Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

“I don’t like that cat of yours.” Tom Briggs, the butcher’s boy, helped himself to a slice of freshly made bread from the platter next to the teapot. He glared at Samson, who was perched on a stool next to the hallway licking his paws.

The cook eyed the lad speculatively. He was a bit cheeky, but sharp as a tack and observant to boot. Tom was only eleven or so, but those blue eyes of his saw lots more than most people. Plus, he loved to gossip. Not that she expected him to know anything about the Muran murder, but she liked the boy and it paid to keep him happy and chatty—you never knew when he’d learn a tidbit that might be useful in one of their future cases.

“What have you got against my Samson?” she asked as she reached for a mug and poured herself a cup of tea. “He’s a sweet old boy.”

“He is not,” Tom replied. “He hisses at me every time I set foot in the back hall. This morning he swiped at my ankles when I carried the meat into the wet larder. He’s a real terror, Mrs. Goodge. Look, he’s sittin’ there waitin’ for me to leave so he can have another go at me when I go down the hall.”

“Nonsense.” The cook genuinely couldn’t understand why everyone, even animal lovers, hated her pet. “Just stay out of his way when he’s having one of his cranky moments and you’ll be fine.”

“It’s something people say is true that actually isn’t true at all,” she replied. “Now look, you’d best be quick lad. I’d not see you get in trouble with your parents for bein’ late.”

Tom stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth. He liked it best when Mrs. Goodge had those nice buns, but the bread was good, too. “There’s no rush. Mam’s gone to help her sister and Dad’s goin’ to be so busy this morning; he’ll not notice what time I get back.”

Samson stopped licking his paw and stared at the boy out of cold, green eyes. Tom wanted to sit right where he was until that beast got off the stool. He knew the cat was just waiting to get him. The nasty old thing was sitting at such an angle that it would be impossible to slip past without being in range of one of those big, ugly paws of his. Besides, he liked Mrs. Goodge. She always talked to him like he was a grown-up.

“If your mother’s gone, shouldn’t you get back quickly to lend your father a hand?” Mrs. Goodge peered at him over the top of her spectacles.

Tom shook his head. “He’s got help. Eldon—he’s my cousin—just lost his position, so he’s workin’ for us until he finds something else.”

Mrs. Goodge didn’t want to run the boy off and she had no one else coming in until this afternoon so she decided to let him eat his fill before she showed him the door. She crossed the kitchen to the dish rack next to the sink and grabbed the brown bowl that she used for cake making. A nice seed cake and a madeira would do nicely for her sources.

As soon as Mrs. Goodge had her back to him, Tom stuck his tongue out at Samson. The cat blinked, narrowed his eyes, and twitched his tail. Tom thought he might have just made a mistake; maybe he should have tried being friends with the ugly beast.

“Poor Fred.” Tom knew just how the dog felt. “Mam says Eldon will probably be with us for a long while. Mam says Eldon must be thick as two short planks to lose his position. It was dead easy. All he had to do was nail boxes shut.”

Mrs. Goodge put the bowl down on her worktable, reached underneath, and got out her flour sifter. She was only half listening to the lad. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes. Mind you, in one sense she’s glad. It was only because Eldon got the sack that she could go and help Aunt Helen. That’s her sister.”

“Where does your aunt Helen live?” She got the tin cup she used for measuring dry ingredients from the shelf and set it next to the flour. “In the country?”

Tom shrugged. “She’s not got the bad sick kind where you’re vomitin’ everythin’ you eat and have to take to your bed. She’s got the other kind.”

“The nervous disposition sort,” Tom explained. “Dad says she had a bad shock and Mam’s got to go spend some time with her. But I wish she’d come home. Mrs. Cubb comes in and does meals for us, but her cooking is right greasy. I miss my Mam. She makes the best toad-in-the-hole.”

Mrs. Goodge nodded in understanding. That would explain why Mrs. Briggs was away from home even though her sister’s house was only a short omnibus or hansom ride away. “It’s very good of your mam to go and help out.”

“Dad says Aunt Helen ought to stiffen her spine and get over her troubles.” He shoved the last of the bread between his lips just as Samson leapt down and strolled out into the hallway.

Tom wasn’t going to waste this chance. He got to his feet, picked up his empty dishes, and hurried to the sink. “I’d best get going, Mrs. Goodge. Thanks ever so much for the food. That bread was really good.” He brushed past the cook as he ran for the door.

“She’s got the melancholy,” Tom called over his shoulder. He skidded to a halt at the doorway and stuck his head into the hall, making sure that miserable cat wasn’t waiting to pounce on him as he rounded the corner. The hall was cat free.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Goodge clucked sympathetically. She was fairly sure she knew what the melancholy was and she also knew it happened to every woman of a certain age. “Eventually, even that goes away. Let’s hope it doesn’t last long for your poor auntie.”

Mrs. Goodge sighed inwardly. It wasn’t her place to speak of such things, especially to a young lad, but you’d think a grown man would have more sense. “Sometimes it takes some women longer than others,” she said gently as she joined him in the doorway.

“A month!” Mrs. Goodge yelped. “Why, that’s no time at all.” If men had to go through what nature forced women to endure, she thought she’d bet her last quarter wages Mr. Briggs would be a bit more patient. “No time at all, I tell you. These problems can take years before they run their course.”

“But why should it last so long?” Tom called over his shoulder as he jerked open the back door. “Dad says they’ve caught the bloke that did it so there’s nothing more for Aunt Helen to be scared about.”

Tom flew out into the garden. “I don’t know his last name, but he’s got the same Christian name as me, exceptin’ that people call him Tommy and I’m just Tom.”

Smythe was so frustrated he could spit nails, but he forced himself to appear calm. He’d spoken to every hansom driver in the West End and it had taken him hours to track down the cabbie that had driven the Murans on the night of the murder. To top it off, he wasn’t even sure he had the right one. He had a feeling the man might be having him on. But he couldn’t be sure.

Smythe glanced around the small cabstand. Three drivers were taking their tea. Two were hunched over the camp stove and the third was sitting at the far end of a tiny table next to the stove with his feet propped straight out in front of him.

“You’re sure it was the right people?” Smythe pressed, his question directed at the taller of the two drivers warming their hands by the stove. He was named Fletcher, and he was a burly, brown-haired fellow with a full beard. “The ones I need to know about.”

“There were dozens of toffs wantin’ a cab that night.” Fletcher straightened up and stepped closer to the table. “I was workin’ that area and I remember pickin’ up a couple that matches your description.”

“We all picked up people that matche his description,” the other cabbie said. “It was a busy night. The traffic was so thick it took hours just to get out of the West End. Most people coulda walked’ome in the time it took to get down Oxford Street.”

Fletcher ignored the other cabbie. “I’m thinkin’ you’re interested in that couple where the wife ended up murdered.” He stared speculatively at Smythe. “And they was the ones that I picked up that night.”

“Get on with you, Fletcher, quit tellin’ such tales,” the driver sitting at the table said. “Stop pullin’ the poor feller’s leg.”

He was annoyed at himself for making such a mistake. It was always better to make sure your informant actually knew something before you offered to reach into your pocket. But he’d jumped the gun and stupidly walked into the hansom stand and announced he needed information and was willing to cross their palms with silver if they had it.

Fletcher sighed and put his mug in the white tin bowl on the table that served as a sink. “Look, I’ll tell you what I told the copper that come’round here afterwards, not that he seemed all that interested in what I was sayin’.”

The cabbie who’d been warming his hands straightened up, pulled on his gloves, and moved to the open entrance. “You can trust what Fletcher tells ya,” he said to Smythe. “I’m off, lads. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

The second cabbie got to his feet. “I’d best be on my way as well.” He looked at Smythe. “I like takin’ the piss out of Fletcher, because he’s such a serious soul, but he tells the truth. He’s no liar.”

“I didn’t mean to offend ya,” Smythe said to Fletcher as soon as the two of them were alone. “But I need to be certain of what you’re sayin’. It’s a right important. Was the copper a uniform or a detective?”

“Both,” Fletcher replied. He pulled his gloves out of his coat pocket. “I spoke to the police constable first, then a day or two later a detective come around and asked a few questions.”

“Inspector . . . er Nivens, yes, that’s it. Not a very nice fellow.” He made a face. “Bit of a toff with his nose in the air, if you know what I mean.”

“I told’im I’d picked them up that night,” he explained. “There’s always a line of folks after the concerts at St. James Hall. That time of night the fares are good, people want to get home, and like Ricky said, there was no end of traffic. The man told me to take’em to West Brompton and I started off in that direction. But we’d not gone more than a mile when he stuck his head out and told me to take him to Barrick Street on the other side of Waterloo Bridge. Corse that was a bit further than I’d expected to go, but I did what he wanted and took’em across. Last I saw of them, they were walking down the road where I’d let’em off.”

Smythe wasn’t sure what to ask next. For a brief moment, he wondered if he’d completely lost the ability to do his own sleuthing. But then the obvious one popped into his head. “When they were in the cab, did you hear them talking?”

The cabbie laughed. “Not likely. Between the horses hooves and rattle of the traffic, it’s too noisy to hear what your fares are sayin’ to each other.”

He thought for a moment. “Not really. They acted like any other couple that’d been out for an evenin’. He helped her in and out of the carriage. There wasn’t anything odd about it exceptin’ Barrick Street was as deserted a place as I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s an industrial area,” Fletcher explained. “Nothing but old warehouses and small factories. Most of those places don’t even have night watchmen.”

Smythe’s mind had gone blank again. “Er, so you just let’em off and that was the last you saw of’em?” He felt like an idiot. He was almost repeating what the man had just told him.

“Do you remember anything else about them or about that night?” Smythe watched as the cabbie put on the gloves. There were holes in two fingers of one glove and the thumb of the other was split down the side.

Fletcher picked his hat up off a stool and slapped it on his head. “Not really. No, I tell a lie: when I picked them up, they was talking to another couple, standing all together in a group like.”

He’d handled this badly from the beginning, and he was determined to make up for it. Reaching into his coat pocket, he grabbed some coins and handed them to Fletcher. “You’ve saved me a lot of work.”

“Thanks, mate, this is right good of ya.” Fletcher walked to the entrance, then stopped and turned. “I did see that other couple get into the hansom just ahead of mine. I don’t know if that’ll do ya any good.”

Mrs. Jeffries was the last one to arrive for their afternoon meeting. “I’m so sorry to be late,” she said as she hurried toward the coat tree, “but the traffic was dreadful today. The omnibus was held up for ages because of a crash between a hansom cab and a water cart.”

“Excellent.” She slipped into her chair, took a deep breath, and then looked around the table at the others. “I’d like to go first, if I may.” She waited for a moment and then plunged ahead. “I’ve asked Ruth Cannonberry to give us some assistance on this case. Perhaps I ought to have spoken to all of you before I took such an action, but I honestly believe she could be a great deal of help to us.”

“Not in the least.” Mrs. Jeffries relaxed a bit. “I know it was a bit of a risk, my asking her for help, but frankly, I really didn’t see that we’d any other choice. She has some very powerful connections and we might very well need them.”

“If we’re lucky, maybe her connections will keep us from’aving to put this on the inspector’s plate,” Smythe mused. “That’d be right useful.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “I had another run of good luck by bringing her into it. She actually knew the victim. Caroline Muran occasionally came to her women’s suffrage meetings. They weren’t close friends nor did they move in the same social circles, but she was acquainted with her.”

Mrs. Jeffries smiled sadly. “Ruth says she was a very nice woman—very kind and very intelligent. She was a strong financial supporter of the society and gave them a good contribution every year.”

“I expect they’ll miss that,” Mrs. Goodge muttered. She wasn’t sure how she felt about some of Ruth’s radical ideas. She used to be dead set against all of them. She’d always believed that the British class system was right and proper and that the lower classes should know their places. But over the past few years, she’d changed her thinking on such matters.

“Did Lady Cannonberry know of anyone who had a reason to dislike Mrs. Muran?” Betsy asked. “Was there anyone in the society she’d had a quarrel with or anything like that?”

“I suppose that would have been too simple,” Betsy replied glumly. “Finding out who hated Caroline Muran enough to murder her isn’t going to be easy.”

“Why wasn’t she involved?” Mrs. Goodge reached for her tea cup. “She ought to have been if she believed in their cause. She had money and she had time—”

“But that’s just it,” Mrs. Jeffries interrupted. “She didn’t have time. She was actively involved in running the metal works factory.”

“Why shouldn’t she be the manager?” Mrs. Goodge said tartly. “She owned the place, she ought to have been able to run it as she saw fit. Women can manage factories as well as men.”

“I didn’t say they couldn’t,” Wiggins insisted. “But it couldn’t have been a very nice place, with all them nasty chemicals about. I’ll bet the place stank to high heaven.”

“She had a manager,” Mrs. Jeffries interjected quickly. “But she had to sack him.” That had been the pertinent point she’d wanted to make. “She sacked him about a week before she was killed. So we know that she had at least one person in her life that couldn’t have been too pleased with her.”

“Ruth didn’t know any details.” Mrs. Jeffries picked up her mug. “She heard the information secondhand after she found out about the murder. But she thought nothing of it, of course. Like everyone else, because Tommy was arrested so quickly, she assumed Mrs. Muran’s death was simply a robbery gone wrong.”

“That’s what everyone seems to think,” Smythe muttered. “We need to find out the name of her factory manager, the one she sacked. I can have a go at that tomorrow.”

Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “We definitely should find out the man’s name. But that’s not all I have to tell you. After I saw Ruth, I went to St. Thomas’s Hospital to have a quick word with Dr. Bosworth.”

Dr. Bosworth was another friend who’d helped them on several of their earlier cases. He had some very interesting ideas about dead bodies, and his theories had often helped them when they were on the hunt.

He’d spent several years in San Francisco and had seen a rather large number of homicide victims, virtually all of whom had been shot. Apparently, there was no shortage of either guns or bodies in California.

Dr. Bosworth had come to the conclusion that you could tell a great deal about how a person was murdered simply by a careful examination of the death wounds. He also believed that a thorough study of the murder victim could reveal more than the mechanics of the cause of death; he believed it could often give clues as to who had been the killer. Like the household, Dr. Bosworth was quite discreet about his help with Inspector Witherspoon’s cases.

“Unfortunately, he didn’t. But he promised he’d take a look at the attending doctor’s report and get back to us. I don’t know that it’ll help much,” she warned.

“It might,” Wiggins mused. “Dr. Bosworth knows a lot about gunshot holes in a body. He might see something that’d be good for us to know. He might be able to guess what kind of gun it was. That’d narrow it down just a bit.”

Mrs. Jeffries stared at him for a moment. “Why, Wiggins, you’re absolutely right. We need to have some idea of what kind of weapon was used.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Wiggins explained. “I’ll just try to find out if anyone in Mrs. Muran’s circle owned a weapon. That ought to be useful.” He looked at Smythe. “And you ought to find out if the fellow that was sacked has a gun.”

“Let me,” Betsy entreated. “It’ll not take long. I walked my feet off but I didn’t hear all that much. Mainly, it was just a repeat of what you’ve already told us. Mrs. Muran was very nice and well liked by her servants. Her factory workers are going to miss her, as she was getting ready to have their housing redone properly. The local merchants are going to miss her as well. She apparently settled her accounts promptly at the end of each month.” She shrugged. “It’s not much, I know, but I’ll be out again tomorrow to see what I can find out.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself; you’ve learned a lot.” Smythe patted her shoulder. “Not as much as me, but enough so that you can hold your head up.”

“The only person I met was a housemaid, but she wasn’t much of a talker. I hung about the area for ages, but I didn’t see anyone else that seemed likely to speak to me. It was all posh ladies goin’ to tea and gentlemen comin’ home from work. All in all it wasn’t a good day.” He wondered if he ought to tell the others about how scared the poor girl had been. No, they might think he’d been silly and incompetent; best to leave it alone and make his own amends. The girl was probably fresh in from the country and he needed to be careful in how he approached her. If she saw him skulking about it would likely frighten her more.

“Of course you will,” Mrs. Goodge said quickly. She was bursting to tell them her news. “Now, I’d like to have a go if no one minds.”

Mrs. Goodge laughed. “Really? I’d no idea. You’re right, though, I did find out something exciting and it was almost by accident, but that’s neither here nor there. It seems the housekeeper for Mr. and Mrs. Muran has melancholia and has taken to her bed. She’s had it ever since she heard about Mrs. Muran’s murder.”

“It’s generally more of a mental or nervous condition,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “At least that’s what I’ve always heard. Sorry, Mrs. Goodge, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Do go on.”

The cook told them about her visit from young Tom Briggs. She left out the part where she had to chase him clear across the communal garden with promises of seed cake and sticky buns in order to get him to come back. “According to what Tom overheard his mother tellin’ his father, his aunt Helen hasn’t set foot back in the Muran household since she heard about the murder.”

“I’ll go along tomorrow and see what’s what,” Wiggins offered. “I was plannin’ on goin’ back anyway, you know to suss out who’s got a gun or not. Or would you rather I go along to where the housekeeper lives and see what I can find out there?”

Mrs. Jeffries thought for a moment. “Go back to the Muran neighborhood. We’ve learned a bit about the victim, but I think we need to learn something about the rest of the household as well.”

“Not as well as Mrs. Goodge, but a bit better than Wiggins,” he grinned. “I found the cabbie that dropped the Murans off on the night of the murder. Accordin’ to’im, when they first got in the hansom, Mr. Muran told the driver to take them home. But then he suddenly sticks his head out and tells the driver to take them across the river to Barrick Street. Last he saw of them, they were walking down the road.”

“No, he said the place was deserted. It’s one of them areas that’s full of little factories and warehouses. Once the workday ends, there’s no one about. The cabbie, who seems to know the neighborhood, claims most of those businesses don’t even have watchmen at night.” He told them the rest of the information he’d gotten that day, taking care to tell them every little detail, including the comments of the other two cabbies about the night of the murder. Previous cases had taught them that sometimes it was the unimportant detail that solved the case.

“Some businesses are so cheap,” Mrs. Goodge muttered darkly. “You’d think they’d pay for a watchman or two. A deserted street in the middle of the night isn’t exactly going to have many witnesses about.”

Smythe sat back in his chair. “I thought I’d go around and have a good look at the road where they got let off. It’d be’elpful if we knew exactly where the murder happened, you know, the exact spot.”

“Will you have enough time?” Mrs. Jeffries asked. “It might take hours for you to find out the name of the sacked manager and track him down.”

Smythe realized he also had to go see Blimpey, but he wasn’t going to share that information with the rest of them. “We’ve got a bit of time,” he replied. “I’ll put goin’ to the murder scene at the bottom of the list and if I can’t get to it tomorrow, I’ll go the day after.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She put her mug down. “If everyone agrees, I’d like to have a quick word with Constable Barnes tomorrow. He might be able to get us a copy of the original police report.”

“He’s a clever man,” Betsy said. “He’d be very able to help us out a little without putting his own position as a police officer in any sort of . . .” she couldn’t think what the proper word might be.

“We won’t let him compromise himself,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. “I’ll be very discreet. As I’ve mentioned before, there are times when I think the good constable is very aware of what we’re doing.” Actually, she knew for a fact that Constable Barnes knew exactly what they did, but she couldn’t recall if she’d told the others that fact. Sometimes she wished her memory was a little better than it was, or perhaps it was a sign she was getting older.

Wiggins got to Drayton Gardens just in time to see two well-dressed women come out the front door. He hesitated for a moment and then decided to follow them. He might as well find out what he could; it wasn’t as if he could see anyone else about the area.

The women turned in the direction of the Fulham Road. The older one was dressed in black, the somber color relieved only by a touch of gray lace peeking out from the neck of her jacket. The younger one wore black as well, but there was gold braid along her cuffs, a white lace collar was visible over her the top of her wool jacket, and she carried a gold fur muff. When she’d turned, he’d seen a flash of silver earrings dangling from her ears. Wiggins, who’d only caught a glimpse of the young one’s face, thought her one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen.

He fell into step behind the women, taking care not to get close enough to rouse their suspicion. The area was dead quiet, the only sound being the click of their shoes against the pavement. Wiggins lightened his footsteps and moved a bit closer. The older lady had turned her head and was speaking to the younger one.

“Don’t be absurd,” the older one said. “Why would I have any money? Didn’t Keith give you any? Surely we’re not expected to walk all the way. For God’s sake, we’re doing this for him.”

This time, he heard the younger one speak, but as he’d feared, her voice was so soft he couldn’t hear what she said. He thought the older lady might be a bit deaf. His grandfather was losing his hearing. When he’d visited the family, he’d noticed his granddad spoke very loudly. Maybe that’s why this lady’s voice was loud enough to wake the dead. Truth was he could have heard her even if he’d been standing on the other side of the street.

“Then I want to stop and have tea at Lyons,” she replied tartly. “I want one of those little lemon cakes. They do them so much better than cook. Speaking of which, when are you going to take care of Mrs. Black? Her puddings are dreadful, and she’s impertinent as well. She actually asked me to leave the kitchen yesterday afternoon! Can you credit it?”

Instead of answering, the young woman looked over her shoulder straight at Wiggins. He smiled slightly and looked away, trying to act as though he just happened to be walking behind them.

She turned her attention forward again and he breathed a sigh of relief. Wiggins was now very interested in these two women. The nearest Lyons Tea Shop was on the Fulham Road. He increased his pace, crossed the street, and turned the opposite way on the next corner. He was bound and determined to find out what, if anything, they had to say.

Wiggins made it to the tea shop a few moments before the two women rounded the corner onto the Fulham Road. He ducked into the newsagent’s across the street from Lyons, bought a paper, and then hurried back to the tea shop. He’d taken his cap off and tucked it under the paper, assuming that without the cap, the younger woman would be less likely to recognize him as the one who’d been walking behind them.

The women had taken seats at a table near the front window and were giving their order to the waiter. The room was very crowded. Wiggins went to the counter, ordered a cup of tea, and then made his way to an empty chair at a table behind his quarry. Two other people were already sitting there. One was an middle-aged man reading an Illustrated London News and the other was an elderly woman drinking a cup of tea. Wiggins nodded at the empty seat, and when neither of them objected he eased himself onto the chair. He whipped open his own paper and held it in front of his face.

The tables were very close together, but even so, hearing anything might be difficult. But he wasn’t going to give up. He knew he had sharp ears and he wasn’t going to be defeated by a bit of chatter and the clink of silverware.

“This is almost as expensive as a hansom would have been,” a familiar voice complained. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have had a cab.”

“Are you going to do something about that cook?” the older woman asked. “I’ll not have someone of that class being impudent to me. She practically accused me of stealing food.”

“It’s true I tell you. When I went into the kitchen this morning to ask them to send up more bacon, cook asked me if I knew what had happened to the apple turnovers that were left over from yesterday’s tea.”

“Are you sure, Mama? Sometimes you do things and then you forget that you did them. You must try to do better at remembering things. I don’t want this opportunity ruined by you doing something silly. Remember what happened the last time. If you hadn’t forgotten she was coming to dinner that night, I’d have been married to him instead of her.”