“Are you sure everything is all right here?” He stared at
her, his expression anxious.
“Everything is fine, sir,” she assured him. “Now, sir, what
on earth happened?”
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Witherspoon nodded at the file he’d laid on the table
next to his chair. “That’s the case file for the Muran murder,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. “Chief Inspector Barrows wants me to have a look at it tonight.”
“But that case has been solved.” She sent up a silent,
heartfelt prayer of thanks. “Why does he want you to look
at it? Is it being reopened?”
“Oh, it’s a long story, and the truth is, even without him
calling me into his office I was going to have a look at the
case.”
“Really, sir, why is that?”
“Several reasons, actually.” He told her about his and
Barnes encounter with Inspector Nivens in the records
room and his suspicion that something was wrong.
For a moment, she was silent, then she said, “If you
were going to have a good snoop on your own, sir, then
why are you so downhearted because the chief inspector
has officially given you the case?”
“But don’t you see? Now that’s it’s official, now that the
chief has his doubts as well, it puts a great deal of pressure
on me.”
“What made Chief Inspector Barrows get involved in
the matter?” she asked curiously.
Witherspoon told her about the meeting with Russell
Merriman. As she listened to his recitation of the day’s
events, her mind raced with possibilities.
“Now I’m to find the killer, providing, of course, it isn’t
actually the man who’s going to hang for the crime.”
“You’re sure Tommy Odell isn’t guilty,” she pressed.
“No one can be absolutely sure,” he admitted. “But ever
since he was convicted there were rumors and hints from the
rank-and-file lads that something was wrong. To my shame,
I looked the other way.” He shook his head. “Mrs. Jeffries,
the trail has gone cold, the verdict is already in, and what’s
more, I have a feeling that finding the real killer is going to
be difficult if not impossible.”
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Emily Brightwell
“Of course it’s not impossible,” she said briskly. She
could tell he needed reassurance. Sometimes he had very
little faith in his own abilities. “If it were, then the Lord
wouldn’t have put it on your plate.”
“One doesn’t wish to be arrogant or appear to question
the will of the Lord,” he said, smiling faintly. “But I do
think it would have been better if the Almighty had given
me this assignment a bit earlier. Tommy Odell’s scheduled
to hang in a few weeks.”
C H A P T E R 7
Q
The minute she could decently get away, Mrs. Jeffries left
the inspector eating his dinner and hurried down to tell the
others the good news.
Wiggins and Fred were at the foot of the staircase, the
dog’s tail wagging madly and the lad putting on his
jacket.
“Oh good, I’ve caught you in time,” she said. “Don’t be
long on your walk. I’ve news. The inspector is on the case.”
“Cor blimey, that’s a bit of a surprise.” Wiggins grinned
broadly. “ ’Ow’d that ’appen?
“It’s a long story, and I might as well tell everyone at
once. We’l have a quick meeting as soon as you get back.
Go along to Lady Cannonberry’s and tell her the news. It
would be best if she were here as well.”
Fred suddenly lunged forward and charged across the
hall and through the kitchen door. “Fred!” Wiggins grabbed
for the dog, missed, and almost slammed headfirst into the
newel post. “Cor blimey, Fred, what’s got into you?”
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Emily Brightwell
They heard a shriek, followed by a loud crash and the
sound of breaking crockery. “You wretched beast; leave
my darling alone,” Mrs. Goodge shouted.
Wiggins and Mrs. Jeffries rushed into the kitchen. Samson was standing in the center of the table, his fur on end, his tail twitching, and his ears pinned back. Fred was on his hind
legs with his forepaws on the table’s edge, trying his hardest
to get at the cat.
The dog was growling and the cat was hissing like a
steam engine. Mrs. Goodge was ineffectually waving a tea
towel at the two combatants. An overturned chair and a broken tea mug were on the floor. “You silly mutt,” the cook cried. “Leave my Samson alone!”
“No Fred,” Wiggins said, grabbing the animal’s collar
and pulling him away from the table. Fred didn’t come willingly but kept making lunging motions toward the cat. Samson hissed, leapt onto the pine sideboard, jumped down to the floor, and then ran lickety split into the hallway where
he turned and ran toward the safety of Mrs. Goodge’s room.
“Oh, Mrs. Goodge, I’m awfully sorry. Please don’t be
mad at Fred. He’s usually a good dog.” Wiggins kept one
hand on Fred’s collar and used the other to lift up the overturned chair. Mrs. Jeffries picked up the broken pieces of crockery and laid them on the counter.
“Not to worry, lad,” Mrs. Goodge said, laughing. “I’ve
been waiting for this to happen. It was only a matter of time
before Fred put Samson in his place. Mark my words:
from now on Samson will give him a wide berth. It’s all for
the best; we couldn’t have the dog slinking around here all
the time being scared of my little darling.” She looked at the
housekeeper. “Is the inspector ready for his pudding?”
She nodded. “I’ll take it up when I go. But that’s not
why I came down. We’re going to have another meeting tonight. The inspector is on the case.”
It was well past midnight before Mrs. Jeffries went to her
rooms. She changed into her bed clothes, turned off the
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119
lamp, and sat down in her chair by the window. The rest of
the household was asleep and the house was silent.
Everyone, even Ruth and Smythe, had been able to attend
their impromptu meeting. When Mrs. Jeffries had told them
about Witherspoon getting the case, the relief on all their
faces had been almost comical. Despite their brave words
and their determination to solve this murder, having the inspector on board made their investigation much easier.
She looked out into the dark night and pulled her wool
housecoat tighter against the chill. A heavy fog had drifted
in from the river, obscuring the faint glow of the gas lamp
across the road. Staring at the tiny dot of light, Mrs. Jeffries relaxed and let her mind go blank.
She didn’t try to think about the case, and she didn’t try
to come up with any theories or see any patterns. She simply let the bits and pieces play about in her mind.
Caroline Muran was shot twice, and what was she doing
in that area in the first place? Why hadn’t they gone straight
home? Why was she nervous that day? Had someone threatened her? Keit
h Muran was an English gentleman and was already selling the factory. What was the name of the sacked
factory manager? Could he have been following them that
night?
Mrs. Jeffries sat there for a long time, letting her mind
go where it would. Caroline’s cousins were poor relations
and living on a small pension. Maybe they resented their
wealthy cousin. Was Russell Merriman telling the truth,
and had he really been in jail in California? Or maybe he’d
been living in London under an assumed identity. As the
last idea popped into her head, Mrs. Jeffries straightened
up and blinked in surprise. Gracious, where did that notion come from? On their previous cases, she’d learned it was dangerous to ignore ideas that seemingly came out of
nowhere. She decided she’d best mention the possibility
that Merriman had been in London to the inspector over
breakfast. She heard the downstairs clock strike the hour.
She eased out of her chair and made her way to her bed.
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But even though it was very late and she was very tired, it
was almost dawn before she drifted off to sleep.
“This isn’t going to be very pleasant,” Witherspoon muttered to Barnes as they climbed the short flight of stairs to the Muran house. “I imagine Mr. Muran thought all of this
was over and done with.”
“A bit of inconvenience won’t kill him, sir,” Barnes said
as he lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. “If it was me,
I’d want to know the truth about what happened that night.”
“Let’s hope he’s in a cooperative mood,” Witherspoon
said.
A young maid opened the door. She drew back in surprise as she saw Barnes.
“May we see Mr. Muran, please?” Witherspoon said
quickly.
The girl looked flustered. “I’ll see if he’s receiving.”
She edged back, leaving the door open.
“This isn’t a social call,” Barnes said.
But by then the girl had gone.
From inside the hallway they heard the sound of muffled voices, and then a moment later the maid stuck her head back out. “Come this way, please. The master will see
you in his study.” She ushered them down the hallway and
into an elegantly furnished sitting room.
Keith Muran was standing by a fireplace at the other
end of the room. He didn’t look pleased to see them.
“Good morning,” he said curtly.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Inspector Gerald Witherspoon,
and this is Constable Barnes. We’re sorry to disturb you,
but we’ve come on some rather urgent business.”
“What business?” He sat down in one of the cream-
colored side chairs by the fireplace. “I’ve already retrieved
my pocket watch from your premises. I can’t see what business you could possibly have to discuss with me.”
“It’s not about your watch, sir,” Witherspoon said softly.
“It’s about the murder of your wife.”
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“Inspector Nivens assured me this was all over and done
with,” Muran replied. “My wife’s murderer is going to be
hanged very shortly.”
“There are some questions, sir.” Witherspoon didn’t think
it was going well, but he wasn’t about to give up and go
away.
“What questions?” Muran sighed heavily. “Inspector,
I’ve no idea what is going on, but I assure you, I’ve told the
police everything I can recall about that awful night.”
“I know this must be painful, but, well, there are a few
loose ends we must clear up.”
“Loose ends?” he repeated. “This has something to do
with Russell coming back, doesn’t it?”
“That’s true, sir,” Witherspoon admitted. Chief Inspector Barrows hadn’t said anything about keeping Mr. Merriman’s involvement a secret. “I’m sure Mr. Merriman’s return from the dead, so to speak, must have been a shock
to you.”
“Most certainly,” Muran replied. “When Mr. Brandon
told me the news, it was difficult to comprehend. Frankly, I
didn’t really believe it till I saw him with my own eyes yesterday afternoon.”
“As I said, Mr. Merriman isn’t satisfied that all the questions surrounding his sister’s death have been answered,”
Witherspoon said.
“Russell and Caroline were very close. She was devastated when she thought him dead,” Muran murmured. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please do sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Witherspoon took a seat in an overstuffed
easy chair and Barnes perched on the edge of an empire-
style love seat.
Muran waited until the two men had settled themselves
and then he turned his attention to the inspector. “What is it
you want to know?”
“I’ve read your statement regarding what happened that
night, and there’s a couple of questions that need clearing
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Emily Brightwell
up.” Witherspoon cleared his throat and tried to recall exactly what those questions might be.
“But I’ve already told you,” Muran replied. “I told the
police everything I can remember. Surely it was all in the
police report.”
“The report didn’t say why you went to Barrick Street in
the first place instead of going home,” Barnes said bluntly.
“But I explained to Inspector Nivens why we’d gone
there that night.” Muran looked confused.
“My wife wanted to have a quick look at a building we
were thinking of acquiring. She was considering buying
another building and expanding the business,” Muran explained.
“Wasn’t it rather late to be looking at a building?” Witherspoon asked.
“Of course it was,” Muran replied. “But she wanted to
have a look at the neighborhood. She was a very busy
woman, Inspector, but once she had an idea in her head, it
was difficult to sway her. She could be very stubborn. I told
her it was a foolish idea, that she couldn’t get a decent look
at a piece of property in the middle of the night, but she was
adamant.”
“I’m sure that’s true, sir,” Witherspoon said sympathetically. “I’m sorry to distress you, but it is important we ask these questions.”
“Why is it important?” he asked. “Caroline’s killer has
already been tried and convicted. I’ve answered questions
and testified in court. Frankly, sir, this is most distressing. I
understand that Russell is upset, but for God’s sake, he
shouldn’t try to alleviate his guilt that he wasn’t here when
she died by dredging all this up.”
“Do you think that’s what he is doing?” Witherspoon
queried. It didn’t really matter why Merriman had brought
the matter up again; they were duty bound to continue the
inquiry.
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“Of course he felt guilty. Russell had always turned his
back on his responsibilities so he could enjoy himself. He
left everything to Caroline—all the work, all the worry, and
all the decisions—while he rode off to h
ave a grand time. He
was in jail, Inspector,” Muran added. “In California. Caroline thought he was dead. We’d been told he was dead.”
“Well he isn’t dead, sir, and he isn’t happy with the way
this case was handled, either,” Barnes said. “Would you
mind telling us what happened once you left the hansom
cab?”
“We got out and started walking toward the building,”
he replied. “Frankly, that’s really all I remember. The next
thing I knew I was in the hospital and there were two policemen next to my bed.”
“So you were knocked unconscious before your wife
was shot?” Witherspoon clarified.
“That’s correct,” Muran replied. “It was late, cold, and
dark, Inspector. I hadn’t wanted to stop in the first place, so
I was hustling Caroline along so we could get it over with
and get home. It’s all very vague, but I recall someone suddenly just being there and then I don’t remember anything at all until I came to in the hospital.”
“So you never really saw your assailant?” Witherspoon
pressed.
“That’s what I’ve just said,” he muttered.
“How were you planning on getting home?” Barnes
asked.
“What?” Muran looked surprised by the question.
“How were you planning on getting home?” the constable repeated. “You said it was cold and dark and you were in a hurry. You were in the middle of an industrial neighborhood and you’d not find a cab easily in that neighborhood. Yet you didn’t ask the hansom cab to wait for you.”
“But I did, Inspector,” he said quickly. “I do remember
that. I specifically told him to wait for us. But as soon as I’d
paid him and we’d gone up the street a bit, he drove off.
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Emily Brightwell
I remember being annoyed, but Caroline said not to worry,
that we’d find another one near the bridge. The building was
close to Waterloo Bridge.” He sighed again. “Not that it mattered all that much; traffic was so awful that night we could have walked home faster than the hansoms were moving.”
“I see,” Barnes said.
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to
harm your wife?” the inspector asked. “Did she have any
enemies?”
“Enemies?” Muran looked down at the carpet. “She was
a kind and decent woman. No one would want to hurt her.
It was a robbery, Inspector. We were stupidly at the wrong
place at the wrong time and that’s all there was to it. It’s