Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict by Emily Brightwell (lightest ebook reader txt) 📕

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. Merriman 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.”

“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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133

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