“I’m familiar with the case, sir,” Witherspoon said,
turning to Merriman, “and I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”
“The man responsible for Mrs. Muran’s death is sentenced to hang,” Barrows continued. “But Mr. Merriman isn’t sure that all the facts of the matter have been brought
to light. He’d like us to have another look into the case.”
Barnes wondered if heaven had actually intervened in
this case. First the inspector had come around and now this.
He knew that getting the police to even admit the possibility
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of a mistake meant that Merriman had some serious political connections.
“I’ve no wish to embarrass the police, but I don’t feel
there was a sufficient investigation,” Merriman said. “And
I’ll not rest until I know what really happened that night.”
“I assume that you think her death wasn’t the result of
the robbery,” Witherspoon said.
“You assume correctly,” Merriman replied. “My sister
was no fool. If someone waving a gun around had accosted
them, she’d have given them anything they wanted. Things
didn’t mean much to her: people did. She would never have
risked her life or her husband’s life for a pocket watch and
a piece of jewelry.”
“So if you don’t believe it was simply a robbery gone
bad, do you have reason to believe there was someone who
wished to harm your sister?” Witherspon pressed. He wished
he’d read more about the case when it was actually happening, but he’d been busy himself at the time.
Merriman smiled bitterly. “There were any number of
people who might have wished her harm. Caroline was a
good woman. She was kind and gentle, but if she thought
something was right, she wouldn’t let anyone move her
from her course. I’m not explaining this very well, but I
know what she was like. She’d help anyone who needed assistance, but at the same time, she wouldn’t let anything or anyone stop her from doing what she thought was morally
right.” He sighed heavily. “I suspect she had ruffled quite a
few feathers with some of her social ideas. She believed in
things like employer responsibility and that the welfare of
the workers was as important as profits.”
“Why have you waited so long to come forward with
your suspicions, sir?” Barnes asked.
Barrows looked at the Constable sharply but said nothing.
“I was out of the country when she was murdered,” Merriman replied. “Specifically, I was in jail in Los Angeles.
That’s a rat hole of a town in California. It’s a miserable
place, gentleman, and I rue the day I ended up there.”
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“You were incarcerated?” Barrows asked in surprise.
“On what charge?”
“Being drunk and disorderly.” Merriman closed his eyes
briefly. “My sister and I were very different. She was industrious, hardworking, and thrifty. She began helping our father run the family business when she was in her late
teens. I’ve always been a bit too free with the drink, and
before I knew it, it had me in its grip and showed no signs
of letting go. When our parents died, my father left control
of the estate to Caroline. He knew I wasn’t responsible
enough to handle money or the company. I’d just drink it
away.” He paused and looked at the floor for a brief moment. “Even though Father tried to let me save a bit of my pride by leaving me the family home, it was still humiliating. Caroline gave me a generous allowance and did her best not to nag me over my dissolute ways. Then she married Keith Muran and I felt a bit awkward staying on in what had now become their household. So I left.”
“Your sister provided you the funds to go?” Barnes
asked again. He knew that Barrows was probably more than
a bit shocked he was asking questions in the presence of senior officers, but that was one of the reasons Witherspoon was so successful: he didn’t rigidly adhere to old-fashioned
ways of doing things. Besides, Barnes knew that with the
trail this cold, they were going to need all the information
they could get. Every fact, even background facts, could be
important.
“Everyone thought she did,” Merriman smiled grimly.
“As a matter of fact, Caroline insisted that we tell everyone
that she had bought out my share of the estate. But she
didn’t. She loaned me a few thousand pounds and I left.”
“Why did she want people to think she’d bought your
part of the estate?” Witherspoon asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But she insisted that’s
what we do. At the time, I was so intent on getting away
that I didn’t care enough to ask any questions. I simply
took the letter of credit and left. I knew I’d let her down. I
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109
knew I’d let the whole family down with my behavior, but
Caroline still loved me.”
“So you went to America,” Barrows prompted. He
glanced at the clock on the wall.
“I went to Paris first,” Merriman explained. “My luck
was very good to begin with and I made a lot of money. But
that never lasts. So I took a ship to New York and from there
I went west. I thought I was having a great adventure, but I
wasn’t; I was simply drinking and gambling my way across
that great continent. By the time I got to Los Angeles I was
almost broke. On my first night in town, I tried to get into a
card game but before I even sat down at the table, things
went bad. Before I knew it, a fight had broken out and two
men were shot, one of them fatally. I ended up in jail. The
local authorities thought the dead man was me, so they notified the British authorities in Washington who then notified my sister. That’s why everyone thought I was dead.”
“Why did they think the dead man was you?” Barrows
interjected.
“During the scuffle, he managed to get hold of my purse.
It had my money and my identification in it. The sheriff in
Los Angeles thought the purse was his, not mine.”
“It must have been a very odd sort of fisticuffs,” Barnes
murmured.
“There was nothing odd about it all, Constable,” Merriman smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t really involved except that I happened to have the bad luck to pick that moment to try
and get in the game. I’d taken my purse out to see how many
dollars I had left when one player accused another one of
cheating. A moment later, everyone was on their feet and
someone slammed into me. We both ended up on the floor.
By that time, shots were being fired in my direction . . .”
“Fired at you?” Witherspoon asked. “But why?”
“Not at me; at the other man. But as he was lying across
me, I realized I was likely to be hit, so I shoved away from
him as quickly as I could, managing in the process to get
clipped on the head by someone’s boot as they ran for
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Emily Brightwell
cover. When I came to, I was in jail, my purse was gone,
and the card cheater was dead.”
“Why didn’t you clarify the er
ror when you realized what
had happened?” The inspector regarded him curiously.
“Because I didn’t realize exactly what had happened for
several days. Then it took me ages to convince the American authorities that I was me and that I’d done nothing more than just reach for my purse to try and get into a card
game.”
“Then you came home?” Barnes pressed. Somehow, the
time wasn’t right.
“No.” Merriman shook his head. “I had to earn the
money for my passage. That took almost two months.”
“And exactly how did you earn the money, sir?” Barrows asked curiously. “By gambling?”
“Certainly not.” Merriman seemed offended. “I haven’t
had a drink nor played at cards since that dreadful experience. Let me tell you, sir—a few weeks in a Los Angeles jail is enough to keep anyone on the path of righteousness,
no matter how boring it might be. Oh no, I earned the
money to get home by giving piano lessons.” He shrugged.
“I’m not a particularly gifted pianist, but that didn’t seem
to matter greatly. I still had more students than I could possibly accommodate.”
“When did you arrive back in England?” Witherspoon
flicked a quick glance at Barnes as he asked the question.
“Three days ago,” Merriman replied. “I came in on the
Atlantis Star. I’d telegraphed our family solicitor about my
circumstances—I wanted him to let my sister know I was
still alive. Somehow, just walking up to her front door didn’t
seem right. No one deserves that sort of surprise.” His eyes
filled with tears again. “But as it turned out, I needn’t have
worried. My poor sister was already dead and buried.”
“Let me buy you a quick pint to show there’s no ’ard feelings,” Smythe said to the man he now knew as Charlie Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict
111
Tully. He’d gone to the Fortune Hotel, and by crossing a
bellboy’s palm with silver he’d managed to run into the
desk clerk just when the man was getting off the late shift.
“I almost ran you down, and you’ve been bloomin’ decent
about it.”
“There’s no need for that. We’ve all been in a rush at one
time or another.” Charlie Tully brushed a bit of dust off his
jacket sleeve. He was a tall, rangy man with smooth hands,
dark hair, and a strong jawline. “When you first banged
into me, I thought you might be a rough wanting my pay
packet.”
“There’s roughs in this neighborhood?”
“Sometimes. They come to the hotel wanting casual
work, but you can’t rely on them so we don’t use them very
often.” Tully put his bowler on. “Well, I’d best be going.”
“Let me buy you a drink.” Smythe gestured toward a
small pub on the corner. “Please, I’d feel better. I knocked
you into a wall.”
Tully hesitated and then grinned. “All right then.”
They went to the pub and Smythe pushed through the
crowd to the bar. “A pint do you?”
Tully nodded and pointed to a nearby table whose occupants were getting up. As soon as they’d left, he slid onto the small stool and put his foot on the one opposite to
save it.
Smythe, holding a beer in each hand, maneuvered his
way to the table and put their drinks down. He slipped into
his seat and lifted his glass. “Cheers.”
Tully nodded, lifted his glass, and took a long drink.
“Ah . . . that’s good.”
For the next ten minutes, Smythe made sure they chatted about everything except John Addison. He found out that Tully was single and lived with an aged uncle off the
Edgeware Road, that his uncle worked nights as a watchman, and that Tully was thinking about immigrating to New Zealand.
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“There’s a lot of opportunity for a hardworking man in
New Zealand. I’ve always wanted my own business, and
I’ve lots of experience in hotels,” Tully exclaimed. “Mind
you, I’ve got my fare saved and enough to live on for a
good while, but I really can’t go until Uncle Len dies. It
wouldn’t be right to leave him on his own.”
“Maybe he could go with you,” Smythe suggested.
“Sounds like he’s a right strong man if he’s still working
nights.”
“Nah, he’d not leave,” Tully replied. “He likes his house
and his neighbors. He’d not leave my aunt Letty’s grave,
either. They were married for thirty years before she passed
on.” He took another drink.
“Sounds like you know what you’re about,” Smythe
said. “Do you like workin’ in hotels? Don’t you get a lot of
complainin’ customers?”
“Not really. Well, there’s always a few that complain,
but part of the job is making sure you do things right. Take
tonight for instance. We had a lady complaining that she’d
not gotten her messages delivered to her room.”
“How did you handle that?” Smythe took another sip of
beer.
“I assured her that she’d not had any messages, which
she hadn’t,” he broke off, frowning. “Mind you, that actually seemed to make her angrier. I think she was expecting something that didn’t come.”
“That’s not your fault,” Smythe said quickly. “Women
aren’t easy to understand at the best of times, are they? I
expect you’re better at handling men—you know, business
travelers. As a matter fact, I thought I recognized my old
ran you down. I thought I saw Mr. Addison and I wanted to
catch him.”
“You worked for Mr. Addison?” Tully asked. “Mr. John
Addison from Birmingham?”
“That’s right. I worked there for two years,” Smythe
said. “Was that him then?”
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“It was,” Tully frowned. “You’ve not got a Birmingham
accent.”
Witherspoon was very late getting home. But Mrs. Jeffries
was waiting for him when he came through the front
door. “Good evening, sir,” she said as she reached for his
bowler. She noticed he had a thick brown file under
his arm.
“Good evening, Mrs. Jeffries. I do hope my tardiness
hasn’t ruined one of Mrs. Goodge’s delectable suppers.”
He shrugged out of one sleeve of his coat and transferred
the file to his other hand while he slipped out of other one.
“It’s herbed chicken sir, Mrs. Goodge has it in the warming oven. I can serve it whenever you’re ready.” She tried to read the name on the file as she reached for his garment,
but the printing was too small.
“Actually, I’d like a sherry before I have my meal. I’ve
had the most extraordinary day.” He tucked the file back
under his arm and started down hall.
“Certainly, sir.” She tossed the coat on the coat tree and
hurried after him.
When they reached his study, she went to the cabinet
and pulled out a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream, his favorite sherry.
“Pour yourself one as well,” he instructed. “I need to
talk to you.”
Her hand stilled on the cork as a dozen different possibilities, all of them awful, leapt into her mind. She told herself not to be silly—he frequently asked her to join him
in a small drink before dinner, especially after he’d had a
terrible day. “Thank you, sir. I’d enjoy a glass. Is something troubling you, sir?”
“I’m afraid there is, and I really must speak with you
about it. I quite simply don’t know what to do. It’s very
troubling, when one stumbles onto something like this and
then to have one’s suspicions confirmed . . .” He broke off
and shook his head.
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Mrs. Jeffries’ heart sank to her toes. They’d been found
out. Somehow, someone had gotten to the inspector and told
him of their involvement in his cases. Blast. She’d known
that one day they might face this situation, but she’d not really believed it would happen so quickly and with so little warning. “Well, sir, before you jump to any conclusions,
perhaps you ought to have a nice long think about it and
make sure you’ve all the facts.”
She handed him his drink, sat down on the settee, and
knocked her own back with all the grace of a convict on his
first day out.
“That’s precisely what I told Constable Barnes.” Witherspoon gaped at her. Gracious, she was putting that drink down like a sailor. “Mrs. Jeffries, is there something
wrong?”
“Wrong, sir?” She smiled sadly. “That all depends. Why
don’t you tell me what it is you’ve found out and we’ll have
a good talk about it.” Maybe if she offered to resign, he’d
let the others stay on in the house. No, of course he’d let
them stay, but she was determined to be the one to take the
blame.
“Well, er, that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I mean, unless something is bothering you . . . Oh, Mrs. Jeffries, I do hope everything is all right with you and the rest of the staff.
It’s selfish of me, I know, but right now I genuinely need
your good advice. Chief Inspector Barrows called me in today and now I’ve got a case that’s already been solved.”
It dawned on Mrs. Jeffries that perhaps her portents of
doom had been a bit premature. “There’s nothing wrong
here, sir,” she said quickly. “I simply was making a comment about the world at large. Do tell me what happened, sir. Which case did you get?”