Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

by Emily Brightwell

  “I see.” The inspector was getting confused. “Is it a

  standard business practice to buy houses for workers?”

  “It’s not a standard practice, but she certainly isn’t the

  first employer to do it. Housing in that area has become

  quite expensive, at least by the standards of most factory

  workers,” Brandon explained. “Mrs. Muran was going to

  buy the row houses and then let them back to her workers

  at a reasonable cost. It was the only way they could afford

  to live close to where they worked.”

  “Who knew of Mrs. Muran’s plans?” Barnes asked.

  Brandon thought for a moment. “Mr. Muran knew, as

  did Roderick Sutter, her former manager. Sutter was pressing her to open the additional factory. I think he was hoping to be put in charge of both operations. But then she ended up sacking him, so his opinion hardly mattered. I’m

  not sure if her cousins knew or not. I don’t think she ever

  discussed business with those two ladies, but she might

  have.”

  “Cousins?” Witherspoon repeated.

  “Mrs. Edwina Turner and her daughter Lucy are Mrs.

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  Muran’s cousins. They live in Chelsea. As a matter of fact,

  Mrs. Muran left them the house they currently occupy.

  They’d been letting it from her, at a very nominal rent, I

  might add. I believe it was Miss Turner that introduced

  Mrs. Muran to Mr. Muran.”

  The Turner women lived in a rust-colored brick town house

  on a long, narrow street off the Kings Road. “I wonder if

  the ladies are home, sir,” Barnes murmured as he reached

  for the brass door knocker. “I think both of them were at

  Mr. Muran’s this morning.” He’d glimpsed a female figure

  staring at them out the upstairs window as they’d gotten

  out of a hansom.

  “Let’s hope they’ve come back,” Witherspoon replied.

  “I’ve no idea what we ought to ask them, but as they were

  beneficiaries to Mrs. Muran’s estate and her relations, I felt

  we ought to come around and have a quick word.”

  The door opened and an elderly woman peered out at

  them. “Yes?”

  “May we speak with Mrs. Turner, please?” Witherspoon

  asked politely.

  The woman’s heavy eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’ll see

  if she’s receiving.”

  “This isn’t a social call,” Barnes said quickly. “We’re police officers and we’ve come to speak to Mrs. Turner on police business.” He was tired of people treating the police like they were inconvenient interruptions to their ruddy social

  life.

  “Wait here.” She shoved the door shut.

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn,” Barnes

  said. “But it is tiresome the way some people seem to think

  they don’t have to speak to the police at all. I mean, honestly, sir. I’m in uniform. Do they think we’re leaving a calling card?”

  Witherspoon chuckled. “I expect the sight of the two of

  us on the doorstep startles people, so they simply say the

  first thing that pops into their heads.”

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  Emily Brightwell

  The door opened and the servant motioned them inside.

  “Mrs. Turner and Miss Turner will speak to you in the drawing room. It’s just down there.” She pointed to a door at the end of the short, dim hallway.

  The two women were waiting for them when they stepped

  into the room. The older one, who Witherspoon assumed

  was Mrs. Edwina Turner, was sitting on a settee. She wore a

  brown bombazine day dress with a black mourning veil that

  trailed down her back. Standing by the fireplace was a much

  younger woman. She had black hair, blue eyes, and exquisite

  skin. Lucy Turner wasn’t in the first flush of youth, yet she

  was so beautiful it didn’t matter.

  “Good day,” Witherspoon said, taking off his bowler.

  “I’m Inspector Witherspoon, and this is Constable Barnes.

  We’ve a few questions we’d like to ask you concerning the

  murder of your late cousin.”

  “I see that Russell’s been very busy. I didn’t expect you

  quite this quickly. Do sit down. I’m Lucy Turner, and this

  is my mother, Mrs. Horace Turner.” She gestured toward

  two matching parlor chairs.

  “How do you do.” The inspector nodded politely as he

  and Barnes sat where she’d indicated. Edwina Turner simply stared at them out of cold, hazel eyes.

  Lucy Turner sat down at the far end of the settee. “Go

  ahead, Inspector, ask your questions. Though I’ve no idea

  how my mother or I can be of any help.”

  Once again, Witherspoon’s mind went blank. Drat, this

  was getting ridiculous. For goodness sakes, he was a policeman who’d solved over twenty murders. What was wrong with him? “Er, can you tell us if there was anyone

  who might have wished to harm Mrs. Muran?”

  Lucy Turner shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Had anyone been threatening her?” Barnes asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Miss Turner replied. She glanced

  at her mother. “Mama, had you heard anything?”

  The old woman shook her head. “No, but I don’t listen

  to gossip.”

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  “How about Roderick Sutter?” Witherspoon blurted.

  “Hadn’t she just sacked him?”

  “You mean her factory manager,” Miss Turned replied.

  “I suppose you could say he might have wished her harm,

  but honestly, Inspector, I hardly think getting sacked is a

  reason to commit murder.”

  “When was the last time you saw your cousin alive?”

  Witherspoon asked.

  Her blue eyes widened in surprise at the sudden change

  in direction. “Let me see . . . it was a day or two before she

  died.”

  “It was the day she died,” Edwina Turner interjected.

  “Are you sure, Mama?” Lucy said gently. “I think it was

  the day before that we went to have tea.”

  “I know what day it was,” Edwina insisted. “I occasionally get mixed up, but I recall that day very well, and you should, too. Don’t you remember? Caroline was thinking

  about not going to the concert that night but you told her

  that she ought to go, that she’d been leaving poor Keith on

  his own because she’d been working so hard at the factory.

  You said it would do her good to get out and enjoy herself.

  Remember?”

  C H A P T E R 8

  Q

  Betsy smiled at the young man behind the counter. “I’d like

  a tin of Cadbury’s, please, and a bar of Pears soap.”

  “Yes, miss,” he replied.

  She’d ordered items that the household needed so her

  trip wouldn’t be wasted if she didn’t find out anything today. She was in a grocery store on the Kings Road, quite close to where the Turner women lived.

  After their meeting this morning, it had been decided

  that even with the inspector on the case, Odell’s date with

  the hangman was still getting closer with each passing day,

  so they had best find as much information as they could

  about anyone who might be a suspect.

  The clerk put the cocoa and the soap on the counter.
/>
  “Anything else, miss?” he asked. He was a tall, lanky lad

  with dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a very prominent

  Adam’s apple.

  “That’s all, thank you,” she replied. She decided on the

  direct approach. “I don’t suppose you know of a family

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  around here named Turner? They’re from the same village

  as my mum, and she wanted me to give them her regards.”

  “You don’t have the address?” he said, pushing a lock

  of hair off his forehead.

  “That’s the silly part. Mum sent me their address and

  I’ve managed to lose it. But I know it was somewhere

  around here.” Betsy forced a giggle. “That’s all right, then,

  I didn’t expect you to actually know them.”

  “Who said I didn’t know any Turners?” He grinned.

  “But I doubt the ones that come in here are from your village. They’re both very posh and proper city ladies.”

  Betsy pretended to be disappointed. But she wasn’t going home empty-handed. This case wasn’t going well, they weren’t getting information fast enough, and she was determined to find out something useful, even if she had to stand here all day. “I see. Then I expect it couldn’t be them.”

  “Sorry, miss. This Mrs. Turner and her daughter are

  good customers. They come in all the time and I’m sure

  they’re not from a village.”

  “They do their own shopping?” Betsy commented. “I

  thought you said they were posh and proper.”

  “They are,” he said hastily. “You can tell from the way

  they act. The daughter, Miss Lucy, always wants the very

  best. Mrs. Turner insists on being served by the owner and

  not one of us clerks. Mind you, Mr. Winkles gets his back

  up a bit over them, especially as they’re generally a bit behind on their bill.”

  “They don’t pay their bill on time,” she repeated. “That’s

  not very proper.”

  “They’ve been payin’ better recently,” he said, casting a

  quick glance over his shoulder toward the curtained doorway that seperated the shop from the private areas of the establishment. “Mr. Winkles doesn’t like me gossiping, but

  it gets right boring in here. The only reason the Turners are

  paying on time is because Mr. Muran sends along a check

  every month.” He looked over his shoulder again. “And

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  Emily Brightwell

  from what I’ve heard, we’re not the only shop getting a

  check from him. Bertie, he’s my friend who works at the

  greengrocers just up the road, he says that Mr. Muran pays

  up there every month, and Lorna—she works at the dressmakers on Tibbalt Street—told me that Mr. Muran had settled all of Miss Lucy’s outstanding debts there as well.

  Miss Lucy owed them a lot of money. Mind you, she does

  wear the loveliest dresses.”

  “It sounds like your Mr. Muran must be very fond of

  these ladies,” Betsy murmured.

  The clerk smirked. “He’s fond of Miss Lucy all right.

  Bertie’s mum says they’ve known each other for years. Mrs.

  Turner helped nurse Mr. Muran’s first wife when she was ill.

  Bertie’s mum says she expects Miss Lucy thought she’d

  have a crack at marryin’ Mr. Muran, when the first Mrs. Mu-

  ran passed on, but then she made the mistake of introducin’

  him to her cousin. He went and married her instead, and then

  the last we heard, that poor lady had up and died as well.”

  “Some men don’t seem to be able to hang onto their

  wives,” Betsy said, giving him another flirtatious smile.

  “It’s so nice to talk to someone who’s aware of what’s going on in his neighborhood. You know ever so much; I’ll bet all the young ladies love to talk with you.”

  He blushed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s nothing really. But I

  do like takin’ an interest in what goes on around here, and

  believe me, I hear plenty.”

  Just then, the door opened and two women stepped inside the shop. A second later, the curtains behind the counter parted and a small, elderly man stuck his head out. “Jon,

  don’t dawdle about gossiping; you’ve customers.”

  “Yes Mr. Winkles,” Jon replied.

  Betsy put her purchases in her basket, smiled at Jon, and

  hurried out of the shop. When she got outside, she stopped

  and looked up and down the busy road. But she couldn’t

  see what she wanted.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a middle-aged woman with a

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  shopping basket over her arm. “But could you direct me to

  the greengrocers?”

  Roderick Sutter lived in a two-story brick house near Putney

  Bridge. He was a tall, middle-aged man with thinning light

  brown hair, brown eyes, and a weak chin. He didn’t look

  pleased to see the two policemen. “I’ve no idea why you’re

  here, Inspector,” he said as he led them into a sparsely furnished drawing room. “According to the newspapers, this case was solved and the miscreant responsible for Mrs. Muran’s murder is going to hang.”

  “There are some questions concerning the case,” Witherspoon replied.

  “What do you mean?” Sutter flopped down on a gray

  threadbare settee. He did not invite the two policemen to

  take a seat. “How can there be questions? The man has already been tried and judgment passed. I believe he’s going to hang in a few days.”

  “That’s irrelevant, sir. There are still some important

  questions to be answered,” Barnes said quickly. “The first of

  which is, Where were you on the night of January thirtieth?”

  Sutter’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a very simple question, sir,” Witherspoon added.

  Like Barnes, he was a tad put out to be kept standing. It was

  very rude. “Where were you on the night of January thirtieth? The night Mrs. Muran was murdered.”

  “You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with it,”

  Sutter blustered. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Could you please just answer the question, sir.” Barnes

  watched the man carefully.

  “I was here,” Sutter replied. “And frankly, I resent this

  sort of question being asked in the first place.”

  “Why do you resent it, sir?” Witherspoon asked. “Surely

  you must realize the police would have questions for you.

  After all, Mrs. Muran did sack you only a few days before

  she was murdered.”

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  Emily Brightwell

  “Some would say that was a powerful motive,” Barnes

  said softly. “You and Mrs. Muran were overheard having a

  very loud argument the day she dismissed you.” Barnes

  had heard this tidbit on his own.

  Sutter had gone pale. “This is absurd. Surely you’re not

  suggesting that I had anything to do with Mrs. Muran’s

  murder. For God’s sake, she was killed during a robbery!”

  “That’s what the killer may have wanted us to think,”

  Witherspoon said. “Why don’t you tell us in your own words

  about your last meeting with Mrs. Muran. That might go a

  long way to getting this matter cleared up nicely, don’t you

  think?”

  Sutter swallowed and then nodded. “It was a fe
w days

  before she was killed. I was supposed to be the managing

  director, but my title was really just for show; she made all

  the decisions. I wish I’d known how involved she was going to be before I agreed to take the position.”

  “Who actually hired you?” Witherspoon asked.

  “Mrs. Muran.” He smiled bitterly. “To be fair, she told

  me she was involved with the business, but I foolishly

  didn’t think that meant she’d be there eight or nine hours a

  day. For goodness’ sakes, she was married. Why wasn’t she

  home taking care of her husband like any decent woman

  should be?”

  “Are you married, sir?” Barnes cast a quick, meaningful

  glance around the small, bare room. There were no pictures

  on the wall, the few pieces of furniture were old and faded,

  and a pair of limp green curtains hung at the window.

  “No,” Sutter snapped. “I’ve always been too busy to

  have a wife. I’ve always worked long hours in my positions

  and when I took this one, I assumed I’d do the same, but

  there was no need. She was always there, always making

  decisions and undermining my authority.”

  “It sounds as if you resented her,” the constable said.

  “Of course I resented her; she wouldn’t let me do my job.”

  “Could you tell us about the argument, please,” Witherspoon prompted.

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  Sutter got a hold of himself. “I was in the office. She

  came in and announced that I had to go, that I was sacked.

  I can’t say that it was a surprise. We’d disagreed on a number of things. She thought I was too hard on the workers and I thought she was ridiculously easy. For goodness’

  sakes, she gave them a morning and an afternoon break

  plus a whole hour for lunch. It was ridiculous; she was coddling them like a bunch of babies. Every time I tried to instill some discipline amongst the workers, they’d go running to her and she’d overturn my decisions. That day, I’d finally had enough. When she sacked me I told her she was an unnatural woman and that if I’d had my way, the business could have doubled our profits for the year.”

  “How long had you worked for Mrs. Muran?” Barnes

  asked.

  “Just a little over a year. Before that I worked at Anderson and Michaels in Leeds,” Sutter replied. “If I’d known how peculiar her business ideas were, I’d never have accepted the job. She was going to take all the capital on hand and use it for buying up row houses for the workers.