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

Works and stared through a crack in the wooden gate into the cobblestone courtyard. The factory was a long,

two-story building set back from the street. From his vantage

point, he watched as a wagon filled with barrels pulled into

the yard and a set of huge double doors opened, giving him a

glimpse of the factory proper. A half a dozen men came out

and began the task of unloading the wagon.

He frowned slightly. Keith Muran was an English gentleman who didn’t know anything about operating a business, and this place didn’t have a manager. Mrs. Muran had sacked him a week before she was murdered. So who was

running the business?

Smythe knew enough to understand that businesses

didn’t just run themselves. Someone had to be there to order

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supplies, sign contracts, and generally make the day-to-day

decisions that cropped up in any enterprise.

“Wonder how long this is gonna last,” he heard a red-

haired man say to the other workers.

“Let’s not go borrowin’ trouble,” a dark-haired fellow

with a handlebar mustache replied. “Even if it happens,

they’ll still need workers.” He untied the ropes holding the

barrels in place.

“Yeah, but we’ll not have it like we did before,” a third

man with a pockmarked face interjected. He shoved a wide

piece of wood up against the edge of the wagon. “They’ll

not give a toss whether or not we’ve got decent housin’, let

alone a decent wage.”

The red-haired man climbed onto the wagon, grabbed a

barrel, and rolled it down the makeshift ramp. “It’s not

right, I tell ya. She meant for us to live right.”

“We could talk to Mr. Muran,” the dark-haired man said.

He looked over his shoulder toward the open door. “Maybe

he’d listen.” He rolled the barrel across the yard and into

the open doors.

The man with the pockmarked face snorted. “He’s not

much interested in the likes of this place or the likes of us.

Besides, we’ve already tried to talk to him. Fat lot of good

it did us.” He jerked his head toward the doors. “What do

you think he’s doin’ right this minute? He’s sellin’ this

place out from under us as quick as he can.”

“We don’t know that,” the red-haired fellow said.

“Don’t be daft,” Pockmark replied. “Why do you think

Addison is here? He’s not applying for a position, I can tell

ya that.”

“Shh . . .” the dark-haired man hissed. “They’re coming.”

Two men speaking quietly to one another stepped into

view. The taller of the two men was dressed in a heavy

black overcoat and the other wore a gray coat and a black

top hat.

“Mr. Muran, do you have a moment?” the dark-haired

man asked.

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“I’m afraid I don’t,” Muran replied. “But if there’s a

problem, you can see Mr. Digby about it.”

“Nah, there’s naught Mr. Digby could do to help us,” he

said softly. He glanced at the other workers, his expression

troubled.

Muran nodded absently and turned back to his companion.

Smythe couldn’t hear what the two men were saying,

but he knew that the man with Muran was John Addison.

He waited until they’d gone through the front gate and then

he hurried after them, coming up behind them just outside

the factory.

He knew he didn’t have much time, as he’d no doubt

they’d hail a cab as soon as they reached the main road.

Smythe quickened his pace, trying to get close enough to

eavesdrop. He managed to get within twenty feet of his

quarry, but he could hear nothing except snatches of words.

Their blooming footsteps were simply too loud.

He cursed silently as they rounded the corner onto the

main road and a hansom pulled up. Just his blooming luck!

You could never find one of the ruddy things when you

wanted one.

Muran and Addison had stopped and were waiting for

the fare to get out. Smythe had no choice; he had to keep

right on walking. He went past the two men and on down

the road, trying to step as softly as possible so he could hear

their destination. Luck, it seemed, had taken pity on him,

because he heard one of them call out to the hansom driver:

“The Fortune Hotel in Knightsbridge, please.”

All of them were a bit late for their afternoon meeting, but

for once Mrs. Goodge didn’t care. Having just shoved her

last source out of the kitchen, she was running behind as

well and had gotten the kettle on only seconds before Betsy

arrived.

“Sorry I’m late.” Betsy took off her cloak and hat as she

hurried toward the coat tree.

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“It’s all right, dear, none of the others are back yet.

Would you mind buttering the bread for me?”

“It’s been ever such a busy day,” Betsy exclaimed as she

went to the counter and picked up the butter pot. “My feet

are wore out, and believe it or not, my ears are sore.”

Alarmed, Mrs. Goodge stared at the maid. “You’ve got

an earache? You best sit yourself down, girl, and let me put

a warm cloth—”

“Oh no, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy replied. “I’m sorry, I

didn’t mean to say it that way, I meant to say that my ears

are sore because I ran into Mrs. Briggs—”

“Tom’s mum?” the cook interrupted.

Betsy nodded.

“It’s no wonder your ears hurt; Mrs. Briggs is a good

talker. I’ve seen her hold conversations with three different

customers at once.” Mrs. Goodge relaxed a bit. She turned

back to the teapot and reached for the tin. She smiled to

herself, realizing how much of a mother hen she’d become

in her old age.

By the time the tea was on the table, all of the others had

arrived. Smythe, who’d come in last, slipped into his seat

and said, “I hope this won’t take too long; I’ve got to get

back out.” Under the table, he grabbed Betsy’s hand and

gave it a squeeze.

“Where’ve you got to go?” she asked with a frown.

“The Fortune Hotel,” he replied. “One of our suspects is

stayin’ there.”

“Who?” Wiggins asked.

“John Addison.” Smythe reached for his tea.

“Why don’t you go first then,” Mrs. Jeffries suggested.

“That way, if you must leave, you can go and Betsy can tell

you the rest of our information when you come home.”

“That’ll be ’elpful,” he said, giving Betsy a quick grin.

“John Addison has been hangin’ about since just before

Mrs. Muran was murdered.”

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Goodge complained. “Why is

he important?”

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“Cor blimey, I’m not makin’