Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  my fault. I should have put my foot down and insisted we

  go home. But it was hard for me to deny Caroline anything.

  I loved her very much.”

  “You weren’t to know there was danger about, sir,”

  Witherspoon said kindly.

  Muran looked up. “Wait. Now that I’ve thought about it,

  there is someone who was very angry at Caroline.”

  “And who would that be, sir?” Barnes asked, relieved

  that they might actually be making progress.

  “I’m not saying a word against my wife,” he replied.

  “But Caroline could be very hard when she considered a

  principle was at stake.”

  “Meaning what, sir?” Witherspoon prompted.

  “Meaning she sacked her factory manager just a few days

  before she was murdered. His name is Roderick Sutter. Yee

  Gods, that’s right. I’d quite forgotten. Caroline had sacked

  the fellow, and as I recall, he’d not taken it very well at all.”

  “Russell Merriman must have plenty of influence to get the

  police to have another look,” Blimpey Groggins said to

  Smythe. “Looks like we caught us a bit of luck on that one.”

  “What do you know about him?” Smythe asked. He

  took a quick sip of his beer and tried not to make a face. It

  was a bit early in the day for him, but after their meeting

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  this morning, it had become important they learn what

  they could about Merriman. The Dirty Duck was closed,

  but as Blimpey was probably the owner of the establishment, they were having a quick pint anyway.

  “Don’t you worry, old mate, I’ve already got my sources

  on it,” Blimpey replied. “What I know so far is that he’s a

  bit of a ne’er-do-well, bit of a drinker and a gambler. He’s

  not much good at holdin’ the liquor or handlin’ the cards.”

  “We know that much,” Smythe retorted. “What we need

  to know now is whether or not he might have ’ad anything

  to do with his sister’s murder.”

  “You’re wantin’ to know if he was in London at the time

  of the murder and livin’ under another identity,” Blimpey

  said shrewdly. “He wasn’t.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “If he’d been ’ere, he’d have let Tommy Odell hang, and

  as ’e’s the one stirring it up at the Home Office, I think you

  can safely say he’d nothin’ to do with it.”

  “That’s what we thought as well.” Smythe sighed, remembering the rather heated discussion they’d had on the subject at breakfast. “But it doesn’t hurt to make sure about

  the fellow. There’s a chance that even if he didn’t do it, he

  might have put one of his mates up to doin’ the deed for

  him.”

  Blimpey shook his head. “I’m one step ahead of ya. Russell Merriman didn’t have the sort of mates that’d do murder for him. He and his kind are usually gutless, upper-class toffs that don’t get their hands dirty. Besides, ever since I

  come back to London and found out Tommy was in the

  nick, I’ve had my sources out gatherin’ information, and

  I’ve not heard any hints that Merriman was back in England

  or that he had anything to do with his sister’s death. By all

  accounts, the two of ’em were right fond of each other.”

  “Exceptin’ for the fact that he was a drunk,” Smythe retorted.

  “So what?” Blimpey shrugged. “Just because someone

  drinks don’t mean their kin stops carin’ about ’em.”

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  “Have you found out anything else that might be useful?” Smythe looked down at his beer glass, a bit embarrassed to be asking this kind of question. But though it pleased his vanity to tell himself he’d do all his own investigating from now on, the truth was, Blimpey did have incredibly good sources of information and a man’s life was at stake.

  “Well, I’m a bit annoyed that I didn’t catch this earlier,

  but about a week before she was killed, Mrs. Muran sacked

  her factory manager. Seems he’d been helpin’ himself to

  her money. My sources tell me she was tryin’ to decide

  whether or not to set the law on the man.”

  “I knew she’d sacked her manager,” Smythe said. “But I

  haven’t had time to find out his name yet.”

  “His name is Roderick Sutter. He lives at forty-two

  Landry Place in Fulham.”

  “What do you think, sir?” Barnes asked as they climbed into

  a hansom.

  Witherspoon sighed. “I think we’re in a bit of a mess,” he

  said, grabbing the handhold as the cab lurched forward,

  “and I’m not in the least sure what to do about it. I suppose

  we’d best just carry on as if the trial hadn’t already taken

  place and the verdict been given. But honestly, it does make

  getting information out of people a bit difficult. Did we get

  some police constables set up to do a round of the neighborhood?”

  They’d asked Chief Inspector Barrows for a few men to

  go around to Barrick Street and see if they could find any

  witnesses. After reading the file, even Barrows had admitted

  the original investigation had been woefully incompetent.

  “I’ve got several lads assigned to it, sir,” Barnes replied.

  “But as you said earlier, the trail’s gone cold and those streets

  are pretty empty once the businesses close. But we’ll see if

  we can find something. What do you think we’ll learn by

  speaking to Mrs. Muran’s solicitor?” They were headed for

  the law offices of Brandon and Wells, just off Russell Square.

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  “I’m not sure,” Witherspoon said, sighing again. “But

  maybe if we learn a bit more about the lady, we’ll come up

  with something. Honestly, I was hoping Mr. Muran might

  have been a bit more helpful. But apparently, he can’t remember anything.”

  “I expect getting coshed on the head could do that. But

  I still think it’s odd, sir. Why wasn’t he killed as well as Mrs.

  Muran?” Barnes was very mistrustful of situations that didn’t

  make sense, and this murder didn’t make sense at all. Even

  the information he’d gotten from Mrs. Jeffries in their meeting this morning wasn’t particularly helpful. The inspector’s household had learned a good number of facts, but none of them were shedding much light on the identity of

  the killer. Not yet anyway.

  “Perhaps whoever did the killing only wanted her

  dead.” Witherspoon cocked his head to one side as another

  idea popped into his mind. “Gracious, that’s what we’ve

  got to do. That’s the answer.” His housekeeper was right,

  sometimes it paid to listen to his “inner voice.”

  Over breakfast this morning, she’d said, “You’ve simply

  got to trust yourself, sir. Listen to your instincts. That inner

  voice of yours hasn’t failed you yet.”

  “What’s the answer, sir?” Barnes stared at him curiously.

  “Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face, Constable,”

  Witherspoon said happily. “We’ve simply got to find the

  reason that someone would want her dead while having an

  equally compelling reason to keep him alive.”

  Barnes blink
ed in surprise, caught himself, and said,

  “You mean like someone thinking that he might be easier to

  deal with than she was. You know, in a business sense, sir.

  From what Mr. Merriman told us, his sister tended to be

  more concerned with principles than profits when it came

  to her business.”

  Witherspoon stared at him. “I’m not certain I understand what you mean.”

  “Uh . . .” Barnes struggled to think of the right way to say

  it. “Like you pointed out, sir, the killer wanted only her dead.

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  She controlled the business, and maybe the killer thought

  that with her gone, Mr. Muran, who isn’t a businessman at

  all, would be easier to deal with.” He held his breath, hoping

  he’d not gone too far. But he had to somehow introduce the

  idea that Witherspoon should have a look at John Addison.

  “That’s one possible motive,” Witherspoon agreed. “I’m

  sure there are lots of others. After we see the solicitors, I

  want to see Roderick Sutter. Frankly, I’m surprised that Inspector Nivens never even bothered to interview the man.”

  “I’m not,” Barnes muttered.

  Wiggins hovered behind a post box on the Fulham Road

  watching as Constable Barnes and the inspector got into a

  hansom cab. As soon as the cab moved off, he came out from

  his hiding place and turned down Drayton Gardens. If he was

  lucky, he might find someone who’d talk to him. He slowed

  his pace and tried not to look directly at the Muran house.

  Just then, a maid came up the ground floor steps and

  onto the street. She had a shopping basket over her arm.

  Wiggins recognized her immediately; it was the girl he’d

  frightened. Without thinking, he moved to block her path,

  whipped off his cap, and blurted the first words that came

  into his head. “Excuse me, miss, but I’ve come to apologize.”

  “Apologize for what?” She came to a full stop.

  “For scaring you the other day,” he replied. “It’s made

  me feel right terrible. I’ve come back here three times,

  hoping to see you so I could say how sorry I was.”

  She said nothing for a moment, and then she smiled

  faintly. “You’ve tried to find me?”

  “Just to say I was sorry, miss. It’s not nice to scare young

  ladies.” He couldn’t quite recall what he’d said to her on their

  first encounter, so he tried to avoid saying too much now.

  She cast a quick look over her shoulder toward the house

  and then looked back at Wiggins. “Did you ever find your

  dog?”

  He grinned. “Yes. He’d just run off ahead of me.”

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  “Good,” she said, starting toward the Fulham Road. “I

  like dogs.”

  “May I walk with you, miss?” He put his cap on and hurried to catch up with her. “I’d be pleased to carry your shopping basket.”

  “You can walk with me, but I’ll hold onto the basket

  myself if you don’t mind.” She cast him a quick, sideways

  glance.

  She wasn’t a particularly pretty girl, but she wasn’t

  homely, either. Her eyes and hair were brown and her complexion quite pretty. He wasn’t quite sure what approach to take. “Are you a housekeeper, miss? You’re awfully young

  and pretty to be in such a position.”

  She laughed in delight. “No, I’m just a housemaid. But

  Mrs. Turner hasn’t the faintest idea of how a proper household should be run, so she sends me off to do the shopping.”

  “Is that your mistress, then?” he asked. They were nearing the Fulham Road and he wanted to make sure they were deeply engrossed in conversation before she went into the

  shops. “Mrs. Turner?”

  The girl made a face. “No, my mistress passed away recently. Mrs. Turner and her daughter are simply family cousins. Poor relations, if you know what I mean. But

  they’ve barged in to try and take over everything. Not that

  it matters to me; I’m looking for a new position. I shan’t be

  staying there much longer.”

  “You’re looking for a new place, then?” He grinned

  broadly. “Perhaps I can be of ’elp. I know several households that might be needing more staff.” This wasn’t a lie, either. Mrs. Jeffries had commented that two of their neighbors were looking for servants.

  “Really?” She looked at him, her expression hopeful.

  “I’ve got recommendations.”

  “That’d be good,” he replied.

  “And I can get another from our current housekeeper.

  She took ill right after the mistress died, but I know her address and can easily get a letter from her.”

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  Wiggins felt a bit uncomfortable. But he ruthlessly

  pushed the feeling to one side. He would do his best to help

  the girl secure another job, but in the meantime, he’d find

  out what he could. “That would be most helpful, miss. My

  name is Wiggins, and I work in Holland Park.”

  “My name is Charlotte Brimmer.” She smiled shyly.

  “Would you have time for a cup of tea, Miss Brimmer?”

  he asked politely. “I’m just a footman, but I really think I

  can help you. There’s a Lyons Tea Shop just up the road,

  and that’s a right respectable place. They do a nice cuppa

  as well.”

  She hesitated for a brief moment and he thought he’d

  overplayed his hand. Then she shrugged. “Why not, it’s not

  as if any of them are going to notice how long I’ve been

  gone, not with the police coming around this morning.”

  “You understand I had no choice but to ask the Home Office

  for help in this matter,” John Brandon said as he ushered the

  two policemen into his office. “I hope that, as police officers, you’ll do your best to find the truth.”

  “Of course we’ll do our best,” Witherspoon assured

  him. Brandon was a short, balding man with a circle of

  thick gray hair around his skull, a long nose, thin lips, and

  sharp blue eyes.

  “Good. It’s imperative the police put their resentments

  aside and get to the truth of this matter.” Brandon sat down

  behind his mahogany desk and gestured for them to sit down.

  “I assure you, sir, I’ve no resentments whatsoever,”

  Witherspoon said as he took one of the two empty chairs

  and Barnes took the other one. “Our concern is the same as

  yours—finding the truth in this matter as quickly as possible.”

  “Good, then let’s get on with this, sir.” He stared at them

  expectantly.

  “Uh, yes, of course.” The inspector racked his brain for

  a useful question, but of course his mind refused to supply

  him with one.

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  “Was Mr. Muran the sole beneficiary?” Barnes asked

  softly.

  Brandon raised his eyebrows, surprised that the constable had asked a question. “No, there were a number of people and charities that benefited from her death. Mr. Muran was her main beneficiary, but she left bequests to her

  cousins, her servants, and several of her factory employees. She also left funds for the establishment of a legal defense fund for the London Women’s Sufferage Union. Of course, now that Mr. Merri
man has risen from the dead”—

  he grinned at his own joke—“Mr. Muran won’t get anything except a reasonable allowance.”

  “You mean Mr. Merriman inherits everything?” Witherspoon asked. This could put things in a very different light altogether.

  “Correct.” Brandon leaned back in his chair. “There was

  a rumor going about that Mrs. Muran had bought her

  brother’s share of their joint estate, but that wasn’t true.

  She loaned him some money so he could travel, but she

  never bought him out of his birthright.”

  “But everyone thought she had?” Barnes pressed. That

  was the gossip he’d heard, and he wanted to see how widespread it had become.

  “I know, Caroline started the rumor deliberately. She

  wanted people to think that Russell was virtually destitute.”

  “But why?” Witherspoon leaned forward slightly.

  “She thought it would keep a certain element from taking

  advantage of him.” Brandon pursed his lips in disapproval.

  “Specifically, she hoped that people would stop loaning him

  money to drink and gamble with if they thought he had no

  prospects. She was trying to protect him. She was like that,

  always thinking of others. Even the well-being of her workers was important to her. Do you know, she was planning on spending virtually all the company’s cash to buy decent

  housing for her employees.”

  “We heard she might have been planning on buying another factory.” Witherspoon watched the solicitor, trying to 132

  Emily Brightwell

  gauge from the man’s face if this information was a surprise.

  But Brandon’s expression didn’t change. “She had

  thought about doing that as well,” he replied. “She was

  very concerned with unemployment.”

  “There was enough capital to do both?” Barnes asked.

  Brandon shook his head. “Not really. Caroline could

  have done both if she’d been willing to take a loan, but she

  was opposed to doing that. She didn’t like banks. I think

  she’d made up her mind to spend the money on her workers’ housing. She was certainly leaning that way the day she died.”

  “You saw her that day?” Witherspoon’s head began to

  hurt. He’d been on the case for less than fourteen hours and

  it had already gotten complicated.

  “Yes. I brought her the estimates for both the purchase

  of the properties and the cost of renovations.”