asking, “Who would like to go next? Or should we let Wiggins do his explaining before we go any further?”
“His information certainly sounds intriguing,” Ruth
said.
Wiggins smiled self-consciously. “It might be nothing,
but then again, you never know. When I got to Drayton
Gardens this morning, two ladies come strollin’ out the
front door of the Muran house like they owned the place.
So I followed them.” He took a quick sip of tea and told
them how he’d had a feeling the women might be important so he’d trailed them to the tea shop. “I got lucky enough to get a table close to ’em so I heard everything
they was sayin’.” He repeated the conversation he’d overheard. “Then I followed ’em to a little house in Chelsea.”
“What if they were just visiting the Muran house?” Betsy
speculated.
“They might be Caroline Muran’s cousins,” Mrs. Goodge
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99
added. “My sources mentioned that she had cousins living
in Chelsea. It’s probably these two.”
Mrs. Jeffries said nothing for a moment. “I expect you’re
right. Constable Barnes said there were two women with
Keith Muran when he came and collected his watch from
the Yard.”
“You’ve spoken to Constable Barnes?” Mrs. Goodge
asked.
“Yes. I’ll tell you all about it in a few minutes.” She
glanced at Wiggins. “Are you finished?”
“That’s all I found out.” Wiggins decided not to talk
about the boardman he’d taken to the pub. The old fellow
hadn’t known anything, and he didn’t want the others to
think he’d been larking about in a tavern instead of snooping for clues.
“You’ve done well today,” Mrs. Jeffries said. She turned
her attention to Lady Cannonberry. “Ruth, you go next.
Did you have any luck today?”
“As a matter of fact, I think I did,” she said, smiling eagerly. “But I’m not certain it has anything to do with the murder.”
“Tell us anyway,” Mrs. Goodge instructed. “We never
know what’s useful and what isn’t until after the case has
been solved.”
“It’s about Caroline Muran’s brother. It’s so sad, really.
He also came to a tragic end.” She told them the gossip
she’d gotten from Olga Spreckles. When Ruth was finished,
she leaned back in her chair and waited to see what the others thought. When several moments passed without any of the others making any comments, she feared the worst. “Oh
dear, I was afraid it wasn’t going to be very useful.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. “You’ve given us
an enormous amount of good information. It is strange that
both brother and sister should die like that.”
“And now we know that the marriage was a surprise to
all of Caroline Merriman’s friends,” Betsy commented.
“That could be significant.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Why’d she want to get married at her age?” Wiggins
asked curiously. “Sounds like she were a bit of a spinster,
what with her running the factory and giving money to them
ladies that chain themselves to fences.”
“They don’t only chain themselves to fences,” Ruth said
defensively. “The women’s sufferage movement is dedicated to giving women the same rights under the law as men. That’s very important.”
“Oh, I weren’t sayin’ it were wrong,” Wiggins said
hastily. “I quite admire ’em. I think everyone should be able
to vote and have a decent position. Bein’ poor is awful and
it’s been my observation that woman seem to be more poor
than men. Leastways there seems to be more of ’em, especially in the more miserable parts of the city. I didn’t mean any offense.”
“None taken,” Ruth replied with a smile.
“I quite agree with Wiggins,” Mrs. Goodge said stoutly,
“and one of these days, we’ll have a nice old natter about
the rights of everyone, but right now, let’s get back to
the matter at hand.” She glanced at the carriage clock on the
pine sideboard. “Time marches on and I don’t want to be
late getting the inspector’s chicken in the oven.”
“I think that might be something worth pursuing,” Mrs.
Jeffries muttered. “Do you happen to know the lady’s Christian name?” she asked Ruth.
“I can find out.” Ruth’s pale brows drew together. “I’ve
heard something about her, but I can’t recall what it might
have been. I believe she might have been ill for quite some
time before she died. It should be easy enough to find out
the details.”
“That would be most helpful,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
“There’s a hint of scandal in that direction.” Mrs. Goodge
wrinkled her face as she concentrated. “I heard that Lucy
Turner, that’s Caroline Muran’s cousin and probably the
younger of the two women Wiggins followed today, had set
her cap for Keith Muran.”
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101
“The older one was her mama,” Wiggins added. “What’s
her name?”
“Edwina Turner,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “She and her
daughter apparently live off a small pension from her late
husband. He was an army officer in India. When he died,
Edwina and Lucy came back to London to live.”
“They might have wanted Mrs. Muran dead,” Wiggins
suggested. “Maybe Miss Turner wants to marry him now
that he’s a widower.”
“It’s possible,” Mrs. Goodge replied. “But I don’t think
so. The gossip I heard is that Miss Turner’s pride took a
beating when Muran married her cousin. Besides, the
house they’re living in belonged to Caroline. It now belongs to the estate, and they may or may not be allowed to go on living there.”
“This is all very interesting,” the housekeeper murmured. She wondered what, if anything, it all meant.
They seemed to be learning a great number of facts, but
were they facts that would actually solve this case before
poor Tommy Odell was hanged? “Why don’t you let me
go next. My information dovetails nicely with what
we’ve heard so far.” She told them of her meeting with
Constable Barnes and the little bit of eavesdropping he’d
done.
“Was the constable suspicious of this case as well?”
Ruth asked.
“Apparently so, but that’s not all I found out.” She gave
them the details of her meeting with Dr. Bosworth, emphasizing Bosworth’s conviction that the weapon in the case was a pistol. She glanced at Wiggins. “Perhaps your idea
about finding out what sort of weapons our suspects have
isn’t so far-fetched.”
“I’ll keep tryin’,” he promised. “But first I’ve got to find
a servant that’ll talk to me.”
“This case is a bit of a mess,” Betsy said, sighing. “I
don’t understand anything yet. It’s so sad: first her brother
dies and then poor Caroline gets murdered.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Not to worry, we’ll sort it out eventually, and one of
them at least will have justice,” Mrs. Jeffries replied.
“Can I finish?” Mrs. Goodge asked.
“Oh dear, I am sorry, you should have said something.”
The housekeeper smiled apologetically at the cook. “I
didn’t realize you still had more to report.”
“No harm done.” The cook made sure she had everyone’s attention before she resumed speaking. “I’d not waste too much time worrying about Caroline’s brother.”
“But the poor bloke died in a foreign country,” Wiggins
protested.
“No he didn’t.” She smiled smugly. “Russell Merriman
isn’t dead.”
“Not dead?” Wiggins repeated.
“But Olga was certain,” Ruth exclaimed. “She went to
his memorial service.”
“I’ve no doubt that they had a service for him,” Mrs.
Goodge continued, quite enjoying herself. Today she’d
struck gold. Her old friend, Ida Leacock had popped in for
morning coffee, and when Mrs. Goodge had mentioned
Caroline Merriman’s murder, Ida supplied her with the information that Caroline’s supposedly dead brother had turned up very much alive. “But he didn’t die in America.
It was some sort of mistake. He got put in jail.”
“Your source was sure of this?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.
Dozens of question were now whirling about in her head.
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Goodge reached for her tea cup. “Ida’s
niece works as a housekeeper to a Mr. John Brandon—he’s
Russell Merriman’s solicitor. Helen, that’s the niece, gave
Ida all the details about his return from the dead.”
“Cor blimey, that’s about the strangest thing I ever ’eard.
I think we ought to keep our eye on this bloke,” Wiggins
said. “You don’t see dead people popping back up alive
very often.”
“Wiggins is right,” Mrs. Jeffries murmured with a frown.
“We need to find out all that we can about the situation.” If
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103
Inspector Witherspoon were on the case, it would be fairly
simple. She’d have come up with some story about someone having seen the late Mr. Merriman and put him on the hunt, so to speak. “But without the inspector’s help, I’m
not sure where to begin.”
“We could begin with Mr. Groggins,” Betsy suggested.
“Doesn’t he deal in knowing things that go on in London?
Shouldn’t he be able to get us at least enough information
to get started?”
“Wouldn’t Russell Merriman be staying with Mr. Mu-
ran?” Ruth asked. “After all, it is his house.”
“But neither of the Turner women mentioned it when
Wiggins was eavesdropping today. If Merriman was at the
Muran house, they’d likely have mentioned it,” the cook
pointed out.
“I agree,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “That sort of news has
the whole neighborhood taking notice, but from what Wiggins said when he went back there today, it was very quiet.
But that’s not all we have to find out about him. We need to
know when he arrived back in England.”
“I’ll see if any of my acquaintances know anything,”
Ruth offered.
“And we’ll ask Smythe to go along and have a word with
Mr. Groggins tomorrow,” Mrs. Jeffries added. She grinned
at the cook. “You’ve quite enjoyed this, haven’t you.”
Mrs. Goodge took another sip of tea before answering.
“Indeed I have. It’s not often that I get the goods, so to
speak, on the rest of you. Most of my information is generally just background gossip.”
“You did well, Mrs. Goodge,” Betsy said. “I’m afraid
my information won’t hold a candle to this.” But she didn’t
begrudge the cook her moment of glory. She deserved it.
Mrs. Goodge laughed and then said, “I’m afraid I’ve not
learned much of anything else.”
“Shall I go next, then?” Betsy asked. “Seems to me we’ve
all had us quite a day and we’ve lots to tell before it gets too
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Emily Brightwell
late. We don’t want the inspector coming home early and not
finding his dinner ready.”
Betsy needn’t have worried about Witherspoon getting
home earlier than usual. Today the inspector was going to
be very late indeed.
At the new offices of Scotland Yard, Constable Barnes
and Inspector Witherspoon were sitting in two straight-
backed chairs outside of Chief Inspector Barrows’ office.
“Nivens has many powerful friends, sir. Are you certain
about this?” Barnes asked. He was still in shock over Witherspoon’s decision to take the matter to their superior.
Barnes had been hoping for some sort of involvement, but
he hadn’t been expecting the mild-mannered Witherspoon
to make a full-frontal assault.
“I’m quite sure, Constable,” the inspector replied.
“Frankly, this case has been worrying me since we had
that encounter with Inspector Nivens in the canteen.” He
pursed his lips and shook his head. “I understand Inspector
Nivens’ desire to solve a homicide. He’s an ambitious
man, and that is one of the routes to advancement.” An image of the brand-new records room popped into his head and he sighed wistfully. It was a lovely room. He wouldn’t
have minded being in charge of it. Filing was really very
important.
“Wanting advancement is understandable, sir,” Barnes
said.
“But not at the expense of justice.” The inspector was
glad that he’d made it very clear to his superiors that he
wasn’t interested in moving up any further. Gracious, it was
difficult enough solving the murders that cropped up with
incredible regularity on his patch. He’d no desire to be in a
position where he had to take on even more.
“What made you change your mind about Nivens, sir?”
“His manner,” Witherspoon replied. “He was so defensive about a few simple comments. Well, it did make me wonder. Mind you, I had managed to put the incident out of
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my mind until today. Gracious, all we were doing was
looking for a file. Yet he was so worried we might be looking for the Odell file that he climbed all the way to the top of the building to see what we were doing?”
“You think he might have fiddled with the evidence, sir?”
Barnes cast a quick glance at the closed office door and
wondered who was inside with the chief. As far as Barnes
knew, there weren’t any major cases going on right now.
Witherspoon spoke carefully. “I wouldn’t go so far as to
say he did anything of that nature, but I suspect he didn’t
conduct as thorough an investigation as he ought to have
done. I want to make sure that the chief inspector is satisfied that the investigation was conducted properly.”
The inspector had tried his best to stay out of this case,
but he couldn’t ignore his own conscience. Constable Barnes
comments that day in the canteen had bothered him, and
his conversation that evening with Mrs. Jeffries hadn’t help
put his fears to
rest, either. After today’s strange behavior,
well, he couldn’t turn his back on the matter. He pulled out
his pocket watch and noted the time. “I wonder how long
the chief is going to be?”
Just then the door opened and Barrows stuck his head
out. “Ah, Witherspoon, goodness, this is a coincidence. Either that or you must be one of those clairvoyants they have at the music halls. I was getting ready to send a constable to
fetch you. Do come into my office. You, too, Constable. I’d
like a word with both of you.”
Barnes heart sank as he followed his inspector into the
office. Nivens had beaten them to the chief. He must have
had already made his complaint.
Barrows went behind his desk and sat down. Sitting
opposite the chief was another man. He stared at them curiously out of a pair of deep-set blue eyes.
“Inspector Witherspoon, Constable Barnes, this is Russell Merriman.” Barrows waved Witherspoon into the only other empty chair in the room. Barnes took up a position
next to him.
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Emily Brightwell
Russell Merriman appeared to be in his forties, with thinning dark blond hair that was going gray at the temples. He was clean shaven and well groomed, but there were dark circles under his eyes. He wore a beautifully cut black suit with a gray waistcoat, black and gray cravat, and a pristine white
shirt. But despite the expensive clothes and the manicured
fingernails, Barnes noted the faint pallor of Merriman’s pale
skin. “Prison pallor” is what coppers generally called it.
“How do you do, sir,” Witherspoon said respectfully.
Constable Barnes nodded.
Russell Merriman rose to his feet and held out his hand.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said
softly as the two men shook hands, “and I’m hoping you
can help me.”
“I’ll certainly try, sir,” Witherspoon replied, his expression a bit confused. He didn’t have a clue who Russell Merriman might be.
To Barnes’ surprise, Merriman extended a hand toward
him as well, nodded in acknowledgement of the introduction as they shook hands, and then sank back into his chair.
“I expect you’re wondering what this is all about,” Barrows said to the inspector.
“I am a bit curious, sir.”
“Mr. Merriman has come to us about his late sister,”
Barrows explained. “I’m sure you recall the case, Inspector. Mrs. Muran and her husband were accosted by a robber on their way home. Unfortunately, she was killed during the course of the crime.”