Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict Emily Brightwell (great books for teens TXT) 📖

position, so he’s workin’ for us until

he finds something else.”

Mrs. Goodge didn’t want to run the boy off and she had

no one else coming in until this afternoon so she decided to

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Emily Brightwell

let him eat his fill before she showed him the door. She

crossed the kitchen to the dish rack next to the sink and

grabbed the brown bowl that she used for cake making. A

nice seed cake and a madeira would do nicely for her

sources.

As soon as Mrs. Goodge had her back to him, Tom

stuck his tongue out at Samson. The cat blinked, narrowed

his eyes, and twitched his tail. Tom thought he might have

just made a mistake; maybe he should have tried being

friends with the ugly beast.

“Where’s Fred?” he asked. He looked at the empty

brown rag rug where the dog was usually curled up asleep.

Tom liked Fred.

“He’s upstairs in Wiggins’ room,” she replied. “He and

Samson don’t get along.”

“Poor Fred.” Tom knew just how the dog felt. “Mam says

Eldon will probably be with us for a long while. Mam says

Eldon must be thick as two short planks to lose his position.

It was dead easy. All he had to do was nail boxes shut.”

Mrs. Goodge put the bowl down on her worktable,

reached underneath, and got out her flour sifter. She was

only half listening to the lad. “Is that so?”

“Oh yes. Mind you, in one sense she’s glad. It was only

because Eldon got the sack that she could go and help Aunt

Helen. That’s her sister.”

“Where does your aunt Helen live?” She got the tin cup

she used for measuring dry ingredients from the shelf and

set it next to the flour. “In the country?”

“Oh no, she lives near Victoria Station. It’s not far at all.”

Mrs. Goodge looked up at him. “Is your mam’s sister seriously ill?”

Tom shrugged. “She’s not got the bad sick kind where

you’re vomitin’ everythin’ you eat and have to take to your

bed. She’s got the other kind.”

“What other kind?”

“The nervous disposition sort,” Tom explained. “Dad says

she had a bad shock and Mam’s got to go spend some time

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

43

with her. But I wish she’d come home. Mrs. Cubb comes in

and does meals for us, but her cooking is right greasy. I miss

my Mam. She makes the best toad-in-the-hole.”

Mrs. Goodge nodded in understanding. That would explain why Mrs. Briggs was away from home even though her sister’s house was only a short omnibus or hansom

ride away. “It’s very good of your mam to go and help

out.”

“Dad says Aunt Helen ought to stiffen her spine and get

over her troubles.” He shoved the last of the bread between

his lips just as Samson leapt down and strolled out into the

hallway.

Tom wasn’t going to waste this chance. He got to his feet,

picked up his empty dishes, and hurried to the sink. “I’d best

get going, Mrs. Goodge. Thanks ever so much for the food.

That bread was really good.” He brushed past the cook as he

ran for the door.

“Here, just a minute.” Mrs. Goodge started after him.

“What’s wrong with your aunt Helen?”

“She’s got the melancholy,” Tom called over his shoulder. He skidded to a halt at the doorway and stuck his head into the hall, making sure that miserable cat wasn’t waiting

to pounce on him as he rounded the corner. The hall was

cat free.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Goodge clucked sympathetically. She

was fairly sure she knew what the melancholy was and

she also knew it happened to every woman of a certain

age. “Eventually, even that goes away. Let’s hope it doesn’t

last long for your poor auntie.”

Tom shrugged. “Dad says she ought to be over it now.”

Mrs. Goodge sighed inwardly. It wasn’t her place to

speak of such things, especially to a young lad, but you’d

think a grown man would have more sense. “Sometimes it

takes some women longer than others,” she said gently as

she joined him in the doorway.

He started down the hall. “Dad says it’s been over a

month now, so she ought to be over it.”

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Emily Brightwell

“A month!” Mrs. Goodge yelped. “Why, that’s no time

at all.” If men had to go through what nature forced women

to endure, she thought she’d bet her last quarter wages Mr.

Briggs would be a bit more patient. “No time at all, I tell

you. These problems can take years before they run their

course.”

“But why should it last so long?” Tom called over his

shoulder as he jerked open the back door. “Dad says

they’ve caught the bloke that did it so there’s nothing more

for Aunt Helen to be scared about.”

“What bloke?” Mrs. Goodge raced after the lad. “I mean,

what are you talking about? What man?”

Tom flew out into the garden. “I don’t know his last

name, but he’s got the same Christian name as me, exceptin’

that people call him Tommy and I’m just Tom.”

Smythe was so frustrated he could spit nails, but he forced

himself to appear calm. He’d spoken to every hansom

driver in the West End and it had taken him hours to track

down the cabbie that had driven the Murans on the night of

the murder. To top it off, he wasn’t even sure he had the

right one. He had a feeling the man might be having him

on. But he couldn’t be sure.

Smythe glanced around the small cabstand. Three drivers were taking their tea. Two were hunched over the camp stove and the third was sitting at the far end of a tiny table

next to the stove with his feet propped straight out in front

of him.

“You’re sure it was the right people?” Smythe pressed,

his question directed at the taller of the two drivers warming their hands by the stove. He was named Fletcher, and he was a burly, brown-haired fellow with a full beard. “The

ones I need to know about.”

“There were dozens of toffs wantin’ a cab that night.”

Fletcher straightened up and stepped closer to the table. “I

was workin’ that area and I remember pickin’ up a couple

that matches your description.”

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

45

“We all picked up people that matche his description,”

the other cabbie said. “It was a busy night. The traffic was

so thick it took hours just to get out of the West End. Most

people coulda walked