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

the future, there

will be an entire field of study devoted to the examination

of both the victim and the murder scene.”

“You know, Dr. Bosworth, I do believe you’re absolutely right.”

Wiggins walked along Barrick Street and thought it a right

miserable place. He’d gone back to the Muran neighborhood after he’d followed the two women to the tea shop, but his luck had apparently run out. He’d seen no one nor

had he caught so much as a glimpse of that scared young

maid, either. There were only so many times you could

walk up and down a street without someone noticing, so

he’d decided to come along here and have a firsthand look

at the murder scene. Fat lot of good that had done him.

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He’d been hoping to run into Smythe and get his advice

on what to do next, but so far he’d not seen hide nor hair of

the coachman. Wiggins stopped and folded his arms over his

chest. This was just about the silliest idea he’d ever had in

his life. What had he thought he’d find here? In the light of

day, the street was just another ugly commercial neighborhood without people or color or anything to recommend it.

He started walking again, taking his time and trying to

get a sense of the place, trying to see what would make

someone come here late at night. But for the life of him he

couldn’t see any attraction to the place. He trailed his fingers against the dull brown bricks of a large, windowless building that was built right up to the edge of the narrow

pavement. The building was like all the others on the road.

At the far end of the road was a solid wall of another, taller

building.

Wiggins shook his head in wonder. Maybe he’d got his

facts wrong. Why would anyone come here? He noticed

that at the dead end there was a narrow passageway, and he

hurried towards it. But when he got there, he saw it only led

to a set of double doors set back a bit from the street proper.

“You lookin’ for somethin’, lad?”

Wiggins whirled around and stumbled backwards. An

apparition was standing less than three feet from him. It

took a moment before he realized that the fellow wasn’t a

demon from hell, simply one of the city’s many walking

advertisements—a boardman. Love’s Lost Lies, a pantomime

playing nightly in Soho, was splashed across the square

wooden board slung over the old man’s torso in bold red

and green letters. A fool’s cap of the same bright colors sat

on his head.

“You oughtn’t to come sneakin’ up on people like that,”

Wiggins cried. He was embarrassed to have been so startled. Cor blimey, it was just an old man trying to earn a living, and a hard living it was at that.

“Sorry, lad.” The man grinned showing off a full set of

brown-stained teeth. “But I thought you was trying to get in

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Emily Brightwell

that back door, and I only wanted to say the entrance is on

the other side of the building. They keep the back locked

up good and tight. Mind you, you’re a bit late. They’re full

up for today, but I heard the gov say they’d need more of us

tomorrow to advertise a new pantomine that’s starting on

Friday evening.”

It took a moment before Wiggins understood. “I’m not

lookin’ for work,” he said. He was wearing his good black

jacket and cap, his second best blue shirt, and a new pair of

gray trousers. Why would anyone think he was looking for

a position?

The old fellow drew back. “Then what are you doing

back here?”

“That’s not any of your business.”

“It’s my business if you’re up to mischief.”

“I’m not up to any mischief,” Wiggins snapped, suddenly angry.

“You must be,” the man insisted. “I already told ya,

there’s nuthin’ here but the back doors to them empty buildings or the work hall.”

“I don’t ’ave to be explainin’ myself to the likes of you,”

Wiggins yelled.

“Likes of me,” the boardman repeated. “The likes of me

can go fetch a copper right quick if yer up to no good.”

Wiggins forced himself to calm down. “It’s a public

street, and I’m not doin’ anything but walkin’ about.”

“Course it’s a public street,” the fellow replied, his tone

a bit more civil. “Look, I was just tryin’ to be helpful, that’s

all.” He turned and walked away, muttering to himself.

“Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Wiggins

hurried after him.

The boardman stopped. “Then watch how you talk to

your elders, lad. I might be poor and I might be a bit down

on my luck, but you’d no call to speak to me like I was lower

than the dirt on your shoes. Do you think I like doin’ this

kind of thing?” He punched the center of the board with a

chapped, dirty finger. “Course I don’t. No one would. It’s a

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91

miserable life. The omnibus drivers play their nasty tricks

on us, street lads throw stones every chance they get—

knowing that with this stupid thing across my chest I can’t

chase ’em off—and the pay is rotten. But I thought you

might be lookin’ for work, and I was only tryin’ to help. Believe it or not, some of us poor folks try to help one another.”

Wiggins whipped off his cap. “Please accept my apologies, sir. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in such a manner, and I appreciate the fact you were trying to do me a good

turn. May I buy you a cup of tea, sir?” He was ashamed of

himself on two counts. One, that he’d lost his temper so

easily, and two, that he’d looked down on the man in the

first place. Wiggins knew what it was like to be poor.

The boardman eyed him skeptically for a moment, trying to assess if the offer was genuine, then he shrugged.

“There’s a pub around the corner. I could do with a pint;

would that do ya?”

Wiggins didn’t much care for beer; he would rather

have had a cup of tea. But as he’d already offended the old

man, and it wouldn’t hurt him to stand him a quick pint.

“Lead on, sir, and we’ll have a beer together.”

Smythe stood in the small service road just outside of Merriman’s Metal