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

Betsy’s glass. “I

work for the Turners because it’s the only job I can get. I

can’t stand either of them. Mrs. Turner is going crazy as

she gets older, and Miss Turner is a nasty sly boots that I

wouldn’t trust further than I could throw her. They don’t

like me much, either, but they keep me on because they’re

too cheap to pay a decent wage and I’m all they can get. It

works well for all of us.”

Betsy was taken aback. “Uh, well, can you tell me if either of the Turner ladies were home on the night of January thirtieth? You might remember, it was the night—”

“I know what night it was,” Selma interrupted. “That’s

when their cousin was murdered. Miss Lucy was out that

night, but I don’t know about the old lady. I wasn’t there

myself.”

“Then how do you know about Miss Lucy being out?”

Betsy asked.

“Because she flounced out before I left that night.

They’d been gone most of the day, you see. They’d been

shopping and had tea with Mrs. Muran. That always put

Miss Lucy in a foul mood. When they come in, there was a

note from Mr. Samuels sayin’ he’d not be callin’ around for

Miss Lucy that night. That put the cat amongst the pigeons,

I can tell you. Mrs. Turner was furious.”

“Who is Mr. Samuels?” Betsy suspected she already

knew the answer.

Selma smiled slyly. “Alexander Samuels was Miss

Turner’s uh—what’s the best way to say it—gentleman

caller. Exceptin’ that he weren’t much of a gentleman, if

you get my meanin’.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“He’s got plenty of money but no breedin’ to speak of,”

Selma said bluntly.

“Did Mrs. Turner disapprove of him?

Selma laughed. “Course not, the old witch wouldn’t have

disapproved of the devil himself if he had enough money,

and Samuels is rich as sin.”

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“I don’t understand. Why was Mrs. Turner so furious?”

“Because he wasn’t goin’ to be comin’ around anymore,”

Selma explained. “Miss Lucy had been seein’ him quite

regularly like, but he’d been showin’ signs he was losin’ interest. That’s what got Mrs. Turner all het up. That’s what caused the row that evening. Mrs. Turner told Miss Lucy

she was a fool, that she wasn’t getting any younger, and that

she’d ruined her chance to grab a rich one. Mind you, I’m

not sure she ever had much of a chance. Men like Samuels

aren’t fools. But the old woman didn’t see it that way. She

kept screamin’ at Miss Lucy that she’d ruined it and now

they were goin’ to be stuck for the rest of their lives playin’

the poor relations. I almost felt sorry for Miss Lucy.”

“Is that when Miss Turner left the house?”

Selma looked pointedly at her empty glass.

Betsy leapt to her feet. “Let me get you another one.”

“Get me another two,” Selma ordered. “I’ve got lots to

say.”

C H A P T E R 1 0

Q

It had started to rain by the time the household gathered for

their afternoon meeting. Ruth arrived just as the others

were sitting down. She shook the water off her jacket, hung

it on the coat tree, and slipped into her chair. “I won’t make

a habit of being late, I promise.”

“We’ve only just sat down.” Mrs. Goodge put a plate of

apple tarts next to the teapot.

“I’m sure you had a good reason.” Mrs. Jeffries began to

pour.

Ruth smiled uncertainly. “I think perhaps I might. I’m not

certain that what I heard has anything to do with our case.

But as you’ve all told me, everything could be important.”

“What did you find out?” Mrs. Jeffries handed her a cup

of tea.

“Most of our suspects know how to use a pistol.” She

looked around the table at their faces. They all stared at her

politely. “Oh dear, you already knew that, didn’t you.”

“We didn’t,” Wiggins declared, “and that’s right important. Dr. Bosworth says most people are such bad shots it’s 174

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175

a wonder anyone actually hits their mark, and whoever

shot poor Mrs. Muran knew what they was doin’.”

“Or they got lucky,” Smythe muttered. “Bosworth said

that was possible as well.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning.” Mrs. Jeffries

put a tart on a dessert plate and gently pushed it toward

Ruth.

“Today I had lunch with my friend Marianna Bibbs,”

Ruth continued. “Right after Caroline’s murder, she happened to be at a dinner party and several of the other guests knew both the Murans and the Turners. Naturally, the talk

turned to crime in the streets and how dreadful it was. You

know, the sort of polite but rather stupid things people say

in those circumstances.” She took a quick sip of her tea.

“One of the men happened to mention that it was too bad

that Keith Muran hadn’t been armed. That if he’d had a

weapon with him, he might have saved his wife’s life.

Someone else at the table made the comment that having a

gun wouldn’t save you unless you knew how to use it. Then

the other fellow, I believe Marianne said his name was

Jackson Miller, said that Muran did know how to use a

weapon. That he’d gone shooting with him, and Muran was

a good shot with both a rifle and a pistol.”

“He wouldn’t have missed then,” Smythe commented.

“But it couldn’t be him,” Betsy protested. “Dr. Bosworth

said that Muran’s head wound was so bad that he spent several days in hospital. He couldn’t have shot his wife, got rid of the weapon, and then banged himself on the head

hard enough to give himself a concussion.”

“Why not?” Mrs. Goodge demanded. In her book, husbands were naturally suspect. “There was no one about. The street was empty. He’d have had plenty of time to do as he

pleased, and what’s more, those buildings were all empty.

I’ll bet they were never searched. He could have hidden the

gun somewhere in one of them then come out, coshed himself on the head, and toppled over next to his poor wife’s body. It would have been as easy as baking a treacle tart.”

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“More likely, if Muran did it, he had an accomplice,”

Smythe said. “But Mrs. Goodge’s theory is possible. Maybe

we ought to put a flea in the inspector’s ear about searching

the empty buildings.”

“I’ll have a quick word with Constable Barnes,” Mrs.

Jeffries said. “I wonder if Lucy