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

was

going to be difficult to keep Mrs. Briggs on the subject at

hand.

“She was shot late one night when they were coming

home from a concert or the theatre. It was a robbery. Terrible thing it was.”

“Was she alone?”

“Oh no, she was with Mr. Muran. He was hurt, coshed

over the head and left for dead.”

Betsy looked down at her teacup. She needed to tread

carefully here. “Mrs. Muran was shot and Mr. Muran was

only hit over the head? That’s a bit odd.”

Mrs. Briggs stared at her with a strange expression.

“That’s exactly what my sister says,” she stated bluntly. “I

told her there could be any number of reasons why one was

shot and the other coshed on the head. Perhaps the killer

only had one bullet or perhaps Mr. Muran leapt at the fellow after he’d shot Mrs. Muran. Why there’s any number of reasons why only one of them was shot.”

“You’re right, of course.” Betsy smiled quickly. “It just

struck me as peculiar. I can see why your sister was upset.

That must have been dreadful for her and for the others in

the household. Did Mrs. Muran have a large staff?”

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“Not really,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “That’s why Helen

liked working for her. Running the household was quite

simple. There was a cook, a kitchen maid, a housemaid,

and two day girls that came in to do the cleaning. They sent

out the laundry and hired all the heavy work done every

quarter. Mrs. Muran owned a factory, you see, a very prosperous one. She could easily have afforded a much grander house, but she wasn’t one to be overly concerned with such

things. At least that’s what Helen said about her.”

“Fancy that,” Betsy murmured as she sipped her tea.

“Mrs. Muran spent a lot of her time at the factory,” Mrs.

Briggs explained. “Funny, isn’t it, how some women seem

to be happier when they’ve something to do other than take

care of a home and children. Take me, for instance. I can

honestly say I prefer working in the shop over doin’ housekeepin’.” She took another quick sip of tea, but before Betsy could think of anything useful ask, Mrs. Briggs continued speaking. “Cleaning and cooking and washing clothes is hard work and dead boring if you ask me. I used

to think there was something wrong with me for feeling that

way, and I felt ever so much better when Helen mentioned

that Mrs. Muran was like that, too. More interested in running her business and bein’ out and about the world, she was. Of course, some would say she was like that because

she had no children, but I don’t think that’s true. I’ve children but I’d much rather be behind the counter than at home rolling out pie crusts or scrubbing floors.”

Betsy started to ask another question, but her mind suddenly went blank. Perhaps it was the rapid pace of Mrs.

Briggs’ speech or maybe she simply couldn’t think of what

to ask.

“Mind you,” Mrs. Briggs continued, “Helen’s problem

is only going to get worse if she doesn’t take herself out

and about.”

“Is she afraid of being murdered?” Betsy interrupted,

relieved that something had popped into her head.

“Funny you should say that,” Mrs. Briggs replied. “I

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73

think that might be the case. She keeps sayin’ she’s upset

over Mrs. Muran’s death, but I don’t think I believe her.

She liked the woman, but she’d only worked for her for

since she’d married Mr. Muran. He was the one who decided that Mrs. Muran needed help running the household if she was out everyday—”

“Why is my saying that funny?” Betsy interrupted again.

“I should think being afraid of a killer would be normal.”

“But they caught her killer.”

“Maybe your sister doesn’t think they caught the right

person,” Betsy said.

Mrs. Briggs stared hard at her. “How on earth did you

know that? I’ve told Helen the police don’t make that sort

of mistake and that of course they’ve caught the right person, but she won’t listen. She’s sure that they’ve got the wrong man.”

“How can she be sure?” Betsy asked softly. Her head

hurt and she’d be lucky if she remembered half of what

Mrs. Briggs had said.

“Well, I’m not one to be telling tales out of school, but

Helen thinks that Mrs. Muran was afraid of something.

She said that on the day that Mrs. Muran was murdered the

poor woman was as jumpy as a cat. Why, she was so nervous she had Helen tell Miss Turner—that was her cousin—

that she wasn’t at home. Mrs. Muran was never one to do

something like that. Helen says it was almost like she knew

something awful was going to happen. Mind you, Helen’s

got a good imagination.”

“Would you care for more tea?” Ruth asked her guest, Olga

Spreckles.

Ruth was working her way through the membership of

their women’s group. She’d already had tea with two other

women today, but they’d known nothing about Caroline

Muran except that she’d been murdered.

“Thank you, that would be nice.” Olga handed Ruth her

delicate china cup. “I was so glad to get your note. It’s been

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ages since we’ve seen one another. I thought you were out

of town.”

Olga was a chubby woman in her late fifties. She wore a

pale yellow day dress festooned with lace at the collar and

overlaid with a brown-and-green-striped jacket. A huge hat

adorned with feathers, flowers, and a trailing veil sat atop

her iron gray hair.

“I arrived home a few days ago,” Ruth murmured. “I

was concerned about you. You weren’t well the last time

I saw you.”

Olga beamed in delight. “How kind of you; but it was

only a cold. I’m quite over it.”

“Good, I’m relieved you’re well.” Ruth frowned slightly.

“Wasn’t it awful about Caroline Muran. You knew her,

didn’t you? Sometimes she came to our group.” She held

her breath, praying that Olga would know something about

the case.

“We were well acquainted. It was because of our acquaintance that she started coming to our lectures. She was practically my neighbor.” Olga shook her head sadly. “Poor

woman, I’m so glad they caught the blackguard that murdered her. She was the sweetest soul. Very simple and plain in her tastes, though she could afford anything she fancied.”

“Olga, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up,”

Ruth apologized.

Olga waved her hand