Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot

Book 15: A Victorian Mystery

by Emily Brightwell

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

A Mrs. Jeffries Mystery

She keeps house for Inspector Witherspoon... and keeps him on his toes. Everyone's awed by his Scotland Yard successes—but they don't know about his secret weapon. No matter how messy the murder or how dirty the deed, Mrs. Jeffries's polished detection skills are up to the task... proving that behind every great man there's a woman—and that a crimesolver's work is never done.

A Bone to Pick

Eccentric Annabeth Gentry pretty much keeps to herself. Besides her recent inheritance—and the attention her bloodhound gets for digging up the body of a murdered thief—her life is in fact, rather dull. So why does she think that someone is trying to kill her? That's what Mrs. Jeffries and her staff has to find out. What they discover is a dead body next door, and three attempts on Annabeth's life. It sounds like there's a jealous dog in their midst. Mrs. Jeffries will have to sniff out some clues before the plot thickens...

Release date: November 1, 2000

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 224

Sample

INSPECTOR WITHERSPOON ALWAYS TRIUMPHS…
HOW DOES HE DO IT?

Even the inspector himself doesn’t know—because his secret weapon is as ladylike as she is clever. She’s Mrs. Jeffries—the determined, delightful detective who stars in this unique Victorian mystery series! Be sure to read them all…

The Inspector and Mrs. Jeffries

A doctor is found dead in his own office—and Mrs. Jeffries must scour the premises to find the prescription for murder!

Mrs. Jeffries Dusts for Clues

One case is solved and another is opened when the inspector finds a missing brooch—pinned to a dead woman’s gown. But Mrs. Jeffries never cleans a room without dusting under the bed—and never gives up on a case before every loose end is tightly tied…

The Ghost and Mrs. Jeffries

Death is unpredictable…but the murder of Mrs. Hodges was foreseen at a spooky séance. The practical-minded housekeeper may not be able to see the future—but she can look into the past and put things in order to solve this haunting crime!

Mrs. Jeffries Takes Stock

A businessman has been murdered—and it could be because he cheated his stockholders. The housekeeper’s interest is piqued…and when it comes to catching killers, the smart money’s on Mrs. Jeffries!

Mrs. Jeffries on the Ball

A festive jubilee turns into a fatal affair—and Mrs. Jeffries must find the guilty party…

Mrs. Jeffries on the Trail

Why was Annie Shields out selling flowers so late on a foggy night? And more importantly, who killed her while she was doing it? It’s up to Mrs. Jeffries to sniff out the clues…

Mrs. Jeffries Plays the Cook

Mrs. Jeffries finds herself doing double duty: cooking for the Inspector’s household and trying to cook a killer’s goose…

Mrs. Jeffries and the Missing Alibi

When Inspector Witherspoon becomes the main suspect in a murder, Scotland Yard refuses to let him investigate. But no one said anything about Mrs. Jeffries…

Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected

When a local publican is murdered, and Inspector Witherspoon botches the investigation, trouble starts to brew for Mrs. Jeffries…

Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Stage

After a theatre critic is murdered, Mrs. Jeffries uncovers the victim’s secret past: a real-life drama more compelling than any stage play…

Mrs. Jeffries Questions the Answer

Hannah Cameron was not well-liked. But were her friends or family the sort to stab her in the back? Mrs. Jeffries must really tiptoe around this time—or it could be a matter of life and death…

Mrs. Jeffries Reveals Her Art

Mrs. Jeffries has to work double-time to find a missing model and a killer. And she’ll have to get her whole staff involved—before someone else becomes the next subject…

Mrs. Jeffries Takes the Cake

The evidence was all there: a dead body, two dessert plates, and a gun. As if Mr. Ashbury had been sharing cake with his own killer! Now Mrs. Jeffries will have to do some snooping around—to dish up clues…

Mrs. Jeffries Rocks the Boat

Mirabelle had traveled by boat all the way from Australia to visit her sister—only to wind up murdered. Now Mrs. Jeffries must solve the case—and it’s sink or swim!

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Emily Brightwell

THE INSPECTOR AND MRS. JEFFRIES

MRS. JEFFRIES DUSTS FOR CLUES

THE GHOST AND MRS. JEFFRIES

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES STOCK

MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE BALL

MRS. JEFFRIES ON THE TRAIL

MRS. JEFFRIES PLAYS THE COOK

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MISSING ALIBI

MRS. JEFFRIES STANDS CORRECTED

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE STAGE

MRS. JEFFRIES QUESTIONS THE ANSWER

MRS. JEFFRIES REVEALS HER ART

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES THE CAKE

MRS. JEFFRIES ROCKS THE BOAT

MRS. JEFFRIES WEEDS THE PLOT

MRS. JEFFRIES PINCHES THE POST

MRS. JEFFRIES PLEADS HER CASE

MRS. JEFFRIES SWEEPS THE CHIMNEY

MRS. JEFFRIES STALKS THE HUNTER

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE SILENT KNIGHT

MRS. JEFFRIES APPEALS THE VERDICT

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE BEST LAID PLANS

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE FEAST OF ST. STEPHEN

MRS. JEFFRIES HOLDS THE TRUMP

MRS. JEFFRIES IN THE NICK OF TIME

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE YULETIDE WEDDINGS

MRS. JEFFRIES SPEAKS HER MIND

MRS. JEFFRIES FORGES AHEAD

MRS. JEFFRIES AND THE MISTLETOE MIX-UP

MRS. JEFFRIES DEFENDS HER OWN

Anthologies

MRS. JEFFRIES LEARNS THE TRADE

MRS. JEFFRIES TAKES A SECOND LOOK

MRS.

JEFFRIES

WEEDS THE PLOT

EMILY BRIGHTWELL

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

“Really, I honestly don’t know why Louisa won’t believe me. I’m not making it up,” Annabeth Gentry said to her maid. She was an attractive, blond woman in her late thirties. Her eyes were bright blue and she possessed a cheerful disposition and, usually, a ready smile. She wasn’t smiling now.

“Of course you’re not making it up, ma’am,” her maid, Martha Dowling, replied. She put the tray she’d been carrying down on a table by the window and poured her mistress a cup of tea.

“I’m not usually in the habit of telling tales, am I?” Annabeth got up and began to pace the small sitting room.

“No, ma’am. Did Mrs. Cooksey actually say she thought you was lyin’?” Martha asked.

Annabeth stopped in front of the fireplace. “She didn’t come right out and accuse me of making it up, but I could tell by the expression on her face that she didn’t take my concerns seriously.” Her shoulders slumped. “She thinks I’m getting fanciful. She said that unmarried women get funny ideas in their heads when they get to be my age.”

“That’s the silliest bit of nonsense I’ve ever heard,” Martha snorted, handing the tea to her mistress. “You’re one of the most sensible people I’ve ever met.” She wasn’t at all afraid of being reprimanded for her bluntness. Unlike most women of her class, Miss Gentry wasn’t one to get annoyed over an honest answer.

“But it wasn’t just Louisa,” Annabeth wailed. She put the tea down on the mantel and began pacing again. “It was Reverend Cooksey, too. Now that the fuss about Miranda finding that body has died down, he thinks I miss being the center of attention.”

“That’s even sillier than Mrs. Cooksey’s notion that you’re getting strange fancies. It weren’t your fault Miranda dug up that corpse. You didn’t ask all them newspapers to interview you and put your name in the papers.” Martha shook her head in disgust. She thought both the Cookseys fools. “I don’t mean to be steppin’ out of my place, ma’am, but you need help. You’ve almost been run down by a carriage, clouted on the head with a load of flyin’ bricks, and someone’s even tried to poison you. And that’s just been in the last two weeks. You can’t go on like this, ma’am. Whoever’s doin’ all this is goin’ to get lucky soon and you’re goin’ to end up pushing up daisies.”

“You believe me, then?” Annabeth asked quietly. “You don’t think I’m making things up to get attention or that it’s all my imagination?”

“Of course I believe you, ma’am,” Martha replied. “I was there when them bricks come topplin’ off the top of the garden wall and I was there when poor Miranda keeled over after she ate part of your scone. Good thing she didn’t take more than a bite or she’d be a goner.”

Annabeth shuddered. “That was a dreadful day.” She glanced at the bloodhound. Miranda was lying in a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the lace curtains, enjoying the warm September sunshine.

“You’ll not get any argument from me, ma’am. Pardon the expression, but poor Miranda was as sick as a dog. Of course, she is a dog, but she did look pitiful.”

Hearing her name bandied about, Miranda raised her head and looked at the two women.

“We’ve got to do something, ma’am,” Martha continued earnestly, “and we must do it quickly.”

“You think I ought to go to the police?” Annabeth picked up her teacup and took a quick sip.

“That’ll not do any good without proof, ma’am. If your own family won’t believe you, you don’t have much chance of convincin’ the coppers.”

“Then I don’t see what I can do.” Annabeth sighed heavily. “It’s hopeless. I was so looking forward to moving into my new home, too. Now it appears as if I ought to move away, far away. Then maybe whoever is trying to kill me will give up.”

Martha, being from a far less protected class than Miss Gentry, knew better than that. “’Course they won’t, they’ll just follow you. Mark my words, ma’am, if someone’s wantin’ to do you in, they’ll only stop if you’re six feet under or if you catch ’em first.”

Annabeth’s eyes widened. “Oh dear, I don’t want to die. There are so many places I want to go. I’ve always wanted to travel, you know—”

“You’re not goin’ to die,” Martha interrupted. When she was excited, her accent tended to revert to the one she’d been born to, not the one she’d acquired working as a ladies’ maid. “We’re goin’ to catch the villian, that’s what we’re goin’ to do. I think I know someone who could help.”

“Help how?”

“Help by finding out who’s trying to do you in, ma’am.” Martha grinned. “Her name is Betsy. She’s very good at detecting stuff, and even better, she works for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard. I know Betsy’ll believe us, and what’s more, she’ll be able to do something about it.”

Annabeth frowned in confusion. “She works for a police inspector?”

“She’s his maid, ma’am, but don’t let that fool you. She’s also a right good snoop. Now, you just leave everything to me. We’ll have you safe and sound in no time.”

Mrs. Goodge, the cook, put the big brown teapot on the table next to a plate of buttered bread. She was a portly, gray-haired woman who’d cooked for some of the finest families in all of England. She now cooked for Inspector Gerald Witherspoon of Scotland Yard and she wouldn’t have given up working for him to be the head cook at Buckingham Palace. Indeed she wouldn’t.

“Are the others coming?” Betsy, the blond-haired maid, asked as she stepped into the kitchen. She smiled at the housekeeper and the cook.

Mrs. Jeffries, the housekeeper, smiled back. “Wiggins went to wash his hands. I haven’t seen Smythe since breakfast, but I’m assuming he’ll be here at the usual time. Do you have any idea where he’s got to this morning?”

Betsy knew good and well where Smythe had gone, but she didn’t really want to mention it to the others. Drat, this was awkward. The cook and the housekeeper were watching her inquiringly. “I think he went to the stables,” she mumbled as she sat down. She hated telling lies. But she could hardly admit that her fiancé had gone to see his banker to check about his investments. Not when the rest of the household thought he was just a simple coachman. Drat, Smythe was a coachman, of course. He just happened to be a very rich one.

“I expect he’ll be back shortly,” Mrs. Jeffries said briskly. She was a motherly, plump woman dressed in a brown bombazine dress. She had dark brown eyes and auburn hair lightly streaked with gray. She smiled easily and often.

“Cor blimey, I’m starvin’.” Wiggins, the apple-cheeked footman, rushed into the room and plopped down next to the cook. “Do we have to wait for Smythe? I’ve got ever so much to do this mornin’. I know it’s warm outside, but it’s already September and I want to get another coat of paint on the back windowsills before the cold sets in.”

“Help yourself to something to eat,” the housekeeper said as she began pouring the tea. “I’m sure Smythe won’t mind if we start without him.”

“What else do you have to do today?” the cook asked the footman. She eyed him suspiciously. She had a few chores in mind for the lad. The wet larder could use a good scrubbing, for example.

“After I finish the paintin’”—Wiggins stuffed a bite of bread into his mouth—“I was goin’ to pop ’round and show Horace, Lady Cannonberry’s footman, how to mix that new polish for the door brasses.”

“That sounds like a very good idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said. “Is Lady Cannonberry still gone?” Their neighbor, Ruth Cannonberry, was a good friend and she was also very special to Inspector Witherspoon.

“She’s coming back on the fifteenth,” Wiggins replied. He turned his head and glanced toward the hall as the back door opened. The soft murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps echoed clearly in the quiet kitchen.

“That’s Smythe,” Betsy said. She easily recognized his voice.

“He’s got someone with him,” Mrs. Goodge added.

“It’s a woman,” Betsy mumbled.

A moment later, the coachman, accompanied by a stranger, stepped into the kitchen. Smythe was a tall, muscular fellow with dark brown hair and heavy, rather brutal features. He smiled broadly as he spotted Betsy sitting at the kitchen table. “This young lady wants to ’ave a word with you,” he said to her.

Betsy studied his companion. She was a tall, big-boned woman in her early twenties with dark hair and hazel eyes. She wore a pale lavender broadcloth dress and a short, thin brown jacket. The slender face under the serviceable broad-brimmed hat seemed vaguely familiar. Betsy didn’t know who she was, yet the girl was smiling at her like they were old friends. “I’m sorry,” Betsy said, “have we met before?”

“It’s been a few years,” the girl replied, “and I’ve filled out a bit. My name is Martha Dowling and we met when you come around to Mayfair when I worked for Mr. Vincent. Remember, you pretended to run into me accidentally like so you could ask me all them questions.”

“Oh yes.” Betsy grinned as she remembered. “Of course. You worked for Justin Vincent. Sad how that turned out.”

Martha shrugged philosophically. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“How nice to see you again,” Betsy said quickly. “Won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward an empty chair.

“Thanks all the same,” Martha replied. “But if it’s all right with your housekeeper”—she nodded respectfully at Mrs. Jeffries—“I’d like to have word with you in private. It’s a rather delicate matter, you see.” She smiled nervously.

Betsy had an idea of why the woman had come. Apparently, she hadn’t been as discreet with her investigating back in those days as she’d hoped. “A delicate matter? Does that mean you need my help?” she asked bluntly. “The kind of help you’re not wanting to go to the police about, I suppose.” She was relieved to think that was the reason Smythe had brought the woman inside. She trusted him, of course. But she was glad to know that Martha had come here to see her and wasn’t someone from her fiancé’s past.

The girl cast a quick, wary look at the others sitting around the table. “Uh…well…”

“Don’t worry. You can speak in front of them.” Betsy gestured at the others. “They know all about the circumstances of our last meeting. We have no secrets here.” Except about money, she thought, glancing at Smythe, who looked away.

“It’s all right, my dear,” Mrs. Jeffries said kindly. She deliberately kept her tone informal. “If you’re in some sort of trouble—”

“It’s not me,” Martha exclaimed quickly. “It’s me mistress.”

Mrs. Jeffries knew the others sensed an adventure in the making. Mrs. Goodge leaned forward with her head slightly cocked to the left so she could hear every word (Mrs. Jeffries suspected she’d gone a tad deaf in her right ear). Smythe, who’d been in the midst of taking his seat, went stock-still, and Wiggins had actually pulled his hand back from reaching for a slice of bread. Oh yes, Mrs. Jeffries thought, they’d caught the scent all right.

“What’s wrong with yer mistress?” Wiggins asked. “’As she gone missin’ or is someone tryin’ to ’urt ’er?”

Martha gasped. “How’d you know?”

“We knows lots of things,” Wiggins told her confidently. He patted the empty chair on his other side. “You come and ’ave a sit-down next to me. We’ll get everything sorted out as right as rain.”

Martha smiled in relief and sat down next to the lad.

Mrs. Jeffries quickly poured the girl a cup of tea. “Here, my dear. Have some refreshment. Then tell us what this is all about. Take your time.”

“Ta.” Martha’s gaze darted quickly around the table over the top of the cup as she took a sip. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Why don’t you begin at the beginning?” Mrs. Goodge suggested. “That’s always best.”

“That’s right,” Wiggins added. “That’s where I always like to start.” He was eager to know everything about Martha. She was a bit taller than he and a bit older, but she was pretty.

“Right, then.” Martha took a long, deep breath and sat her cup down. “I work for a lady named Annabeth Gentry. We live at number seventeen Orley Road in Hammersmith. It’s a quiet life—well, usually it’s quiet. Mind you, people did make a bit of fuss when Miranda and Miss Gentry got in the newspapers for finding that body. But that’s passed and we’re back to doin’ what we always did. At least we were until bricks come flyin’ off the wall and poison ended up in the scones—”

“Body?” Wiggins interrupted. “What body? And who’s Miranda?”

The others were all staring intently at the girl.

“Oh, Miranda is Miss Gentry’s dog,” Martha said proudly. “She’s a bloodhound. She’s got the best nose in all of England. Miss Gentry has taught her to do all kinds of interestin’ things. I don’t think she quite had diggin’ up dead bodies in mind when she was teachin’ the pup all those tricks, but there you have it. Life’s like that, innit? You never know what’s going to happen. Here she and Miranda was just out doin’ a bit of trainin’ and all of a sudden the pup starts diggin’ like a mad thing, and before you know it, Miranda had dug up that corpse.”

“Miss Dowling, I’m sorry, please slow down. I’m afraid I’m getting confused,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “You’re going too quickly for me to take this all in. Are you saying someone is trying to kill Miss Gentry because her dog dug up a body?”

“Oh, no.” Martha waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble on and on. I tend to do that when I’m nervous.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Let me start again. Someone’s trying to kill my mistress, but I don’t think it has anything to do with Miranda finding that poor man’s body. The police think whoever killed him and planted him on the side of the path is long gone.”

“Do they know who he was?” Smythe asked.

Martha nodded. “Feller named Tim Porter. He were well known to the police. Been in and out of knick all the time for pickin’ pockets and petty stuff like that.”

The coachman made a mental note to have a good look into the circumstances of Porter’s death. Despite what the girl said, he thought the attempts on this Miss Gentry’s life might have a lot to do with finding a body.

“How was the man killed?” Mrs. Goodge pushed the plate of bread and butter toward the girl. “Help yourself.”

“Ta,” Martha said as she grabbed a slice. “The police said his throat had been slit.” She took a bite of the bread. “But like I said, I don’t think that could have anything to do with Miss Gentry’s troubles. It weren’t like Miranda was sniffin’ about for the one that did the killin’. She just found the corpse.”

“How long after discovering the body did the attempts on Miss Gentry’s life begin?” Mrs. Jeffries asked.

Martha thought for a moment. “Let me see now. It would have been a week or so later. Yes, yes.” She nodded eagerly, “That’s right. Miranda found the body on August tenth and the attempts started about the seventeenth. I remember because the first one was the same day that Miss Gentry went to afternoon tea at her sister’s house in Kensington. When she was on her way home, someone tried to run her down in a carriage. Right on the corner of the Brompton Road it was, and no one saw a bloomin’ thing neither. Everyone said it happened too fast.”

Wiggins’s eyes were big as saucers. “What saved her?”

“She’s a strong woman, is Miss Gentry. When she saw that coach-and-four bearin’ down on her, she gave one almightly leap onto the pavement. Landed on her knees and scraped ’em real bad she did, but she was safe. The carriage kept on goin’ down the Brompton Road.”

“Could it have been an accident?” Mrs. Jeffries inquired. Before they got their hopes up, she wanted to be absolutely sure there really was something to investigate.

“At first we thought that’s exactly what it was,” Martha said earnestly. “You don’t expect to get knocked about when you’re walkin’ in Kensington in broad daylight, do you? But when the other things started happening, that’s when Miss Gentry got to thinking that the coach accident was no accident, if you get my meaning.”

“Tell us about the other things.” Betsy picked up her own cup and took a quick sip.

“A day or so after she was almost run down, a bunch of bricks come tumbling off the top of the garden wall right onto the spot where Miss Gentry was sittin’. Her head would’ve been crushed exceptin’ for the fact that not two seconds before it happened, she dropped her spoon under the table and bent down to pick it up. It was the table that kept her from bein’ coshed. As it was, she got her arm bruised pretty badly.”

“Did anyone see who did it?” Smythe asked.

“No, more’s the pity,” Martha said. “It’s a ten-foot wall, and by the time we’d rounded up the lad from next door to skivvy over and see what was what, there was no one there. But there was a ladder lying on the ground close by.”

“That’s a rather peculiar way to try and kill someone,” Mrs. Jeffries mused. “How could the assailant know that Miss Gentry would be sitting in the, well…right spot?”

“It’s where she always sat for tea,” Martha exclaimed. “If the sun was shinin’, she had tea there every day. Besides, it weren’t one brick that come tumbling down, it were a whole lot of ’em. That’s how come Miss Gentry got her arm bruised. When she realized what was happening she squeezed under the table, but she weren’t quick enough to get her whole body under it.”

“Maybe the mortar just come loose,” Wiggins suggested.

“Them bricks had been pried loose,” Martha insisted. “We went ’round to the school and had a look ourselves later that day.”

“So it’s a school yard on the other side,” the cook said brightly. “That explains it, then; it was probably some silly schoolboy prank that went wrong.”

“The school closed down right after Easter. There was no one there but the caretaker and he’d been taking a nap. Looked like someone had spent the better part of that Sunday afternoon chiseling the mortar out of them bricks and then waitin’ till Miss Gentry was sittin’ down in her spot before they pushed ’em over. You can take a look, the tea table is right beside that wall. If Miss Gentry hadn’t reached for that spoon, she’d have been a goner.”

Mrs. Jeffries leaned forward. “I’m sure you’re right, my dear. Now, what about the scones being poisoned?”

“Not the scones, the cream.” Martha sighed. “Mind you, Miranda’d be dead, too, if that fat old cat from down the street hadn’t come into the garden and caught her attention before she ate the rest of Miss Gentry’s scone.”

“So it was the cream that was poisoned?” Mrs. Jeffries clarified. This was a most bizarre tale, but she’d learned in her life that merely because circumstances sounded odd didn’t make them any less true.

“Right. There were just a thin layer spread on Miss Gentry’s scone, she’s not all that fond of it. But we’d run out of butter, so she used the cream…we were havin’ guests that day and it were a good thing Miranda snatched that bite first and got sick, otherwise we’d have had a houseful of dead guests…” Her voice trailed off as she took in their expressions. Everyone looked thoroughly confused. “Look, I’m not explainin’ things very well…”

“That’s not true,” Wiggins protested. “You’re doin’ a right good job if you ask me.”

She flashed the footman a grateful smile. “That’s kind of you to say, but the truth is, Miss Gentry could tell it all much better than me. I was wonderin’ if I could bring her ’round this afternoon.”

“I think that’s a splendid idea,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly. She darted a fast look around the table; the others were nodding their agreement and she suspected they were thinking the same thing she was. By the time Martha and her mistress came back today, they could verify a number of things. “We’d be pleased to meet Miss Gentry and hear her story.”

Martha smiled gratefully. “That’s ever so wonderful. This is such a load off of my mind, it is.”

“Why didn’t you go to the police after the dog was poisoned?” Mrs. Goodge asked curiously.

“The mistress and I thought about it,” Martha answered. “But we had no proof.”

“You had the poisoned cream,” Smythe pointed out softly.

“No, we didn’t,” Martha said. “When Miss Gentry and I went back out to the terrace after taking care of Miranda and getting rid of everyone, the cream pot was gone. That’s how we knew it was poison! As I’ve said, my mistress can explain everything much better than I can.”

“Actually,” Mrs. Jeffries said quickly, “I do believe it would be best if one of us came to see you. Would Miss Gentry be available tomorrow morning?”

Martha’s brow furrowed in confusion. Then she shrugged. “To get some help, she’ll be available anytime you want. Tomorrow will be fine. What time?”

“Ten o’clock.”

Martha stood up. She still looked a bit puzzled by the sudden change of plans, but apparently had decided to leave well enough alone.

“Before you go,” Mrs. Jeffries said, “there’s just one or two more questions we’d like to ask. It’ll only take a moment.”

“All right.” Martha sat down and the housekeeper finished her questions. A few minutes later, Betsy escorted the girl to the