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

Turner could have been the

accomplice. She was his mistress.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Betsy said. “I heard

something today that suggests she might not have been. She

was seeing another man. His name is Alexander Samuels,

and he’s rich as sin.”

“Cor blimey, guess she wasn’t so crazy about Mr. Mu-

ran as we thought,” Wiggins said.

“Gracious, that does cast a different light on the matter.”

Mrs. Jeffries caught herself. Speculating like this wasn’t

going to help them. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Let’s let Ruth finish.”

“There isn’t much else to tell,” she said. “Once I found

out that Keith Muran knew how to handle a gun I decided

to find out if the Turner women were decent shots. That’s

why I was so late—I went see my friend Harriet Turnbull

and had a word with her. Harriet’s the widow of General

Roland Turnbull. Edwina Turner’s husband served under

him in India. But Harriet’s been out of town so today was

the first time I was able to speak to her. Harriet claims that

both the Turner women can shoot.”

“She was certain of this?” Mrs. Jeffries pressed.

“Oh, yes,” Ruth replied. “During one of the uprisings in

India, Edwina helped out in the field hospital. Harriet told

me that Edwina was known for keeping a loaded pistol on

her lap as she nursed the wounded. She bragged she knew

how to use it.”

“What about Lucy?”

“Lucy knows how to use a gun,” Ruth replied. “Harriet

was certain of that, but she didn’t know how skilled she

was with the weapon. I know it isn’t much, but I hope it

helps us.”

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

177

“Everything helps,” Mrs. Goodge said. “And you’ve

learned a sight more than me. All I heard was that Edwina

Turner has been going wrong in the head for months now.

She’s taken to burying things in the back garden.”

“Maybe she buried the gun,” Wiggins suggested excitedly.

The cook shook her head. “No, she’d need a shovel or a

spade to do that properly, and my source told me that the

woman digs in the dirt with her bare hands. She’s not right

in the head.”

“But that doesn’t mean she didn’t commit the murder,”

Mrs. Jeffries mused. “Apparently, she’s able to function

normally most of the time.” She glanced around the table.

“Who’d like to go next?”

“I will.” Betsy told them about her meeting with Selma

Macclesfield. She didn’t mention that she’d followed the

woman into a pub and plied her with gin to loosen her

tongue. “She says that Mrs. Turner was furious at Lucy

that afternoon. The old woman was convinced that Alexander Samuels wasn’t going to see Lucy anymore. They had a terrible row about it.” She gave them all the ugly details

and then she sat back in her chair, shaking her head in

amazement. “It must be awful when your own mother

speaks to you like that. It must have made Lucy Turner feel

utterly worthless. I feel sorry for her.”

“I don’t think either woman has had a very happy life,”

Mrs. Jeffries murmured. Something niggled in the back of

her mind, but it was gone so fast she couldn’t grasp what it

meant. “Wiggins, did you learn anything today?”

“No,” he admitted morosely. “I didn’t hear a bloomin’

thing exceptin’ Charlotte complainin’ that she was bein’

loaned out to the Turners tomorrow to help serve at a

luncheon for Mr. Muran.”

“I take it you’ve had no further luck on finding out where

all our suspects were that night?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

“It’s right ’ard tryin’ to find out where people where,” he

said defensively. “I spent bloomin’ ’ours walkin’ about and

178

Emily Brightwell

talkin’ to anyone who’d stand still for thirty seconds. But I

didn’t ’ave much luck today.”

“I’m sure you’ll do better tomorrow.” Betsy patted him

on the arm.

“Of course you will,” the housekeeper reassured him.

Mrs. Jeffries had actually been hoping that Wiggins would

find out a few more details about who had been where on

the night of the murder. It would have helped sort things

out a bit. But he’d done his best and she didn’t want him

feeling bad about his abilities. “You always come through

in the end.”

The footman beamed proudly. “I do my best.”

“I found out something useful,” Smythe said. “I ’ad a

word with the driver, and he admitted to me that Muran

had asked him to wait that night.”

“Then Muran was telling the truth,” Mrs. Jeffries mused.

“Not only was he tellin’ the truth, but I don’t see ’ow he

could be the killer unless he was workin’ with an accomplice.” Smythe declared. “If the driver had waited like he was supposed to, he’d have been a witness.”

“None of this makes sense,” Mrs. Jeffries muttered.

“You’re right, if the cab had waited, there would have been

a witness to the whole thing.”

“Not necessarily,” Wiggins said. “I mean, if the hansom

was turned the wrong way, he’d have not been lookin’. The

killer could ’ave come up, banged Muran on the head, shot

Mrs. Muran, and disappeared before the cabbie even

turned his head to look. It’s a dark road and the only gas

lamp is on the corner. Seems to me whoever did this killin’

is right bold and brazen. They’d not make much noise

coshin’ someone on the skull, and they could be gone in

the blink of an eye after the shots were fired.”

The inspector was late getting home, but despite being exhausted he was quite happy to tell Mrs. Jeffries about his day. She handed him a sherry and took her usual spot opposite him. “Are you making progress, sir?”

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

179

“It’s difficult to tell.” Witherspoon frowned. “But we’re

doing the very best that we can.”

He looked away for a moment. “And I’m now virtually

certain he didn’t do it. It’s not that I’ve uncovered evidence

or anything like that; it’s more a feeling. Mrs. Jeffries,

what am I going to do if I fail? I don’t think I could live

with myself if that man hangs for a murder I’m sure he

didn’t commit.”

“You simply have to find the real killer,” she said

stoutly. Deep inside, she shared the same fears as the inspector, but right now wasn’t the time to wallow in her own doubts. Witherspoon worked best when he was sure of himself and confident in his own abilities. “You’re very good at what you do, sir. I’m sure you’re making progress.”

“Do you really think so?” He