Mrs. Jeffries Pinches the Post

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11

“I’m afraid there isn’t much hope,” Dr. Douglas Wiltshire said, as he and his companion walked down the long hall. He glanced at the closed sickroom door. Oscar Daggett, the world’s worst hypochondriac, was currently lying on his sickbed suffering from a mild case of indigestion.

“Have you tried everything, sir?” Mrs. Benchley, the housekeeper for Oscar Daggett asked.

“Everything. There’s nothing left to be done. Sad as it is, all living things only have so much time allotted to them on this earth. When it’s over, death is inevitable.”

“It seems such a shame, sir. You’ve worked so hard to keep the old stick alive, too.”

“Even I’m not a miracle worker, and my best efforts simply weren’t good enough this time, Mrs. Benchley. It’s nature’s way, I suppose.” He shrugged and smiled as a young maid carrying a stack of linens slipped into the sick man’s room. Dr. Wiltshire knew he ought to check on his patient before he left, but he really didn’t see the point. He’d already told Daggett he was going to be fine. Besides, he simply wasn’t up to listening to the man whine. Except for the indigestion, there wasn’t a thing wrong with the fellow. But Daggett would moan and wail as if he had the grim reaper nipping at his heels.

Dr. Wiltshire and Oscar Daggett had played this game many times. Daggett ate too much, drank too much, smoked too much and took absolutely no exercise. Was it any wonder he felt ill most of the time?

“I will see you out, Doctor,” Mrs. Benchley said. They’d reached the landing. The housekeeper wasn’t surprised the good doctor hadn’t poppped in to say good-bye to her employer. If Mr. Daggett caught sight of the man again, he’d bend his ear for hours about his various aches and pains.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Benchley.” The doctor cast one last glance over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re very busy. But do remind Mr. Daggett of my orders. He’s not to have anything to eat today except clear broth and light toast.” He smiled to himself as he gave the housekeeper instructions. As Daggett’s complaints were actually very mild, there was no reason he couldn’t eat a plain, but decent dinner. But Wiltshire wanted the man to suffer a little for dragging him away from his surgery and the genuinely ill patients he’d had to put off.

“Yes, Doctor. And again, I’m terribly sorry your orange tree is dying. I know it was the pride of your conservatory. I do hope Mrs. Wiltshire isn’t taking it too hard.”

Inside the sickroom, the maid stepped up to the bed. “Here’s some fresh linens, sir, and a clean nightshirt. If you’d like me to help you to the chair, sir, I’ll change the bed.” She’d already changed the linens once today and this was his third fresh nightshirt. She hoped the doctor had given the silly old fool something to make him sleep. She wasn’t sure how many more times she could change this ruddy bed. Her back was killing her.

Oscar Daggett, a corpulent fellow with a mottled complexion and thinning blond hair, lifted his head from the six overstuffed pillows. His watery gray eyes were as big as saucers and his expression panic-stricken. “My box, Nelda. Bring me my box. Hurry.”

“What box, sir?” She laid the linens on the bedside table.

He threw out his arm, pushing the heavy, red-velvet bedcurtains to one side and pointed at the huge armoire opposite the windows. “My letter box. I must have it. Hurry, I don’t have much time.”

Daggett was terrified. He’d known his health wasn’t good. He was always sure he was on the verge of death. But ye gods, this was the first time his diagnosis had been confirmed by Dr. Wiltshire. He wished the doctor had had the good grace to give him the bad news to his face.

Nelda frowned. “You mean your writing box, sir? The gray paisley one?”

He nodded weakly. He had much to get off his conscience. “Get it quickly, girl.” He clutched his stomach as a sharp pain speared his lower abdomen. “I’ve not much time left.”

Nelda hurried over to the huge cherrywood armoire, knelt and pulled open the door of the bottom cupboard. Reaching in, she yanked out a large gray-and-gold paisley box. She took it to the bed and laid it next to Mr. Daggett. “Would you like me to change the bed first?”

“There’s no time for that now.” Wincing as another pain went through him, he forced his big bulk into a sitting position and placed the writing box across his lap. Opening it, he reached inside and took out a pen and piece of paper. “Come back in an hour. I’ve a very important letter for you to deliver.”

“Yes sir.” Nelda was a bit puzzled. It wasn’t like the master to miss a chance to loll about in clean sheets. But she did as she was bid and left the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

Oscar Daggett stared at the blank paper for a moment. One part of him was desperately frightened of what he was about to do, but another part knew he couldn’t meet his Maker without confessing. No, he simply couldn’t die without telling the truth. Almighty God would never forgive him for staying silent, and he didn’t want to spend eternity frying in hell.

And he was dying. He knew it. He’d heard the doctor’s grim prognosis with his own ears. Mind you, he was a tad annoyed with his housekeeper for referring to him as an “old stick.” That was quite disrespectful. If he wasn’t dying and consequently filled with mercy and forgiveness, he might consider sacking the woman for her impertinence.

He took a deep breath, and another sharp pain shot across his chest. He moaned. He’d best get on with it; perhaps he had even less time than he’d thought.

He straightened his spine, put the paper on the lid of the box and positioned the pen in his right hand. He began to write. “For the good of my immortal soul, I, Oscar Daggett do hereby make this confession of my own free will.”

He poured out his confession onto the clean, white pages. By the time he’d finished he was exhausted. He slumped against the pillows and closed his eyes, waiting for the end to come.

Precisely one hour later, Nelda came back to his room, knocked and entered slowly. “Sir,” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”

“No. Come closer, girl.” He motioned for her to come to stand by his bedside. He reached under his pillow and pulled out the letter. “Take this to number thirteen Dunbarton Street,” he told her.

“Where’s that, sir?” She was a country girl, recently arrived in London. The address meant nothing to her.

“It’s in Fulham, girl. Take the letter to number thirteen and give it to the woman that answers the door. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, sir.” She took the envelope and stuffed it in the pocket of her stiff white apron. “Do you want me to take it tonight, sir?”

“Right away. Now. Tell me the address again.”

Nelda repeated her instructions. She couldn’t read very well, but it wasn’t much to remember.

“Good. Go now and hurry. I must know that it’s been delivered before I pass.”

“But what about Mrs. Benchley, sir? She don’t allow us out of the house after dark, sir.”

“I’m the master here, not Mrs. Benchley. Send her to see me if she tries to stop you. Now, hurry, go on.”

“Yes, sir.” Nelda bobbed a quick curtsey and hurried out of the room.

Oscar Daggett sighed peacefully and lay back against the pillows. Now that his conscience was clear, he was quite prepared to meet his Maker.

Upon leaving the master’s bedroom, Nelda went down to the kitchen to find the household in a tizzy. Mrs. Benchley had fallen in the wet larder and smacked her forehead against the edge of the shelf. The cook and the other maids were gathered around her trying to stanch the flow of the blood.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Benchley,” she said. “The master wants me to take a letter to …”

“For God’s sake, girl, can’t you see Mrs. Benchley is busy,” the cook scolded. She glared at the impudent housemaid. Stupid country girls. They couldn’t see what was right under their noses.

“I’m sorry,” Nelda said miserably. “I can see poor Mrs. Benchley is in a terrible state, but Mr. Daggett ordered me to deliver this letter to …”

“For goodness’ sakes,” the cook cried. “Take the wretched letter and be done with it. Do hold still, Mrs. Benchley, we’ll have the bleeding stopped in no time.”

Nelda gave up trying to explain. Turning, she grabbed her cloak and hat from the rack and hurried out the back door.

“Mrs. Benchley, don’t fret so, we’ll have you fixed up in just a moment,” the cook assured the housekeeper. But Mrs. Benchley didn’t answer. Her eyes rolled up in the back of her head, and she slumped back against the chair.

“Oh blast, we’ll have to call the doctor,” the cook said glumly. “Mr. Daggett won’t like that.”

“But the bleeding’s stopped,” Hortense, the tweeny, pointed out. She was standing behind the cook and could only see a portion of the housekeeper’s forehead.

“True. But Mrs. Benchley’s gone to sleep,” the cook replied. “And I don’t think that’s a good sign. Run along and get Dr. Wiltshire,” she ordered the tweeny. “And be sure and tell him it’s for Mrs. Benchley and not Mr. Daggett. We want the man to hurry this time.”

By the time Dr. Wiltshire arrived, Mrs. Benchley was back in the land of the living. But he was taking no chances. “You have a concussion,” he told her. “I don’t think it’s serious, but with head injuries, one never knows. You must stay in bed for a few days and get plenty of rest.”

“Mr. Daggett won’t like that, sir,” Mrs. Benchley replied. Her head was pounding, and there was a terrible pressure at her temples.

“Not to worry,” Dr. Wiltshire assured her, “I’ll make it right with Mr. Daggett. He’s not a monster, you know; he won’t expect you to work when you’re ill.” He hoped the old boy would see reason, but the fact was, half of his patients were monsters and did expect their servants to do all manner of impossible things, ill or not. Well, dammit, he wasn’t going to allow this poor woman to kill herself working. “I’ll just pop up and see him.” He headed for the back stairs and stopped at the kitchen door. Turning, he addressed the cook. “Have someone help Mrs. Benchley to her room and into bed. Is there someone who can sit with her tonight? She oughtn’t to be alone.”

The cook hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to do. “I suppose Nelda can sit with her.” She looked around, wanting to find the girl. “Where is she?”

“Remember, she’s gone to deliver a letter,” Hortense said helpfully. “She ought to have been back by now. There’s a postbox just on the corner.”

“Well, go out and have a look for her,” the cook ordered. Really, she thought, these country girls were useless. You couldn’t depend on them at all. “I’ll see that someone sits with Mrs. Benchley,” she said to the doctor.

Wiltshire went up to his other patient’s room. Daggett was still sitting up in bed, his eyes closed and his hand resting on his protruding stomach. “Egads,” he cried, when he caught sight of the doctor, “back so soon. I thought I had another few hours at least.”

The doctor was in no mood to put up with Daggett’s hysterics. “What are you talking about, man? There’s nothing wrong with you but a mild case of indigestion. I told you that this afternoon. Look, your housekeeper’s had a bit of an accident…”

“I know what you told me,” Daggett interrupted. “But I now know the truth. The end is near. The reaper is coming for me. I’m,” he paused dramatically, “dying.”

Wiltshire wondered if Daggett had ever done a stint on the stage. “Nonsense, Mr. Daggett. You’re nowhere near dying. You’ve got indigestion.”

“I’m not dying? Are you sure?” Daggett shot up off the pillows. There was something in the doctor’s voice that made him realize he was speaking the truth. “But I heard you talking to my housekeeper. I heard you say there was no hope… that the end was near, that it was nature’s way and everything had to die.”

Wiltshire forced himself to be patient. Daggett wasn’t the biggest fool he’d ever dealt with, but he was close. “You overheard me talking to Mrs. Benchley about my orange tree. It’s leaves are falling off, and it’s dying, not you. Speaking of Mrs. Benchley, I’m afraid she’s had an accident. That’s why I’ve come back. She won’t be able to work for a few days. I’ve ordered…” He trailed off as he saw Daggett’s face go completely white. For once, the fellow actually looked ill. “I say, are you feeling all right?”

Daggett couldn’t speak as the enormity of what he’d done hit him full force. He started to get up, but the doctor gently pushed him back. “You don’t look at all well. You’ve gone pale, perhaps I’d better have a look at you…”

Daggett shook him off. He had to get that letter back. He had to stop that silly girl from delivering it. “I’m fine,” he said. He tossed the bedclothes to one side and swung his legs off the high bed. “Just fine. Not to worry, I’m suddenly feeling fit as a fiddle. I think I’ll get dressed and take a bit of air.”

Puzzled, the doctor stared at him. “Your color isn’t very good, sir. You ought to go back to bed.”

“Nonsense.” Daggett forced himself to smile. “I’m fine. As you said, it’s just a bit of indigestion. Now, what were you saying about Mrs. Benchley?” He barely listened as the doctor detailed the housekeeper’s accident. All he could think of was getting to Fulham, to number thirteen Dunbarton Street, and getting that damned letter back.