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Updated: May 12, 2025
Thus it ran: "I gladly recommend Priscilla Thurlby for any respectable employment which she may be competent to undertake. Her father and mother are infirm old people, who have lately suffered a diminution of their income; and they have a younger daughter to maintain.
There were two persons who saw nothing ridiculous in my resolution to continue the investigation, single-handed. One of them was Miss Mybus; and the other was the cook, Priscilla Thurlby. Mentioning the lady first, Miss Mybus was indignant at the resigned manner in which the police accepted their defeat. She was a little bright-eyed wiry woman; and she spoke her mind freely.
I couldn't take the knife out again, when I had done it. Mind this! I did really like you I didn't say Yes, because you could hardly hang your own wife, if you found out who killed Zebedee." Since the past time I have never heard again of Priscilla Thurlby; I don't know whether she is living or dead. Many people may think I deserve to be hanged myself for not having given her up to the gallows.
With the best intentions, Miss Mybus found no opportunity of helping me. Of the two, Priscilla Thurlby seemed more likely to be of use. In the second place, she was a woman I could trust. Before she left home to try domestic service in London, the parson of her native parish gave her a written testimonial, of which I append a copy.
"When people make extraordinary statements," he afterward said to me, "it sometimes saves trouble to satisfy yourself that they are not drunk. I've known them to be mad but not often. You will generally find that in their eyes." She roused herself and signed her name "Priscilla Thurlby." He turned the case over to me, in the first instance. I saw that he didn't believe in it, even yet.
I read the complete inscription, intended for the knife that killed Zebedee, and written as follows: "To John Zebedee. From Priscilla Thurlby." I DECLARE that it is impossible for me to describe what I felt when Priscilla's name confronted me like a written confession of guilt. How long it was before I recovered myself in some degree, I cannot say.
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