“We’ll do our best,” Smythe replied softly. He’d wondered why Blimpey had taken on this case. He was a decent bloke, but he was no bleeding heart taking on the woes of
the world. But he was a man who paid his debts and he obviously owed a fairly big one to Tommy Odell’s mother.
“Don’t worry; we’re actually pretty good at this sort of
thing.”
Mrs. Jeffries waylaid Constable Barnes as he came out of
the Shepherds Bush station.
Constable Barnes didn’t look at all surprised to see her.
“Good day, Mrs. Jeffries. It’s nice to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Constable,” she replied politely. “If you’ve got a moment, I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Of course.” He took her elbow. “There’s a café across
he road. Let’s have a quick cup of tea.”
“Thank you, that would be very nice,” she replied.
They maneuvered their way through the heavy traffic and
into the café. Mrs. Jeffries went to an empty table by the
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65
window while the constable went to the counter for their tea.
While she waited for him, she composed her thoughts.
“Here you are,” he said as he put a cup in front of her
and slipped into his chair. “Now, what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve come to speak with you about something that you
might consider a bit unpleasant,” she said. “I want to discuss a case that’s already been solved.”
Barnes raised an eyebrow but made no comment.
“Oh dear, this is more difficult than I anticipated.” She
took a deep breath. “We’ve reason to believe an innocent
man is going to be hanged.”
“What man?” The constable’s expression didn’t change.
“Tommy Odell. He was convicted of murdering a woman
named Caroline Muran, but he may not have done it. If
he’s executed, there might be a huge miscarriage of justice.”
“I’m familiar with the case,” Barnes replied. “Why do
you think he’s innocent?”
She hesitated, not sure precisely how many details she
ought to share. After all, Blimpey Groggins might not want
his name bandied about to policemen. “Someone came to
us, someone I’m unfortunately not at liberty to reveal, but I
assure you, his credentials are good and his reasons for believing in Odell’s innocence are quite compelling.” Taking care not to reveal Blimpey’s name, she told Barnes what
she knew. When she was finished, she picked up her tea
and took a quick sip.
Barnes said nothing for a long moment. “I take it you’d
like my help.” It was a statement, not a question.
She nodded. “I know there’s not really much you can
do, but I was hoping you might at least be able to give us
some guidance on what to do if we come across evidence
that Tommy is innocent.” She was a bit surprised at how
easy this was going. After her rather disappointing conversation with Inspector Witherspoon, she’d been afraid the constable would share his convictions that justice had already been served.
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Emily Brightwell
Barnes grinned. “Come on, now, Mrs. Jeffries. You’re
wantin’ more than just a bit of advice.”
She smiled sheepishly. “You’re right, of course. I do want
more. But I’m not sure it’s even right for me to ask it of
you.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” he replied. “I know that
Tommy Odell isn’t pure as driven snow, but I don’t think
being a pickpocket is the same as murder.” As the words
came out of his mouth, Barnes was actually a bit surprised.
He’d always considered himself a decent man who did his
job and earned a reasonable living. He’d become a policeman because he’d needed work and the Metropolitan Police had been hiring. He’d never worried overmuch about the pursuit of justice; he’d simply concentrated on doing
the best he could. But something had changed in the past
few years. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’d been
working exclusively with the inspector or whether it had
happened because he was getting older and closer to meeting his maker, but justice had become important.
“You’ll help us?” she asked.
“I’ll do what I can,” he replied. “But that’s probably not
near as much as your lot can do. I can’t go about asking too
many questions on a case that’s closed. But I can pass on any
bits and pieces I might pick up, and I’ve got a few sources I
can tap. As a matter of fact, I saw something yesterday that
might be of interest to you.”
“What was it?” she asked.
“The victim’s husband came to the Yard yesterday to collect his pocket watch,” Barnes replied. “Apparently, it had been kept in evidence and was only just returned.” He took
care to give her all the details of the encounter, except, of
course, for the fact that he’d been blatantly eavesdropping.
After he’d finished, she said nothing for a moment.
“You were already suspicious about this case.” It was a
comment, not a question.
“This case was handled badly from the start,” he replied
softly. “But there was naught I could do about it.”
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67
“Maybe there is now, Constable,” she said. “And thank
you for the information.” She’d no idea what, if anything, it
might mean.
“You’d best be careful with the inspector,” Barnes
warned. “He’s a good man, but he doesn’t want to believe
there’s been a mistake in this case. Especially as it would
mean he’d have to go up against Inspector Nivens.”
“I’ll make sure we’re discreet,” she promised.
“I’ll try and have a quick look at the case file,” he said.
“See if there’s anything there that might be of help. If I
find anything, I’ll send a street Arab along with a message,
but it might take me a day or two to get my hands on the
report.”
“Don’t do anything that might get you into trouble,” she
said quickly. “We don’t want you taking any risks.”
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “I’m a sly old dog. I can
manage it without raising so much as an eyebrow.”
“Please be careful.”
“No one will think anything of it if they see me with a
case file. Policemen read files all the time, Mrs. Jeffries.
It’s our job. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go borrowing
trouble. I’ll make sure neither of the inspectors are around
when I’m having a gander at the murder file.”
Betsy strolled up Cedar Road for the third time. How on
earth did Wiggins ever learn anything by just hanging about
a neighborhood and hoping someone would pop out so you
could have a chat? She’d walked the length of the road three
times now and hadn’t gotten so much as a smile from anyone. So far she’d seen two women sweeping their front door stoops, three boys playing a game of tag, and a cat sitting in
a front window licking its paws. Though the train station
was less than a quarter mile away, there weren’t any shops
or businesses here. Her estimation of Wi
ggins’ investigative
methods went up quite a bit. He must be a blooming genius.
It wasn’t a particularly pretty area, either. The street was
narrow, badly paved, and it curved around in a half circle.
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Emily Brightwell
Both sides of the road were lined with identical redbrick
row houses that had tiny patches of earth for front gardens.
She reached the end of the street and stopped. She didn’t
think she ought to go up and back again; someone was
bound to notice. She glanced over her shoulder at number
18, but the door remained firmly closed.
Betsy stepped off the pavement. She might as well go
back to the Muran neighborhood and see what she could
learn. She started to cross, when suddenly a woman appeared. She was wearing a short brown jacket with a matching brown hat and carrying a shopping basket over her arm.
Betsy stared at the woman as she came closer. It took
Betsy a moment to place her, but as her features became
clear, she realized it was Mrs. Briggs, Tommy’s mum.
She’d seen her dozens of times behind the counter at the
butcher shop.
Betsy hurried across the road, meeting her quarry
squarely on the opposite corner. “Hello, aren’t you Mrs.
Briggs?”
Mrs. Briggs gaped at her. “Well, yes I am. Do I know you?”
“We’ve never been introduced,” Betsy replied, “but I’ve
seen you many times. I work for Inspector Witherspoon.”
“On Upper Edmonton Gardens.” Her face broadened
into a smile. “Of course, of course. The inspector’s a good
customer. Fancy meeting you in this neighborhood. Are
you visiting someone?”
“No, I’ve just come from seeing a friend off at the station
and I thought I was taking a short cut to a Lyons Tea Shop.”
Betsy laughed. “But I think I’m a bit lost. I am surprised to
see you here. I thought your family lived near your shop.”
“We do.” Mrs. Briggs sighed heavily. “But my sister lives
just over there and I’m here helping her out.”
“Oh dear, is she ill?” Betsy asked sympathetically.
“Well . . .” Mrs. Briggs glanced at the closed door of
number 18 and then back at Betsy. “She’s not really ill,
she’s just had a terrible shock is all.”
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“How dreadful for her,” Betsy said quickly. “I do hope
she’s getting over it.” She was careful not to say anything
else. In her experience, you didn’t need to ask a lot of specific questions to get people to talk. Being a willing listener was often enough to get even the quietest person to tell you
their troubles. Judging by the eager look on Mrs. Briggs’
face, she was dying for a sympathetic listener.
“If you ask me, she’s letting it affect her much more
than it needs to, but she’s my sister, and well, I’ve got to
come if she needs me, don’t I.”
“Of course you do. I’m sure you’ve been a great comfort to her,” Betsy agreed. “I don’t suppose you know where that tea shop is, do you?”
“I don’t know of any Lyons around here, but there’s a
nice café just around the corner.” She pointed back the way
she’d just come.
“I’ll try that way then,” Betsy said. “You look like you
could do with a cup yourself. Would you care to join me?”
Mrs. Briggs looked doubtful and Betsy was sure she’d lost
the woman, but then she said, “That sounds heavenly.
There’s no reason to rush back; Helen’s probably still asleep.
Come along, then, the café’s just this way. It’ll be nice to
have a good natter. You can catch me up on all the neighborhood gossip.” She took Betsy’s arm and tugged her across the road. They went around the corner, down another street, and
onto a road lined with shops. As far as Betsy could tell, Mrs.
Briggs didn’t stop talking long enough to even draw a breath.
“The inspector is one of our best customers. He always
pays his bill and never sends anything back.” She pulled
open the door of the café. “But then again, we use only the
best meat.”
“You go and have a seat,” Betsy interjected quickly. “I’ll
get us tea.”
“Thank you, dear. It’ll be nice to be waited on for once.
I’ve run myself ragged these past few weeks,” Mrs. Briggs
muttered, her voice fading as she maneuvered her plump
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Emily Brightwell
frame between the closely spaced tables. She settled at a
spot by the far wall.
Betsy ordered their tea and went to the table. “It was very
kind of you to accompany me, Mrs. Briggs. I was dying for
something to drink, but I don’t really like coming to a café
on my own. I don’t mind a Lyons Tea Shop because there’s
always lots of ladies in those places. Sometimes cafes can
be a bit frightening.”
“I know what you mean, dear.” Mrs. Briggs picked up
her cup and took a sip. “It’s always much better for us
ladies to have company, isn’t it. Actually, I’m beginning to
think that’s why Helen, that’s my sister, is clinging onto me
for so long. If you ask me, she’s simply lonely. Well, she’s
used to being in a house full of people, isn’t she, and now
she’s rattling around all alone in her own place, day after
day. Her husband’s a salesman and most of his customers
are up in the midlands so he’s gone for weeks at a time. My
husband is getting rather put out. Luckily, though, we’ve a
relation that was in need of a position, so he’s filling in at
the shop for me, but my Harry is getting lonely as well, not
to mention what that scamp Tom’s been up to. Tom’s my
lad. Oh, but then you know that, don’t you? He delivers to
the inspector. He quite likes your Mrs. Goodge, says she’s
always giving him treats and tea. I don’t want to be unkind,
but I’ve got to get home.”
“You’ve been a saint to your sister,” Betsy interrupted.
She had to do something drastic. Mrs. Briggs could talk the
paint off a post if given the chance. “Most people would
count themselves lucky to have family as devoted as you.
Is your sister getting any better at all?”
“I think she’s on the mend,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “But
honestly, like I said, it’s more loneliness than anything else.
She used to have a day housekeeper position over in West
Brompton, but her employer . . .” she stopped for a brief
second, “actually, her employer was murdered and that’s
what has got her so upset that she quit her position and took
to her bed.”
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“Murdered?” Betsy repeated. Finally, they were getting
somewhere. “That’s dreadful.”
“Oh yes, it’s quite affected poor Helen, but then again, I
expect you know about such things, working for Inspector
Witherspoon. Mind you, they caught the man who did it,
but that’s not helped Helen at all.”
“How sad that she gave up her position,” Betsy said.
/> “She must have been very fond of her employer.”
“Oh, she was. Mrs. Muran was a saint. It’s awful that
someone like her should be murdered like that, especially
as there are so many nasty people still walking about as
free as a lark. Not that I think people ought to be murdered
just because they’re nasty, but it does cause one to wonder,
doesn’t it.”
“How did it happen?” Betsy asked, realizing that it was
going to be difficult to keep Mrs. Briggs on the subject at
hand.
“She was shot late one night when they were coming
home from a concert or the theatre. It was a robbery. Terrible thing it was.”
“Was she alone?”
“Oh no, she was with Mr. Muran. He was hurt, coshed
over the head and left for dead.”
Betsy looked down at her teacup. She needed to tread
carefully here. “Mrs. Muran was shot and Mr. Muran was
only hit over the head? That’s a bit odd.”
Mrs. Briggs stared at her with a strange expression.
“That’s exactly what my sister says,” she stated bluntly. “I
told her there could be any number of reasons why one was
shot and the other coshed on the head. Perhaps the killer
only had one bullet or perhaps Mr. Muran leapt at the fellow after he’d shot Mrs. Muran. Why there’s any number of reasons why only one of them was shot.”
“You’re right, of course.” Betsy smiled quickly. “It just
struck me as peculiar. I can see why your sister was upset.
That must have been dreadful for her and for the others in
the household. Did Mrs. Muran have a large staff?”
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Emily Brightwell
“Not really,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “That’s why Helen
liked working for her. Running the household was quite
simple. There was a cook, a kitchen maid, a housemaid,
and two day girls that came in to do the cleaning. They sent
out the laundry and hired all the heavy work done every
quarter. Mrs. Muran owned a factory, you see, a very prosperous one. She could easily have afforded a much grander house, but she wasn’t one to be overly concerned with such
things. At least that’s what Helen said about her.”
“Fancy that,” Betsy murmured as she sipped her tea.
“Mrs. Muran spent a lot of her time at the factory,” Mrs.
Briggs explained. “Funny, isn’t it, how some women seem
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