Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  “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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  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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  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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  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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  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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  “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