Judge Thee Not

by Edith Maxwell

  I sucked in a breath. The man from Poland? The possible brother of Merton?

  David went on. “He was hit in the back with full force by a carriage traveling far too fast in the Point Shore area of Amesbury near the Chain Bridge this morning. You know, after the Lowell Boat Shop but before the road turns toward the river.”

  “The poor fellow. Is he going to live?”

  “I can’t say at present. He has damage to his internal organs, most definitely. He also had broken bones, which an orthopedic colleague is currently setting, as well as a terribly lacerated face. We’re going to watch him closely. If he stabilizes, if he regains consciousness, we’ll consider exploring inside to see if there’s anything we can fix.”

  “If he isn’t conscious, how does thee know his name?”

  “He carried a passport and some kind of court papers in his coat. Some were in English. A sheaf were in another language I guessed was Polish, based on the travel documents, which are in French, of course.”

  “Of course.” I had never been to another country except the French part of Canada to our north, but I knew passports and other international papers always included a translation into French, as it was the universal language of diplomacy. I also knew David spoke the tongue quite well. “David, does the man’s name begin with a string of consonants, some of which are the letter Z?”

  “By George, yes. How did you know, Rose?”

  “It’s a bit of a long story, but the man might be associated with the husband of the woman who, uh, died this week.” I was cognizant of the fact that the switchboard operator often listened in on calls. She wasn’t supposed to, but it behooved any user of a telephone to be prudent in his speech.

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do. I’ll have to let my, ah, friend Kevin know.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But this news isn’t why I called. Mother wants to start preparing the invitations to her garden party.”

  “It’s two months away. Why now?”

  He chuckled. “Please don’t ask me to explain the ways of what she calls proper society. Mine is not to ask why but to comply, at least in this case. So she’d like a guest list from you and Dorothy.”

  I groaned. “All right, I’ll write to my mother this morning. But it’ll take a few days to receive her reply.” We said our goodbyes and hung up. I waited only a moment before connecting again. I had something more important to do than arrange a guest list.

  “I need to speak with Kevin Donovan at the police station, please,” I said to the operator.

  After a few clicks and background murmuring, Kevin came on the line. “Detective Donovan.” His tone was clipped, official.

  “Kevin, it’s Rose. David Dodge tells me a man with a Polish passport was seriously hurt this morning. A carriage hit him straight on in the Point Shore neighborhood. I thought thee would want to know. I think it’s likely to be the person for whom thee was searching. David said the name on the passport could be the one I mentioned.”

  “Thank you, Miss Rose. I expect it is. Did the man survive?”

  “Yes, but he’s unconscious at the Anna Jaques Hospital.”

  “Very well. I’ll have them notify me when he wakes up. Anything else?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him about Irvin and Nalia, then closed it. “Possibly, but I’ll write it in a note and bring it by the station. It’s not something to discuss on the telephone.”

  “I’d appreciate it. And Miss Rose?”

  “Yes?”

  “Please keep yourself safe. Don’t go about risking anything.”

  I smiled at his solicitude. “I won’t. I am not interested in coming to harm.”

  Thirty-five

  By ten o’clock I’d written and posted a note to my mother. I also began a draft of my own guest list. All the Baileys, of course, including my niece Faith, plus Zeb and his family. Bertie and Sophie. Kevin and Emmaline. Jeanette and her husband. Annie. John Whittier. I smiled at the unconventional nature of my circle of friends.

  I added my maiden aunts in the Cape Cod village of West Falmouth, although I imagined they wouldn’t come. My father’s elderly sisters, who lived together, were nearly as old as John and hadn’t traveled north at all lately. If my aunts couldn’t make the trip, David and I would pay the two a visit after we were wed. I’d heard of the custom of newly married couples taking a honeymoon voyage abroad, but those were well-financed members of what Clarinda called proper society. Still, it would be a delight to travel alone with David and take some time away from our work to simply be together. And I’d heard that Cape Cod, in the southeastern area of Massachusetts, was a beautiful corner of the earth. I could trust Annie with any clients who went into labor, calling on additional support from a midwife friend in Newburyport if she needed it.

  As a passing wagon bumped along outside, I paused to gaze at my hand holding the pen, then stretched out my other hand next to it. I had long fingers, but I wore my fingernails short and neatly trimmed. These were hands that touched women’s bodies, and I cleaned, gardened, and bicycled with my hands, too. Fingernails like Nalia’s would be impractical for me. She could manage because her work examining photographs of the stars was entirely cerebral, and she probably had household help, as well.

  I thought of the white substance found under Mayme’s fingernails and wondered again what it had been. Surely Kevin’s team would have analyzed it by now. Perhaps it was as simple as talc, but nothing about this case seemed simple.

  Enough with idle musing. Right now I needed to get a note to Kevin and I could pay a visit to Emmaline and the baby while I was out. I would clean my office later. I checked out the window to see that the rain shower had already passed by. Happy to see the sun peeking through, I jotted down what I’d seen last night as well as a summary of Nalia’s rather threatening garden visit this morning, and slid the missive into an envelope. I changed into my split skirt attire, washed up, and told Lina I was going out.

  Fifteen minutes later I delivered the envelope to the man at the front desk. “My name is Rose Carroll,” I told the fellow. “It’s urgent for Kevin Donovan to see this as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Miss Carroll.” He nearly saluted me.

  “I thank thee.” I turned away, stifling a smile. I’d been in the station enough times, and enough young officers had seen Kevin respecting my opinion, that I knew the detective would get the note.

  I remounted my bike and soon enough was rapping the knocker on Emmaline’s front door.

  “Rose, what a delight to see you.” Emmaline answered with a sleeping baby on her shoulder. “Please come in.”

  “I thank thee. I delivered some information to thy husband a few minutes ago and thought I’d see how Rosalie is faring.” I followed her into a house now tidy and bearing the aroma of fresh-baked bread.

  “See for yourself.” She handed me her daughter. “Do sit down, Rose.” She perched on a chair.

  I took the baby and sat opposite Emmaline, cradling the infant in one arm so I could feel her face with my other hand. She was warm but not hot and had a healthy color in her cheeks. I leaned down and sniffed her head. “There’s nothing like the smell of a baby, is there?” I smiled at Emmaline. “She’s still nursing well?”

  She nodded. “Thanks be to the blessed Virgin, and to you, Rose.” She crossed herself.

  “Good.” I looked around. “Where is the young doctor?”

  “He’s at work at the boat shop.” She shook her head in wonder as the tall case clock in the corner gonged once for the half hour. “He’ll be there the whole day, I expect. Mr. Sherwood watches out for him.” She gazed at Rosalie. “What will I do if she turns out to have exceptional intelligence, too?”

  I laughed. “Thee will love her and guide her on her way, as thee so ably does with Sean.”

  “I suppose. It’s a marvel how two perfectly ordinary parents can produce a brain like my son’s.”

  “Has thee heard of Charles Darwin, and of Gregor Mendel?”r />
  “The Austrian monk?” Emmaline asked.

  “Yes. It’s very interesting the kinds of investigations they are doing, looking into the inheritance of traits. I don’t understand much of it.”

  “God certainly has a hand in it.”

  “Indeed He does.” I handed Rosalie back to her mother and stood. “I’ll be off. I have an errand in the Point Shore area. Perhaps I’ll stop in and say hello to Sean while I’m there.”

  “He would love to see you. Thank you for helping our family, Rose.” Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

  “Thee is very welcome. Thee is my friend, as is Kevin. Friends help each other.” Emmaline’s swings of emotion were typical of a new mother’s. “Wipe those tears, now.”

  “You’re a good friend, and I want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

  I smiled as I smoothed down my dress. “I’ll let myself out.” She didn’t know how much helping others fed something at my core. It seemed nearly selfish to serve other people as I did.

  Thirty-six

  I cycled all the way down Main Street to where the Powow River emptied into the Merrimack. The street was full of vehicles with purposes both industrious and leisurely. A plodding workhorse pulling a dray carrying coal was overtaken by a sleek buggy driven by a well-dressed young man. A society girl wearing the latest style drove a tidy whalebone. At the edge of the road two maids bustled along with baskets full of market produce, while a peddler pushed his cart of sundries.

  I passed the Captain’s Well and neared the stately Huntington home near Haverhill Road, the abode of an influential Quaker family. I frowned. A horse seemed to be clopping along at exactly the speed of my bicycle. Normally drivers and equine riders passed me. I slowed and the hooves slowed, too. With a murderer on the loose in town—and me conducting my own version of an investigation—I didn’t have a good feeling about this. My insides chilling, I wanted to glance over my shoulder and see if this was friend or foe. But this was a particularly bumpy section of the macadamized road, far overdue for the town to replace the top layer of small broken stones and stone dust and then roll it smooth. I dared not take my gaze off my route. I’d been run off the road before and didn’t care to repeat the experience, so I slowed to a stop, putting my foot down for balance.

  A black Biddle and Smart rockaway picked up speed, pulled by a roan trotting by me. I stared at the back. Irvin Barclay had a roan and a black rockaway. It flashed on me that I’d glimpsed this carriage near me several times this week. Was Irvin spying on me? Following me? Or had Nalia borrowed his horse and carriage?

  I shook off my worries. It was a sunny morning and I was out in public with all kinds of people going about their business. Families heading for the pond. Women hanging laundry in their yards. Children throwing balls in the sun and reading books in the shade. Men doing repairs on their homes. I had to be safe.

  I rode on, bumping over the Powow River Bridge, and headed east along the river into Amesbury’s oldest settlement. Some of the homes built by the town’s first inhabitants dated back more than two hundred years. I hadn’t originally planned this visit when I’d left home, but it had occurred to me as I sat with Emmaline that perhaps I could investigate the area of Merton’s brother’s accident.

  The problem was, I didn’t know exactly where he’d been run down. David had said the victim of the accident was found at the far end before the road turned toward the Chain Bridge, perhaps a mile distant. I rode past Lowell’s Boat Shop, from which emanated sounds of hammering. The smell of freshly sawn wood mixed with the fresh scent of the river, which was still partially tidal here seven miles inland. Several of the shop’s signature dories floated where they were anchored near the river’s bank behind the shop. They were sturdy but graceful boats, which handled well and were built to last. Lowell’s also made whalers and I wasn’t sure what else. I would stop in to see Sean on my way back.

  The boat shop sat about a quarter mile before the bridge, one of two spans in sequence which crossed the Merrimack River to Newburyport. When I had passed two houses beyond the shop, the trolley came toward me. Its sturdy team of horses plodded steadily along, and the car behind was full with people heading into Amesbury. A little girl hanging her head out of the window on my side pointed at me and clapped. After I slowed and raised a hand to wave at her, she waved back with a delighted grin. Maybe she’d never seen a woman on a bicycle before, or maybe she was simply excited to be riding the trolley.

  I wondered what it would be like to ride in an electrified Ellis trolley. They would have to build an entire network of overhead wires to power the vehicles, I assumed. I shook my head. That was the future, and right now I had an accident scene to search for.

  I’d barely pedaled on when I saw a large dark splotch on the paving stones. I braked, lowered the bike to the ground, and squatted at the side of the road. The substance was already dried but didn’t look dirty from hooves and wheels running over it. I rubbed at the spot with a handkerchief, and what came off onto the white cloth was a reddish stain. I stared at it, then stood. Should I knock on doors to see if anyone had seen the accident? Two barefoot boys about Luke’s age walked toward me, fishing poles resting on their shoulders, caps on their heads.

  “Excuse me, lads,” I said. “Did either of thee happen to see a collision between a carriage and a man on foot here earlier this morning?”

  The taller one shook his head. The shorter of the two spoke up. “No, but we heard it. It was a big thud we heard.”

  “Oh, yes.” Taller’s eyes grew wide. “We was fishing, but there was quite a noise went up. Then the ambulance bells came over the bridge.”

  “We ran up here to look. They was loading the poor gent into the wagon.” Shorter shook his head. “I think he was dead. He wasn’t moving even a little.” The corners of his mouth pulled down.

  “Had the person who hit him stopped?” I asked.

  “Nobody was around,” Taller said. “The fellow musta left. Didn’t help the gent at all.”

  The shorter boy shook his head. “Mrs. Bailey, though, she heard it. She made a telephone call to the hospital for the man, most likely.”

  “Which house does she live in?” I inquired.

  “The big one there.” The taller one pointed to a well-appointed home on the water side. “But she went out not long ago. She’s got herself the prettiest drop-front phaeton you ever seen.”

  “A Bailey, ’course,” the other boy added.

  “I appreciate the information,” I said.

  “Sure, miss.” They touched their caps in unison and continued wherever they were going.

  I stood there for a moment thinking. I watched as a mottled young eagle flew near the shore with a wriggling fish in its talons. I couldn’t ask whichever Bailey matron lived in the house—likely it was Lydia Crowell Bailey—but Lowell’s was nearby. Maybe someone there saw the accident.

  Two minutes later I greeted Jonathan Sherwood, the kindly supervisor I’d met in the winter and the one overseeing young Sean, according to the Donovans. We stood in his office with the door open to the shop, which smelled of fresh sawdust. My ears filled with the bangs and taps of hammers, the back-and-forth wheezing of saws, the rasping of sandpaper, the sheeooh of planes.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, Miss Carroll.” Jonathan smiled. “What can I help you with? Are you planning to take up boating?” He was a lean man in his forties and wore spectacles much like my own.

  “No boating at this time, but I’d like to say hello to Sean Donovan, if I might. I am a friend of the family, and his mother told me her son was spending time here.”

  “Certainly.” He started to turn away.

  I touched his arm. “But first, may I ask if anyone here witnessed an accident several houses away this morning?”

  He faced me again, his eyes dark. “Yes. And it was the Donovan boy who saw what happened.”

  “Truly?” My voice rose.

  “Yes. He was quite shaken by it, but he’s
calmed down by now. Come along, I’ll take you to where he’s working.”

  We passed boats in all stages of construction, from skeletal to half ensheathed to finished and in the process of being varnished. I had visited the shop when it was snowy outside and the river was frozen, but now windows stood open and sawdust flew in the breeze. I followed Jonathan down a narrow staircase to the lower level where Sean, with a work apron tied around his waist, stood planing a board secured by clamps. The apron came down nearly to the floor and the ties were secured in the front. A man in his twenties planed opposite him. While I watched, the man stopped and corrected Sean’s technique before resuming his work.

  “Master Donovan, you have a visitor,” Jonathan said.

  Sean looked up and his face split into a surprised smile. “Hello, Miss Rose. What are you doing here?” A smear of light-colored sawdust clung to his flushed cheek.

  “I was in the area and wanted to see thee at work.”

  “I’m learning all kinds of useful things about cutting and measuring and making the boards nice and smooth.” Sean pointed to the tool in his hand. “This thing is called a plane, Miss Rose, and it leaves those curls of wood on the floor.” He pointed down to a floor covered with curly shavings. “It’s hard to keep it going flat. You have to keep the pressure steady.”

  “He’s a quick study, I’ll say that.” The man helping him smiled. “Needs to work on those muscles yet, though.”

  I should think so. Sean wasn’t a hefty child. He did have a sturdy build like his father’s, but he couldn’t be more than four feet tall.

  “Miss Carroll was asking if anyone saw an accident this morning,” Jonathan began. “I told her you had.”

  The smile slid off Sean’s face. “I did. The poor fellow.”

  “How did thee come to witness it?” He wouldn’t have been able to see the road from down here. The shop was built on the banks of the river. In front of us more windows looked out onto the water, but behind us the wall had no apertures, being set into the slope.