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

there were rumors and hints from the

rank-and-file lads that something was wrong. To my shame,

I looked the other way.” He shook his head. “Mrs. Jeffries,

the trail has gone cold, the verdict is already in, and what’s

more, I have a feeling that finding the real killer is going to

be difficult if not impossible.”

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“Of course it’s not impossible,” she said briskly. She

could tell he needed reassurance. Sometimes he had very

little faith in his own abilities. “If it were, then the Lord

wouldn’t have put it on your plate.”

“One doesn’t wish to be arrogant or appear to question

the will of the Lord,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I do

think it would have been better if the Almighty had given

me this assignment a bit earlier. Tommy Odell’s scheduled

to hang in a few weeks.”

C H A P T E R 7

Q

The minute she could decently get away, Mrs. Jeffries left

the inspector eating his dinner and hurried down to tell the

others the good news.

Wiggins and Fred were at the foot of the staircase, the

dog’s tail wagging madly and the lad putting on his

jacket.

“Oh good, I’ve caught you in time,” she said. “Don’t be

long on your walk. I’ve news. The inspector is on the case.”

“Cor blimey, that’s a bit of a surprise.” Wiggins grinned

broadly. “ ’Ow’d that ’appen?

“It’s a long story, and I might as well tell everyone at

once. We’l have a quick meeting as soon as you get back.

Go along to Lady Cannonberry’s and tell her the news. It

would be best if she were here as well.”

Fred suddenly lunged forward and charged across the

hall and through the kitchen door. “Fred!” Wiggins grabbed

for the dog, missed, and almost slammed headfirst into the

newel post. “Cor blimey, Fred, what’s got into you?”

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Emily Brightwell

They heard a shriek, followed by a loud crash and the

sound of breaking crockery. “You wretched beast; leave

my darling alone,” Mrs. Goodge shouted.

Wiggins and Mrs. Jeffries rushed into the kitchen. Samson was standing in the center of the table, his fur on end, his tail twitching, and his ears pinned back. Fred was on his hind

legs with his forepaws on the table’s edge, trying his hardest

to get at the cat.

The dog was growling and the cat was hissing like a

steam engine. Mrs. Goodge was ineffectually waving a tea

towel at the two combatants. An overturned chair and a broken tea mug were on the floor. “You silly mutt,” the cook cried. “Leave my Samson alone!”

“No Fred,” Wiggins said, grabbing the animal’s collar

and pulling him away from the table. Fred didn’t come willingly but kept making lunging motions toward the cat. Samson hissed, leapt onto the pine sideboard, jumped down to the floor, and then ran lickety split into the hallway where

he turned and ran toward the safety of Mrs. Goodge’s room.

“Oh, Mrs. Goodge, I’m awfully sorry. Please don’t be

mad at Fred. He’s usually a good dog.” Wiggins kept one

hand on Fred’s collar and used the other to lift up the overturned chair. Mrs. Jeffries picked up the broken pieces of crockery and laid them on the counter.

“Not to worry, lad,” Mrs. Goodge said, laughing. “I’ve

been waiting for this to happen. It was only a matter of time

before Fred put Samson in his place. Mark my words:

from now on Samson will give him a wide berth. It’s all for

the best; we couldn’t have the dog slinking around here all

the time being scared of my little darling.” She looked at the

housekeeper. “Is the inspector ready for his pudding?”

She nodded. “I’ll take it up when I go. But that’s not

why I came down. We’re going to have another meeting tonight. The inspector is on the case.”

It was well past midnight before Mrs. Jeffries went to her

rooms. She changed into her bed clothes, turned off the

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

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lamp, and sat down in her chair by the window. The rest of

the household was asleep and the house was silent.

Everyone, even Ruth and Smythe, had been able to attend

their impromptu meeting. When Mrs. Jeffries had told them

about Witherspoon getting the case, the relief on all their

faces had been almost comical. Despite their brave words

and their determination to solve this murder, having the inspector on board made their investigation much easier.

She looked out into the dark night and pulled her wool

housecoat tighter against the chill. A heavy fog had drifted

in from the river, obscuring the faint glow of the gas lamp

across the road. Staring at the tiny dot of light, Mrs. Jeffries relaxed and let her mind go blank.

She didn’t try to think about the case, and she didn’t try

to come up with any theories or see any patterns. She simply let the bits and pieces play about in her mind.

Caroline Muran was shot twice, and what was she doing

in that area in the first place? Why hadn’t they gone straight

home? Why was she nervous that day? Had someone threatened her? Keith Muran was an English gentleman and was already selling the factory. What was the name of the sacked

factory manager? Could he have been following them that

night?

Mrs. Jeffries sat there for a long time, letting her mind

go where it would. Caroline’s cousins were poor relations

and living on a small pension. Maybe they resented their

wealthy cousin. Was Russell Merriman telling the truth,

and had he really been in jail in California? Or maybe he’d

been living in London under an assumed identity. As the

last idea popped into her head, Mrs. Jeffries straightened

up and blinked in surprise. Gracious, where did that notion come from? On their previous cases, she’d learned it was dangerous to ignore ideas that seemingly came out of

nowhere. She decided she’d best mention the possibility

that Merriman had been in London to the inspector over

breakfast. She heard the downstairs clock strike the hour.

She eased out of her chair and made her way to her bed.

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But even though it was very late and she was very tired, it

was almost dawn before she drifted off to sleep.

“This isn’t going to be very pleasant,” Witherspoon muttered to Barnes as they climbed the short flight of stairs to the Muran house. “I imagine Mr. Muran thought