Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 21.

by Melissa

Part 21. Whispers of doubt, seeds of action.

Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, awoke with a scowl. The news of Melissa's arrest had soured her mood considerably. She sat up in bed, the crisp cotton sheets doing little to soothe her ruffled feathers. Melissa, in jail? The girl was a handful, no doubt, always pushing the boundaries, sneaking around with papers when she should have been learning her duties. Mrs. Henderson had suspected for some time that Melissa had been studying in secret, a fact that had irritated her more than surprised her. But theft? That was a different matter entirely. Melissa was many things – spoiled, entitled, a touch too clever for her own good – but a thief after her arrival at Elmwood? That, she couldn't believe.

Mrs. Henderson rose and walked to her wardrobe, a sturdy, no-nonsense piece of furniture. Inside hung her uniform, starched and impeccable, ready for the day. It was a variation of the standard maid's uniform, designed to reflect her position as head maid. The dress was a dark grey, a shade more dignified than the navy blue worn by the other maids. It was still long, reaching just above her ankles, but the cut was slightly more tailored, reflecting her authority. The white apron, as crisp and clean as ever, was longer as well, extending almost to the hem of her dress. It was also devoid of any pockets, a symbol of her supervisory role, as she wasn't expected to do the same chores as the other maids. A small, grey cap, trimmed with a slightly wider band of lace than the others, completed the ensemble.

Mrs. Henderson pulled the dress from its hanger, the heavy fabric a familiar weight in her hands. She slipped it over her head, the smooth fabric a welcome comfort. She fastened the buttons, her fingers moving with practised ease. The apron followed, the long white expanse a stark contrast to the grey of the dress. She tied the strings at her back, the bow neat and precise. Finally, she placed the grey cap on her head, adjusting it until it sat perfectly. Looking in the mirror, she saw Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, a force to be reckoned with.

Dressed and ready to face the day, Mrs. Henderson left her room and headed to her office, a small but functional space located at the back of the staff quarters. The room was sparsely furnished, containing a large oak desk, a comfortable armchair, and a filing cabinet. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with neatly organized files and ledgers. A large window overlooked the gardens, providing a calming view, though Mrs. Henderson was far too agitated to appreciate it at the moment.

Mrs. Henderson sat down at her desk, pulling out the staff schedule. As she reviewed the assignments for the day, her mind raced. Melissa's clandestine studies didn't surprise her. She'd suspected the girl was intellectually inclined, but she'd warned her repeatedly. The dean, Mrs. Cavendish, was a stickler for the rules. No staff member was allowed to be studying while working. But Melissa, stealing money? It made no sense.

Could Melissa have been framed? The thought occurred to Mrs. Henderson. It was possible. But why? Who would want to frame her, and for what reason? The questions swirled in her mind, unanswered. She drummed her fingers on the desk, her brow furrowed in concentration. Melissa was one of "her girls," as she privately thought of the maids under her charge. And one of her girls was in trouble. Unjustly, she suspected. Melissa might be a rule-breaker, but she didn't belong in jail. She belonged at Elmwood Academy, under Mrs. Henderson's watchful eye, learning the way to conduct herself as a proper servant. A little discipline, a little guidance, that's what the girl needed, not a prison cell. Mrs. Henderson felt a surge of protectiveness. She was responsible for her staff, and she wouldn't let this injustice stand.

Mrs. Henderson slammed her fist on the desk, the sudden noise startling a nearby houseplant. She had to do something. She had to find a way to convince Mrs. Cavendish to drop the charges. Perhaps she could appeal to the Dean's sense of fairness. Perhaps she could offer some... alternative form of discipline. A strict regimen of extra duties, perhaps? Something that would teach Melissa a lesson without ruining her life. She knew the dean could be reasonable, if approached in the right way. She just needed to find the right argument, the right angle. She would have to tread carefully. Mrs. Cavendish was not a woman to be trifled with. But Mrs. Henderson was equally determined. Melissa was one of her girls, and she wouldn't let her down. She just needed a plan.

***

The chirping of birds outside Sabrina's window, usually a welcome sound, felt discordant this morning, a stark contrast to the disquiet that had taken root in her thoughts. Stretching her weary muscles, the image of Melissa, her favourite target of playful (or sometimes not-so-playful) teasing, now flashed before her eyes, not with her usual haughty air, but shackled and led away under police escort. An unexpected wave of something akin to sadness washed over Sabrina.

Sitting up, Sabrina pushed aside the floral-patterned duvet, a frown creasing her brow. The accusation of theft against Melissa felt inherently wrong. Arrogant, certainly. Privileged and in dire need of a good lesson in humility, without a doubt. But stealing money? Sabrina struggled to reconcile this image with the girl she knew. Perhaps a brief period of confinement would do her good, teaching her a sense of deference and greater respect for the rules. Yet, the thought of Melissa languishing in a cold prison cell felt excessively harsh. What Melissa truly required, Sabrina mused, was not jail, but firm direction, a guiding hand – a strict yet ultimately benevolent mistress capable of instilling discipline and obedience, someone... not unlike herself.

Sabrina rose and approached the mirror, her blue hair a little wild from sleep. As she looked at her reflection, she reached for her neatly arranged uniform. The traditional maid's attire, while practical, possessed a certain understated dignity. First, she slipped on the long, dark blue dress, the cool fabric a familiar sensation. The crisp white apron followed, its wide bib a stark contrast, the ties cinching her waist and defining her place within the school's hierarchy. The apron's pockets, always useful, awaited their daily tasks. Finally, she carefully placed the starched white cap on her head, its delicate lace framing her face. Looking at her reflection, Sabrina felt a familiar sense of purpose settle within her. The uniform was more than just clothing, it was a symbol of her role, her commitment to order and service.

As Sabrina completed her dressing ritual, her thoughts returned with persistent unease to Melissa's predicament. A nagging feeling persisted that something was fundamentally amiss. While Melissa could be exasperating, this felt wrong. What she needed was not incarceration, but a course correction. Structure, guidance, disciplinary action whenever necessary – these were the remedies. And Sabrina, despite her history of playful power dynamics with Melissa, found herself unable to accept the image of the girl isolated and vulnerable in a dark, damp cell. A sense of obligation began to stir within her. She couldn't passively witness such a potential downfall.

With a sigh that carried a hint of newfound determination, Sabrina left her room, a steely resolve hardening her usually mischievous gaze. Her mind was made up: she needed to speak with Mrs. Henderson, the formidable yet just head maid. If anyone possessed the authority and fairness to intervene on Melissa's behalf, it was she. Perhaps, working together, they could devise a way to extricate Melissa from a fate that felt profoundly undeserved.

***

Agnès, the school receptionist, awoke to a grey, overcast morning, mirroring the gloom in her heart. The news of Melissa's arrest had cast a pall over her usually cheerful demeanour. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Melissa, a thief? It seemed impossible. Impulsive, perhaps, and definitely prone to bending the rules, but a criminal? No. Agnès just couldn't reconcile the image of the spoiled, sometimes petulant girl with that of a hardened criminal.

Agnès rose from bed and walked over to her wardrobe, a sleek, modern piece that reflected her professional style. Inside hung her work attire, neatly arranged and ready for the day. Today's choice was a classic black skirt suit, impeccably tailored, exuding an air of quiet sophistication. The jacket, fitted and elegant, had subtle padding at the shoulders, giving it a sharp, professional look. The matching skirt, pencil-straight and falling just below her knees, was designed to accentuate her figure without being overtly revealing. Beneath the jacket, she would wear a delicate black silk blouse, its soft fabric adding a touch of femininity to the otherwise businesslike ensemble.

First, Agnès picked up the blouse, the silk cool and smooth against her fingertips. She slipped it over her head, the soft fabric draping gracefully around her neck. The skirt was next. She stepped into it, pulling it up and fastening the side zipper. She smoothed the fabric down, ensuring it hung perfectly, and tucked the blouse into the skirt, ensuring a smooth, seamless line. Then she carefully removed the jacket from its hanger. Holding it up to the mirror, she admired the clean lines and the way the black fabric seemed to absorb the light. It was a power suit, in a way, but one that spoke of quiet confidence rather than aggressive dominance. She slipped the jacket on, the smooth lining feeling cool against her skin. She fastened the single button at the waist, the jacket moulding perfectly to her figure. Looking in the mirror, Agnès saw the ensemble taking shape: the sharp jacket, the flowing blouse, the elegant skirt. It was a uniform of sorts, a symbol of her role as the school's receptionist, a bastion of calm and efficiency in the midst of the often chaotic school environment.

Now, for the finishing touches. Agnès opened a small jewellery box, revealing a collection of delicate necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. She chose a simple strand of pearls, its creamy luminescence complementing the black of her suit. She fastened the clasp, the cool pearls resting against her skin. For earrings, she selected a pair of small diamond studs, their subtle sparkle adding a touch of understated glamour.

Finally, she turned her attention to her makeup. She sat down at her dressing table, a sleek, modern piece of furniture that echoed the style of her wardrobe. She applied a light foundation, evening out her skin tone and creating a flawless canvas. A touch of blush on her cheeks added a healthy flush of colour. She then focused on her eyes, applying a subtle eyeshadow and a thin line of eyeliner, enhancing their natural beauty without being overly dramatic. A coat of mascara lengthened and darkened her lashes. Finally, she applied a touch of lipstick, a soft, neutral shade that complemented her overall look. Looking in the mirror, she saw the complete image: the elegant suit, the delicate jewellery, the polished makeup. She was Agnès, the receptionist, ready to face the day.

 

But the image of Melissa lingered in her mind. The money found in her room... Agnès was certain it wasn't stolen. Melissa knew the rules. She wasn't allowed to keep cash on the premises. Why hadn't she simply asked Agnès to hold it for her? Agnès had always been happy to help, to act as a discreet and trustworthy custodian. How could Melissa be so foolish, especially with Mrs. Cavendish already conducting an inquiry? It was beyond comprehension.

 

As Agnes finished getting ready, an idea sparked in her mind. Maria. Melissa's former family maid. Maria might still be angry about Melissa's past transgressions, the way she had treated her, but surely she wouldn't want to see her rotting in jail. Maria had a good heart, despite everything. Agnes decided she would call Maria. She would explain the situation, plead with her to do something, anything, to help Melissa. It was a long shot, but it was the only thing Agnes could think of. She grabbed her phone, her heart heavy with worry. For Melissa's sake, and for her own peace of mind, she had to do something.

***

Maria was serving breakfast at the diner she now called her workplace. The smells of greasy eggs and sizzling bacon filled the air, a stark contrast to the aromatic bouquets of Elmwood Academy. Her waitress uniform, a far cry from the starched and formal attire she used to wear at the Jones' mansion, was a tight-fitting black dress with a short, flared skirt that accentuated her curves. A bright red sash tied around her waist added a splash of colour, and her long, dark hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail.

The insistent ringing of the phone suddenly cut through the clatter of dishes and the murmur of breakfast chatter. Maria, her hand already reaching for the order pad tucked into her pocket, snatched up the receiver. "Hola, Maria speaking," she answered, her voice bright and professional, a practised smile already forming on her face.

"Maria, it's Agnès from Elmwood Academy," a worried voice crackled through the line.

"Agnès? Is everything alright?" Maria asked, her voice losing some of its practised cheerfulness.

"No, it's not," Agnès replied, her voice strained. "It's Melissa. She's been arrested."

Maria's heart skipped a beat. "Arrested? What for?"

"Theft," Agnès explained, her voice hushed. "Apparently, they found money in her room, and they think she stole it. But with the identity mix-up, they have her record confused with that delinquent girl. So they think she's a repeat offender! She could go to jail for years!"

A wave of dizziness washed over Maria. Jail? Years? Despite the anger and hurt she still felt towards Melissa for her betrayal, the thought of the young girl wasting her life behind bars was unbearable.

"Maria, you have to help," Agnès pleaded. "You need to contact the police, tell them who she really is. You're the only one who can vouch for her."

Maria's hand tightened around the receiver. Her breath caught in her throat. "Agnès, I... I can't."

"What? Why not?"

Maria's heart pounded in her chest. "Because... my work visa. It expired when I lost my job with Melissa's family. I am an illegal immigrant now. If I go to the police, they'll deport me."

Agnès was silent for a moment. "But Maria, she's innocent! She could be imprisoned for years because of a mistake!"

"I know, I know," Maria said, her voice filled with anguish. "Believe me, I want to help her. But I can't risk everything. I have to protect myself."

The silence on the line stretched, thick with unspoken anxieties. Maria's own mind reeled, a chaotic mix of dread and helplessness. She felt caught in an impossible bind, her desire to aid Melissa clashing fiercely with the instinct to protect her precarious life in this country.

"But surely..." Agnès's voice finally broke the silence, tinged with a desperate hope. She grasped the gravity of Maria's situation yet couldn't abandon the urgency of Melissa's plight. "Isn't there any avenue you could explore?"

Torn between her empathy for Melissa and the primal fear of deportation, Maria's thoughts spun. The desire to help warred with the overwhelming question of how. A hesitant thought surfaced. "Perhaps... perhaps there is a possibility," she ventured. "I know a lawyer, Miss Delgado. She defended me when I was unjustly accused of theft. I still have her contact information."

A surge of relief coursed through Agnès. "Could you possibly share her number with me? Perhaps she could offer Melissa legal assistance as well."

Maria hesitated for a moment before replying, her voice gaining a newfound resolve. "I can do even better than that. I will personally contact Miss Delgado and explain the entire situation to her. You can then coordinate with her directly."

"That sounds like a very good plan," Maria agreed, a flicker of optimism returning. "Speak with Miss Delgado and see if she is willing to take on Melissa's case. And please, call me back with any updates. In the meantime, I will speak with Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, and see if she can offer any assistance from within the school."

With a slightly trembling hand, Maria hung up the phone. The diner's bustling sounds receded as she stared at the receiver, the weight of Melissa's predicament pressing heavily upon her. Miss Delgado was a capable lawyer, the best Maria knew. But would even she be able to extricate Melissa from this tangled web of mistaken identity and legal complications?