The days shortened and grew bitter. Rising every weekday morning to go to school became a difficult task as I now needed to bundle up in a winter coat, scarf, mittens and hat. The frosty air stung my face when I stepped outside. The schoolhouse was only a quarter of a mile from Mrs. Mybridge’s home but it felt like twenty miles trudging through the still, chilly mornings.
The evening of November twentieth would have been ordinary except for a shocking discovery a little ways up Potomac Street. Old Mrs. Waterway was found dead at her residence. At first, this was quite startling but then people began to remember she was elderly and so the doctor determined the cause of death to be old age. I watched from our home as a wagon flanked by the doctor, Mr. Walker and the preacher, Reverend Proudeye carried Mrs. Waterway’s body to the funeral parlor. I had never known Mrs. Waterway very well so I was only mildly concerned.
After the body had been taken away, I saw Reverend Proudeye stroll down the street, looking very crestfallen indeed. He always looked far from chipper anyway as he was extremely poor. Somehow, he had salvaged a black, wide-brimmed hat and a tattered old coat that I fervently wished he would take to Miss Hampstead for repair-only he did not have the money. His other distinguishable feature was the black-framed eyeglasses he wore constantly.
I now saw, to my surprise, that he was coming towards our house and I hastily opened the door for him. “Thank you, Jane” he said, smiling as he stepped inside and removed his hat, revealing a head of mousy black hair.
“Oh, Reverend!” Mrs. Mybridge said in a half-cheerful mood as she came into the front hall. “This can’t be easy for you.”
“No, it’s not” he sighed bitterly as he seated himself by the fire. He rubbed his forehead. “I feel guilty about this.”
“Why on earth would you feel guilty? You had nothing to do with this” Mrs. Mybridge said comfortingly.
“I feel guilty because the only good thing coming out of this is the fact that Mrs. Waterway bequeathed her money to me. That’s why I feel guilty-it’s blood money’s what it is” Reverend Proudeye said.
“No, it’s not! We all have to go sometime and Mrs. Waterway was quite up there in years. There was nothing you could have done about it, Reverend” Mrs. Mybridge told him reassuringly.
“Oh, I suppose so” he sighed.
“Would you like a cup of tea or something of the sort?” Mrs. Mybridge asked.
“Yes, please” he replied mournfully.
“Now, Reverend, you needn’t go worrying yourself sick about this. If anything, I think Mrs. Waterway has left you a very generous gift. It’ll be enough to pull you out of debt.”
“For a little while” Reverend Proudeye said. “Oh, bless her soul! I still feel compromised about this but then again I’m sure Mrs. Waterway would want me to be happy about having the money.”
“Now, that’s more like it” Mrs. Mybridge told him.
Reverend Proudeye finished his tea and then stood up. “Well, I’d better get back to the church. I’ll have to see when Wicker can read out the will.”
“All right, you take care, Reverend and don’t trouble yourself too much over this” Mrs. Mybridge said. Reverend Proudeye patted my head as I held open the door for him. As he strolled away, I could not help but feel happy for him. Thinking of the cob web-laden corner of the church penury forced him to sleep in, I was comforted by the thought that he would have a more proper residence now.

Thanksgiving passed quickly and soon, the first winter snows began to fall. Mrs. Waterway’s death lingered in everybody’s mind for a few days but then the news became old and drifted away.
One snowy afternoon, I ran out of the schoolhouse along with my fellow classmates. Going our separate ways, I spotted the road leading past the old Catholic church and, sitting down on it, I slid the length down the hill, impervious to any possibly approaching conveyances. It was not unusual for me to do this during the winter though there was an imminent danger to it. More than once, Mrs. Mybridge had caught me while she was out on some errand and I naturally had gotten my share of discipline. But the thrill of the ride was well worth the consequences.
At the bottom of the incline, I stood, dusted the snow off of myself and ran off towards The Woolen Mittens. I smiled as I saw that Harper was sitting on the sidewalk like a sentry, watching me intently with her amber eyes.
As I approached, she suddenly turned her head towards Hog Alley, hissed and then took off, her back hairs arched. I inferred that she must have seen a mouse. I stepped up and pulled open the door. Instantly, I was surrounded by a thick warmth that made my cold ears hurt.
But a dead silence awaited me this time. I looked around and, after confirming that the shop was empty, shrugged my shoulders and sat down by the fire. Looking around, I noticed that the clothes racks were sparsely occupied. Christmastime was naturally Miss Hampstead’s busiest time between the holiday shoppers and those wishing for an extra coat against the nipping cold. Therefore, another inference was made.
Suddenly, there was a scratching on the door. I expected it to be Miss Hampstead but a baritone meowing deadened that thought. Sighing, I got up to let Harper in. I curled my lip in disgust a bit when I saw she was carrying the tiny carcass of a mouse in her mouth.
She lay down near the fire and began chewing on her kill in an almost dog-like way. 
But the next sound I heard at the door was definitely Miss Hampstead. She stomped her feet on the front, carpet, snow flying, and set a basket of beef down on the counter.
“I’ too slick at for Willow so it’s ‘at time o’ da year when I gotta stat walkin’ there meself” she said in reference to Willow, Mr. Lowood’s carthorse. The roads in winter could get slippery, especially since they were mostly up and downhill so Mr. Lowood did not risk driving his cart to The Woolen Mittens to deliver beef. Rather, Miss Hampstead walked to his farm herself.
“Thin’s all right wit’ ya today, Jane?” she asked. I nodded. “Jus’ bought a pound o’ meat but see Harper’s already done it for may” she said, noticing Harper and her dead mouse.
“Nay, c’mon, get ‘at out o’ ‘ere” Miss Hampstead said sharply, touching Harper with the toe of her boot. The cat picked up the mouse and trotted to the door. Miss Hampstead opened it and Harper’s slight patting steps could be heard as she exited.
But as she left, another pair of footsteps-human footsteps could be heard. I turned and saw the burly woodcutter, Samuel Harding standing in the doorway, holding a stack of logs in his arms. He strode in, his boots clunking on the wooden floor.
“Thank ye, Mr. Harding” Miss Hampstead said as he placed the logs in a metal rack by the fire.
“No, problem, Miss Hampstead, thought you might be needing some more soon” Mr. Harding said gruffly. He always came off as a bit of a rough man to me. The woodcutter was never seen without a greasy, button-down shirt, overalls and a smudged pair of workpants.  A grave expression always was donned on his face.
Of all the people in the town, he had been the one who had acted most dismissive towards Mrs. Waterway’s death but why, I was not exactly sure. The second-most careless person had, of course, been Mrs. Pomp but that was more understandable. As the two wealthiest residents, they had been competing for years over who was more privileged. If anything, she had appeared to be celebrating. Mrs. Waterway’s death was no big loss to her.
Mr. Harding did not linger in the shop very long. Rather, he exited in a curt manner. Miss Hampstead and I sat in silence for a little while before the stillness was shattered by a piercing scream.
Miss Hampstead and I bolted to our feet and looked out the window. Across the way, I noticed that several people had glanced out their own windows as well. “It’ comin’ from o’er ‘ere” she said, pointing to the right. Quickly, she pulled on her cloak and beckoned me to follow her.
I could see many other people coming down from their tenements, muttering in a curious way. In the distance, we could hear wailing and sobbing.
I quickly realized we were approaching the home of Mr. Matthew, a lawyer who more often than not, worked cases in Morgantown and other nearby towns. Reverend Proudeye was the first to knock on the door.
Slowly and cautiously, Mr. Matthew’s wife opened the door. Her face was tear-stained and her usually tidy hair was mangled.
“Mrs. Matthew, what happened?” Reverend Proudeye stepped inside and went around the corner. Then, we heard a cry of “oh, good heavens, no!”
“I just came back from Mr. Lowood’s and found him!” Mrs. Matthew sobbed.
Immediately, a surge of people rushed forward eagerly, almost knocking Miss Hampstead and me over. We went along with the crowd, which was now pouring into the sitting room.
Pushing through, Miss Hampstead took one look at the scene and tried to hold me back but I was too quick for her. I stepped to the front of the chattering crowd and saw Mr. Matthew slumped over at his desk-dead. There was no sign of a struggle or fatal injury.
The crowd was talking loudly about the awful sight. “Mr. Matthew?! But he was only in his thirties!” I heard one person exclaim.
Reverend Proudeye sighed a heavy sigh of grief and then said, “all right, everybody, clear out, give Mrs. Matthew some room.”
But Miss Hampstead did not retreat. Rather, she moved forward and looked over Mr. Matthew’s corpse. This death would have remained a complete mystery had she not then uttered a word that made everyone stop in their tracks.
“A’senic.”
The crowd turned. “Arsenic?” one of them yelled from the back. “What do you mean arsenic?”
“A’senic, ‘is man’s bin poison’ ” Miss Hampstead repeated.
Just then, Mr. Harding stepped forward and said, “really, woman, how could you tell he was poisoned without a thorough examination?”
“Me mum was a nurse for a few yea’s. I think I knows what a’senic poisonin’ looks like” Miss Hampstead said revoltingly.
“Really, prove it” Mr. Harding said.
“He got no ‘air on ‘is arms” she said, rolling up Mr. Matthew’s sleeve. “Sure sign o’ a’senic poisonin’-loss o’ body ‘air.” The crowd whispered. “An’ look” Miss Hampstead continued, removing his hat. His head was almost completely bald. I always remembered Mr. Matthew having a full head of blonde hair. “An’ he’s a bit blue round da cheeks” Miss Hampstead finished.
“Well, a very charming lecture but I think we ought to have the doctor look at him rather than you just to be sure” Mr. Harding said.
“Well, of course” Reverend Proudeye replied.
“And furthermore, I don’t think it’s so smart of her to be stating all this in front of all these people” Mr. Harding added.
“What are you implying, Mr. Harding?” one woman asked.
Mr. Harding stared right at Miss Hampstead. “What I mean is, if the murderer’s standing in this room, you’ll be next, Cockney!” he sneered.
Miss Hampstead, who was so composed under normal circumstances, suddenly flashed a look that showed she had been greatly insulted.
The room was still for a moment then, ignoring Mr. Harding’s comment, Reverend Proudeye said, “all right, clear out, everyone!”
The crowd obliged and slowly, they filed out of the house. Miss Hampstead stared after Mr. Harding with a clouded expression, her eyebrows knitted together. Then, she took my arm and said, “c’mon, let’s get ya back to Mrs. Mybridge.”
She did not say another word to me during the entire walk back to Mrs. Mybridge’s house.
 

Christmas was fast approaching a beautiful blanket of snow had settled over Harper’s Ferry, cloaking the surrounding ridges in white. There were thin sheets of ice visible on the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers.
Towards the middle of the month, Mrs. Mybridge began to talk about planning a party at our home on Christmas day. It seemed she had invited half the town-Mrs. Pomp, Mr. Wicker, the Cockney family, Reverend Proudeye, Miss Hampstead, Mr. Harding and Mr. Lowood among others. Given the state of the relationships between some of the guests-in particular, I thought of Miss Hampstead and Mrs. Pomp, I was surprised at the list.
What was even more tricky was deciding how were going to stuff twenty-odd people into such a tiny house. But then again, Mrs. Mybridge was a bit scatterbrained so I doubted she had really taken the proportions into consideration.
Before I was ready, Christmas Eve was upon us and Mrs. Mybridge was furiously preparing the usually untidy house for the next day’s party. At around seven at night, she told me to take a small load of unwanted items down to the river-and dump them. “Nobody will notice” she told me reassuringly.
Timidly, I took the old things in the direction of the Shenandoah. Along the way, I happened to pass the home of Mrs. Nodder, an elderly lady who adored Reverend Proudeye. Sure enough, he was there along with, surprisingly, Mr. Harding. All three looked up at me when I passed by. Mr. Harding smiled-I was amazed at this.
I arrived at the banks of the Shenandoah and began to carelessly toss the unwanted items in the icy water. But just as I was finishing, I suddenly felt a hand on the back of my neck. Before I knew it, I had been launched forward and I smashed into the freezing cold. An unbearable cold such as I have never known before or since struck my body. I writhed about in the flowing water, gasping for air as the current dragged me along. The cold seared my skin. If drowning did not take me, hypothermia almost certainly would.
Suddenly, I heard a splash and felt a strong arm around me. Mr. Lowood’s assistant, Tim, was pulling me ashore and he emerged from the water with my half-frozen body. A quarter of the townspeople had gathered around to witness my rescue.
“She needs somewhere warm!” Tim cried, looking around.
Through my stunned haze, I heard a comfortingly rough voice say. “I’ll take ‘er!” and in a matter of moments, I had been placed in the gentle arms of Miss Hampstead.  She hurried down the street and before I knew it, I had been laid down on her bed. She found a warm albeit oversized sweater and exchanged it for my sopping wet clothes. Then, she tucked the blankets around me and I heard her place the kettle on the fireplace grill.
“Na, suppose ya tell may ‘ow’ is happen’?” she asked in a surprisingly stern voice.
“I was pushed in” I replied weakly.
“Ya were pushed?” she repeated.
“Yes” I affirmed.
“Ya absolutely sure ya din’ lose ya balance?” Miss Hampstead asked.
“Positive.”
“We’, in ‘at case, I believe ya, love” Miss Hampstead said softly.
“It was Mr. Harding” I replied simply.
Miss Hampstead raised her eyebrows. “ ‘At’s a bit o’ a premature assumption” she said. “D’ya ‘ave any proof o’ it?”
“I saw his outline. I’m sure it was him” I explained. “I just know it was him.”
Miss Hampstead shrugged her shoulders. “We’, ‘M not so sure ya know what you talkin’ ‘bout. Na, I got tea warmin’. I don’ suppose ya wan’ pie to wash dan wit’ it?” she added with a slight smile.
“Yes, please” I replied quietly.
“Ve’y well” Miss Hampstead said, rising to her feet.
She returned after preparing the shepherd’s pie. Suddenly, she cocked her head in my direction but she was not looking at me. Rather, she was staring out of the window towards Reverend Proudeye’s church, where I could hear the faint sound of singing voices.
“I’m still cold” I moaned suddenly. Miss Hampstead looked down to face me and then sat down on the bed and pulled me into her arms in an almost motherly embrace.
Her arms felt warm and a feeling of safety surrounded me as I snuggled down, laying my head just below her bosom. Slowly, I began to close my eyes and I slipped into a state of increasing drowsiness.
The lulling sound of the choir could still be heard in the far distance and in my ear, Miss Hampstead began to sing their carol. Though her tone-deafness made her singing voice sound a bit like nails on a chalkboard and had it been anyone else, I would have cringed, it was soothing at the same time:

“Goo’ king Wenceslas look’d at,
Upon da feast ‘o Stephen,
When da snow lie round ‘bout,
Deep ‘n crisp ‘n even,
Brightly shone da moon ‘at night,
Though da frost was cruel,
When a po’ man came in sight,
Gatherin’ winter fuel.

Hithe’, page ‘n stan’ by may,
I tha’ know’st is tellin’,
Yonde’ peasant, oo is ‘e?
Where an’ what ‘is dwellin’,
Si’e, ‘e lives a goo’ league ‘ence,
Unde’neath a mantin,
Right beside da fo’est fence,
Bay St. Agnes’ fantin.

“Brin’ may meat an’ brin’ may wine,
Brin’ may pine logs ‘ither,
Thou an’ I shall say ‘im dine,
When we bear ‘im i’ther,
Page an’ monarch.
Forth ‘ay went,
Forth ‘ay went togethe’,
Through da rude wind’s wi’d lament,
An’ da bitte’ weathe’.

“Si’e, da night is dake’ na,
An’ da wind blows stronge’,
Fails me hot I know not ‘ow,
I can go longe’,
Mak me footsteps, me goo’ page,
Tread now in ‘em boldly,
Thou shall find da winte’s rage,
Freeze thy blood ’ess coldly.

“In ‘is master’s steps ‘e trod,
Way da snow had dinte’,
Heat was in da ve’y sod,
Which da saint had printed,
They’fore, Christian men be sure,
Wealth an’ rank possessin’,
Know ‘at ‘e oo’ bless da po’,
Shall ‘emselves fin’ blessin’.”

By the time, the song was finished, I had nearly fallen asleep. Before I lost consciousness, I felt Miss Hampstead kiss me tenderly and whisper in my ear, “goo’night, love.”

The next morning, I awoke to find that Miss Hampstead had gone and Harper was curled up next to me instead. I sat up and rubbed me eyes. Then, with a twinge of excitement, I remembered it was Christmas morning. Harper looked annoyed at having been disturbed when I sat up but other than that, she purred on.
I heard crackling in the fireplace and I slipped out of bed and peaked around the corner. Staring into the hearth, I noticed that a shepherd’s pie sat on the grill-I sincerely hoped it was a different pie from the one last night and I felt slightly guilty for not having eaten that particular one after all the trouble Miss Hampstead had gone to in order to make it.
And then I noticed Miss Hampstead. She was sleeping with her head on the cushion but the rest of her was on the hard wooden floor. I felt bad at first because she did look quite uncomfortable but then it occurred to me that she was sleeping and therefore could not possibly have cared.
But as I sat down next to her and stared at the pie, I looked out of the corner of my eye, realizing I had forgotten something when I had gotten out of bed. There was a hastily wrapped Christmas present sitting by one of the legs. It was a large brown box with a red ribbon.
Carefully, so as not to wake Miss Hampstead, I crept over to the bed and knelt down to unwrap the gift. I opened the box and took out a mass of forest green velvet. It was a dress with frilly, white lace all around the collar and cuffs. The skirt of it fell to the floor-it looked like a princess’ gown. I could not imagine the time that had been put into making such a beautiful dress.
I suddenly heard a low groan and turned to see that Miss Hampstead was stirring. She sat up, rubbed her neck and smiled when she saw me with the dress that could only have been her creation.
“You made this?” I gasped.
“Uh, huh” Miss Hampstead said sleepily.
Quickly, I hugged her and whispered, “it’s so beautiful! Happy Christmas!”
“ ‘Appy Christmas, darlin’” Miss Hampstead replied happily.
But then I thought of something. “But Mrs. Mybridge, isn’t she worried about me?”
“Nay, after ya went to sleep, O went an’ told ‘er. She seemed a bit sulky ‘bout it though” Miss Hampstead replied.
“Do you think I should run back to her and let her know I’m all right?” I asked.
“If ya wantta. I’’ see ya at ‘er party today” Miss Hampstead said.
“Yes, and thank you for the dress!” I cried as I ran out.
I tore through the brisk morning, smiling as the snow whirled around me. The flakes were fat and fluffy-just the kind of snow that was ideal for me on Christmas. When I showed Mrs. Mybridge the velvet dress, she admired it greatly but expressed concern at me having stayed with Miss Hampstead-of course, it was because of the “single woman” stigma she had.
Mrs. Mybridge also had a present for me but it was not nearly as impressive-a pair of brown leather shoes she had bought from a shoe store in Morgantown.
I noticed that she had gotten the house properly organized. Old, unread books no longer were piled up on the floor and the dusty cobwebs that used to fill the corners had disappeared. The usually musty atmosphere of the home had been replaced with a rather cheery mood. A Christmas tree stood in the corner and holly lined the entrances of doorways and on the windowsills.
I wasted no time in going to change from my oversized sweater to the new dress. To my delight, it fit almost perfectly-the sleeves were rather long but other than that it was just fine.  Mrs. Mybridge was donning a pale blue dress and had arranged a rather ugly bow in her hair. I could not help but snicker behind her back, amused by the rather comical site.
Mrs. Mybridge already had a beef stew cooking on the stove, the heavy aromas drifting into the air only added to the homely feeling of her usually drab home. Now that the food was cooking, Mrs. Mybridge took the opportunity to sit me down and ask me what happened at the river. I told her the story from beginning to end as well as my theory that Mr. Harding had been responsible for it.
“He tried to kill me” I said.
“Oh, come now, that’s ridiculous! Why would Mr. Harding want to kill you?” Mrs. Mybridge replied.
“I don’t know-people kill others for no reason at all. What if he’s mad?” I asked.
“Oh, nonsense, my child! Mr. Harding has never shown any signs of madness. You say he’s had a fit? Perhaps something pressing on his brain? I say it’s ludicrous” Mrs. Mybridge said dismissively.
With that, the subject was promptly dropped but I did not understand how Mrs. Mybridge could be so relaxed when her adopted daughter had almost been drowned.
I sure was glad that Tim had been around the night before to save me…

Mrs. Pomp was the first to arrive at around four o’clock. Naturally, she was disgusted at the prospect of leaving her “precious Foo Foo” tethered to the front post and when she was reminded by Mrs. Mybridge that doing such a thing was against the law in Harper’s Ferry anyway, Mrs. Pomp had no choice but to stick her spoiled pet in the fenced-in backyard. The grey horse seemed morose at this arrangement as he was surely used to a warm stall and sickening quantities of grain as opposed to the sparse grass growing in his makeshift paddock.
Next, the Cockney family-the Actons- came. There were nine of them-the father, Roger, his wife Beatrice, their three children, Anna, Fanny and Roger Jr., an Uncle Dan and an Aunt Lisa and their two children, David and Susan. I was surprised to see that Miss Hampstead was not in their company. Usually, she stuck with the family since she was their one tie to their old country.
In appearance, this family looked very much like a stereotypical Dickensian family. Their faces were always somewhat black from the factory dirt, they wore an odd hodge-podge of old smocks, overalls and oversized trousers and their heads sported caps. 
The nine of them came in, chattering in their thick, incoherent dialogue and they greeted Mrs. Mybridge with probably the most gravelly greetings imaginable but all in all, their presence added a certain overall family quality to our little group despite Mrs. Pomp’s sulky air-she must have been thinking about her stupid horse. I felt like telling her, sarcastically, that I was sorry this was not Buckingham Palace.
Mr. Wicker, the town clerk arrived at four thirty, wearing a new frock coat and a rather ridiculous butterscotch yellow bowtie. Miss Hampstead did not come until a little past five. She came empty-handed but Mrs. Mybridge already had all the potatoes, beef, gravy and vegetables she would need. Mrs. Pomp was a little more than unenthusiastic at the sight of Miss Hampstead. “What is she doing here?” she asked.
“Funny, I’s ‘bout to say ‘at ‘bout ya!” Miss Hampstead spat back, looking rather cross.
“Now, now, we’re all here to have fun!’ Mrs. Mybridge said, trying to calm what appeared to be the equivalent of a simmering pot of detest between Mrs. Pomp and Miss Hampstead.
“Well, shall we pour the wine?” Mrs. Mybridge asked once a few more guests had arrived. She then took a tray of delicate glasses and passed them out to everyone. I was even given a small taste from Mr. Wicker’s glass.
Mrs. Mybridge then led the way as we began caroling, starting with “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and ending with “Sleigh Ride.” Then, the adults jabbered about gossip around the town while the Acton children and I played with the dolls and soldiers while Mrs. Mybridge requested that Mr. Harding bring in some wood for the fire from our pile outside
Everything seemed cheery until Mr. Wicker said somberly, “I can’t help but feel strange-do you realize it’s been three weeks since Mr. Matthew was discovered dead and yet they’re no closer to finding the killer than they were then?”
Everybody suddenly stared at him with grave looks. “Really, Mr. Wicker, at a time like this?” Mrs. Pomp asked in a tone of slight disgust, as though bringing up such subject were a sin.
“Nay, nay, I ‘gree wit Mr. Wicker. While we’re all ‘ere, we might as well discuss it” Miss Hampstead said.
“Of course you want to be even more different from me, don’t you my dear?” Mrs. Pomp asked in a voice that sounded like poisoned honey. Miss Hampstead’s lip curled and she bared her teeth slightly at this remark.
“Well, I’d be more than willing to hear any theories anyone has” Reverend Proudeye said aloud. Each person turned from one face to another as though they were telepathically discussing it. Finally, Mr. Lowood stood up.
“While he’s not here, I personally think it was Harding” he stated clearly and with a hint of almost certainty.
A few were taken aback by this. “Really, what makes you think that, Mr. Lowood?” Mrs.  Pomp asked.
“Well, you heard what he said at the scene of Mr. Matthew’s death, Elaine” Mr. Lowood said to Miss Hampstead. “‘You’ll be next, Cockney’!”
“Yah, well ‘at din turn at right, did it?” Miss Hampstead replied.  “I’s still ‘ere, alive ‘n well.”
“Well, to be fair, nobody else has been killed yet” Mr. Lowood said warily.
“S’ what’s ‘at suppose’ to mean?” Miss Hampstead cried. “T’ be fair, Mr. Lowood, we’ all fair game!” But everybody was looking at her with worried expressions. “What? Y’all look like ‘M gonna drop dead any moment!” Miss Hampstead exclaimed. Not a single person moved.  “Fate’s a whole lot o’ rubbish if ‘at’s what ya thinking’!” she snorted.
“All right! All right! That’s enough!” Mr. Lowood declared as he rose to his feet.  “Let’s stop pointing fingers and hypothesizing about who will be the next to go! Let’s focus on finding who did this! Now, Mr. Wicker, you say it’s Harding. Any evidence?”
I could not sit here any longer, listening, so I piped up and said, “he pushed me into the Shenandoah!”
Immediately, I could feel all eyes being directed at me. Mrs. Mybridge, how could you possibly be sure it was him?” Reverend Proudeye asked.
“I saw his outline as I was falling” I replied. “I know it was him.”
Reverend Proudeye raised an eyebrow and appeared to contemplate this before saying, “well, there you have it.”
“And does anyone notice that Harding has been gone a long time?” Mrs. Pomp remarked.
“Yes, so it seems” Reverend Proudeye said.
“Well, at any rate, I imagine you must be feeling dreadful these days, Reverend” Mrs. Pomp continued. “I know poor Mrs. Waterway left her money to you and I understand Mr. Matthew split his will between his wife and the church.”
“Yes, it’s been a terrible burden but at least I know they rest now in heaven” the Reverend replied and I thought I saw a tear roll down his face. Inevitably, I felt sorry for him.
“Well, let’s not keep talking about such gruesome things as murder! This is a party and on Christmas no less!” Mr. Wicker said in an attempt to break the tension in the room. Raising himself and his glass, he proclaimed, “as the Vikings said, ‘eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow, we may die’!”
“Lit’ally” I heard Miss Hampstead mutter dryly.
At that moment, Mr. Harding came back in and so, the adults went back to talking cheerfully. Mrs. Mybridge rose and said, “all right, I’ll start making the pudding, Miss Hampstead, you know what to do. I want at least five of them because I know people will be coming back for seconds.”
Miss Hampstead smiled. Mrs. Mybridge continued. “And I’m sure you could manage the meatloaf, dear?”
“Oh, we’, ‘M not sure…” Miss Hampstead replied cautiously as she and Mrs. Mybridge went into the kitchen.
Everything seemed to go smoothly until about a half an hour later when I heard Mrs. Mybridge exclaim, “good heavens, Miss Hampstead!” A swift clattering followed, as though a pan had been dropped and I rushed in to see what was going on.
Mrs. Mybridge had opened the door of her small oven and pulled out what was probably the most well-cooked meatloaf I had ever laid eyes on-to say the very least. The whole outside was a crispy black color and a large amount of smoke still drained from the oven.
“ ‘M sorry, Mrs. Mybridge, ‘M jus’ not ve’y goo’ at ‘is” Miss Hampstead was stuttering with a panicked look on her face.
Mrs. Mybridge took a fork, broke off a piece of the meatloaf and sampled it. “Not to worry, dear, it’s still good but thankfully, I pulled it out just in time.” Miss Hampstead looked relieved. I was one of the few people who knew that Miss Hampstead was in fact a terrible cook. For some reason, shepherd’s pie worked wonders on her skills but why, I did not exactly know because everything else she had ever made had been grossly overcooked. A cherry pie had once been rendered to a state in which the crust was blackened as coal and the cherries inside looked more like raisins. Another time, I had walked into The Woolen Mittens to discover Miss Hampstead tossing a smoking lamb chop out of a back window. Apparently, she had put the lamb chop on the hearth and then gone off to sew absentmindedly-nearly setting the place on fire in the process.
“I think it best you handle the dough, dear” Mrs. Mybridge remarked. Miss Hampstead obliged and rolled out the dough, gently placing it in the pie tin. I was watching her dice a potato when I suddenly felt a presence behind me. Mrs. Pomp was standing there, her fur coat liner pulled up to her ears, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses. She slipped past me and went to sit at the small table Mrs. Mybridge and I typically ate breakfast at.
“You know” she said, staring at Miss Hampstead censoriously, “I would feel a whole lot better if I knew my food was not being incinerated by incompetent hands.”
“Oh, do relax, Gertrude, the meatloaf is perfectly fine” Mrs. Mybridge said, reassuringly. “We all have accidents every now and then” she added in what I felt was an effort to give Miss Hampstead the benefit of the doubt.
“Nevertheless, Misty, I think next time you should be more… selective about who you choose as an assistant” Mrs. Pomp continued. “If you ask me, this pretty Cockney would be more suited to setting the table as the simplest manual tasks are apparently the only ones she can handle.”
At this, a fuse had blown. Miss Hampstead had whipped around, glaring rather terrifyingly at Mrs. Pomp. “Any more cheek like ‘at an’ you’ be goin’ in ‘is pie!”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Lovett” Mrs. Pomp replied sarcastically.
“Are ya gonna help at or not?” Miss Hampstead asked curtly.
“Well, no, not really…”
“ ‘En get at!”
Mrs. Pomp raised an eyebrow, then slowly got to her feet and began to march out of the kitchen. But as she peered back from behind the door, she said, “really, dear, you ought to work on that temper of yours-”
Miss Hampstead gripped a potato and threw it at Mrs. Pomp but the latter slammed the door before it could hit her.
“I’m afraid you wasted a good potato in that effort” Mrs. Mybridge said as she picked up the now badly crushed potato.
“I don’ care!” Miss Hampstead growled. “I can’ stan’ ‘er! An’ I think it’s rather cruel o’ ya to let ‘er revile me like ‘at!”
“Well, dear, I can’t get too defensive towards her. After all, she is one of the wealthiest women in the town and I’d rather not get on bad terms with her” Mrs. Mybridge replied.
I turned and left, not wishing to see any more of Miss Hampstead’s present hardship. I saw the Actons sitting around the fireplace and took a seat among them.
“An’ oo’ might you be, my dear?” Mrs. Acton asked, taking notice of me. She was a rather plump woman with a mess of brown hair and a kindly look to her. 
“Jane Mybridge” I replied.
“Oh, ya live with Mrs. Mybridge, you’re ‘er pet aren’t you?” Mrs. Acton said cheerfully.
“Yes” I said blandly.
“Elaine talks highly o’ ya, thinks you’re a right nice girl to be spendin’ so much time with ‘er. She’s an awfully sweet girl.”
“Yes, so she is.”
“But she can have a real temper, can’t she? Like ya jus’ saw now?”
“Yes.”
“It’s da Irish in ‘er, love. Fickle ‘em Irish are-sweet n’ ‘omely but fiery tempered all da same. Can’t hold it against ‘em though.”
I simply nodded, bored of the conversation.  Suddenly, the littlest boy, David, curled up next to me and whispered, “ya don’ think ‘at murderer’ll come after may, d’ya?”
“Oh, come now, darling, why would anyone come after an innocent child like ya’self? What ya done to anger anyone?” Aunt Lisa said optimistically but there was a hint of anxiety in her voice.
“I ‘ope ‘e don’ come after Auntie Elaine! Ya don’t think ‘e would, right, mum?” David asked, on the edge of sobs. “If she died, I never’ forgive meself!”
“Oh, darling, don’t ya worry, Auntie Elaine’s a quick woman. She’d disappear from danger as look at it” Lisa answered.
“Auntie Elaine?” I asked, confused.
“Oh, no, my dear. Miss Hampstead’s not actually their aunt, she’s no blood relation whatsaeve’. But da children love ‘er so, she’s like an aunt.  No, she came from a good family o’ coal miners, da Percivals on her grandfather’s side-mate’nal ‘at is. No, while ‘er family was in da mines, we was in the factories. We was born hundreds o’ miles apart, ‘er an’ us, but who’s know we’d meet ‘ere in Harper’s Ferry? She’s a connection to our old country, my sweet, an’ a blessin’, da dear child. I remember when we came ‘ere, da most rag-tag, slovenly batch ‘maginable. We were lost till da clerk, Mr. Wicker told us to knock on da door o’ Da Woolen Mittens, said ‘ere was a lass from Manchester livin’ ‘ere who would ‘elp us. An’ what a ‘elp she’s been!  Ya should see da way she is with da children. Such a pity she neve’ married an’ ‘ad any o’ ‘er own. She’d be a won’erful mother.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“Five years” Mrs. Acton said. “Times were ‘ard in London so we came ‘ere an’ got jobs in da factory dan yonder. We haven’t regretted it.”
I smiled. “Well, I’m glad you like it here” I said. This was really the first time I had ever spoken with the Actons and all in all, I thought very highly of them.
“An’ ‘ow’s life with Mrs. Mybridge?” I hea’ she’s a sweet ol’ thing” Mrs. Acton said.
“Yes, she treats me very well. She took me in when I was only a few weeks old. She probably saved my life or-” but I stopped myself from saying, “or I would have likely ended up in the factories” when I saw the Acton children. 
“S’, ya have no idea oo’ ya parents are?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“No idea and I have no desire to. Mrs. Mybridge is my real mother-more of a mother than that real one would ever have been. Combined, she and Miss Hampstead are all the family I’ll ever need.”
“Oh, well, I actually kind o’ like ‘at approach to life, my dear-not dwellin’ on the past is an honorable moral” Mrs. Acton replied approvingly.
“Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Mybridge called after several minutes. Immediately, the hungry Actons and myself accompanied the others to the large table that Mrs. Mybridge had set up in the sitting room. Typically, this table was packed away in the closet. It was rather cramped as the large table filled most of the small room but somehow, fifteen-odd souls were still able to squeeze into the chairs.
Mrs. Mybridge led us as we said grace, then we dug into the generous portions of food. There was the meatloaf, Yorkshire pudding, casserole, apple dumplings, beef stew, a decadent salad, five steaming shepherd’s pies and at the center of it all was a glistening brown turkey.
Mr., Acton carved the latter dish for everyone while I piled a little bit of everything on my plate. By the time, I had received my first slice of turkey, I was half-full and was seriously wondering how much more I could eat.
After she had had her share of the delicacies, Mrs. Pomp excused herself and then went over to a large, leather bag she brought with her. She took out what appeared to be a block of wood until she unfolded it and I saw that it was a chess board. She set up the pieces on either side and put on her glasses.
“Since we all appear to have nourished ourselves properly, I thought I’d like to challenge someone to a game of chess. Who’d be willing to try and beat me, best out of three games-” she held up a timer-“timed, five minutes? Should I be defeated, the winner shall receive my great uncle’s ring.” She said this as she showed off her pointer finger, which donned a large bronze-framed emerald ring with a portrait of a Roman woman inside.
Nobody spoke or moved.
“Come now, there must be one challenger?” Mrs. Pomp asked with a tone of disappointment.
To my-and apparently everyone else’s-great shock, Miss Hampstead stood up. “I’ll go” she said quietly. I had known this woman for ten years and had never dreamed she would be fluent in chess.
Mrs. Pomp’s lip twinged a bit but she did not object. “Why, look here everyone” she said, “the British are coming.”
Miss Hampstead sat down across from Mrs. Pomp and slipped on a pair of glasses. “Since when could you afford spectacles?” Mrs. Pomp sneered.
“Me dad’s” Miss Hampstead corrected, staring down at her black chess pieces.
Mrs. Pomp sniffled, started the clock and moved one of her pawns forward. Miss Hampstead almost exactly copied this movement with one of her own shiny, black pawns. For a while, they continued this pattern, as though their pieces were in a sort of deadly dance. Fallen pieces kept piling on the sidelines. After four-and-a-half minutes, Miss Hampstead moved one of her knights a few spaces from Mrs. Pomp’s lurking queen. But Miss Hampstead realized too late that she had made a miscalculation that proved to be fatal. Mrs. Pomp grinned slightly as she seized the knight, giving her a direct path to the king.
“Well, one more and it will be over” the victorious Mrs. Pomp declared as she reset the board. I had to admit I was a little crestfallen but I said nothing. But my spirits rose as Miss Hampstead’s bishop was able to take one of Mrs. Pomp’s knights rather early on. Mrs. Pomp looked more than agitated at this and she glowered at Miss Hampstead, who glowered back. There was such a heavy atmosphere of antipathy in the two-foot space that separated the two women.
To my delight, Mrs. Pomp was eventually proven wrong. Miss Hampstead checkmated her opponent’s king after three minutes.  The final board was set and this time, Mrs. Pomp moved one of her knights first. Miss Hampstead moved a pawn. Knight took pawn, rook took rook and bishop took-queen. It had been Miss Hampstead’s queen but she was able to rebound and have her bishop capture Mrs. Pomp’s queen. Now, they were even.
The tension in the room mounted. From all sides, people were leaning in on the table, anticipating the player’s next moves. Miss Hampstead felt a bit annoyed at having the Actons leaning over her shoulders. “D’ya mind movin’ back a bit?’ she said to the family. They promptly obeyed.
Mrs. Pomp must have been blinded by hatred and determination for she began to make many careless errors. Before she knew it, Miss Hampstead had planted her remaining bishop in front of the king with a loud clunk.  “Checkmate” she said in a deliberately slow voice, as though savoring the victory.
Mrs. Pomp readjusted her glasses and stared down at the board to make sure she was seeing things properly. When she realized her defeat, she grudgingly slipped the ring off her finger and tossed it onto the board in front of Miss Hampstead.
The latter scooped up the ring and slid it onto her own thin pointer finger. Mrs. Pomp looked horrified at having had to give up her family heirloom to this “pretty Cockney” but she bore this onerous situation with as much dignity as she could.
The other guests clapped as Miss Hampstead rose to her feet. After a while, the typical chatter resumed and the chess match seemed to be a vague memory to everyone-except to Mrs. Pomp, who glared at Miss Hampstead as though she would love nothing better than to break her neck.
But after a while, Mrs. Pomp decided she had better things to do then silently detest Miss Hampstead and she got into a rather pleasant discussion with Mrs. Mybridge about “how well dear Foo Foo was coming along in his training.” Her Foo Foo was only three years old- a colt still- and he showed it whenever Mrs. Pomp rode through town. He tended to waver and his gait was a bit unsteady. But I could not imagine how one could have such a long conversation about training a horse. But then, Mrs. Mybridge brought up Foo Foo’s pedigree and the subject switched to bloodlines-that was when the disaster happened.
“One of the benefits of Foo Foo is that he’s a purebred and a good purebred blood horse at that. His sire was Longfellow, a champion runner and his dam’s not half-bad either” Mrs. Pomp explained. “Thus, Foo Foo is a good horse even if he is a carriage one. Many people do not appreciate the importance of consistently maintaining good bloodlines anymore. And it does not matter whether it be horses, cats, dogs or people.” She then turned and looked at Miss Hampstead, who was clearing off the table and thus was not looking at her rival. Mrs. Pomp then whispered, “Take this Cockney for instance. It is bad enough she comes from the lower dregs but she has got Irish in her as well! Even if she was full-blood British, I could not give her any credit just for the fact that she comes from coal miners and sewer rats. And that accent! It will not do either!”
Slowly, I saw Miss Hampstead turn on her heels and stare intently at Mrs. Pomp, who continued with her derogatory lecture. Miss Hampstead then looked out of the corner of her eye at the last remaining, uneaten shepherd’s pie. I saw her arm snake out and she stuck a finger into the pie-I did not know whether she was doing this to ensure it was still hot or to make sure it was bearably cool. Either way, I caught her drift the moment she picked it up and began to approach Mrs. Pomp from behind.
By now, everyone was staring at the pending scene, waiting with collected, baited breath while Mrs. Pomp ranted on. “…Well, it is simple: you mix too much bad blood and you get-”
“Hum, hum” Miss Hampstead said in a sickeningly sweet way, tapping Mrs. Pomp on the shoulder. The latter turned and before she could react, the pie had been brutally but at the same time, comically slammed into her face.
Mrs. Pomp stood up, let out a muffled shriek and snorted as she blindly searched for her pocket handkerchief and wiped bits of crust, potato, beans and beef off her face. Once her complexion was clear, she scowled and widened her eyes. “You animal!” she muttered through gritted teeth.
“We’’, I said I’d I put ya in ‘is pie if ya gave any more cheek” Miss Hampstead replied.
Mrs. Pomp said not a word but ran to the coat rack and slipped on her shawl, looking to make a quick retreat. “An’ if ya insult my Acton friends, I’ll be sure t’ sew your fingers into da nice doily I’m makin’!” Miss Hampstead hissed.
“Is that a threat?!” Mrs. Pomp cried as she walked over the threshold.
“O’ course not” Miss Hampstead replied almost submissively. Mrs. Pomp shook her head in disgust and slammed the door behind her.
“-‘M a delightful woman” Miss Hampstead finished. Everyone looked at her and through their expressions, I could tell they did not blame her for doing what she had just done. But at the same time, they were too afraid to say they thought her behavior had been quite vulgar. 
“We’, I think I oughtta go, ‘Appy Christmas, all” Miss Hampstead said as she put on her coat and left. 
“G-goodbye, Miss Hampstead” Mrs. Mybridge said, flicking her hand a couple of times in what appeared to be a half-hearted wave.
Suddenly, one of Mr. Lowood’s farm workers, Andrew, ran through the doorway and stopped, panting. We all were a bit alarmed by this sight as Andrew was very clearly in distress. “It’s happened! It’s happened again!”
“What?” Mrs. Mybridge asked.
“Mrs. Nodder, she’s dead!”
“Dead?! Not again!” Mr. Wicker cried.
“Yes, Dr. Walker says it’s strychnine this time!”
“Now, who on earth?!-” Mr. Harding growled.
“You tell us, Mr. Harding” Mr. Lowood said accusatively. “So, that’s why you were gone so long? Out murdering a poor, old lady?”
”What do you mean?” Mr. Harding asked.
“Don’t be stupid, you know exactly what I mean!” Mr. Lowood hissed. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am proud to present our killer. Tell us why you were so defensive at the scene of Mr. Matthew’s crime? I also understand you didn’t get along well with him?”
“That’s enough, I’ll get the police” Mr. Wicker said as he dashed out the door and went to saddle his horse for the quick gallop to the police station about a mile away. Mr. Lowood held a gun to Mr. Harding’s head as I watched, horrified that I had been in the same room with a killer.
Within a few minutes, Samuel Harding had been arrested.

The Acton household was a cluttered mess in the simplest terms. It was an average-sized wooden shack. The entrance led to a space filled with all odds and ends of old bottles, cookie tins and dirty laundry that had yet to be washed. A large assortment of pots and pans hung from hooks on the ceiling. Only a candle or two illuminated the darkest portions of this room though they were outshined by the enormous fire that usually blazed in the hearth- this large flame was needed as the shack got especially cold in wintertime. Wind whipped through minuscule cracks in the walls, giving it the air of a haunted house.
This main room branched off into just two other rooms-the master bedroom, which contained a medium-sized bed and a dresser with a cracked mirror and the children’s shared room. The beds in both rooms were covered in homemade quilts.  On every inch of wooden space, a fine layer of dust sat and in the places where sunlight shone through, more dust was revealed, drifting through the air peacefully.
On this particularly chilly night, about two weeks after the Christmas party and the capture of Sam Harding, the Acton family along with Miss Hampstead sat around the hearth, discussing how long it would take for authorities to find Mr. Matthew’s and Mrs. Nodder’s killer-because the killer had not been found. 
Sam Harding had been released due to a lack of evidence. There was not an ounce of strychnine or arsenic to be found in his home, nor any conceivable means through which he could have obtained them. To the outrage of the townspeople, he was let go.
“All I know is we’s livin’ in full view o’ this bloke, oo’ever ‘e is” Roger Acton said.          “ ‘E’s playin’ with us right underneath our nose.
“I know what ya mean, love, with everybody bein’ as close-knit as they are in ‘is town, somebody’s not bein’ honest. Jus’ ‘ope we catch ‘em before it becomes a legend or something-“the mysterious murderer of Harper’s Ferry”-‘is is certainly a problem I don’ want our children inheritin’ ” Mrs. Acton said.
“But, o’ course” Miss Hampstead suddenly breathed.
“What?” Mr. Acton asked.
“What she jus’ said right ‘ere ‘bout inheritance. O’ course…’ow could we have bin so stupid all ‘is time?” Miss Hampstead said dreamily.
“My dear, when can we board ya train o’ thought ‘ere?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“Bee, you’re bloody brilliant-tell me ya don’ find ‘is weird. When Mr. Matthew was found poisoned, guess where da inheritance money went-half to his wife, half to Reverend Proudeye. Mrs. Nodder adored Reverend Proudeye-guess where ‘er money’s gone now ‘at’s she’s dead. Mrs. Waterway, a childless widow-left her money to Reverend Proudeye.”
“ ‘Cept Mrs. Waterway was eighty years old an’ died o’ nat’ral causes” Mrs. Acton interjected.
“I don’ think she did-think she was poison’ too” Miss Hampstead replied. “An’ if ‘M right, I’ve solved a few murders.”
“Whoa, so ya sayin’ Reverend Proudeye’s da killer?” Tony Acton asked.
“Well, ya, I mean, he’s got motive-he was poor and takin’ at Mrs. Waterway was the way to get to ‘er fortune prematurely. An’ a pretty goo’ disguise ‘e got, don’ ‘e? Bein’ a nice pious Protestant minister-oo’d suspect ‘im?” Miss Hampstead explained.
The Actons seemed enlightened in half a second. “ ‘Ow could we have bin so stupid? We was so concerned ‘bout findin’ somebody, we din’ bother to think of lookin’ at anybody” Roger Acton said.
“Bu, ‘ere’s a huge problem ‘ere-Dr. Walker said on da spot ‘at Mrs. Waterway died o’ nat’ral causes-‘e neve’ examined da body-‘ow ya eve’ gonna prove she was poisoned?” Mrs. Acton said.
“Easy, ask Dr. Walker t’ dig it up” Miss Hampstead replied.
“Da body?”
“Um, huh-what’s wrong wit ‘at, we all want closure don’ we?”
“We’, don’ ya need a permit to dig up a body or somethin’?” Mrs. Acton asked.
Miss Hampstead shrugged her shoulders. “Don’ know da law ‘at well” she said. “Tell ya what, Bee-tomorrow, we’ll go down an’ ask Dr. Walker to dig up da body, all right?”
“Anythin’ ya say” Mrs. Acton replied timidly.

The next day, the two women braved the cold to walk up to Dr. Walker’s practice. Miss Hampstead thought she must have recited what she was going to say to him a million times in her head. But all of that was thrown away when they reached his front door.
A sign hung from the door which said:

“Attention, patients-Gone to Johns Hopkins-will be back on the twenty-eighth. Please seek home remedies during my absence-my sincere apologies for any inconvenience
-Dr. Chas. Walker”

“What’s it say?” Miss Hampstead asked.

Mrs. Acton read it to her and then said, “why is ‘e away at a time like ‘is?” Miss Hampstead shook her head.
She sighed. “We’, ‘ere’s only one thing t’ do” she said.
“Wait for ‘im to come back?” Mrs. Acton said in what she thought was a concurrence with Miss Hampstead’s words.
The latter turned to walk away. “Ya got a shovel at ‘ome, haven’t ya?” she said.
“We’… um, yes-wait, what?!” a startled Mrs. Acton cried as she turned to follow the other woman. 

The cart was parked outside the gates of the cemetery and the two cloaked women looked about before sprinting across the graveyard to the stone inscribed with Mrs. Waterway’s name. Mrs. Acton trailed her companion and she kept having changes of heart. “Elaine, we can’ do ‘is! If we’s caught, they’s gonna be thinkin’ we’s da murderers!” she hissed.
“We’, then make sure we don’ get caught!” Miss Hampstead replied dryly. “Na, han’ me ‘at shovel!” she whispered.
“Right” Mrs. Acton said, giving the shovel to her comrade. Miss Hampstead scooped the snow off the top of the grave and began to dig into the cold, frozen ground. At last, she hit something. It was Mrs. Waterway’s painted black coffin. Quickly, Miss Hampstead broke open the coffin, whipped off her cloak and wrapped the body in it.
She then covered the coffin with dirt and scooped the snow back on top in an effort to make it look as seamless as possible.
“Move!” she hissed at Mrs. Acton and quickly, the two of them lifted the corpse and ran through the graveyard. They went back to the cart, threw the bundle in a luggage compartment and shut the door.
Miss Hampstead sighed with relief. “ ‘At was risky” she breathed as they stepped back into the cart and she picked up the reins and clicked to the horse.
They clattered through the streets until at last, the cart pulled up in front of the building where on the second floor, the sign for The Woolen Mittens creaked in the slight chilly breeze.
“Coas’ clear?” Miss Hampstead whispered as Mrs. Acton glanced around to make sure that High Street was deserted. All the windows were black and as there was no moon glowing above, it was almost completely dark.
“Yah” Mrs. Acton replied and they hastily threw the door to the luggage compartment open and took out the body. They clambered up the steps where Miss Hampstead held the door open and then cleared off the counter and Mrs. Waterway’s corpse was placed on it.
“Ge’ the curtains!” Miss Hampstead whispered. Mrs. Acton drew the front window curtains shut. Miss Hampstead locked the shop door and then went back to the counter, where she whipped her cloak off the stony face of Mrs. Waterway. “ ‘Ow wonderful it is to meet ya again, Mrs. Waterway” she said.
Conveniently, the inside of Mrs. Waterway’s coffin had been lined with a protective metal coating underneath the silk padding so the body was still remarkably intact.
“All right, we got seven hou’s roughly so let’s move” Miss Hampstead said.
“We’, my dear, na, ya got me outta bed to dig up a corpse, suppose ya tell me ‘ow ya gonna find out she was poison’?” Mrs. Acton stated.
“I got ways” Miss Hampstead replied shortly as she turned Mrs. Waterway’s head from one side to the next, examining her complexion.
“We’, all I learned so far is ya one odd duck. Ya know what ya doin’s very illegal” Mrs. Acton said as she paced back and forth away from the counter.
“Yah” Miss Hampstead announced.
“We’, at least ya recognizin’ it, my dear” Mrs. Acton replied.
“No, I mean, yah, she was poison’ ”Miss Hampstead said.
Mrs. Acton whipped around, her eyes widened. “Ya found out ‘at quickly?!”
“Yep, an’ it’s cyanide” Miss Hampstead added.
“ ‘Ow could ya tell?” an astonished Mrs. Acton asked.
“Bee, when ya mum was a nurse for twelve yea’s, ya pick up a few things” Miss Hampstead replied.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Terrified, the two women tried to think desperately of something. “Hide it! I’ll distract ‘em!” Miss Hampstead whispered as she ran to the door. Mrs. Acton struggled to pick up Mrs. Waterway.
Meanwhile, Miss Hampstead stood in the vestibule and improvised. “Um, we’ closed” she said.
“No, Miss Hampstead, it’s just me-I got a message for you!” the clear voice of Mr. Wicker answered.
Miss Hampstead looked over at Mrs. Acton, who still was moving the body, a panicked sweat running down her face. “Message?” Miss Hampstead said. “Oo’d be sendin’ me a message?”
Then, Mr. Wicker uttered the words she dreaded. “May I come in?”
Miss Hampstead looked once again at Mrs. Acton, who was frantic. Miss Hampstead waved her hands and pointed at her bed. Mrs. Acton took the hint and hid Mrs. Waterway under the bed, being careful to cover everything with the quilt on top. When her work was done, the scene looked completely normal. Mrs. Acton then went and sat by the fire.
“Yah, come in” Miss Hampstead said, opening the door.
Mr. Wicker came in. “Sorry to bother you but Dr. Walker telegraphed me. He wanted me to give you a message. He thinks you’re nice and reliable so he wants you to report anything unusual to him while he’s gone by telegram.”
“Oh, ‘at all?” Miss Hampstead replied.
Mr. Wicker then noticed Mrs. Acton. “So, what are you two lovely gals up to this evening?” he asked.
“Beg ya pardon?” Miss Hampstead asked.
“ ‘Gal’, it’s a term of endearment meaning ‘girl’ or ‘lass’ as they would say where you come from I believe.”
“I know what ‘t means!” Miss Hampstead snorted. “And, Mrs. Acton simply dropped by for a lil’ visit.”
“Oh, well, wasn’t that nice of her?” Mr. Wicker said cheerfully. “Mind if I come in for a little while?” he said, striding forward.
A sort of strangled cry left Miss Hampstead’s throat but she said nothing else. To her horror, he then went and sat on the bed. “Um, Mr. Wicker, wouldn’t ya rather sit somewhere else?” she asked nervously, realizing that if his foot moved back any more, it would hit something…
“Well, it’s just that there aren’t very many places to sit in here, Miss Hampstead, you’ve only got cushions on the floor and frankly, I like a nice comfy place to sit” Mr. Wicker replied.
Thankfully, Mrs. Acton was ahead of him and she went over and took his hand. “Really, sir, I think ya oughtta do what da lady wants” she said as he stood up and faced her-and away from Miss Hampstead.
At the point, the latter simply wanted Mr. Wicker to be out of that general area, so she signaled to Mrs. Acton. “Offer him some tea” she mouthed. Mrs. Acton bobbed her head once in understanding and repeated the offer to Mr. Wicker.
“Certainly” he replied and he went to sit on one of the cushions. Miss Hampstead went behind the counter, took out a jug of water and poured it in a kettle next to the fireplace. She then carefully placed the kettle on the grill.
She then went and sat on one of the cushions. But it seemed as though the horrid tension would never end for at that very moment, she heard a baritone meowing sound. Her eyes widened as she saw that Harper was sniffing around the bed.
Frantically, she looked back at Mr. Wicker and Mrs. Acton, who were immersed in conversation and whispered at the cat, “Harper, ge’ away from ‘ere!” But the calico ignored her and continued prying at the quilt.
“Harper!” she mouthed as the cat let out another deep meow. “Harper, please!” Finally, she had to improvise again. She walked over to the bed, snatched up Harper in her arms and stroked her head, saying. “Ya gonna have to get it some other time, my pet. ‘M sure Mr. Wicker doesn’t wanna see ya draggin’ out ‘at dead mouse ya got stashed under ‘ere.”
She sat down on the cushion and placed Harper on her lap. “Na, jus’ lay ‘ere quietly, all right?” For a moment, the stroking seemed to work and Harper began to purr contently. “Goo’ pussy, goo’ pussy” Miss Hampstead said soothingly. But the trance then broke and Harper let out another groaning meow and tried to wriggle out of her mistress’ clutch.
“All right, te’ ya what, go outside an’ ya can catch all da mice ya want” Miss Hampstead said, standing up and going to the door. She opened it, placed the cat outside and spat, “bad pussy!” Then, she shut the door in her confused pet’s face.
She walked back over to the fireplace and, seeing that the tea kettle was steaming, went to take it off.  But then, Mr. Wicker stood up and Miss Hampstead, distracted by sheer uneasiness at this, blindly went to put her hand on the kettle handle and instead touched the red-hot grill.
“S***!” she spat, sucking on her stinging fingers.
But it had done the trick as Mr. Wicker turned away from facing the bed. “You all right, Miss Hampstead?” he asked.
“Oh, oh, ya, jus’ a trifle, done it loads o’ times” she stuttered. She then turned to face the kettle and picked it up, took some china teacups from a rack on the wall and dished three teaspoons of Twining’s tea into each of the cups. She poured the steaming water into the cups and placed them on a tray, which she took over to the counter.
“D’ya take any milk or sugar wit’ it, Mr. Wicker?” she asked.
“Oh, no thank you, my dear” he replied, taking his cup. Miss Hampstead shoveled a couple spoonfuls of sugar and a bit of milk into her cup and Mrs. Acton did the same. Mr. Wicker drank his tea rather quickly and then said, “Well, I oughtta be going, ladies. Thank you for the tea-exceptional as always, Miss Hampstead.” The latter nodded.
Mr. Wicker then strode out and the clap of the door was heard in his wake. Miss Hampstead collapsed her head onto the table and let out a shaky breath of relief as though the largest burden in the world had just been lifted off her shoulders.
“We’, one thing’s for certain-I ain’t eve’ gonna be an accomplice in another one of ya crazy schemes!” Mrs. Acton said. “Ya realize, if we’d been caught, there’d have been no reasonable explanation for what we was doin’!”
“Ya think I don’ know ‘at?” Miss Hampstead said sarcastically. “Na, let’s ge’ ‘at body back in its grave an’ let da po’ ol’ women rest in peace! We ain’t at o’ da woods yet!”
Again, they repeated the agonizing process of moving the corpse from the door to the luggage compartment without being noticed-thankfully, it went smoothly-and, without wasting another moment, turned the cart and clattered back down the rather steep incline of High Street the only sound being the flowing of the Shenandoah River in the distance.
After a few twists and turns, they were back at the cemetery where they dug up the coffin, shoved Mrs. Waterway back in it and hurriedly put the dirt and snow back on. Both women gasped with relief and made their way back to the cart.
All right, na ‘at we’ done all ‘at, may I ask what goo’ it all did? Ya better have a damn goo’ explanation” Mrs. Acton asked as they drove away. “Ya can’t jus’ go up to Dr. Walker an’ say, ‘look, doctor, we dug up Mrs. Waterway’s corpse an’ found at she was poisoned’.”
“O’ course, we can’ an’ nobody will be told. I just needed it to confirm my own suspicions about Reverend Proudeye” Miss Hampstead replied.
“We’, if ya ask me, Elaine, the two other poisonin’s were enough to prove it” Mrs. Acton grumbled dismissively.
“Nay, because da way I say things, anythin’s a coincidence unless it happens three times, ‘en it gets suspicious. An’ besides, diggin’ ‘er up was only half of me plan .”
“What’s ‘at?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“I’ll tell ya when we ge’ back.”
When they were in the secrecy of The Woolen Mittens, the rest of the plot was revealed. “O’ course I can’ jus’ tell people she was poison’ without Dr. Walker’s word but…I can catch ‘im in da act.”
“What? ‘Ow d’ya jus’ catch a murderer in da act?” Mrs. Hampstead asked, confused.
“Easy, ya stage one” Miss Hampstead replied.
“Again, may I ask ‘ow ya jus’ ‘stage a murder’? An’ oo’s would it be?” Mrs. Acton sighed.
“Mine” Miss Hampstead said.
“An’ the complication is-how are ya gonna pretend to be, we’-dead?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“Oh, I won’ pretend to be dead-I will be dead.”
“What?!” Mrs. Acton shrieked.
“Shh!” Miss Hampstead said. “It’s ve’y simple-Reverend Proudeye likes to help out at da cabaret dan the river a ways where ‘ey serve food’n all. What I’ll do is ge’ some poison from Dr. Walker’s and when Reverend Proudeye gets may a cup o’ tea, I’ll slip in da poison, drink it, an’ wit’ me dyin’ breath, point to ‘im an’ say, “ ‘e did it!’ Since he’ll ‘ave made the cup of tea an’ the other workers in the kitchen’ll ‘ave seen it, he’ll ‘ave no defense.”
“W-w-wait, s’ let me get ‘is straight-ya gonna commit suicide and frame ‘im for a murder he din commit?” Mrs. Acton said.
“Yah” Miss Hampstead replied. “It’ll save oo knows ‘ow many lives. An’ don’ worry about me soul-‘M not religious as Reverend Proudeye we’ knows.”
Mrs. Acton rolled her eyes. “Ya barkin’ mad! I thought ya’s a lil’ weird wantin’ ter dig up ‘at body but now I jus’ think ya loony! I won’ le’ ya do it!”
“Really, ‘ow ya gonna stop may?” Miss Hampstead asked with a tone of sassiness.
Nay, I won’ le’ ya do it! Think o’ me children, what ya mean to ‘em! Think of lil’ Jane Mybridge! ‘Ow will ‘ey think when ya dead?”
“We’, one day when ‘er older, ya can explain to ‘em why I sacrificed meself” Miss Hampstead said.
“Ya, but ‘ere’s one problem wit’ ‘s whole idea-Dr. Walker don’ jus’ ‘ave arsenic, cyanide or strychnine lyin’ round ‘is place.”
“ ‘E ‘as mercury” Miss Hampstead said.
 

For the second time that night, the two women set out, this time for Dr. Walker’s. Mrs. Acton stumbled a bit as she reluctantly followed her friend. She was trying to think of something to convince Miss Hampstead to snap out of this but if bringing up the children had not moved her, nothing else likely would. 
It took a while for them to reach Dr. Walker’s residence as Miss Hampstead had to keep stopping to wait up for Mrs. Acton. Finally, they arrived at the darkened home. “Great, na ‘ow ya gonna ge’ in?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“We’ll, ‘magine da door’s locked” Miss Hampstead said, trying the handle. “Yep.” She then looked underneath the door mat. “Na, nothin’ ‘ere.” She then went around to the side of the house, pushed on the window and, to her amazement, it opened.
“Come on” she whispered, swinging her leg over the side and slipping into the sitting room. Miss Hampstead then went into an office and, in the dark, saw the outlines of some cupboards. She opened one and found herself staring at about fifty different glass bottles of medicinal chemicals of every size from a pint to a gallon. Unfortunately, the names of the chemicals were written in Standard English-something she could not understand.
“Can ya tell may which one says mercury?” she asked Mrs. Acton, turning around-only Mrs. Acton was not there. “Beatrice, where are ya?” she asked in a bemused tone.
“ ‘M not comin’ in ‘ere!” Mrs. Acton hissed from outside the window.
“Come on, show yaself” Miss Hampstead replied.
Slowly, Mrs. Acton appeared in the doorway. “Which one is mercury?” Miss Hampstead asked.
Mrs. Acton looked at the open cupboard. “Nay idea” she lied.
Miss Hampstead’s eyebrows knitted together. “I ain’t helpin’ ya take ya own life!” Mrs. Acton said in response to this expression.
“Beatrice” she said sternly through gritted teeth. Mrs. Acton hesitated and pointed to a large bottle which read: MERCURY CHLORIDE. “Thank ya” Miss Hampstead said in a falsely sweet voice as she took the bottle. “Ah, perfect!” She stowed the bottle in her cloak and the two made their retreat.
“I still think ya barkin’ mad!” Mrs. Acton snapped.
When they got back home, Harper was sitting immobile outside. She cheerfully trotted in when Miss Hampstead opened the door.  Immediately, the cat went over to the bed but was disappointed when she discovered that the space underneath it was empty.
“We’, I’ve ‘bout had enough tonight” Mrs. Acton said, collapsing on the bed. Inadvertently, she fell asleep. Miss Hampstead shrugged at this sight and sat down by the fire. Harper ambled over to her side and stared with great yellow orbs. Miss Hampstead allowed her pet to curl up her lap and she stroked the cat for quite a long time. 

The next morning, Mrs. Acton groaned and stirred at around six thirty. Although only just awake, she was quickly able to recollect the crazy events of the previous night. “Oh, ‘as ‘is horrid dream ended already?-Oh, s***!” she cursed, noticing the counter where the very real bottle of mercury chloride sat.
She then turned and saw Miss Hampstead still sitting in front of fire. “What are ya doin’ ‘ere?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“We’, ‘is is me ‘ome” Miss Hampstead replied. For Mrs. Acton, this had settled it-this was definitely no dream. She looked at Miss Hampstead and then sank her head into the pillow and sobbed.
“Why, Bee, what’s wrong?” Miss Hampstead asked, going over to sit by her friend’s side.
Mrs. Acton looked up through tear-stained eyes. “Don’ do it, Elaine!” she cried. “Don’ go through with it!”
Miss Hampstead sighed and said, “don’ ya want da killin’s to stop?”
“Yah, but ‘ere mus’ be some other way!” Mrs. Acton stammered. “Please, Elaine ya bin like a third child to Roger an’ I!”
Miss Hampstead had no intention of going back on her plan but she took her troubled friend’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I’ll reconsider it” she lied.
“Oh, thank ya, Elaine!” Mrs. Acton said, hugging her. “But I still think ya a lil’ foggy, dear. Why don’ we go for a lil’ walk?”
“Sure, dan to Mr. Lowood’s. ‘M fresh at o’ beef” Miss Hampstead replied.
“Whateve’ ” Mrs. Acton said and the two rose. “I could do with a bit o’ tea”.
She extracted the jug of water, filled the kettle and lit a fire. “Still think it was da most terrifyin’ night o’ me life. If we’d been caught wit da body, da real murderer neve’ would ‘ave bin!”
“I wish ya wouldn’t talk ‘bout Mrs. Waterway’s body as though it were mincemeat! She was a respectable lady!” Miss Hampstead snapped.
“We’, ya din’ seem to think so last night!” Mrs. Acton retorted. “Diggin’ ‘er up to prove a wild theory!”
“We’, I proved it din’ I?”
“I suppose. But I still think it was foolish, ‘specially wit Mr. Wicker comin’ in an’ all!”
“We’, it’s over an’ done wit! No use bickerin’ ‘bout it like a couple o’ ol’ hens!” Miss Hampstead said, definitively.

A little past eleven, the two set out on the road, headed for the Lowood farm. They arrived in the main office and immediately, Mr. Lowood looked up from his desk and said, “I’m sure you want the usual, Miss Hampstead?”
“Yah.”
“Well, how are you today, Mrs. Acton?” he asked chirpily.
“Oh, fine.”
“Right this way, ladies” Mr. Lowood said, taking them through a back door leading directly to the slaughterhouse. Instantly, their ears were filled with a deafening roar. They walked onto a platform which stood next to a massive, industrial-sized, pulley-operated meat grinder. Mrs. Acton was more than a little uneasy as she stared at the huge opening which was large enough to swallow a horse and level with their feet to enable the workers to dump in the cuts more easily.
“Ya wait ‘ere? Why not back in ‘is office?” Mrs. Acton asked.
“I can see ‘em gettin’ it from ‘ere. In ‘ere ‘M blind” Miss Hampstead replied in reference to the office.
Mrs. Acton gulped uncomfortably as two hands, Tim and Andrew ran wheelbarrows up to the edge and dumped in the contents. A grinding sound ensued and the meat was shredded to bits in seconds.
“If it bothers ya, don’ look at it” Miss Hampstead said.
“I don’ like da looks o’ ‘’at thing” Mrs. Acton whispered.
Miss Hampstead looked nonchalantly into the gaping hole. “I know, terrifying” she said sarcastically. “Stay clear o’ da edge an’ ya’ll live.”
“Here you are, Miss Hampstead” Mr. Lowood said, handing her some parcels.
“Thank ya” she said and they left the slaughterhouse, walking down the dirt path past a field of grazing Black Angus and back towards the interior of Harper’s Ferry.

Reverend Proudeye only worked at the cabaret on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays so Miss Hampstead had to wait a bit. But finally, the day had come. She had chosen not to tell Mrs. Acton about it though, as she took issue to maudlin goodbyes.
Rather, she simply put on a dress of green velvet, a family heirloom necklace, a dash of light makeup and the ring she had won from Mrs. Pomp. She filled a few vials with the mercury chloride, sealed them and put them in her handbag. She slipped on a pair of silk gloves and her boots, swept her eyes over the interior of The Woolen Mittens for the last time and then stepped out into the bitter late January air.
It was a long walk from High Street to the cabaret anyway but Miss Hampstead walked especially slow, as though in a funeral march-for her own funeral.
She arrived at the cabaret and went inside where her ears became filled with the buzzing drone of talking customers. A piano was playing a lively tune in the background but to the tone-deaf Miss Hampstead, it was merely an annoying, monotonous sound.
Sure enough, Reverend Proudeye was there and he led her to a table-right in view of most of the people. This was exactly what she had wanted. “So, what can I get you today?” Reverend Proudeye asked.
“Think I’ll start wit’ a cup o’ tea-large” Miss Hampstead said.
“And might I add you look lovely today” he said. “You’re usually such a drab little thing but you can certainly clean up nicely.”
“Drab?” she asked in a somewhat offended tone.
“Well, it’s just that you don’t usually wear make-up or jewelry” Reverend Proudeye explained. He then went to get her tea.
“Make-up? I don’ need make-up” she grumbled.
Within ten minutes, Reverend Hampstead had returned with a large cup of Earl Grey. “What would you like to eat today?” he asked, handing her a menu.
“Sir, ya know I can only read shorthand” Miss Hampstead said irritably.
“Oh, right, well, we have steak, minestrone, London broil-”
“London broil’ll do” Miss Hampstead replied.
“Right, I’ll be back” he said, walking over to another table to collect some used dishes.
Miss Hampstead checked to make sure nobody was looking at her. Then, she took out the vials of mercury chloride and poured them in the tea. By the time all of them had been emptied, the tea had taken on a silvery tint.
Miss Hampstead then blew on it a few times and scanned the room for Reverend Proudeye-it was essential that he be in the room when she took the tea. But now, he was nowhere to be found. She sat there, staring at the deadly concoction, snapping her head up every time she heard the kitchen doors open. The droning of the patrons, the clicking of silverware and the constant standing-up and sitting-down of the people annoyed her.
Finally, she saw him. She took the tea and, taking a deep breath, said, “well, here it goes.” She rose up the cup. The rim ascended higher, the silvery substance of death looming ever closer-it was only inches away from her lips…
“Miss Hampstead!” Distracted, she put the cup down and turned to see Reverend Proudeye standing behind her. “I just checked our supply. I’m afraid that tea’s no good, It must have molded a long time ago. The chef assured me.”
“Tea looks perfectly fine” Miss Hampstead said.
“No, I’m afraid not” he said and before she could react, he had snatched the cup away. “I’ll get you another cup” Reverend Proudeye called as he walked away.
Sourly, Miss Hampstead checked the vials. “Not even one drop left?” she muttered.
Sulkily, she drank an untampered cup of tea and chewed the London broil she had thought she would never get to eat.
Later that night, the door to the Acton’s home creaked open and closed with a snap. Mrs. Acton turned around from roasting a turkey and saw the pale, tired face of Miss Hampstead silhouetted in the firelight.
“Fancy seein’ ya ‘ere” Mrs. Acton said. “Where ‘ave ya bin?”
“The cabaret” Miss Hampstead replied.
“I thought ya said ya’d reconsider it!” Mrs. Acton said, mortified.
“Yah, I said I’d reconsider it, neve’ said I’d go back on it” Miss Hampstead told her.
“So, what ‘appened?” Mrs. Acton asked.
Miss Hampstead gritted her teeth and sat down, “I ‘ad ‘im-the cup was no more ‘an an inch from me lips when he snatched it away.”
“Why?”
“I think ‘e suspected may.”
“Suspected ya? But ‘e ‘ad no idea!”
“Nay, but ‘e’s smart. But I don’ know anythin’ for sure, I merely suspect this meself. ‘E told may some rubbish-da tea was no goo’ or somethin’ like ‘at.”
“We’, ‘at certainly is suspicious but if he was trying to stop ya, I must tip me hat to ‘im-‘at’s what I meself was tryin’ to do!” Mrs. Acton said.
Miss Hampstead scowled and said, “We’, mark me words ‘is isn’t gonna be me only attempt. Thankfully, I still ‘ave a whole bottle ‘o ‘at stuff at ‘ome.”
Thursday dawned and once again, Miss Hampstead sat in the cabaret, armed with the mercury nitrate. Reverend Proudeye seemed surprised to see her return so soon but he accepted her order for black tea. Hastily, the tea was brought and the mercury chloride was dumped in. This time, conditions were even more ideal-a waiter was standing right next to her table, taking the orders of a young couple. He was a perfect witness. Reverend Proudeye stood clear on the other side of the room. “He’ll neve’ be able to reach may in time” she thought as she looked at him. 
She then stared down, picked up the cup and began to bring it towards her lips. Just as before, the rim was almost at her lips when…
Crash.
Immediately, Miss Hampstead felt herself being knocked sideways and onto the floor. The whole table came crashing down with her-the teacup was shattered. Dazed, she looked up. All eyes were staring at the scene and a few feet away-there stood Revered Proudeye, who was wiping off the bewildered waiter’s jacket and apologizing over and over. A tray of food was shattered on the floor.
“So sorry, but the lady over there looked quite faint and I figured she needed some nourishment right away so I ran right by you-a little pugnaciously, I might add” he explained.
“That’s all very well, sir, but you nearly killed that poor woman on the floor” the waiter said, pointing at Miss Hampstead.
Reverend Proudeye donned a guilty-or mock-guilty as Miss Hampstead thought-expression and the helped her to her feet.
“My dear, I’m so sorry, don’t know what got into me there. Please forgive me!”
“Yah” Miss Hampstead spat and a moment later, she had stormed out of the cabaret in the blink of an eye.
“ ‘At couldn’t o’ bin a coincidence. ‘E knows ‘M toyin’ wit ‘im” she said to Mrs. Acton later that night.
“We’, I really think ya ought to forget ‘bout it, Elaine. Please give up. I still think it’s odd-neve’ heard o’ a murderer oo’ din want somebody dead. Sorta defeats the purpose o’ ‘him bein’ a murderer” Mrs. Acton replied.
“Yah, ‘e’s gone at o’ ‘is way to make sure I don’ go through wit it” Miss Hampstead said. “But I’ll try again because ya know me logic-if it ‘appens three times, it’s not a coincidence.”

On Friday, Miss Hampstead made her final attempt. This time, she was not doing this so much for a big revelation of the killer but rather for the affirmation that he was indeed on her case.
She took her order of tea from Reverend Proudeye in a window booth near the back and waited. Everything went the same as the last two times. She received her tea, put in the mercury chloride and raised her cup.
“Ah, yes, here she is!” that same voice echoed. Reverend Proudeye approached her booth with a strange man.
Miss Hampstead rolled her eyes. “Yah?” she asked in an irritated voice.
“Miss Hampstead, this is Mr. Marion Webster. He is a textile owner in Virginia. A while ago, a customer of yours told him how fine quality your wool was and so, he has come up to buy a load of it! Here, he will speak to you” Reverend Proudeye said. Then, he walked away.
Webster sat down and said, “how do you do, Miss-um?”
“Hampstead, Miss Elaine M. Hampstead” she replied.
“You’re British!” Webster exclaimed.
“We’, I ain’t Australian” Miss Hampstead said. She had taken on an especially sulky attitude in the hopes that if she was rude enough to Webster, he would give up and leave so she could get it over with. What did it matter if he bought her wool? She would not be around to collect the money anyway.
Webster rambled on about figures and asked, “what is your inventory?”
“Take da lot” Miss Hampstead replied flatly.
“What?”
“Take it all. Come by nex’ Wednesday.”
She hoped this would settle the matter but it did not. And she could not poison herself in front of Webster-how were the other people to know he was not the murderer?
She sat there, bored as he talked about the establishment of his company and how delightful a corporation it was. Twenty minutes must have gone by before he finally asked, “aren’t you going to drink your tea?”
He went to slide the cup over to her but suddenly exclaimed, “oh, dear, it’s cold! It’s no good drinking cold tea!” And to Miss Hampstead’s horror, he opened up the window and poured the tea out onto the grass.
“We’, it was nice speakin’ to ya, Mr. Webster. I’ll expect ya dan at da shop on Wednesday” she said as she stood up and shook his hand. She then bolted out the door. “Maybe Beatrice is right-maybe I am crazy!” she thought.
 

February was always my favorite month for one obvious reason-it was the month I was born in. Not only that, my birthday was February the twelfth-the same as Abraham Lincoln’s. One day when I was seven and we were in the middle of a basic history lesson on the Emancipation Proclamation, I had made a point of stating that to the entire class-they could not have cared less.
When that day dawned, I awoke to a plentiful snowfall that would have better suited Christmas but nevertheless, I welcomed it. For a while, I sat at my bedroom window, taking in the beauty of the frozen rivers and the landscape that showcased three states- a rocky Maryland cliff to the left, a rolling Virginia hill in the distant middle and a West Virginia ridge to the right-all in one view. I then heard a chugging sound and a train emerged from the tunnel on the Maryland side. It crossed the bridge, billowing out blackish smoke as snow whirled around it. The, it disappeared from my sight but I knew it was pulling into the small station. More than likely, it was a train carrying steel or something of the sort. I knew all too well from learning my history how important Harper’s Ferry had been in the war. Mrs. Mybridge, Mrs. Pomp, Mr. Wicker, Dr. Walker, Miss Hampstead-all of them had been around to witness the raid of John Brown almost first-hand.
After a while, I rose and slowly crept downstairs, hoping not to disturb Mrs. Mybridge, who typically slept late. I bundled up and went outside. Standing in the deserted street, I took in the snowfall and the frosted buildings.
Gleefully, I ran up the Public Way and, settling myself down on the grassy hilltop in front of the Catholic church, lay on my side and rolled over and over down the steep road. It was a bumpy downhill ride but I was laughing by the time I reached the bottom. Covered from head to foot in fluffy snow, I sped up the incline and repeated my joyous frivolity.
It was a while before I encountered anyone. As I reached the bottom of the Public Way for the tenth time, I heard a male voice yell, “whoa, there!” I sprang to my feet. “You’re in a rather pleasant mood so early in the morning!” the bespectacled Reverend Proudeye said, beaming.
“Today’s my birthday! Don’t you remember, Reverend?!” I cried.
“Well, bless my soul, I’d completely forgotten!” he said, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Well, Happy Birthday to you, my dear! My goodness, if I’d known, I’d have bought you a birthday present!” He said this as he shook my hand. “How old are you today?”
“Ten” I said.
“That old already?! I remember when Mrs. Mybridge brought you home! I can’t believe it’s been nearly ten years already I remember when you were no bigger than the average postal package!”
“I don’t remember that” I said, giggling as I shook my head.
“Wait, did you lose another tooth?” Reverend Proudeye asked, noticing a missing tooth in my upper left gum.
“Yep, two days ago” I said proudly.
“Well, things certainly are looking up for you, young Miss Jane!” Reverend Proudeye said cheerfully as he tipped his hat and ran off.
Later that day, I made my routine visit to The Woolen Mittens. Miss Hampstead had long ago stopped trying to bake birthday cakes for me-it was yet another one of her failed cooking enterprises. She still gave me a new pair of mittens since she had been disgusted to find a hole in my old pair. The new ones were a dark midnight blue with my initials sewed into them.
Thankfully, as far as the birthday cake dilemma was concerned, Mrs. Mybridge had salvaged that with her presentation of a decadent chocolate and vanilla preparation. That night, Mrs. Mybridge offered to read me a story before I went to bed, just as she had done on my birthday every year. But, now that my age had reached double-digits, I suddenly felt I was too old for such childish things.
Mrs. Mybridge was a bit let down by this but at the same time, she understand how I felt, being older now. All in all, it was a satisfying birthday.
Ten days later happened to be Miss Hampstead’s birthday. One of the biggest ironies of my life was the fact that while my birthday was on Lincoln’s own, Miss Hampstead shared a birthday with George Washington. When I had been old enough to first tell her this, she had been a little confused as she only had a vague recollection of who Washington was.
I arrived at the door, with my first sight being Harper sitting in front of it. She turned her great eyes upon me in a pleading way. I opened the door and allowed her to go in first. But Harper simply sat there, staring at me. As much as I adored cats, this was always one of my complaints. Why could they not just go inside? Why did they always have to sit there, staring at you blankly?
Finally, the cat pranced inside. But when I entered, quite a different sight from the one I had expected met my eyes. Rather than the cheerful scene I had anticipated, it was instead quite dark. The place did not even appear to be open even though I had clearly recalled seeing an OPEN sign on upon my arrival. The shop felt empty thanks to the enormous amount of wool that had been bought by a textile owner in Virginia (he had come to town asking for a woman “by the name of Mrs. Homestead or something of the sort. I can’t remember the name.”) Naturally, she was more than pleased at having her pockets filled a little more.
Miss Hampstead was there all right, reclined on her bed, holding a picture frame. She was staring so intently at it, she did even appear to have noticed my entrance or in fact, still know that I was there at all.
It was not until I sat next to her that she looked up. “Oh, hello, Jane” she said softly.
“I didn’t forget” I replied.
“Hmm, I knew ya wouldn’ ” Miss Hampstead said with a smile.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an aged photograph.
“Oh, me parents” she replied. The black-and-white smudged photograph clearly showed a tall, austere man with black hair. Next to him was a remarkably beautiful woman with what appeared to be red hair that went down to her waist. In between them was a little girl, no more than six, who looked a little stoic but gentle all the same. I did not have to guess who it was.
“I’ve bin rather melancholy t’day, Jane” she said.
“What? It’s your birthday!” I replied.
“Yes, but it was also da day I lost me father to consumption. It was nine months after me mum” she said. “I always feel conflicted on ‘is day because I’m both sad an’ happy. Naturally, I’m grateful I’ve lived through anothe’ yea’ to celebrate anothe’ birthday but at da same time, it remin’s may o’ death in a way.  On ‘is day ten yea’s ago, I lost da only member o’ me family I ‘ave over ‘ere. ‘At’s da day I became a loner, ‘cept for ‘at one stint nine months later.”
“Hmm?” I asked.
“I shouldn’ o’ said ‘at” Miss Hampstead replied. “Fo’get ‘bout it.”
“What? What is it, Miss Hampstead?”
“Nothin’.”
“No, what? What?”
Miss Hampstead sighed. “We’, looks like ya gonna be pesterin’ me till I tell ya so I suppose I’ll ‘ave to find a way. Na, ‘M sure Mrs. Mybridge wouldn’ approve o’ may tellin’ ya ‘is but ya gotta know ‘bout ‘ese things ‘ventually. Ya see, yea’s ago, after me father died, I became quite lonely. ‘At was until one day when I was workin’. We’, bein’ tone-deaf, ya know I couldn’ sing t’ save me life but neve’theless, I was doin’ it to meself-da ‘Sea Shanty’ I remember. ‘At was when ‘e walked in.”
“Who?” I asked.
“We’, ‘e ‘ad jus’ come home from school-the University o’ Pennsylvania an’ ‘e said he was walkin’ along an’ heard me singin’-o’ course I was embarrassed. ‘E said ‘ere was somethin’ so awful ‘bout me voice, it was almost hypnotizin’. I din’ know ‘ow to respond to ‘is but before I could, ‘e ‘ad introduced ‘imself-Mr. Thaddeus Proudeye.”
I was taken aback by this. “Reverend Proudeye?” I asked.
“Ah, ve’y goo’ ” Miss Hampstead replied. “Yah, it was ‘im. An’-na, ‘is is da difficult part for may to tell-‘e an’ we started seein’ a lot o’ each othe’. ‘E felt sorry for may, saw may as ‘is po’ lonely creature-which I was. Da problem was, ‘at’s all ‘e eve’ saw may as. ‘E neve’ thought I ‘ad ‘at much strength-thought I was a delicate lil’ flowe’. ‘E thought ‘e could comfort may an’ so, our relationship was neve’…platonic. We’, we started doin’ things-some things we shouldn’ ‘ave bin-Mrs. Mybridge’ll explain it bette’ to ya one day.
“We’, long story short, Thaddeus was…more ‘an fine wit ‘is-till ‘e foun’ at ‘ere was gonna be three people in da place. We’, ‘e wouldn’ stand for ‘at an’ ‘e left may all by meself wit me burden an’ mornin’ sickness an’ dropsies-but not before da neighbors ‘ad caught wind o’ somethin’.... It was a good thing Dr. Walker knew, ‘e probably saved me life-stayed wit may when I delivered an’, since I was quite sick afterwards, he came to visit may every day, bringin’ may ‘erbal tea an’ warm towels. But, while me physical comfort was goo’, me mental was not-I did not want ‘at child. I really din ‘ave da resources for carin’ for it-an’ it reminded may o’ im, ‘at man oo’ ad left may. It was ‘is flesh an’ blood after all. We’, I might ‘ave suckled ‘er an’ named ‘er Abigail after me grandmum but I din want ‘ere-I did know somewhere ‘at did though. When I wa we’ enough to be atta bed, I took ‘er to da orphanage in Sharpsburg.”
“You-you had a child?’ I asked.
“Yah, now do ya know why I treat ya so we’? I do it to make up for da fact ‘at I abandoned me real child. So, I’ve tried to fill da gap, correct a wrong in me life. But it’s a tragedy-it’ll neve’ be enough because, we’, no offense dear, but ya not ‘er.”
“I understand, Miss Hampstead” I replied.
“D’ya? We’, da child may ‘ave bin gone but da stigma remained-wit’ some neighbors more so ‘an others” she continued bitterly.
Suddenly, a spark and a twinge hit me. “Mrs. Pomp!” I cried-“that’s why she’s so vile towards you, isn’t it?!”
“Ya ve’y smart-yah, ‘at’s why she’s so cruel to may. For me sake an’ ‘er own, she tries to cover it by explainin’ ‘at it’s because I’m pretty much a low-born Cockney. But we’ ‘at da case, wouldn’ she be treatin’the Actons like ‘at too? Nay, ‘er an’ I were on quite amiable terms before ‘en. ‘At’s the tragedy o’ it. Mind ya, I really can’ blame ‘er. It’s ‘ow she was raised. Really, ‘er and I we’ neve’ goo’ material for bein’ anythin’ resemblin’ friends. We we’ always complete opposites in terms o’ origins. She was basically a high class aristocrat while I’s one step above a Manchester sewer rat. An’ while we’ on ‘at, Mrs. Mybridge even has a stigma ‘bout me.” She said this as she stared down at Mrs. Pomp’s old ring.
“Of course-she has a stigma about unmarried women!” I thought.
“But how come Reverend Proudeye isn’t looked down upon?” I asked. 
“Ah, excellent question. For one thing, ‘e’s a man, for another’, ‘e’s a minister. People was more willin’ to forgive ‘im readily.
“We’ ” she sighed, “I jus’ think ya oughtta know all ‘is, I’ve neve’ completely forgiven meself for what I did. At da  ve’y least, I ‘ope she’s beautiful wherever she may be. Ya kind to may, Jane, far more ‘an I deserve.”
“I don’ think so” I replied.
“Ah, but o’ course ya don’-ya still a child, ya still…innocent” Miss Hampstead said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “We’, enough o’ ‘is talk. We got a birthday to celebrate. Nay point o’ may bein’ miserable when I got company.” She said this as she rose and prepared a shepherd’s pie. Forty-five minutes later, we were eating the succulent preparation.
I left The Woolen Mittens on that day-the twenty-second of February-with feelings that were a mixture of confusion and enlightenment.
As the days passed, I became aware of a few more mysteries that still hung over the town. Most notable was the fact that there was still no trace of a culprit two months after the murderer of Mrs. Nodder. But, to be fair, there had been no other bodies found so a hint of relaxation had settled on Harper’s Ferry. Still, I occasionally heard people talk of the matter while in the streets.
The only person I ever actually spoke about it with, was, ironically, Mrs. Acton. I had met her on Potomac Street just as a young couple passed, speaking of the murders. Mrs. Acton then put in her two cents, stating she thought she had a pretty good idea who it was. But I was utterly surprised when she told me Reverend Proudeye was the most likely candidate in her mind-at least I was shocked until she told me that apparently, he had inherited all the money of the murdered people. She also attributed his unusually calm behavior at the crime scenes to be a sign of guilt. What startled me even more was the fact that Miss Hampstead had been the first one to hypothesize this. All I knew for sure was Mrs. Acton had convinced me.
But I wondered why she or Miss Hampstead had not gone to someone about it. In answer to this, “Mrs. Acton merely said, “it’s too complicated for ya to understand.” But I felt like that response was more convoluted than a simple explanation would have been.
Fresh upon the revelation, I decided to run to the office of the one person who held such records-Mr. Wicker. It was on the sixth of March that I knocked on the door of his office. He welcomed me into his office.
“What can I do for a young thing like yourself?” he asked.
“Mister, I have something to tell you-something Mrs. Acton just told me.”
“Interesting-what could that possibly be?” Mr. Wicker asked.
“I think we may have just figured out who the murderer is” I said.
Mr. Wicker looked stupefied. “You-think you might know who the murderer is?’ he stammered.
“Yes, I do-it was Reverend Proudeye. Mr. Wicker, didn’t you ever think while you were reading the wills that Reverend Proudeye was the one receiving the inheritance?” I replied.
Mr. Wicker looked horrified. “I never thought of that!” he breathed. “Oh, how could I have been so stupid?! It was right there in front of my eyes! Hold on, I’ll go get the wills and look them over. It might take a while though-there are a lot of files back there” he said, pointing to a door as he stood up and exited the room.
“It would take a while” I thought. I sat there in my seat, taking in the sparsely decorated room. Suddenly, I saw a filing cabinet on the other side of his desk. On it was written the label: BIRTH CERTIFICATES.
A voice in my head told me to do it. An urge crept up from the pit of my stomach. It was right there-the answer was right there. I had always maintained that my parents did not deserve to be found out but as I sat there, knowing that somewhere in that file was a paper with my name on it, I had a horrid craving…
I felt myself almost involuntarily stand up and I could not feel my legs as I walked over to the cabinet-it was as though I were floating. The drawer screeched open. I fingered through the names, listed by alphabetical order-A…B...C-I…J…K…L…M . I continued scrolling through…Mason, McKay, Miller, Moran, Mutton-Mybridge. Before I knew it, I had ripped out the paper entitled “Mybridge, Jane” and found myself staring at it.
But just as quickly, I became disappointed-there was no name listed for my father. Crestfallen, I bitterly accepted this reality.
But suddenly, I saw print down below it. And I was pulverized so much by what was listed that I had to reread again, and much more slowly, the name of my mother: ELAINE HAMPSTEAD.
I reread the name about ten times, not blinking in order to make sure this was in fact real and that the words would not disappear. A foolish part of me doubted it could be the same woman but when I looked at the date of birth (the twenty-second of February, 1849) and the place of birth (Manchester, Cheshire, England), there could no confusion-it was indeed her.
I clutched the document to my chest and looked about the room. Mr. Wicker still had not returned. What would I tell him? But then again, what would he say when he found out I had been going through his personal files? I felt numb and, as though by instinct, I knew where I could go.
I ran out the door-not caring what Mr. Wicker would think when he found his office deserted-and ran in the direction of The Woolen Mittens. As I did, the blood pounded through my head and the words I had once uttered to Mrs. Mybridge came surging back, “No, that woman abandoned me. I’ll never forgive her…”
I burst through the door of Miss Hampstead’s shop. She looked stunned at my rather theatrical arrival but merely greeted me in her usual, pleasant tone.
“Um, Miss Hampstead…” (I felt weird calling her this now), “…I found-something. I-I hope you won’t be angry with me.”
“What ya talkin’ ‘bout?” she asked, concerned.
Slowly, I held out the birth certificate to her. She took it and I saw her eyes narrow. When she reached the spot where her name was printed, she gasped, her hands flew to her mouth and the paper slipped to the floor.
Gradually, her widened eyes came up until they were level with mine. “Ya-nay, it can’ be…” she breathed, staring intensely at me, taking in my every facial feature.
Slowly, she approached me and, squatting down, clasped both of my shoulders. “Abigail?’ she whispered.
I stood there, full of emotion and it only reached a crescendo when she hugged me tightly and sobbed into my shoulder. I felt confused, relieved and joyous all at once-confused because I still could not believe my discovery, relieved because I had found my real mother and joyous at who my mother was.
But, as her arms loosened around me, I looked into her face and realized she was crying out of sadness as well as happiness.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Oh, Abigail-I’m sorry-Jane I mean-I don’ expect ya to forgive may-I abandoned ya. I was a terrible woman to ya, Jane.”
Tenderly, I reached out my thumb and wiped away a large tear from her cheek. “But, no, you didn’t abandon me-you’ve cared for me all these years-mother.”
She smiled the widest smile I have ever seen a human don. She embraced me again and this time, she was crying uncontrollably out of happiness. “Oh, ya jus’ as beautiful as I hoped ya’d be!”
But suddenly, I thought of something-how were we going to tell Mrs. Mybridge? What would she say? I told this to my mother and she reached down, picked up the birth certificate and said, “come along.”
We went out into the pale March sunlight and walked down the street. I knew to walk along beside my mother but I wanted to skip and prance and run all about the town, screaming in adulation, “I’ve found her!”
“I can’t believe it!” Mrs. Mybridge said when we showed her my birth certificate. She looked at us, tears streaming from under her glasses. “I was right!”
“You-knew she was my mother?” I asked.
“No, never knew-only suspected” Mrs. Mybridge replied. “When I went to the orphanage to look you over, they only told me one thing about your birth mother, but it was enough for me to speculate-they had said she had a Cockney accent. For years afterwards, I always wondered. I never saw your birth certificate-they simply made it out and delivered it to Mr. Wicker. He never even glanced at it.”
This made my stomach recoil a bit-the truth had been sitting undisturbed in a filing cabinet for ten years and I had never known. But now, I had to ask the question that I really did not want to ask Mrs. Mybridge for fear of hurting her feelings. But I went ahead anyway.
“Mrs. Mybridge, would you mind if-if I went and lived with-” and yet, I could not finish the question.
But Mrs. Mybridge understood nonetheless and she smiled. “Of course-it’s where you belong.” She then nodded her head once at my mother. The latter nodded back. “But you’ve got to promise to come visit me at least once a week! All right, darling?”
“Yes” I replied.
Later that afternoon, the three of us ran down to Mr. Wicker’s office with the birth certificate. The environment was filled with delight as we sat down and he read out loud to us. “Do you, Elaine Margaret Hampstead, proceed to take the charge of handling and caring for this child?” he asked.
“O’ course” she replied and in a heartbeat, she had signed the document with the initials EMH. “Hallelujah!” she exclaimed, sweeping me into her arms when we went outside.
“Miss Hampstead, I thought you weren’t religious?” Mrs. Mybridge asked.
“Oh, I don’ care at ‘is point!’ my mother gasped. We started to walk away but Mrs. Mybridge called after us.
“Hey, you two! You can say goodbye to me!” she cried happily. The both of us laughed and went back. My mother put one arm around old Mrs. Mybridge in a half-hug and I kissed her cheek. I waved to my old caretaker as we went towards The Woolen Mittens.
That night, my mother and I stood over a cookbook entitled A Ladies’ Practical Guide to Basic Cooking. She seemed to have grown tired of making shepherd’s pie every night but was going to attempt to prepare a dish that was no less British in origin-oysters.
My mother was unable to read the Standard English of the cookbook so I read the instructions while she followed them to the best of her ability. “ ‘Allow the water to boil vigorously, then, carefully add the desired number of oysters’ ” I read aloud. Clunk, clunk clunk-a total of seven oysters were dropped in the pot. “Add seasoning as desired” I read from the counter. I looked up and saw my mother open a cupboard containing spices she would use to season the beef in her shepherd’s pies. But my eyes widened slightly in horror as I saw her dump a little more than a liberal amount of salt and pepper in the pot.
After the oysters were cooked, my mother fearfully peeked into the pot. “I did it!” she exclaimed. Cheerfully, she took the steaming pot off the grill and placed it on the counter. She dished the oysters out onto plates and we dug in. Considering my mother’s abysmal cooking skills, the oysters were half-decent. They were a little dry and far too salty and bitter but the taste was still tolerable.
Later that night, My mother tucked me into her bed and whispered, “wan’ may to read ya a story?”
I had maintained I was too old to be read to but now, I could not refuse. I nodded but suddenly thought of something. “You don’ know real English!” I said.
“Oh, I got ways” my mother replied, fishing a large pile of paper from out of one of the drawers in her counter. “ ‘Is was copied for may in shorthand from da original text” she said as she sat next to me.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll” she replied and she began reading. It was well over an hour before she had finished the book and I was nearly asleep as I listened to her recite the final words: “…an’ ‘ow she would feel wit’ all ‘ere simple sorrows, an’ find a pleasure in all ‘ere simple joys, rememberin’ ‘er own child-life an’ da happy summer days’.”
I heard her put the stack of papers down and she slid into the bed next to me. “Ah, in ‘bout a month or so, I’ll get ya ya own bed, love. Remind may when summer comes-we’ close up da shop for a few weeks an’ go on a trip. ‘M not sure where-New York, Charleston, maybe even London if we can snag a few extra dolla’s. ‘Ow’s ‘at sound?”
“Hmm-hmm” I nodded, smiling a little in my near-sleep. My mother put her arm around me and snuggled close. I heard a thump and Harper came ambling along next to me. She flopped down by my mother’s side and started licking her paw.
“Goo’night, me pet” my mother whispered in my ear as she kissed my cheek. I drifted off to sleep, thinking of the life my mother and I would have, the places we would go, the things we would do and the happiness we would share each and every day.

“I don’t believe it-‘Jane Mybridge is Discovered to be the Long Lost Daughter of Elaine Hampstead’.” Mrs. Pomp read this headline in the local newspaper aloud as she sat, resting her foot-which had recently been broken by Foo Foo’s hoof.
“That child will starve to death in that Cockney’s care!” she snorted at Reverend Proudeye, who had been helping her ever since she had fractured her foot. He stared at her with a slightly haunted gaze in his eyes.
“What think you of this, Thaddeus?” Mrs. Pomp asked.
“I-well, it was Mr. Wicker’s decision and I-I trust his judgment” Reverend Proudeye replied.
“Really, you would trust the judgment of any man who would give a child to a woman who can cook nothing but shepherd’s pie and lives in a room smaller than Foo Foo’s stall?” Mrs. Pomp said arrogantly.
“That’s not for me to decide, Gertrude” Reverend Proudeye replied.
“Oh, never mind! I want roast beef tonight. Here-” she said, handing him a twenty-dollar bill. “It’s getting dark, they’ll be closing soon. Run down to Lowood’s and fetch me a pound of beef.”
“Yes, Gertrude” Reverend Proudeye said as he rose to his feet and left her house.

****
Back at The Woolen Mittens, a warm aroma filled the air. Overwhelmed, by her attempt at cooking oysters the previous night, Miss Hampstead had resorted back to shepherd’s pie-preparing the oysters had  been akin to performing complex algebra for her.
She placed the pie on the counter. “Na, don’ ge’ at jus’ yet, Abigail, it’s still hot” she told her daughter cautiously. “ ‘M amazed I made it as well I did wit’ da dizzy cold I seem to ‘ave gotten all o’ a sudden.”
Jane (now “Abigail”) was beaming from one of the cushions. The day had included a short walk to Jefferson’s Rock at the summit of the hill and a picnic on top of the mountain that lay on the other side of the Shenandoah-and what a beautiful view it had been! From this vantage point, the village of Harper’s Ferry had appeared to be nothing but a miniature play set. All the joyous girl knew was, if this was going to be the way life was every day at The Woolen Mittens, she would probably be having the best childhood imaginable.
Crouching down, Miss Hampstead looked in the icebox behind the counter and said, “oh, nay, haven’ got any beef left. I’d better run at an’ ge’ some before ‘ey close.” She went to Abigail and, giving her a kiss, said, “ ‘M runnin’ up ‘ere right now. I’ll be right back.”
“Bye, mother” Abigail said as she watched her mother disappear out the door.
Miss Hampstead took the three-quarter-mile walk to the Lowood Farm through the fading glow. A few times, she had to steady herself as a dizzy spell would occasionally seize and she would wobble a bit.  A few last pink rays of dying sunlight lay on the horizon as she stepped inside the door to Mr. Lowood’s office. The farm owner looked up and smiled.
“The usual, I presume?” he asked. She nodded.
He led her out onto the slaughterhouse platform where the huge meat grinder still chopped away madly. It would be turned off soon as the farm would be closing in less than half an hour.
Though she was tone-deaf, the buzzing of the meat grinder still caused Miss Hampstead’s light-headedness to act up a bit. She scanned the interior, looking anxiously for Mr. Lowood with the meat.
It was then that she heard footsteps behind her. Turning around, she found herself looking into the eyes of Thaddeus Proudeye. “We’, goo’ evenin’, Reverend” she said slowly.
“Funny I should catch you here, Miss Hampstead” he replied.
“What are ya doin’ ‘ere?” she asked in a bitter voice.
“Buying a pound of beef for Mrs. Pomp” Reverend Proudeye replied, clutching the twenty-dollar bill in his hand. “I actually think it’s convenient I ran into you. I need to ask you something.”
“What?” Miss Hampstead asked.
“Why are you doing this?” Reverend Proudeye inquired.
“Doing what?”
“Framing me.”
“We’, I had goo’ reason to-I mean, ya did inherit all da money o’ the murdered people” she said as she began to pace around him. “Can ya explain ‘at?”
“Th-That’s why you did it?! Isn’t it?!” Reverend Proudeye said in a vulnerable voice. “That’s why you were so eager to commit suicide-so you could frame me for a murder I didn’t commit and get me caught?”
“Ah, ve’y goo’ ” Miss Hampstead cooed.
“B-But I was one step ahead of you-I saw what you did-what you and Mrs. Acton did at Dr. Walker’s house and I saw you pop that poison into your tea.”
“Yah, because I wasn’ gonna let ya ge’ away wit’ it” Miss Hampstead said. She smiled triumphantly as she stared into his face. There was look of desperation on it. In this battle, she was clearly on top.
“Oh, ‘M sorry, am I walkin’ too close to ya for comfort?” she teased and she started pacing a bigger circle. At the same time though, she began to wonder where Mr. Lowood was with her beef…
Suddenly, Reverend Proudeye fell to his knees at her feet and, clutching her skirts, sobbed, “I would think after all these years, you’d forgive me! We made a mistake nearly eleven years ago! The past is in the past! But as for the present-you have to understand I was poor and wretched, sleeping the corner with the rats every night. I was going to starve to death!”
“Ah, so ya thought ya’d kill a few po’ people to get at ‘ere money?” Miss Hampstead sneered.
Reverend Proudeye rose to his feet. “For the love of God, have you no mercy, woman?!” he cried.
Miss Hampstead raised her eyebrows but then said softly, “I am nothin’, if not forgivin’.”
Reverend Proudeye relaxed until she added, “but I cannot forgive ya. ‘Ere we’ plenty o’ other measures ya could ‘ave taken before murder-charity is somethin’ ya need to learn ‘bout.”
“Like you showed charity when you took in that brat?” he asked.
“Yah, an’ she knows oo’ ‘er father is-she knows” Miss Hampstead said but there was something about the look in his eye that told her she had made a terrible mistake…
 

I sat by the fireside, petting Harper contently with a stomach full of shepherd’s pie. I had taken to dragging a string from a sewing basket on the floor so the cat could chase it. After a while though, Harper grew tired of this and so had laid down.
I had been so fixated on Harper’s fun, I lost track of the passage of time. Finally I looked up at the clock and realized that my mother had been gone for an hour, which I thought was quite odd. I really thought nothing of it until another ten minutes had passed with still no sign of her.
At last, I rose and went to the door. Slowly, I peeked out at the darkened street but there was no sign of life save for a stray dog who barked from the Public Way. A strange hunch materialized in the pit of my stomach though I was not sure exactly what it was.
I slipped on my coat and went outside. Harper followed me and trotted down the stairs, disappearing into Hog Alley a few yards to the left. I walked along High Street. “Mother?” I asked into the night. “Mother?”
My stroll down the foggy street continued. A faint, chilly breeze flew past me but other than the slight noise issuing from it, there was no other sound let alone a human response. “Mother?” I continually asked as I came out onto Shenandoah Street-no one.
I ran past the old houses and shops and onto the main road leading to the Lowood Farm-I knew I would meet her along the way. But the road was deserted and soon, I had reached the main office. A warm, yellow light was shining from the window. As I approached, I could hear the muffled sound of men’s voices.
I went right up to the window and peered through it. “Now suppose you tell me what happened?” I heard Mr. Lowood ask Tim.
“Awful, sir, simply awful-words can’t describe it-” Tim was gasping. Beside him, Andrew, another farm helper, sat curled up in a chair, rocking back and forth and muttering incoherently with widened eyes.
“Anything l-left, T-Tim?” Mr. Lowood asked.
“Just this” Tim replied and a pang seized my heart. He threw a ring onto Mr. Lowood’s desk-her ring. It looked as though part of the central gem had been sliced out and the band was noticeably broken.
“What happened for certain?” Mr. Lowood asked, his Adam’s apple rising and falling.
“She went into the grinder” Tim replied slowly.
It was as though a hand of ice and steel had seized my heart and broken it. I tried to reabsorb the words “she went into the grinder.” But no matter how many times I played them over in my head, I could not comprehend them.
“No…no” I whimpered as a cold sweat overtook me. My throat became dry and the tears burst forth unbidden.” No!”
Suddenly, I heard the office door open from the inside and Dr. Walker and the secretary of the farm rushed in.
“What was it?! We heard it was an emergency?!” Dr. Walker cried.
Tim shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do, doctor-Miss Hampstead’s dead.”
Dr. Walker looked appalled. “Dead?! Dead?! What do you mean she’s dead?!”
“She went into the meat grinder, sir” Tim sobbed. “Andrew here was the only one saw it happen, sir” he added, pointing at the nearly insensible Andrew.
Dr. Walker looked at him closely. “Is he mad?” he asked.
“No, he-he’s catatonic, sir” Tim corrected.
Through the pounding in my head, I could hear Andrew muttering rather audibly, “the bloody chunks! The bloody chunks! Miss Hampstead! The bloody chunks!”
Dr. Walker slapped his hand to his bald forehead, his face twinged in horror. “The poor woman!” he gasped. “I-Is there-is there anything l-left of h-her?” he stuttered.
Mr. Lowood sighed. “I think Andrew summed it up pretty nicely” he answered.
“So, it was an accident?” Dr. Walker asked.
“Well…” Mr. Lowood began somberly. “We’re not so sure of that. You see, Miss Hampstead wasn’t alone when she died. According to poor Andrew here, she was with a man Mr. Wicker had begun to suspect of committing those murders all along…”
“Who?” Dr. Walker asked.
“Reverend Thaddeus Proudeye” Mr. Lowood finished.
I did not listen to any more. I ripped myself away from the window and ran as fast as I could through the night. I did not know where I was running to or why. The tears blinded me as I went, accumulating more and more with each step. The horrid dialogue rushed through my mind: “…she went into the meat grinder, sir”, “…I-Is there-is there anything l-left of h-her?”, “…I think Andrew summed it up pretty nicely”, “…the bloody chunks! The bloody chunks! Miss Hampstead! The bloody chunks! The bloody chunks! THE BLOODY CHUNKS!!!!!”
And then, I was face-to-face with him. On Potomac Street, I stared into the eyes of Thaddeus Proudeye. There was a terrifying silence, then I growled, “you killed her!”
He looked momentarily stunned, then said, “oh, you heard about that did you?”
“Of course I did!” I snorted. I then noticed a pistol gleaming in his hand. “Well, go on, you coward!” I snarled.
“What?”
“Go on! Do it! Kill me like you did her!”
“N-now, listen, Jane” he stuttered. “This wasn’t what you think it was!”
“Yes, it was! I heard them talking just now! You murdered her like you did the others only this time, it was my mother!”
“No, please, Jane, listen! I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t do it!”
“Really, who did then?”
“You see-”
“No! You don’t deserve to explain yourself! I thought you were a good man!”
Now, Proudeye did raise the pistol. It was not pointed at my heart but rather, it shook in his hand as he aimed for my leg. “Please, I was poor! A little child like you wouldn’t understand! I needed the money! But I’ve seen the error of my ways! I tried to correct them-”
“BY THROWING MY MOTHER IN A MEAT GRINDER?!” I roared. Without any attempt at restraint, I lunged for his hand. Somehow, I was able to wrestle the pistol from Proudeye’s grip and I pointed it at him.
“Whoa, now, please, Jane, let me explain!” he said in a shaky voice. I had never shot a gun before but in the heat of the moment, I was more than willing to give it a try.
Proudeye now approached me. “Please, listen, Jane! I didn’t do it! I swear! I Didn’t-”
Bang.
I had squeezed my eyes shut and blasted his brains out. It was only afterwards that I became shocked over what I had just done. But the shock wore off quickly. I was not satisfied with this-I had wanted him to suffer.
Instinct took over. I threw the pistol down at his side and ran for cover in Hog Alley just as I heard the clattering of footsteps. From almost all sides, people were rushing out, some clad in their nightclothes. I heard gasps and shrieks coming from some of them.
It was another three minutes before Mr. Wicker, Ms. Pomp and Dr. Walker came running to the awful scene. Dr. Walker bent down and quickly looked over Proudeye’s body. “Suicide” he declared.
“Well, that’s all very well because I would like to announce something to everyone” Mr. Wicker said. He then waved his hands in the air. “Quiet!” he yelled. A hushed silence fell over the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here, lies your killer!” he announced, pointing at the stiff corpse. The crowd murmured. “Yes, and I have proof!” he continued, holding high in the air what I realized were the wills of the murdered people.
“Do you know who received all the benefits from the wills?! This man. Do you know who is responsible for the death of Mrs. Waterway?! This man. Do you know who is responsible for the death of Mr. Matthew?! This Man. Do you know who is responsible for the death of Mrs. Nodder?! This man.”
Mrs. Pomp was sitting in her cart at the front of the crowd and I clearly heard her say, “what a sight this is! I’m surprised the Cockney hasn’t shown up yet to give us another one of her ludicrous theories!”
“She would be here except she cannot be, Mrs. Pomp” Mr. Wicker said.
“Why not?’ Mrs. Pomp snorted.
Mr. Wicker choked up a little. “I-I have just received word she is in shreds.”
“Shreds? What do you mean shreds?” Mrs. Pomp inquired.
“She’s dead-fell into Mr. Lowood’s meat grinder.”
At this, a collective gasp rose from the crowd. A few people fainted and some began to cry, “Miss Hampstead?! Elaine?! Dead?!”  Through the rabble, I saw the Actons. All of their faces were pale as snow and Mrs. Acton was screaming into her husband’s shoulder.
“I really hate to be so graphic about it. Actually, she really did not fall in. She received a little assistance from this man!” Mr. Wicker shouted, pointing to Proudeye’s corpse.
I stared at Mrs. Pomp, who had become petrified. Her mouth gaped open. “Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, what have I done?! I feel like this is my fault!”
“No, it’s not, Mrs. Pomp” Dr. Walker said soothingly as he patted her shoulder.
“I was so cruel to her! For so many years, I detested her! Why, God!? Oh, why!?” she wailed, burying her face in a pocket handkerchief.
“Come along” Dr. Walker said and he and another man pushed her away.
Mr. Wicker continued with his speech. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, the murderer has been revealed. However, it is unfortunate that it came with the gruesome expiration of one of Harper’s Ferry’s citizens. It is through her sacrifice that we now definitively have the murderer. Before this tragic night, I only suspected Thaddeus Proudeye. Now, with her death, I can confirm it.”
The townspeople bowed their heads low in mourning and spoke in hushed tones as they began to clear the area. As they went, I heard some of them say, “dear, how will they tell her daughter? She’s just a child!”
After the crowd had cleared away, I was left in the silent alley. The bitter wind continued to dance around me and once again, tears rose in my eyes. Slowly, I turned and trudged back towards The Woolen Mittens. I mounted the steps and looked up to see Harper sitting at the door. She looked at me and meowed. I opened the door-she just sat there, staring stupidly up at me. I gritted my teeth, the anger boiling within me and I viciously kicked her inside. “Get in there!” I yelled.
I slammed the door behind me and looked at the room where light from the dying fire still bounced off the walls. I took it all in-the tea cup rack, the shelves, the half-eaten shepherd’s pie on the counter.
Harper stood beside me, still confused as to why I had so brutally kicked her. She sensed something was amiss and began meowing incessantly, as though asking where my mother was.
I went and sat on the floor, clutching one of the cushions, biting into it as a way to endure the pain-the mental pain that had amassed in my torn heart. Then, with nobody to hear me except Harper, I let out a shriek and sobbed as hard as I could. I lay on the floor, rolling about in agony and banging my head, trying to convince myself that this was some horribly realistic nightmare from which I would soon wake up. Any moment, I expected to be aroused from my slumber by the creaking of the door-then she would walk in with her parcels of meat, smiling in a warm, maternal way…
But no such thing happened. No matter how much I screamed and begged and pleaded with the door, it did not open. Harper rubbed against me and let out a squeak as if she were asking, “why has she been gone so long?”
I snatched the cat in my arms, squeezing her tightly and bawling into her fur. “She’s never coming back, Harper! Never!” I wept. Eerily, it was as though the cat had understood my words for she let out a mournful cry.
I did not sleep a wink that night. I kept vigil by the fireside all night, crying until there were no more tears left in me to cry, trying to make sense of it all. But nothing did…nothing except that she was gone forever.

The next day dawned bland and colorless. I could tell it was terribly cold outside just from the frost on the windowpanes. My aching, weary body rose from the hard floor. Denial still overtook me. I still was trying to convince myself that this was a horrid lie, a sick prank.
I looked over at the bed with the anticipation that my mother would be sleeping there, alive and in one piece-but the bed was empty. That had been my one last hope. I had now given up for certain. Bitterly, I allowed the acceptance to sink in. It felt like a lead weight on my heart but I did not fight the notion-how much more pain was I capable of feeling anyway? How much could my shredded heart be shredded even more?
Bitterly, I rose to my feet and resolved to go for a walk, retracing my footsteps from the night before. I went through Hog Alley, back down Potomac Street, past the spot where I had shot Proudeye, onto Shenandoah Street, through the pale morning light past the book store, back to the main road leading to that place where it had happened.
But as I saw the first smokestacks from the Lowood Farm begin to appear from behind the trees, I stopped in my tracks-I could not bear to go any further. Then, my morbid imagination became dominant as I gazed at the outlines of the smokestacks and the tip of the roof. What had they done with her? Had they gone ahead and buried what was left of her in the graveyard some time in night? Had they cremated the remains and planned on returning them to me later in the day? The last thought was almost too macabre to bear.
I turned my eyes from that place and began to walk back towards the town. I dragged my feet as I went. Harper’s Ferry felt like a ghost town but then again, I felt like a ghost so I was perfectly at home. It was as though I had died with my mother. I did not feel human or whole. The winter wind seemed to blow right through me as though I were a transparent shadow of some long-dead person. Last night seemed as though it were hundreds of years ago…
As I turned back onto High Street, I suddenly noticed a figure standing on the sidewalk farther up-it was a woman-and she was standing in front of The Woolen Mittens. I opened my mouth and let out a strangled cry of unexplainable joy when I saw who it was.
“Mother!” I cried and I pounded up the street, feeling the overwhelming happiness swell in my heart. It was being pieced back together. Relief like glue was mending all the cracks and my heart was whole.
…Then, it was shattered again. The woman standing in front of The Woolen Mittens was not my mother-it was Mrs. Pomp. As if there was no other way to further my agony! She leaned on her cane and looked at me gravely-she had clearly been crying.
“Jane” she stammered when she saw. “I-I don’t know…”
I approached her, although I did not know why. She had foiled me. For one brief moment, I had regained hope…
“Jane, I know you do not want to see me but I felt I needed to stop by” Mrs. Pomp said.
I invited her inside and she sat down next to me on the bed, clutching the top of her cane with whitened knuckles. She was silent for a moment before saying quietly, “what an awful way to die…”
She gasped and said, “when I heard about it, I-I just could not believe it. It has made me question everything I ever did in my life. I treated your mother horribly. I would apologize-only I do not deserve to.”
But at this moment, I was willing to forgive anyone except for Proudeye. My mother’s death had hardened me and yet at the same time, softened me.
“I was a cruel and callous woman-I should have died like that, not her” she said with a hint of genuine contrition in her voice. “I cannot imagine how you must feel, Jane. You only were with her for one day. I would give anything to trade places with you. I would rather have myself, an old and wizened woman, feel your pain than you, an innocent little child. A loss like that has come far too soon for you.”
I listened to her, emotionless. But then, she made a statement that moved me deeply. “You know, as much as we loathed each other, I would rather we be caterwauling at each other right now.”
I looked into her tear-stained, hazel eyes and then put my arms around her in an attempt to comfort her. “I still felt like I caused it though. He was taking care of me. If only I had not sent him down to get me beef, she-she would still be alive.”
But I did not blame Mrs. Pomp. She had had no way of knowing that my mother and Proudeye would happen to meet at Lowood’s at the exact same time. For the first time in my life, I did not feel disgust towards Gertrude Pomp. Rather, I pitied her…
Long after Mrs. Pomp had left, I sat there, staring out the window sickeningly. At around noon, I heard a knock on the door. I turned to see Mr. Wicker standing there. “Jane, I’m sure you know by now…”
I nodded. “Come with me” he said. I followed him to his office where he sat me down. Seating himself at his desk, he looked at me and said, “Jane, I think to should tell you the truth about what happened to your mother. You see, Andrew’s just come around and he told us what really happened-Proudeye didn’t push your mother into the meat grinder, she fell in. Andrew said she had suddenly seized her forehead as she were faint and then, she teetered backwards and…well, you know. But Proudeye didn’t do it. Actually, he tried to save her. But it was no use once her dress got caught.”
“H-he tried t-to save her?” I stuttered as I remembered that my mother had in fact been feeling dizzy that day. Mr. Wicker nodded.
But I only felt even more hatred. I still took a vindictive pleasure in blaming Proudeye. I dismissively said, “well, obviously, he didn’t try hard enough” in a voice that sounded hauntingly like my deceased mother’s own.
“Jane, I understand how you feel. But I thought you deserved to know the truth. I know you want to place the burden of guilt on somebody, but, as you’ve learned, there are times when it is nobody’s fault. Your mother’s death was one of those cases. You see, Proudeye was never going to kill anyone else. I checked my records thoroughly-nobody else in the town had left any part of their inheritance to him.
“Well, now that that’s settled, we need to talk about your bequeathal. Now, your mother did not have a will written out yet but it is only natural she would leave her possessions to you. But I’m sure you don’t feel like running a sewing shop so we’ll auction it off-”
“I’ll take it”  I said quickly. “I can work there after school. It’s mine after all, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes” Mr. Wicker replied.
“Well, I’ll work there then. I can learn how to sew.”
“If you would like to, Jane. Oh, and you’ll return to live with Mrs. Mybridge” he added.
That afternoon, I returned to a stunned Mrs. Mybridge’s house. Luckily, she had agreed to let me keep Harper.

I still went back to work in The Woolen Mittens every day after school and I taught myself sewing. Eventually, my needle work was almost as good as, my mother’s.
The Actons left town about a week after my mother’s tragic demise. They said they no longer felt welcome in Harper’s Ferry. Mrs. Acton spoke with me right before they departed, telling me a story about how my mother had attempted to poison herself on three successive occasions in order to expose Proudeye.
Mrs. Acton stated that, despite her broken heart, this whole event felt bittersweet because my mother had accomplished just what she had originally set out to do-she had sacrificed her life to reveal a murderer. But the realization had only hit Mrs. Acton once she had recounted the poisoning anecdote.
“Oh, bless ‘er soul!” she had exclaimed but then stopped herself. “Wait, I jus’ remembered ya mother wasn’t religious.” Then, she gave me a kiss on the top of my head and boarded the train, waving to me somberly as the train chugged away.
Eventually, the Acton children did return to Harper’s Ferry. I was seventeen when this happened and I eventually married Roger Acton Jr. Our first child was born in the spring of 1890 and naturally, we named the daughter Elaine Margaret. I too had changed my name so that it was now Abigail Elaine Acton though I always listed my maiden surname as being Hampstead.
All in all, we had three children. Besides Elaine, there were David and Beatrice and they all eventually found a niche helping me in The Woolen Mittens after school.
The Acton parents were not the only ones who left Harper’s Ferry for good-Mr. Lowood was too haunted to remain there and so, his slaughterhouse was demolished and he was on his way.
Mrs. Pomp was never quite the same afterwards. She lived to be ninety-four but spent most o her time in her mansion. As time went on, she grew more and more senile and eventually went all but mad. Right up until her dying day, she claimed she had constantly been haunted by a ghost-my mother’s ghost.
Mrs. Mybridge, meanwhile, lived to the healthy age of ninety-seven.
Sadly, as the years piled on and the pool of people who had actually experienced the night of March 7, 1881 began to thin out, the tale of my mother’s death became more of a legend than a memory.
Mr. Wicker and Andrew had never told the rest of the town that my mother’s death had actually been a tragic accident and so, the original summation of murder persisted among the townspeople.
By the time fifty years had passed, the fresh crop of schoolchildren had reacted to the tale as though it were a ghost story and in what I perceived as the cruelest way possible, they had invented a sick sort of nursery rhyme that was centered more around the myth than the fact and it made my blood curdle whenever I heard it:

“Little Miss Hampstead,
Is ground up and dead,
A kindly but foolish old maid,
She had a wool shop,
In a building on top,
And happily was quite well paid,
Don’t put trust in every lad,
For they may turn out bad,
No matter how seemingly sweet,
Beware the danger,
And not just the stranger,
Lest you be ground up in mincemeat.”

One time, I had actually heard some boys singing the rhyme as I was walking home and I had thrown stones at them, yelling that they were disgusting vermin who should respect my mother’s memory. The moment I had said “my mother”, the boys had gone pale and looked as though they would sink through the ground. Eventually, the morbid rhyme died out.
Incredibly, as I recollect this, ninety years have passed since the night of March 7, 1881. I still work at The Woolen Mittens despite my advanced age of one hundred. My husband has been deceased for seven years and most of my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren have moved away from Harper’s Ferry-but I remained. All of my youngest descendants were, of course, told the true story of their great-great-grandmother and what an incredibly brave woman she had been. For my entire century of existence, I have carried a torch for her, a torch that has never burned out and never will.
Sometimes, on clear days, I stand at “The Point” on the banks of the rivers, staring at the spot high up on the mountainside where my mother and I had our picnic on the day it happened so long ago. Sometimes, I almost swear I can see the two of us standing there, looking out over the spacious valley, the sparkling rivers and the point where three states conjoined.

THE END