Mrs. Jeffries Wins the Prize by Emily Brightwell Page B

Rayburn house on Bellwood Place, and though she didn’t think she’d have much chance of finding anyone who knew anything about the murder or the victim, she had to try.
    A paved oval footpath lined with elm trees bisected the small green and ended at a tall gate in the ivy-covered walls of a neighboring churchyard. A group of children ran, skipped, and chased one another between the trees and the grass. Amanda grinned and waved her hands at them, blissfully unaware that they were ignoring her. Three wooden benches sat beneath the tree limbs and provided shade against the warmth of the June sun. Two of the benches were occupied so Betsy headed for the empty one right in the center.
    She angled the pram so Amanda could keep watching the children play before she sat down. She needed to think. This morning’s meeting had unsettled her and she wasn’t sure what she should or even could do about it.
    Luty’s outburst had shocked them, but from Betsy’s point of view, there had been a grain of truth in her complaint. Her bravery and resourcefulness might be admired, but what all of them really wanted Luty to do was sit in some banker’s or barrister’s office and dig up what she could.
    Betsy understood Luty’s frustration. She felt the same way. Sometimes she itched to get back out onto the streets and use her smile, her wits, and her guile to pry information out of a reluctant store clerk, shopkeeper, or publican. Amanda giggled as one of the boys raced past her, and she banged her hands against the rail of her pram to get his attention, but he kept on going.
    Oh, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, Betsy understood that, but she knew that while her overprotective husband hunkered at the table, no one wanted to upset any apple carts by asking her to do anything interesting. Since Amanda’s birth, everyone had entered into a silent conspiracy to make sure she never was at risk. Which was nonsense really, because like Luty, she could jolly well take care of herself. One didn’t survive the back streets of the East End without learning a few useful lessons. But there had been enough drama this morning and she’d been grateful when Phyllis had spoken up. The girl had shared some of her own painful past just so that Luty could salvage her pride about her outburst. So Betsy had held her tongue and not protested when they’d asked her to go to the murder neighborhood and see what she could learn. But that was ridiculous. Sheglanced around the park and made a face. Who was she supposed to chat with, the children chasing each other, one of the elderly nannies seated on the far bench, or the young couple holding hands on the other?
    â€œHow old is your daughter?”
    Startled, she turned. A middle-aged red-haired woman stood there, her gaze fixed on the toddler. The lady’s stare was intent, too intent. Betsy got up and put her hand on the pram’s handle. “She’s two.”
    Amanda giggled and the woman smiled, transforming her face. “Oh my gracious, she is precious, isn’t she. She reminds me of my daughter.” She looked at Betsy. “Mine is all grown up now, but like yours, she had those lovely curls and big blue eyes. Sorry I was staring, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be and it takes them a few moments to focus properly.”
    Betsy relaxed. “She’s our only baby and I’m afraid we spoil her a bit.”
    â€œI spoiled my Jeannette as well and she turned out just fine. Children are such a blessing, aren’t they. I shouldn’t be dawdling here, I ought to be home sewing my curtains, but after all the rain we’ve been having lately, I needed to get out of the house. It’s such a lovely day.”
    â€œYou live nearby then?” Betsy eased back onto the bench.
    â€œJust up the road and around the corner.” She waved her hand in an arc. “We’re the third house along, the one with the tiny