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

simply drinking and gambling my way across

that great continent. By the time I got to Los Angeles I was

almost broke. On my first night in town, I tried to get into a

card game but before I even sat down at the table, things

went bad. Before I knew it, a fight had broken out and two

men were shot, one of them fatally. I ended up in jail. The

local authorities thought the dead man was me, so they notified the British authorities in Washington who then notified my sister. That’s why everyone thought I was dead.”

“Why did they think the dead man was you?” Barrows

interjected.

“During the scuffle, he managed to get hold of my purse.

It had my money and my identification in it. The sheriff in

Los Angeles thought the purse was his, not mine.”

“It must have been a very odd sort of fisticuffs,” Barnes

murmured.

“There was nothing odd about it all, Constable,” Merriman smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t really involved except that I happened to have the bad luck to pick that moment to try

and get in the game. I’d taken my purse out to see how many

dollars I had left when one player accused another one of

cheating. A moment later, everyone was on their feet and

someone slammed into me. We both ended up on the floor.

By that time, shots were being fired in my direction . . .”

“Fired at you?” Witherspoon asked. “But why?”

“Not at me; at the other man. But as he was lying across

me, I realized I was likely to be hit, so I shoved away from

him as quickly as I could, managing in the process to get

clipped on the head by someone’s boot as they ran for

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cover. When I came to, I was in jail, my purse was gone,

and the card cheater was dead.”

“Why didn’t you clarify the error when you realized what

had happened?” The inspector regarded him curiously.

“Because I didn’t realize exactly what had happened for

several days. Then it took me ages to convince the American authorities that I was me and that I’d done nothing more than just reach for my purse to try and get into a card

game.”

“Then you came home?” Barnes pressed. Somehow, the

time wasn’t right.

“No.” Merriman shook his head. “I had to earn the

money for my passage. That took almost two months.”

“And exactly how did you earn the money, sir?” Barrows asked curiously. “By gambling?”

“Certainly not.” Merriman seemed offended. “I haven’t

had a drink nor played at cards since that dreadful experience. Let me tell you, sir—a few weeks in a Los Angeles jail is enough to keep anyone on the path of righteousness,

no matter how boring it might be. Oh no, I earned the

money to get home by giving piano lessons.” He shrugged.

“I’m not a particularly gifted pianist, but that didn’t seem

to matter greatly. I still had more students than I could possibly accommodate.”

“When did you arrive back in England?” Witherspoon

flicked a quick glance at Barnes as he asked the question.

“Three days ago,” Merriman replied. “I came in on the

Atlantis Star. I’d telegraphed our family solicitor about my

circumstances—I wanted him to let my sister know I was

still alive. Somehow, just walking up to her front door didn’t

seem right. No one deserves that sort of surprise.” His eyes

filled with tears again. “But as it turned out, I needn’t have

worried. My poor sister was already dead and buried.”

“Let me buy you a quick pint to show there’s no ’ard feelings,” Smythe said to the man he now knew as Charlie Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

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Tully. He’d gone to the Fortune Hotel, and by crossing a

bellboy’s palm with silver he’d managed to run into the

desk clerk just when the man was getting off the late shift.

“I almost ran you down, and you’ve been bloomin’ decent

about it.”

“There’s no need for that. We’ve all been in a rush at one

time or another.” Charlie Tully brushed a bit of dust off his

jacket sleeve. He was a tall, rangy man with smooth hands,

dark hair, and a strong jawline. “When you first banged

into me, I thought you might be a rough wanting my pay

packet.”

“There’s roughs in this neighborhood?”

“Sometimes. They come to the hotel wanting casual

work, but you can’t rely on them so we don’t use them very

often.” Tully put his bowler on. “Well, I’d best be going.”

“Let me buy you a drink.” Smythe gestured toward a

small pub on the corner. “Please, I’d feel better. I knocked

you into a wall.”

Tully hesitated and then grinned. “All right then.”

They went to the pub and Smythe pushed through the

crowd to the bar. “A pint do you?”

Tully nodded and pointed to a nearby table whose occupants were getting up. As soon as they’d left, he slid onto the small stool and put his foot on the one opposite to

save it.

Smythe, holding a beer in each hand, maneuvered his

way to the table and put their drinks down. He slipped into

his seat and lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

Tully nodded, lifted his glass, and took a long drink.

“Ah . . . that’s good.”

For the next ten minutes, Smythe made sure they chatted about everything except John Addison. He found out that Tully was single and lived with an aged uncle off the

Edgeware Road, that his uncle worked nights as a watchman, and that Tully was thinking about immigrating to New Zealand.

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“There’s a lot of opportunity for a hardworking man in

New Zealand. I’ve always wanted my own business, and

I’ve lots of experience in hotels,” Tully exclaimed. “Mind

you, I’ve got my fare saved and enough to live on for a

good while, but I really can’t go until Uncle Len dies. It

wouldn’t be right to leave him on his own.”

“Maybe he could go with you,” Smythe suggested.

“Sounds like he’s a right strong man if he’s still working

nights.”

“Nah, he’d not leave,” Tully replied. “He likes his house

and his neighbors. He’d not leave my aunt Letty’s grave,

either. They were married for thirty years before she passed

on.” He took another drink.

“Sounds like you know what you’re about,” Smythe

said. “Do you like workin’ in hotels? Don’t you get a lot of

complainin’ customers?”

“Not really. Well, there’s always