“You lookin’ for somethin’, lad?”
Wiggins whirled around and stumbled backwards. An
apparition was standing less than three feet from him. It
took a moment before he realized that the fellow wasn’t a
demon from hell, simply one of the city’s many walking
advertisements—a boardman. Love’s Lost Lies, a pantomime
playing nightly in Soho, was splashed across the square
wooden board slung over the old man’s torso in bold red
and green letters. A fool’s cap of the same bright colors sat
on his head.
“You oughtn’t to come sneakin’ up on people like that,”
Wiggins cried. He was embarrassed to have been so startled. Cor blimey, it was just an old man trying to earn a living, and a hard living it was at that.
“Sorry, lad.” The man grinned showing off a full set of
brown-stained teeth. “But I thought you was trying to get in
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Emily Brightwell
that back door, and I only wanted to say the entrance is on
the other side of the building. They keep the back locked
up good and tight. Mind you, you’re a bit late. They’re full
up for today, but I heard the gov say they’d need more of us
tomorrow to advertise a new pantomine that’s starting on
Friday evening.”
It took a moment before Wiggins understood. “I’m not
lookin’ for work,” he said. He was wearing his good black
jacket and cap, his second best blue shirt, and a new pair of
gray trousers. Why would anyone think he was looking for
a position?
The old fellow drew back. “Then what are you doing
back here?”
“That’s not any of your business.”
“It’s my business if you’re up to mischief.”
“I’m not up to any mischief,” Wiggins snapped, suddenly angry.
“You must be,” the man insisted. “I already told ya,
there’s nuthin’ here but the back doors to them empty buildings or the work hall.”
“I don’t ’ave to be explainin’ myself to the likes of you,”
Wiggins yelled.
“Likes of me,” the boardman repeated. “The likes of me
can go fetch a copper right quick if yer up to no good.”
Wiggins forced himself to calm down. “It’s a public
street, and I’m not doin’ anything but walkin’ about.”
“Course it’s a public street,” the fellow replied, his tone
a bit more civil. “Look, I was just tryin’ to be helpful, that’s
all.” He turned and walked away, muttering to himself.
“Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” Wiggins
hurried after him.
The boardman stopped. “Then watch how you talk to
your elders, lad. I might be poor and I might be a bit down
on my luck, but you’d no call to speak to me like I was lower
than the dirt on your shoes. Do you think I like doin’ this
kind of thing?” He punched the center of the board with a
chapped, dirty finger. “Course I don’t. No one would. It’s a
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
91
miserable life. The omnibus drivers play their nasty tricks
on us, street lads throw stones every chance they get—
knowing that with this stupid thing across my chest I can’t
chase ’em off—and the pay is rotten. But I thought you
might be lookin’ for work, and I was only tryin’ to help. Believe it or not, some of us poor folks try to help one another.”
Wiggins whipped off his cap. “Please accept my apologies, sir. I shouldn’t have spoken to you in such a manner, and I appreciate the fact you were trying to do me a good
turn. May I buy you a cup of tea, sir?” He was ashamed of
himself on two counts. One, that he’d lost his temper so
easily, and two, that he’d looked down on the man in the
first place. Wiggins knew what it was like to be poor.
The boardman eyed him skeptically for a moment, trying to assess if the offer was genuine, then he shrugged.
“There’s a pub around the corner. I could do with a pint;
would that do ya?”
Wiggins didn’t much care for beer; he would rather
have had a cup of tea. But as he’d already offended the old
man, and it wouldn’t hurt him to stand him a quick pint.
“Lead on, sir, and we’ll have a beer together.”
Smythe stood in the small service road just outside of Merriman’s Metal 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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Emily Brightwell
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-ha
ired
man asked.
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
93
“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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Emily Brightwell
“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?”
Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
95
“Cor blimey, I’m not makin’ much sense, am I?” Smythe
apologized. “Sorry, let me start at the beginnin’.” He gave
them the information he’d gotten from Blimpey, being
sure not to mention that Blimpey was his source. He took
his time and spoke carefully, making certain he gave them
every little detail he’d heard about Keith Muran and John
Addison. He finished by telling them about his trip to Merriman’s Metal Works and what he’d overheard from the workers in the courtyard. “So that’s why I want to go back
out tonight. There’s bound to be a bellboy or footman from
the hotel that can tell us more about Addison.”
“And you think Addison is a likely suspect?” Mrs. Jeffries
asked.
“Addison ’as been tryin’ to get his hands on Merriman’s
since before Mrs. Muran was murdered, and now that she’s
dead, he’s got his chance,” Smythe explained. “Keith Mu-
ran is probably goin’ to sell to him. I think the workers resent Muran. He wouldn’t even stop to talk to ’em today.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Ruth said softly. “Caroline Muran
was a wonderful employer and very much loved by her
workers. She thought their welfare was just as important as
her profits.”
“Maybe you can find out if John Addison has a gun,”
find out than it might sound. I didn’t ’ave much luck with it
today.”
“Well it doesn’t sound like Mr. Muran is followin’ in his
late wife’s footsteps,” Mrs. Goodge commented.
“When someone is murdered, one of the questions you
have to ask yourself is who benefits from the victim’s
death.” Smythe took a quick sip of tea. “It seems to me that
John Addison is right at the top of the list. Buyin’ Merriman’s will keep him from goin’ bankrupt.”
Mrs. Jeffries shook her head in disbelief. “I find it hard
to believe that someone would commit murder to get their
hands on a business.”
“So do I,” Betsy agreed.
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Emily Brightwell
“I don’t,” Wiggins said. “Goin’ bankrupt is a pretty powerful motive, and what’s more, we don’t have us that many suspects, so we ought to ’ang onto the few we’ve got. Cor
blimey, that didn’t come out right.”
“I think we all understand what you mean, Wiggins,”
Mrs. Goodge said. “But after you hear what I’ve learned,
we may have a few more people we can put on our suspect
list. Mind you, though, John Addison does seem to have
benefited nicely from Mrs. Muran’s murder.”
“But perhaps others have as well.” Mrs. Jeffries pushed
the bread and butter toward Smythe.
“Come on, Mrs. Jeffries, we’ve seen people killed for the
strangest of reasons,” Smythe argued. “It seems to me that
wantin’ someone’s factory isn’t much different than wantin’
someone’s money.”
&
nbsp; “But a murder would involve so many risks,” she replied.
“John Addison would have to be sure that even with Mrs.
Muran dead, Mr. Muran was prepared to sell to him.”
“Maybe he was sure,” Ruth said.
“Murder is a risky business,” Mrs. Goodge pointed out,
“and most killers think it’s a risk worth taking.”
C H A P T E R 6
Q
“True.” Mrs. Jeffries nodded in agreement. “Let’s hope
the risks this particular killer took will lead us straight to
him or her.” Despite all they’d learned, she’d still not
come up with any reasonable ideas about this case, and
that worried her. Then again, perhaps she was expecting
too much—they had only just begun their investigation.
“Were you able to find out the name of the sacked factory
manager?”
Smythe shook his head and got to his feet. “I ran out of
time. I’ll have a go at that tomorrow and at taking a gander
at the murder scene.”
“Don’t bother. There’s nothing to see exceptin’ a work
hall and a fat lot of empty buildings,” Wiggins said. “I
wasted the whole afternoon there and didn’t find out anything worth knowin’.”
Betsy got up. “I thought you were going to snoop about
the Muran neighborhood today.”
Wiggins grinned broadly. “I did, and I think I might ’ave
found out somethin’ interestin’. But by the time I got finished
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followin’ the ladies to Chelsea and got back to Drayton Gardens, there was no one about.”
“What ladies?” Mrs. Goodge demanded.
“It’s a bit complicated,” Wiggins replied.
“And it sounds like it’ll take more time to tell than I’ve
got.” Smythe grabbed Betsy’s hand and pulled her toward
the hall. “You can tell me everything later,” he told her.
“Mind you don’t stay out too long,” Betsy murmured as
soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “I’m going
to wait up for you.”
“Don’t. You need your rest, lass, and I might be hours.
Anything you hear tonight can keep until tomorrow morning.” He gave her a quick kiss and stepped out into the night.
Betsy closed the door and leaned against it for a moment. She hated it when he went out alone at night. Smythe could take care of himself, of that she was sure, but nonetheless, once the darkness set in, she’d rather have him safely home.
Mrs. Jeffries waited until Betsy took her chair before