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

saying?” Barnes prodded.

“She kept saying that it was all Mrs. Muran’s fault, that

she’d stolen too much, that she’d taken it all away from

them. She said it over and over and over. Mr. Muran kept

watching the drawing room door while he tried to quiet her

down. Finally, he grabbed her and gave her a quick shake.”

“Tell them the rest,” Mrs. Briggs ordered. “Tell them

everything so you can get a decent night’s sleep.”

“Mrs. Turner’s eyes rolled up in her head and I was sure

she was going to collapse. But then all of a sudden she was

right as rain and asking Mr. Muran what they were doing

standing out in the hallway.”

“What did he say?” Witherspoon asked. “Please try to

remember his exact words.”

“He said, ‘Get a hold of yourself, Edwina. You’re talking

rubbish. What in the name of God has gotten into you?’ ”

The inspector leaned forward. “What did she say?”

“She said, ‘What on earth are you talking about? I just

came out to get my shawl.’ Then he asked her what was the

last thing she remembered, and she said it was getting out

of her chair and walking toward the drawing room door.”

Witherspoon said nothing for a moment. “Are you saying she’d no idea what she’d just done?”

“That’s right, Inspector, she’d no idea at all.” Helen

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dabbed at her eyes again. “So you can understand why I

don’t want to go back to work for Mr. Muran. I feel sorry

for him, I really do, but I refuse to be in a house with a madwoman, and as sure as I’m sitting here, she’ll be living in that house.”

“Why do you think Mrs. Turner is going to be living in

Mr. Muran’s home?” Witherspoon asked.

“I don’t think it, sir, I know it. Mr. Muran isn’t the sort

of man that can live on his own, and both those Turner

women will take advantage of his loneliness. Take my

word for it, sir, Lucy Turner has already determined that

she’ll be the next Mrs. Muran, and I’ve no doubt whatsoever that Mrs. Turner will do everything she can to make sure that happens.” She shook her head. “God forgive me, I

know it’s not the poor woman’s fault that she’s losing her

mind. It happens to lots of old people, but I can’t stand it.”

“Our gran went that way,” Mrs. Briggs interjected. “It

was heartbreaking to watch, and it almost killed our poor

father.”

Helen turned her tear-stained face to the inspector. “I

know I should have told the police all this before, and I kept

waiting for someone to come. But no one did so I decided it

wasn’t important. Then I heard about that man being arrested and it should have made me feel better, but it didn’t.”

“Do you know if Mr. Muran told Mrs. Muran about the

incident?” Barnes asked.

Helen shook her head. “I don’t think so. After the Turners left, Mr. Muran went into his study and spent most of the afternoon there, and Mrs. Muran went upstairs to her

room. Mr. Muran didn’t even come out when the Turners

came back for tea that afternoon.”

“They came twice that day?” Barnes asked.

“Yes, for luncheon and for tea,” Helen said. “They’d been

shopping in the neighborhood, you see, so Mrs. Muran had

invited them back that afternoon.”

“What time did you leave that day?” Witherspoon leaned

back in his chair.

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Emily Brightwell

“At my usual time: six o’clock,” she replied. “Mr. Muran

had come out of his study and gone upstairs to get dressed.”

“So they might have spoken about the matter after you

left?”

“It’s possible.” Helen shrugged. “I don’t know. I was

just glad to be gone.”

Witherspoon frowned. “Do you have any idea what

Mrs. Turner meant when she was . . . uh . . .”

“Out of her mind,” Helen finished the sentence for him.

“I’ve no idea, Inspector, and neither does anyone else in

the household. But I think it’s something you’d do well to

ask her. Even if she’s out of her head, she had some reason

for what she was saying, and I find it very peculiar that

within a few hours of her ranting and raving, poor Mrs.

Muran was murdered.”

Smythe spotted Fletcher coming out of the cabshack. He

hurried toward him. “Come ’ave a pint with me.” he held

up a coin. “I’ll make it worth yer while.”

Fletcher looked about, his expression uncertain. “I don’t

know. I ought to get back out.”

“There’s a pub just around the corner,” Smythe coaxed.

“I know the place,” Fletcher replied. “I suppose a few

more minutes won’t hurt.”

Smythe chatted easily as they walked the short distance to

the pub. He pulled the door open and they stepped inside.

The place was clearing out and he spotted an empty table.

“Go grab us a seat,” he told Fletcher. “I’ll get the pints.”

A few moments later, he slipped into the chair opposite

Fletcher and put their glasses on the small table. “Here’s

yer beer.”

“Ta. I don’t usually drink much.” Fletcher picked up the

beer and took a long, slow drink.

“Tell me more about what happened that night,” Smythe

said softly.

Fletcher slowly lowered his drink. “I’ve already told ya

everything I can remember.”

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165

“Are you sure there’s nothin’ you’ve forgotten?” he

pressed. He wanted the man to voluntarily tell him the truth.

Fletcher looked down at the table. “I don’t know what

ya mean.”

“I’m just wonderin’ if there was some little detail you

might ’ave forgotten to mention, that’s all.” Smythe noticed that the man’s cheeks, what you could see of them over his beard, were turning red. “It’s important we know

everything that ’appened that night. A man’s life is at stake

’ere, and what with you bein’ a decent man, a Presbyterian

at that, I know you’d not want someone to hang for a crime

they didn’t do. That’s why all these little details are important. They add up, you see.”

“There is one thing I might have gotten wrong,” Fletcher

replied. His voice was so low that Smythe could barely

hear him.

“We all forget things every now and again,” Smythe said.

“It’s human nature. Why don’t you tell me what it is you

might ’ave gotten wrong when we ’ad our last little chat.”

Fletcher looked up at him, his expression troubled. “He

asked me to wait. The husband, he asked me to wait, but I

didn’t, and it’s preyed