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.
“You have a chat with him, Mrs. Jeffries. Right now we
need his help,” Mrs. Goodge said.
“Let’s just ’ope he can get his hands on that report,”
Smythe said earnestly.
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.
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Emily Brightwell
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.
“Do you have money for a hansom? I don’t fancy walking all the way home.”
He could hear her clearly, as she had a loud, nasally
voice.
The younger one didn’t reply. Wiggins frowned. Maybe
she spoke so softly he’d not heard her. He eased just a little
closer.
“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.
“Walking all the way home is out of the question. It’s
too far and I’m an old woman.”
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
57
The younger woman murmured something, which, of
course, Wiggins couldn’t hear.
“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.
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Emily Brightwell
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.
The waiter brought the women their tea and a tray of
cakes. Wiggins eased his chair a tad closer to them.
“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.”
“The exercise is good for both of us,” a soft voice said
in reply.
“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.”
“Don’t be absurd, Mama. You’re imagining things
again.”
“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.”
“Had you eaten them?” the younger woman asked.
“Certainly not!”
“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.”
C H A P T E R 4
Q
Smythe pushed open the door of the Dirty Duck Pub and
stepped inside. It was just after opening, but the place was
already crowded. Day laborers, counting clerks, and dock
workers stood two deep at the bar.
Blimpey was sitting in his usual spot near the fireplace;
he saw Smythe and waved him over. “It took ya long enough
to get here,” he said by way of greeting.
“Sorry, I meant to come by yesterday, but I ran out of
time.” Smythe pulled a stool out and sat down. He was
afraid the same thing was going to happen today. Despite
getting up at the crack of dawn, he was already behind the
schedule he’d set for himself.
“Doin’ a bit of looking into things on yer own, were ya?”
Blimpey nodded in understanding. “Your usual?” He signale
d the barmaid as he asked the question.
“That’ll do me.” Smythe grinned apologetically. He
didn’t want Blimpey to think he’d been deliberately avoiding
him. “Yesterday I started lookin’ into this mess of yours, and,
59
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Emily Brightwell
well, one thing led to another. I wasn’t deliberately puttin’
you off. I know you’ve got information for me.”
“Two pints, please.” Blimpey gave the woman their order
and turned back to Smythe. “Stop explainin’. I know you’d a
been here if you could. Look, I hope my comin’ round to the
inspector’s house didn’t land you in the drink. But I’m a bit
desperate ’ere. The lad’s innocent and they’re fixin’ to
stretch his neck.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Smythe replied. “But like Mrs.
Jeffries told ya, we can’t make any promises.”
Blimpey sighed. “I know. Anyways, let’s get on with it.
Like I told ya the other day, there’s a few bits and pieces
about the case I didn’t tell the others.” He broke off as their
beer arrived, nodding his thanks at the barmaid as she set
their glasses on the table.
“What kind of bits and pieces?” Smythe picked up his
beer and took a sip. It was a bit early in the day for him, but
he didn’t want to offend Blimpey.
“Despite what I said to the others about Mrs. Muran being raised Quaker and not having enemies, there was more than a few who benefited from her death.”
“Like who?” Smythe asked.
“Like Addison’s Brass Works. They were wantin’ to buy
out Merriman’s, but Mrs. Muran wouldn’t sell. I’ve got it
on good authority that now that she’s dead, her husband
has already started talking to Addison’s again.” Blimpey
smiled cynically. “So much for him waitin’ a decent interval and respectin’ her wishes or her way of doin’ things.”
Smythe raised his eyebrow. “That is a bit quick.”
“The poor woman wasn’t even cold before Addison’s
had sent their man over to have a chat with the widower.
Seems to me that when a company acts that fast, there’s
more to it than meets the eye.”
“You’re not seriously suggestin’ that the owners of Addison’s Brass Works actually murdered Mrs. Muran in order to buy her factory?” Smythe stared at Blimpey incredulously. “It’s one thing for the widower to rush into sellin’
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
61
the place, but quite another to suggest that a respectable
business would stoop to murder to obtain someone else’s
factory.”
“Don’t be daft, man. Remember who you’re talkin’ to.”
Blimpey put his beer down and leaned closer, his expression dead serious. “It’s my business to know what goes on in this city, and take my word for it, there’s been more than
one murder done to acquire something as profitable as Merriman’s. It’s a gold mine. They make high-quality product and there’s a waiting list to get their goods. Even Her
Majesty’s government has to take their turn in the queue to
get their orders filled. Addison’s needs Merriman’s.”
“Why?” Smythe wondered if Blimpey was exaggerating. “If Addison’s wants another factory so badly, why not build their own?”
“They can’t. They’ve not got the money nor the brains to
do it properly,” Blimpey declared. “Addison’s is on the verge
of bankruptcy. What’s more, I know for a fact that John Addison was in London the night Mrs. Muran was murdered.”
Smythe stared at him. He couldn’t quite believe Blimpey
was right, but on the other hand, as he’d pointed out, he
was in a position to know such things. Besides, if he’d
learned anything in the last few years it was that people
murdered one another for the strangest of reasons. “John
Addison is the owner?”
“That’s right. The company is in Birmingham. But he
came to London a couple of days before Mrs. Muran was
murdered and took rooms at the Fortune Hotel in Knights-
bridge. He’s been there ever since.”
“If his company is almost bankrupt, how could he afford
to buy Merriman’s?” Smythe took another sip of his drink.
“He can’t, but on the strength of the acquisition, the
Birmingham and London Bank has agreed to give him a
loan. As I said, Merriman’s is a gold mine—plenty of cash
in the bank and no outstanding debts. Now that Mrs. Mu-
ran is dead, they’ll probably be dozens of hands reaching
for that prize.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Was she the sole owner?” Smythe asked.
Blimpey nodded. “That she was, and she refused to sell
because she felt the company had a responsibility to its
workers. Once someone else acquires the company, I’ve no
doubt that will change as well.”
“You’re sure Mr. Muran is going to sell?”
Blimpey shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he? It isn’t his company, and he’s not a businessman.”
“So he didn’t ’ave anything to do with the business?”
Smythe said.
“No, it was hers and she was the one that had all the say
so in how it was run.”
“What did Keith Muran do before he married?” Smythe
asked curiously.
“He didn’t do much of anything.” Blimpey grinned. “In
other words, he was an English gentleman. His family was
old money, but they lost most of it. He inherited a bit of lolly
from his mother’s people—not enough to make much of a
splash in society, but enough to live comfortably without
havin’ to rely on the sweat of ’is brow. Muran was married
before. His first wife died and he probably got a bit from
her.”
“So he’s got two dead wives,” Smythe muttered. “And
both of them had money.”
“Lots of people have been married more than once and
lots of people inherit from their spouses. It’s actually quite
common, Smythe. Besides, I’ve got it on good authority that
he loved both women.”
Smythe snorted. “Despite your colorful occupation,
Blimpey, you’re a bit of a romantic. In my experience,
there are plenty of people that have helped put their nearest
and dearest into an early grave.”
“That’s true as well,” Blimpey said. “But in my view,
Keith Muran’s no better or worse than anyone else of his
class. He’s spent most of his days being a gentleman of
leisure. Goes to his club, sails, and spends his evenings
making the social rounds. God knows how he ended up with
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
63
Caroline Merriman. She’s not his sort at all, but by all accounts, the marriage was happy and both of them were certainly old enough to know their minds.”
“Not all of us marry when we’re young.” Smythe spoke
carefully to avoid stepping on any toes; Blimpey was no
spring chicken and he’d been wed for just a year now.
“No, some of us have the good sense to wait until we
find the right woman.” Blimpey drained his glass. “If I were
you, I’d take a look at John Addison. Seems to me his
&
nbsp; comin’ to London when he did was a bit too coincidental.”
“Is there anyone else I ought to look at?” Smythe finished his own beer.
Blimpey thought for a moment. “Not as yet. But I’ve got
my ears out and about so when I get more information, I’ll
get word to you.”
Smythe wondered why Blimpey hadn’t heard about the
sacked factory manager. In one sense, it made him feel
good. It meant that Blimpey didn’t know everything that
went on in London. But he was certain that he’d find out
soon enough, especially as he had his people actively
scrounging for more information. He got to his feet. “We’ll
do our best to get this solved. I promise you.”
Blimpey’s eyes watered. He blinked rapidly and turned
his head. “Blast, it’s smoky in here. You’d think people
would be decent enough to do their tobacco outside. It’s
not as if there’s any decent air movin’ about.”
“The least they could do is open the windows,” Smythe
said. There was only one person smoking and he and his
pipe were on the far side of the room. “I’ll leave you to it,
then, and be in touch.”
“Smythe, thanks for takin’ this on. Tommy’s a nice lad,
and well, I owe his mum a great deal. I’ve got to do what I
can to make sure the lad doesn’t hang.”
“There’s no word on whether or not Mrs. Muran’s
bracelet has ever turned up? Have your sources ’eard anything?”
Blimpey shook his head. “They’ve ’eard nothing.”
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Emily Brightwell
“The reason could be that the killer knew the police
were lookin’ for it and so he’s keepin’ it till it’s safe to sell.”
Smythe was talking off the top of his head, and he wasn’t
even sure if he was making sense. The only thing he knew
about how stolen goods were sold was what he’d picked up
on the street or heard from the inspector.
“Or it could be that it was never fenced in the first place,
because Mrs. Muran’s murder didn’t have anything to do
with robbery,” Blimpey declared. “It were just made to
look that way. Tommy lifted that watch hours before Mrs.
Muran was killed. Keith Muran probably didn’t even know
it was gone, so when the police asked him what was missing, he told ’em his watch was gone and her bracelet. But the bracelet was taken to make the murder look like a robbery and that was the killer’s big mistake. Mark my words, Smythe, you find that bracelet and you’ll find your killer.”
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