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

a hansom heading toward

the hotel. “But the case hasn’t been officially reopened. I

mean, it’s not been in the papers, so how could he have

known? Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether he

knew or not; what’s important is whether or not he was

telling us the truth.”

“That’s always the difficulty, isn’t it, sir.” Barnes waved

at the hansom, but the driver didn’t see him.

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“Addison obviously wants to buy Merriman’s, but

whether or not he wanted it badly enough to murder Mrs.

Muran to get it is quite another matter. It’s not generally

how one does business in this country.”

“Murder’s been done for stranger reasons, sir,” Barnes

muttered. He waved his arm again, and this time the driver

saw him.

“I do wish someone at the hotel could verify that Addison was here that night.”

“We’ve got lads questioning the staff, sir,” Barnes said.

“If he left his room that night, someone might have seen

him coming or going.”

“If they can remember, Constable,” Witherspoon muttered morosely. “It was several months ago.”

Barnes ignored that. “Where to now, sir?”

“Number Eighteen Cedar Road, Waltham Green,” he

replied as the hansom pulled up in front of them. He

climbed inside.

Barnes gave the driver the address and swung in beside

Witherspoon. He knew exactly who they were going to see,

but he had to pretend he didn’t. “Waltham Green, sir? Who

are we going to see?”

“A woman by the name of Helen Maitland.” He grabbed

the handhold as the hansom lurched forward. “You’ve probably not heard of her, but she might have something useful to tell us. Mrs. Jeffries shared some very interesting gossip

with me at breakfast. She hears things all the time. She

says people actually stop her in the street to tell what

they’ve seen or heard. It’s amazing what people can find

out if they keep their ears open, isn’t it?”

“Uh, yes sir, it certainly is. Uh, who is—”

“Helen Maitland was the Muran housekeeper.”

“Was, sir?” Barnes thought he was getting quite good at

this game. “She doesn’t work there now?”

“No, she quit when she found out Mrs. Muran had been

murdered. I find that very peculiar.”

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“I didn’t see her name in the case file,” Barnes commented. He looked at Witherspoon out of the corner of his eye.

“Her name wasn’t in the case file.” The inspector didn’t

look pleased. “Inspector Nivens didn’t interview her or

anyone else from the household. I’ve no idea why; perhaps

he didn’t think it pertinent to the investigation.”

As the cab made its way through the crowded London

streets, they discussed the case. The constable took the opportunity to drop a few hints and plant some ideas in the inspector’s willing ears. He’d had quite a long chat with Mrs.

Jeffries this morning, and they’d agreed he’d pass along the

information the household had managed to obtain.

By the time the cab pulled up in front of the Maitland

house, Barnes was fairly sure he’d managed to convey

most of the relevant facts to his superior. He got down from

the cab and told the driver to wait for them. From habit, he

surveyed the neighborhood as he and the inspector went up

the short stone walkway to the house.

Before he had a chance to knock, the door opened and a

short, plump woman stuck her head out.

“Gracious, it’s Inspector Witherspoon. I didn’t expect to

see you here, sir.”

“Er, have we met?” the inspector asked. The woman

looked vaguely familiar.

“We’ve not actually met, sir, but you do know me. I’m

Mrs. Briggs. My husband and I own the butcher shop just off

the Holland Park Road. You’re one of my best customers.

Do come in, sir.” She opened the door wider and ushered

them inside.

Witherspoon moved toward the one bit of space in the

tiny foyer that wasn’t occupied. He squeezed past the fully

loaded coat tree, banged his foot against the umbrella urn,

and steadied himself by grabbing onto the newel of the

staircase. Barnes slipped in next to him.

Mrs. Briggs pointed at a closed door down the hallway.

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“Now go on into the parlor, sir. It’s just through there and

I’ll go get Helen. You and the constable make yourselves

comfortable.” She started up the narrow staircase.

“Yes, thank you, we will.” Witherspoon shook his head

in amazement. “It’s almost as if she were expecting us.”

“Maybe she was, sir,” Barnes commented. The parlor

was small but very clean. There was a three-piece furniture

suite upholstered in brown wool, a fireplace with a painting

of a hunting lodge over the mantelpiece, and brown-andwhite-striped curtains at the window. At each end of the settee there were matching tables topped with a crocheted

doily. A vase of dried flowers was on one of them and a

china shepherd stood on the other.

Witherspoon took one of the overstuffed chairs and

Barnes sat down on the settee. Just as they’d settled themselves, the door opened and the two women appeared, causing both men to leap to their feet.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Briggs said, waving them back to their

places. “This is my sister, Helen Maitland. This is Inspector Witherspoon and his constable. They’re going to ask you some questions about Mrs. Muran.”

“How do you do.” Helen Maitland nodded politely. She

resembled her sister except that she was thin instead of

plump and her face was pinched with worry. “I don’t know

what you think I can tell you,” she began as she dropped

into the chair opposite the inspector. “It’ll not make any

difference.”

“You just answer their questions.” Mrs. Briggs eased

down on the settee next to the constable. “It’ll do you good

to get everything off your chest. It’ll help you to sleep at

night, dear. The truth always does.”

“But I don’t think I ought to say anything. It was really

just a private matter; nothing to bother the police with,” she

protested.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that,” Witherspoon

said gently. He’d no idea what she was talking about, but it

was something that had kept her awake nights. “I understand

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you were so upset over Mrs. Muran’s death that you’ve not

been back to the Muran house since the funeral.”

“Of course I was upset; Mrs. Muran was a saint.”

Witherspoon tried to think what to ask next. He remembered the bits of gossip Mrs. Jeffries had told him, but that wasn’t helping him come up with any questions.

“Why did you