sometimes all three.
“Her husband,” Blimpey replied.
“What about her children?” Betsy asked.
“They didn’t have any. Caroline Muran was forty-two,
but she only married about five years ago. He was a widower and he’d no children, either.”
“So he’s the sole heir?” the housekeeper pressed.
“There was a brother, but he was killed while traveling
in America. He was a bit of ne’er-do-well, if you know
what I mean.”
“I don’t understand how Mrs. Muran ended up shot and
Mr. Muran only got a cosh on the head,” Wiggins said.
“That don’t seem right.”
“That’s one of the things I’m hoping you lot will find
out.” Blimpey put his mug down on the table. “I take it this
means you’ll help.”
“We’ll do the best we can,” Mrs. Jeffries replied softly.
“But we’re not making any promises.”
“Fair enough.” He grinned broadly. “I’ll make it worth
your while.”
“There’s no need for that,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “As I said,
your poor friend may face the gallows despite our best efforts. We’ve not long. The execution is scheduled for April Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
23
ninth and it’s already March twentieth. We’ll have to work
fast.”
“I’ve every faith in ya.” Blimpey took out his watch.
“Now, unless you’ve something else to ask me, I’d best be
off.”
Mrs. Jeffries looked around the table. “Does anyone have
any questions?”
“I’m sure I’ll have some later,” Wiggins said. “But right
now, I can’t think of anything.”
No one else could, either, so Blimpey took his leave.
Smythe walked him to the back door. “This was a bit of a
surprise,” he whispered.
“Sorry.” Blimpey grinned apologetically. “But I was in a
bit of a hurry, mate. I didn’t mean to spring this on ya.” He
kept his voice low.
Smythe reached for the doorknob. “No ’arm done. I
don’t think the others suspect we’re more than just casual
acquaintances.”
“More importantly, your lady doesn’t know the truth.
She’s a right beauty, Smythe. How’d a ’ard old dog like
you got a lovely like that is beyond me.”
As Smythe frequently wondered the same thing, he
shrugged. “Just lucky I guess.” He opened the door and the
two men stood in the hallway staring out at the downpour.
“You’re going to get soaked to the skin.”
“Not to worry.” Blimpey wound his scarf high around
his throat. “Nell will have something nice and hot waiting
for me when I get home. You come along and see me soon.
I’ve a few bits and pieces I didn’t share with the others.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“You’re one of my best customers. I had to save a few
things for you. I can’t have your mates thinkin’ poorly of
your detective skills. See ya tomorrow then.” He stepped out
into the rain and hurried off in the direction of the garden
gate.
Smythe didn’t know whether to be insulted or pleased.
24
Emily Brightwell
They were waiting for him when he got back to the
kitchen. “ ’E’s gone,” he said as he slipped into his spot next
to Betsy. “What do we do now?”
“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “This is so different from our usual case.”
“Do you really think so,” Mrs. Goodge said in a tone
that was more of a comment than a question.
“Don’t you?” the housekeeper replied.
“Not really. We know just about as much as we usually
do when we start our investigatin’.” The cook got to her
feet and went to the pine sideboard. Opening the top drawer,
she took out her writing paper and pencil. “We know when
the crime took place; we know who was killed and where
they lived. That’s not much more than we generally know.”
She put the paper down on the table and sat back down.
“Now, I’ve a lot to do, so let’s get this part of the meeting
done with quickly.”
“Luty and Hatchet are going to be fit to be tied.” Betsy
giggled. “They hate missing out.”
Luty Belle Crookshank and her butler Hatchet were
friends of the household. Luty Belle, an elderly, eccentric,
and rich American, had been a witness in one of their first
cases. Being clever and observant, she’d figured out what
they were up to as they asked questions and tried to help
their inspector solve a particularly ugly murder of a Knights-
bridge physician. After that 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.
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
25
“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
26
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
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
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.”
28
Emily Brightwell
“He was hit on the head and knocked unconscious.”
“Gracious, that’s unusual, isn’t it?” Mrs. Jeffries exclaimed. “One would think it would have been the other way around.”
“That’s what Constable Barnes said today when we saw
Inspector Nivens,” Witherspoon said, his expression mildly
surprised. “I must say, Nivens didn’t like the constable’s
comments, but apparently several of the rank-and-file lads
thought there was something . . .” he paused, searching for
the right words, “not quite right about the case.”
“What do you think, sir?” She watched him carefully,
hoping to see a glimmer of interest about the case in his expression. If they found themselves with enough evidence to cast doubt on Odell’s guilt, but not enough to absolutely
prove him innocent, they’d need the inspector’s help. It
wouldn’t hurt to try and coax him on board, so to speak, at
this point.
“I think that the facts of the case were presented before
faith in our system of justice, Mrs. Jeffries.” He drained the
last of his sherry, rose to his feet, and took a deep breath.
“I’m sure that whatever questions were raised about the
case were adequately explained at Odell’s trial. Something
smells wonderful. I’m famished.”
Betsy stood on the corner of Drayton Gardens and the Fulham Road. She surveyed the area carefully. On the far side of the street were a greengrocer, a butcher, a chemist, a
draper, and a dressmaker. On the other was a large grocery
shop, an estate agent, an ironmonger, and the local branch
of the London and Southwest Bank. Betsy crossed the road
and started down the pavement. She stared into the windows as she passed the shops, looking for the one that had the least number of customers. She was also looking for
one that had young male clerks behind the counters. She’d
had great success in the past in getting information out of
young men. They loved to talk, especially if they thought
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
29
they could impress her with their knowledge. At the greengrocers, she saw a sour-faced old man pouring potatoes from a burlap sack into a bin so she walked on past. She
paused at the butcher shop. The place was full—there was
a woman at the counter and three more lined up behind her
waiting their turn to be served. She went on to the chemist’s
shop and peeked in the window, then she pulled open the
door and stepped inside.
“May I help you, miss?” The young man behind the
counter smiled eagerly.
Betsy gave him her most dazzling smile in return. Momentarily, she had a t
winge of guilt, but she ruthlessly fought it back. She wasn’t being untrue to Smythe; she was
trying to make sure an innocent man didn’t hang. “Have
you any lavender water?” she asked.
He turned to one of the shelves behind him and took
down a small glass container. “We’ve this kind. Will it do
you?”
“That’ll be fine,” she replied.
“Anything else, miss?” he asked.
Betsy pretended to think, hoping that he’d fill the silence by speaking. She’d noticed that if she said nothing, people often would start to talk. It was as though the silence made them uncomfortable. She also had noticed that people tended to say more if they were the ones starting the
conversation.
“We’ve some nice hand cream that’s just come in from
France,” he said. “Some of our local ladies seem to like it
very much.”
“Why, how very clever of you,” she cried. “You must be
able to read minds. That’s exactly what I need.”
He looked enormously pleased with himself. “It’s just
over here,” he gestured toward a display case on the end of
the counter. “It’s very popular. Excellent quality for the
price.”
“Do the posh ladies like it?” Betsy turned and looked
where he pointed.
30
Emily Brightwell
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Morecombe—her husband’s an MP—
uses it, as does Lady Eldon and Mrs. Muran—”
“Mrs. Muran?” Betsy interrupted. “Wasn’t she the lady
that got murdered?” She couldn’t believe her luck. “Oh dear,
I don’t mean to be indelicate, but I do recall reading about a
lady by that name who was killed. Was it the same one?”
“It was during a robbery,” he replied. “It was a terrible
tragedy. Mrs. Muran was the nicest person. She shopped
here regularly and was always as pleasant as can be. She
always paid her bill in full each month. She could have sent
one of the maids to pick up her medicines, but she always
came herself.”
“She sounds a very nice person indeed,” Betsy said
softly. “And I’m sure she’ll be missed.”
“The whole neighborhood misses her,” he said. “She was
very active in the local area, always supported the various
charity drives and fund-raising activities. Of course, it’s most
likely her employees at the factory that will miss her the
most.”
“She was a businesswoman?” Betsy picked up the white