Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  “You lookin’ for somethin’, lad?”

  Wiggins whirled around and stumbled backwards. An

  apparition was standing less than three feet from him. It

  took a moment before he realized that the fellow wasn’t a

  demon from hell, simply one of the city’s many walking

  advertisements—a boardman. Love’s Lost Lies, a pantomime

  playing nightly in Soho, was splashed across the square

  wooden board slung over the old man’s torso in bold red

  and green letters. A fool’s cap of the same bright colors sat

  on his head.

  “You oughtn’t to come sneakin’ up on people like that,”

  Wiggins cried. He was embarrassed to have been so startled. Cor blimey, it was just an old man trying to earn a living, and a hard living it was at that.

  “Sorry, lad.” The man grinned showing off a full set of

  brown-stained teeth. “But I thought you was trying to get in

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  that back door, and I only wanted to say the entrance is on

  the other side of the building. They keep the back locked

  up good and tight. Mind you, you’re a bit late. They’re full

  up for today, but I heard the gov say they’d need more of us

  tomorrow to advertise a new pantomine that’s starting on

  Friday evening.”

  It took a moment before Wiggins understood. “I’m not

  lookin’ for work,” he said. He was wearing his good black

  jacket and cap, his second best blue shirt, and a new pair of

  gray trousers. Why would anyone think he was looking for

  a position?

  The old fellow drew back. “Then what are you doing

  back here?”

  “That’s not any of your business.”

  “It’s my business if you’re up to mischief.”

  “I’m not up to any mischief,” Wiggins snapped, suddenly angry.

  “You must be,” the man insisted. “I already told ya,

  there’s nuthin’ here but the back doors to them empty buildings or the work hall.”

  “I don’t ’ave to be explainin’ myself to the likes of you,”

  Wiggins yelled.

  “Likes of me,” the boardman repeated. “The likes of me

  can go fetch a copper right quick if yer up to no good.”

  Wiggins forced himself to calm down. “It’s a public

  street, and I’m not doin’ anything but walkin’ about.”

  “Course it’s a public street,” the fellow replied, his tone

  a bit more civil. “Look, I was just tryin’ to be helpful, that’s

  all.” He turned and walked away, muttering to himself.

  “Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Wiggins

  hurried after him.

  The boardman stopped. “Then watch how you talk to

  your elders, lad. I might be poor and I might be a bit down

  on my luck, but you’d no call to speak to me like I was lower

  than the dirt on your shoes. Do you think I like doin’ this

  kind of thing?” He punched the center of the board with a

  chapped, dirty finger. “Course I don’t. No one would. It’s a

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  miserable life. The omnibus drivers play their nasty tricks

  on us, street lads throw stones every chance they get—

  knowing that with this stupid thing across my chest I can’t

  chase ’em off—and the pay is rotten. But I thought you

  might be lookin’ for work, and I was only tryin’ to help. Believe it or not, some of us poor folks try to help one another.”

  Wiggins whipped off his cap. “Please accept my apologies, sir. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in such a manner, and I appreciate the fact you were trying to do me a good

  turn. May I buy you a cup of tea, sir?” He was ashamed of

  himself on two counts. One, that he’d lost his temper so

  easily, and two, that he’d looked down on the man in the

  first place. Wiggins knew what it was like to be poor.

  The boardman eyed him skeptically for a moment, trying to assess if the offer was genuine, then he shrugged.

  “There’s a pub around the corner. I could do with a pint;

  would that do ya?”

  Wiggins didn’t much care for beer; he would rather

  have had a cup of tea. But as he’d already offended the old

  man, and it wouldn’t hurt him to stand him a quick pint.

  “Lead on, sir, and we’ll have a beer together.”

  Smythe stood in the small service road just outside of Merriman’s Metal Works and stared through a crack in the wooden gate into the cobblestone courtyard. The factory was a long,

  two-story building set back from the street. From his vantage

  point, he watched as a wagon filled with barrels pulled into

  the yard and a set of huge double doors opened, giving him a

  glimpse of the factory proper. A half a dozen men came out

  and began the task of unloading the wagon.

  He frowned slightly. Keith Muran was an English gentleman who didn’t know anything about operating a business, and this place didn’t have a manager. Mrs. Muran had sacked him a week before she was murdered. So who was

  running the business?

  Smythe knew enough to understand that businesses

  didn’t just run themselves. Someone had to be there to order

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  supplies, sign contracts, and generally make the day-to-day

  decisions that cropped up in any enterprise.

  “Wonder how long this is gonna last,” he heard a red-

  haired man say to the other workers.

  “Let’s not go borrowin’ trouble,” a dark-haired fellow

  with a handlebar mustache replied. “Even if it happens,

  they’ll still need workers.” He untied the ropes holding the

  barrels in place.

  “Yeah, but we’ll not have it like we did before,” a third

  man with a pockmarked face interjected. He shoved a wide

  piece of wood up against the edge of the wagon. “They’ll

  not give a toss whether or not we’ve got decent housin’, let

  alone a decent wage.”

  The red-haired man climbed onto the wagon, grabbed a

  barrel, and rolled it down the makeshift ramp. “It’s not

  right, I tell ya. She meant for us to live right.”

  “We could talk to Mr. Muran,” the dark-haired man said.

  He looked over his shoulder toward the open door. “Maybe

  he’d listen.” He rolled the barrel across the yard and into

  the open doors.

  The man with the pockmarked face snorted. “He’s not

  much interested in the likes of this place or the likes of us.

  Besides, we’ve already tried to talk to him. Fat lot of good

  it did us.” He jerked his head toward the doors. “What do

  you think he’s doin’ right this minute? He’s sellin’ this

  place out from under us as quick as he can.”

  “We don’t know that,” the red-haired fellow said.

  “Don’t be daft,” Pockmark replied. “Why do you think

  Addison is here? He’s not applying for a position, I can tell

  ya that.”

  “Shh . . .” the dark-haired man hissed. “They’re coming.”

  Two men speaking quietly to one another stepped into

  view. The taller of the two men was dressed in a heavy

  black overcoat and the other wore a gray coat and a black

  top hat.

  “Mr. Muran, do you have a moment?” the dark-ha
ired

  man asked.

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  93

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Muran replied. “But if there’s a

  problem, you can see Mr. Digby about it.”

  “Nah, there’s naught Mr. Digby could do to help us,” he

  said softly. He glanced at the other workers, his expression

  troubled.

  Muran nodded absently and turned back to his companion.

  Smythe couldn’t hear what the two men were saying,

  but he knew that the man with Muran was John Addison.

  He waited until they’d gone through the front gate and then

  he hurried after them, coming up behind them just outside

  the factory.

  He knew he didn’t have much time, as he’d no doubt

  they’d hail a cab as soon as they reached the main road.

  Smythe quickened his pace, trying to get close enough to

  eavesdrop. He managed to get within twenty feet of his

  quarry, but he could hear nothing except snatches of words.

  Their blooming footsteps were simply too loud.

  He cursed silently as they rounded the corner onto the

  main road and a hansom pulled up. Just his blooming luck!

  You could never find one of the ruddy things when you

  wanted one.

  Muran and Addison had stopped and were waiting for

  the fare to get out. Smythe had no choice; he had to keep

  right on walking. He went past the two men and on down

  the road, trying to step as softly as possible so he could hear

  their destination. Luck, it seemed, had taken pity on him,

  because he heard one of them call out to the hansom driver:

  “The Fortune Hotel in Knightsbridge, please.”

  All of them were a bit late for their afternoon meeting, but

  for once Mrs. Goodge didn’t care. Having just shoved her

  last source out of the kitchen, she was running behind as

  well and had gotten the kettle on only seconds before Betsy

  arrived.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Betsy took off her cloak and hat as she

  hurried toward the coat tree.

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  “It’s all right, dear, none of the others are back yet.

  Would you mind buttering the bread for me?”

  “It’s been ever such a busy day,” Betsy exclaimed as she

  went to the counter and picked up the butter pot. “My feet

  are wore out, and believe it or not, my ears are sore.”

  Alarmed, Mrs. Goodge stared at the maid. “You’ve got

  an earache? You best sit yourself down, girl, and let me put

  a warm cloth—”

  “Oh no, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy replied. “I’m sorry, I

  didn’t mean to say it that way, I meant to say that my ears

  are sore because I ran into Mrs. Briggs—”

  “Tom’s mum?” the cook interrupted.

  Betsy nodded.

  “It’s no wonder your ears hurt; Mrs. Briggs is a good

  talker. I’ve seen her hold conversations with three different

  customers at once.” Mrs. Goodge relaxed a bit. She turned

  back to the teapot and reached for the tin. She smiled to

  herself, realizing how much of a mother hen she’d become

  in her old age.

  By the time the tea was on the table, all of the others had

  arrived. Smythe, who’d come in last, slipped into his seat

  and said, “I hope this won’t take too long; I’ve got to get

  back out.” Under the table, he grabbed Betsy’s hand and

  gave it a squeeze.

  “Where’ve you got to go?” she asked with a frown.

  “The Fortune Hotel,” he replied. “One of our suspects is

  stayin’ there.”

  “Who?” Wiggins asked.

  “John Addison.” Smythe reached for his tea.

  “Why don’t you go first then,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

  “That way, if you must leave, you can go and Betsy can tell

  you the rest of our information when you come home.”

  “That’ll be ’elpful,” he said, giving Betsy a quick grin.

  “John Addison has been hangin’ about since just before

  Mrs. Muran was murdered.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Goodge complained. “Why is

  he important?”

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  95

  “Cor blimey, I’m not makin’ much sense, am I?” Smythe

  apologized. “Sorry, let me start at the beginnin’.” He gave

  them the information he’d gotten from Blimpey, being

  sure not to mention that Blimpey was his source. He took

  his time and spoke carefully, making certain he gave them

  every little detail he’d heard about Keith Muran and John

  Addison. He finished by telling them about his trip to Merriman’s Metal Works and what he’d overheard from the workers in the courtyard. “So that’s why I want to go back

  out tonight. There’s bound to be a bellboy or footman from

  the hotel that can tell us more about Addison.”

  “And you think Addison is a likely suspect?” Mrs. Jeffries

  asked.

  “Addison ’as been tryin’ to get his hands on Merriman’s

  since before Mrs. Muran was murdered, and now that she’s

  dead, he’s got his chance,” Smythe explained. “Keith Mu-

  ran is probably goin’ to sell to him. I think the workers resent Muran. He wouldn’t even stop to talk to ’em today.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Ruth said softly. “Caroline Muran

  was a wonderful employer and very much loved by her

  workers. She thought their welfare was just as important as

  her profits.”

  “Maybe you can find out if John Addison has a gun,”

  Wiggins suggested. “Mind you, that’s actually ’arder to

  find out than it might sound. I didn’t ’ave much luck with it

  today.”

  “Well it doesn’t sound like Mr. Muran is followin’ in his

  late wife’s footsteps,” Mrs. Goodge commented.

  “When someone is murdered, one of the questions you

  have to ask yourself is who benefits from the victim’s

  death.” Smythe took a quick sip of tea. “It seems to me that

  John Addison is right at the top of the list. Buyin’ Merriman’s will keep him from goin’ bankrupt.”

  Mrs. Jeffries shook her head in disbelief. “I find it hard

  to believe that someone would commit murder to get their

  hands on a business.”

  “So do I,” Betsy agreed.

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  “I don’t,” Wiggins said. “Goin’ bankrupt is a pretty powerful motive, and what’s more, we don’t have us that many suspects, so we ought to ’ang onto the few we’ve got. Cor

  blimey, that didn’t come out right.”

  “I think we all understand what you mean, Wiggins,”

  Mrs. Goodge said. “But after you hear what I’ve learned,

  we may have a few more people we can put on our suspect

  list. Mind you, though, John Addison does seem to have

  benefited nicely from Mrs. Muran’s murder.”

  “But perhaps others have as well.” Mrs. Jeffries pushed

  the bread and butter toward Smythe.

  “Come on, Mrs. Jeffries, we’ve seen people killed for the

  strangest of reasons,” Smythe argued. “It seems to me that

  wantin’ someone’s factory isn’t much different than wantin’

  someone’s money.”

&
nbsp; “But a murder would involve so many risks,” she replied.

  “John Addison would have to be sure that even with Mrs.

  Muran dead, Mr. Muran was prepared to sell to him.”

  “Maybe he was sure,” Ruth said.

  “Murder is a risky business,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out,

  “and most killers think it’s a risk worth taking.”

  C H A P T E R 6

  Q

  “True.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope

  the risks this particular killer took will lead us straight to

  him or her.” Despite all they’d learned, she’d still not

  come up with any reasonable ideas about this case, and

  that worried her. Then again, perhaps she was expecting

  too much—they had only just begun their investigation.

  “Were you able to find out the name of the sacked factory

  manager?”

  Smythe shook his head and got to his feet. “I ran out of

  time. I’ll have a go at that tomorrow and at taking a gander

  at the murder scene.”

  “Don’t bother. There’s nothing to see exceptin’ a work

  hall and a fat lot of empty buildings,” Wiggins said. “I

  wasted the whole afternoon there and didn’t find out anything worth knowin’.”

  Betsy got up. “I thought you were going to snoop about

  the Muran neighborhood today.”

  Wiggins grinned broadly. “I did, and I think I might ’ave

  found out somethin’ interestin’. But by the time I got finished

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  followin’ the ladies to Chelsea and got back to Drayton Gardens, there was no one about.”

  “What ladies?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.

  “It’s a bit complicated,” Wiggins replied.

  “And it sounds like it’ll take more time to tell than I’ve

  got.” Smythe grabbed Betsy’s hand and pulled her toward

  the hall. “You can tell me everything later,” he told her.

  “Mind you don’t stay out too long,” Betsy murmured as

  soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “I’m going

  to wait up for you.”

  “Don’t. You need your rest, lass, and I might be hours.

  Anything you hear tonight can keep until tomorrow morning.” He gave her a quick kiss and stepped out into the night.

  Betsy closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She hated it when he went out alone at night. Smythe could take care of himself, of that she was sure, but nonetheless, once the darkness set in, she’d rather have him safely home.

  Mrs. Jeffries waited until Betsy took her chair before