Murder Has No Class by Rebecca Kent Page B

Take this ledger with you and finish working on it in the library. I will let you know when you may have my desk again.”
    “Yes, m’m, Mrs. Llewellyn.” Bowing and touching his forehead with his fingers, Roger snatched up the ledger and fled from the room.
    Sighing, Meredith took out the newspaper from the top drawer and opened it. The very next time Stuart Hamilton paid her a visit, she would be sure to get things straightened out with him. She’d had quite enough of Roger, Sophie Westchester, and their shenanigans. Roger Platt had to go, and she would demand that Hamilton either find her a new assistant, or she would find one herself.

Chapter 6

    “I read the article in the newspaper,” Meredith announced, later that afternoon. “It was most interesting.”
    Essie turned to her, her long skirts blowing around her ankles in the breeze. The warm sunshine had beckoned to her, and she had suggested a short walk in the grounds before returning to their final classes of the day. “Really? What did it say?”
    Felicity, who had strode ahead of them as usual, slowed her pace to listen.
    Meredith paused in front of a bench at the edge of the flower beds. “Why don’t we sit here for a moment. I will tell you what I read.”
    Essie seated herself, while Felicity looked a little impatient. “I read some of it myself,” she said, dropping onto the bench, “until I got to the part where it said James Stalham protested his innocence throughout the trial. Then I gave up in disgust. After all, isn’t that what all criminals do? Insist they are innocent of the crime?”
    Meredith leaned her back against the bench. It felt good to relax after the difficult confrontation she’d had with Sophie Westchester, who had been quite defiant until Meredith had threatened to have her removed from the school. At which point the student had mumbled a resentful apology and promised to stay away from Roger Platt—a promise Meredith had no doubt the student intended to break at the very next opportunity.
    Dismissing the wayward girl from her mind, Meredith raised her chin. It was such a pretty day. Sunlight once more bathed the gray walls of the school, and glistened on the smooth lawns. Beyond where she sat she could see the dark green branches of the poplars swaying, as if they were dancing in the wind.
    Above her head birds twittered and fluttered about among the leaves, and the fragrance of freshly cut grass reminded her that summer was not too far away. She was reluctant to spoil such a peaceful scene with talk of a murder, yet she was anxious to share what she had learned in the newspaper article.
    “James Stalham did, indeed, protest his innocence.” She leaned down to pluck a blade of grass from the hem of her skirt.
    “What is more,” she added, straightening her back again, “the defense attorney insists that James was innocent and that the judge misled the jury, by not allowing evidence.”
    “He’s paid to say that.” Felicity sneezed, and hunted in her sleeve for a handkerchief. “That’s what defense attorneys do.”
    Essie leaned forward, her forehead creased in a frown. “Did the article say what actually happened that night?”
    “Yes. James Stalham told the court he was having a late nightcap in the parlor when he heard a shot. It came from the library, across the hall from him. He rushed in and found his father lying on the floor, with a gun lying next to him. He picked up the gun, put it on the table, and then rang for the constables.”
    Essie gasped, a hand over her mouth. “How awful.”
    “Did he say his father shot himself?” Felicity looked skeptical, as Meredith had expected.
    “No,” she said. “James insisted that someone else shot Howard Stalham. The fact that the only fingerprints found on the gun belonged to James, helped convict him of the crime. The prosecutor maintained that if Howard Stalham had shot himself, his fingerprints would also have been on the gun. If someone else had shot