Of Dubious and Questionable Memory

by Rachel McMillan

  “Quite appropriate for them to meet here where the revolutionaries rallied,” Merinda said, taking in the history of the place.

  We were greeted with smiles from a small group of women settling into the row in front of ours. They had taken the train from Amherst, we learned. Merinda said we were from Toronto visiting our cousin, and that we were interested in the workings of the anarchist movement in the States. She wanted to bring back information, she said. She was much better at keeping her voice low than I, but these Federation women took us for who we were in an instant.

  Finally, we whipped off our hats and let our hair trail free.

  “I keep forgetting this town isn’t stupid enough to have a Morality Squad,” Merinda whispered to me before leaning forward in her chair and asking around about Del, showing people a photograph she had secured from Miri just as we were leaving Boston—a girl who had seemed to have every intention of joining this group.

  No one had heard of Delphina Barton, of course, but they said that wasn’t entirely unusual. They were all one in pursuit of a singular cause, and names were of little consequence.

  Finally, the congregation came to order and the last stragglers took their seats.

  I learned from the first speaker that Massachusetts housed several textile and fabric mills, and each was on the brink of an uprising. Children as young as seven worked fifty-six-hour weeks in dark, dingy conditions with little pay. The children were malnourished, their growth was stunted, and the poor air conditions caused lung problems. As the man spoke, I could tell Merinda, like myself, was thinking of the working conditions at Spenser’s shirtwaist factories back home.

  As applause followed the speaker to his seat, an upturned hat was passed around to pay for the medical care of an injured worker in nearby Amherst.

  Then a familiar figure rose from the middle of the crowd and made for the podium. It was Nicholas Haliburton from Orchard House, raking his fingers through his shock of white-blond hair and smiling broadly at the crowd.

  He had an immediate and winsome charm, all blue eyes and boyish smile. His earnestness was arresting.

  “I grew up privileged,” he began. “I never went to sleep with my stomach complaining for food. My hands and face were not chapped and cracking with the winter chill. I do not suffer from the inability to read and write. But there are children who cannot say the same. Children who hunger, who long for warmth and love. That’s the essence of God, isn’t it? Love.”

  Merinda gripped my hand at the mention of the familiar quotation. Nicholas continued with a vision about his great plans for the future, with fair pay and equal treatment for all.

  After the rally, we waited to speak to him. He looked as surprised to see us as I had been to see him. He took in our male attire.

  “I thought I made you out in the crowd, Mrs. DeLuca.” His voice was pleasant as he took my hand. “But I could hardly believe it. What are you doing here? And dressed like that!”

  “We’re doing what the police have failed to do!” Merinda spoke before I could, extending one of our business cards. “I’m Merinda Herringford. You’ve met my associate. We are here to find Del Barton. It could be you know where she is.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We found evidence that she meant to attend this meeting. If you are as renowned in this circle as you were tonight, surely you must have encountered her.”

  “Lady detectives.” Nicholas smiled evasively as he turned Merinda’s card over in his palm. When he spoke again it was with boyish amusement. “Surely we all would have heard about a missing woman. I said as much to Mrs. DeLuca this afternoon. Concord is a small place, Miss Herringford.”

  “Well, we heard about it in Canada,” Merinda emphasized, much to Nicholas’s surprise. He tugged at his collar, a nervous gesture both Merinda and I noticed even as his smile stretched winningly. “Women don’t just vanish, Mr. Haliburton. And I want to know why this was written on her pamphlet for this very meeting if you had never heard of her before.” She thrust the pamphlet at him, and he squinted at what was written there.

  “ ‘Love is the essence of God,’” he read. “Ralph Waldo Emerson, Miss Herringford. Not exactly a secret code. Surely you’ve noticed how proud Concord is of its literary heritage.”

  Merinda looked doubtful of this statement but remained quiet.

  “And you thought the Labor Federation had something to do with her disappearance?” Nicholas asked.

  “You’re sure a fresh face hasn’t attended a meeting in the past week?”

  “There are always new faces,” Nicholas said, his eyes kindly meeting mine. “Lots of folks come from out of town. But I haven’t seen your missing woman.”

  Merinda studied Nicholas closely. He was polite and warm, but clearly the conversation was over.

  When his back was turned and his small entourage moved in the direction of the door, Merinda held a shushing finger to my lips and pulled me behind the podium. I saw Nicholas looking around one last time before switching off the electric light and setting out into the night. He assumed we had left already.

  Alone, Merinda made for the podium, but Nick had left no abandoned notes or scraps of paper.

  We stole out the back door and across the street to the inn. “One person in this small town has to remember seeing Del Barton!” Merinda let out a frustrated sigh.

  Back in our room, I climbed into the clean sheets, tying a ribbon around my braided hair and pulling my knees up to my chest. While Merinda performed her own nighttime routine, I leafed through the copy of Little Women I had brought with me.

  When Merinda returned she kept the gas lit and opened a little notebook. “If it didn’t sound so ludicrous,” she exhaled, “I’d believe that either Miri completely made up Del Barton or that an entire town is hiding a disappearing girl.”

  “This Nicholas is certainly in the habit of drumming up money for his cause! When he passed his hat around, people were immediately fishing in their pockets. If Del really was part of the group—and a known heiress—wouldn’t he want to woo her for financial investment?”

  Merinda shrugged, threw her notebook aside, said good night, and rolled over.

  Sleep evaded me a long time. I tried to block out the sound of Merinda’s snoring and turned up the gas on the night table lamp, stealing into Little Women again. I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. I must have underlined the sentence in pencil an age ago.

  Finally dimming the light, I thought about what kind of girl Del was trying to be. And the more I thought of what little I knew about her, the more I saw myself.

  I missed my husband. What I would have given to talk the whole matter over with him.

  The next morning, in the breakfast room, I was conscious of the deep circles under my eyes and my pale complexion.

  “You look worse than you did in St. Jerome’s,” Merinda observed, sipping her coffee.

  “I wanted to fling off propriety, marry for love, and take the path no one expected, but it is harder than I imagined. And I feel blasted guilty about that row at Jasper’s party, Merinda.” I took a nibble of toast.

  “It’s rather early in the morning for such life revelations, Jemima.” Merinda’s eyes fluttered over the Concord newspaper she had open in front of her. Nothing about Del or the labor meeting the night before graced the pages. Instead, there was news of record-breaking pumpkins, high school football scores, and the doings of the Ladies’ Auxiliary Club.

  “But don’t you see? That’s what Del wanted too!” I cried. “To throw off propriety! Marry for love! And if I can keep finding the ways in which our lives intersect… well, then maybe we can get closer to finding out what happened to her.”

  “She’s a feisty anarchist. You and Del have little in common.”

  “Except that we gave up the life—and the men—that everyone expected!”

  But Merinda wasn’t listening to me anymore.

  Not long after breakfast, we were back on a
train to Boston and to the Back Bay, where Miri welcomed us with a small luncheon of sandwiches and tea cakes.

  “Have you had a successful trip?” she queried, waving the maid away.

  Merinda showed her the pamphlet. “Did you know that Del was planning on going to an anarchist meeting in Concord during your visit?”

  Miri took a dainty bite of the sandwich she had selected from the tiered tray. “Del always has ridiculous notions. Those views! I used to run with those firebrands and suffragettes too before I met my husband.”

  “And now you’re a caged bird,” Merinda said without thought to the shadow that fell over Miri’s face. She passed the pamphlet over the table to our friend. “Why didn’t you give this to the police? It’s the only clue in the case.”

  “Well, I suppose… ”

  Merinda, tired of Miri’s hiccup of a sentence, implored her, “At least tell us who Mac might be! He owed her money?”

  “I can’t see why Del would need money.” Miri had flushed red from Merinda’s harsh comment. “Mac is an old school chum. William Mackenzie.”

  After lunch we set out into the day with the Winthrops’ personal driver. We found Mac on the fourth floor of a barrister’s building at Tremont and Washington Streets.

  “William Mackenzie,” he said, pumping each of our hands.

  Merinda handed Mac one of her business cards.

  “Detectives!” He took in our day dresses and hats. “What a lark!”

  “What do you know about Del Barton?” Merinda asked as we took the seats he offered us.

  “Grand girl, Del! Always a laugh! Right smart too.”

  “She’s missing.”

  “Nah. That can’t be the case. I would have heard!”

  Merinda showed him the leaflet from the anarchist meeting and pointed out Del’s note. “We assume this note refers to you.”

  “Of course it does. She had me see to a rather delicate affair. She was selling her grandmother’s necklace, and she wanted me to see it safely appraised and to find a good home for it. And I did! A fellow in Toronto, actually. Ironic, that! Wanted a rare piece for his wife and found me through a Canadian agent. I put an advertisement in the Globe and Mail newspaper.”

  We conversed with Mr. Mackenzie as the clock ticked on, but the heirloom necklace and Del’s decision to sell what he believed to be a special possession did nothing to elucidate her whereabouts.

  We bid Mr. Mackenzie a good day and took the chauffeured automobile back to the Winthrops’ townhouse, settling in for a few hours before George took us all for supper at the Parker House Hotel.

  As Merinda conceded to a few hours of rest before the meal, I took advantage of the luxury Miri’s housekeeping staff provided. I sent a few things to be pressed, not missing my own finicky iron at home. I had just closed my eyes for a few restful winks when I heard Merinda’s loud whisper on the other side of the door.

  I invited her in, surprised that she hadn’t just barged in as she had for years when we lived together on King Street. I said as much.

  “You’re a married woman, Jemima,” she explained lightly. “Who knows what the rules are now?”

  I rolled my eyes at her and watched her plop down on the bed. She was wearing trousers and an untucked cotton shirt that I forbade her to wear to the Parker House that evening.

  She ignored me, holding up a folded letter. “Look at this.”

  I took it and held it a moment. The envelope was torn open. “Where did you get this?”

  “George Winthrop’s study.”

  “Merinda, that’s stealing.”

  “It was already open, and once you read it you’ll see that it is a theft from another theft.”

  I extracted the carefully folded paper and opened up a letter written in a man’s hand. It was addressed to Del and began with the same quotation we had found in Del’s trunk and that Nicholas attributed to Emerson at the Wright Tavern: Love is the essence of God.

  Merinda said of the letter, “It was too much like DeLuca’s terrible poetry for me to stomach. You read it.”

  It was a love letter, all right. Full of those ripe first moments of tingling infatuation. I felt a little weak reading the resplendent and stark confessions of passion. Rather like I was peeking in on a conversation I had no right to hear.

  “But who is it from?” I wondered. “Robert Hutton couldn’t cough this up!”

  “Of course not. George intercepted it because its writer was deemed an improper suitor for the intended recipient—one Delphina Barton.”

  “You think… ” The wheels in my head turned, reaching the same conclusion I assumed Merinda had.

  “Del is in love with Nicholas Haliburton!” she cried. “From what we know of Del, she would choose the last person alive who was a suitable match. She would definitely scrape the bottom of the respectability barrel. Rather like you did. No, do not give me that look, Jemima. DeLuca was a fiend at Jasper’s party! I might never speak to him again.”

  “I think you hurt his feelings.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a moot point when we’re knee-deep in a mystery. Del’s in love, the silly girl, and foolishly gave Nicholas her sister’s address because George was supposed to be on a business trip.”

  “She knew her brother-in-law disapproved?”

  “Everyone would disapprove! Especially when there’s a large inheritance at stake.”

  “Maybe Nicholas wants the money.”

  Merinda shook her head adamantly. “No. He’s genuine. More likely they would give all the money away to those poor mill workers.”

  “If given the chance.” I nibbled my lip. “Who’s to say her family wouldn’t cut her off?”

  Merinda must have seen a slight darkness pass over my face. She took me into a one-armed hug. “Rather like yours did?”

  “It’s hard to know that you are going against everyone’s expectations,” I sniffed, “and letting down the two people whose good opinion you most desire.”

  “But you wouldn’t have been happy, my Jem.” Merinda tightened her grip. “For all the squabbling of the other night and DeLuca’s abhorrent temper, you’re happy.” I nodded, my eyes sheened with tears. It was as emotional as Merinda was likely to ever get. “And those who truly love you just want you to have all the happiness in the world. That’s all that matters to me, even when… ”

  Here she drifted off. “What time is it?” she asked abruptly.

  I looked to the mantelpiece. “Oh, my! We must dress for dinner!”

  Merinda hopped up, swooped down, and gave me a smack of a kiss on the forehead. “An entire town doesn’t notice a missing girl!” she announced. “She’s left no trace. People saw her, but they didn’t know she went missing.”

  Impatience crept into my voice. “Yes. Yes, Merinda. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Jasper gave me this book for Christmas by this fellow named Mann.” She clapped her hands. “If a tree falls in the forest with no one nearby to hear it, he asks, will it still make a sound?”

  “And if a woman goes missing in Concord and no one thinks anything of it… ”

  “Then was there ever really a crime?”

  Chapter Five

  Merinda and I bustled into the car with the Winthrops, settling in for the short drive to the Parker House. Miri and George were deep in a rather terse conversation about something involving the household before we had even left the gates, leaving the two of us shifting uncomfortably in our seats. I decided to look out the window at the autumn colors.

  “I sometimes wonder about Jasper… ” Merinda broke my reverie. She rarely spoke of him in such a tone. She let me in on her train of thought: “This Jo in the Little Women book you yammer on about. Tell me about her.”

  “She wants to become an author, and she does.”

  “But she doesn’t marry the boy next door? The expected one. The one who looks at her a certain way and who pines for her so obviously?”

  “No. She marries a German professor she meets at a b
oardinghouse in New York. But she stays wonderful friends with the boy next door. To the end of her days.”

  Merinda brightened. After a few more blocks, we turned on School Street, alighting at the entrance to the Parker House hotel.

  Pristine white tablecloths and the twinkle of perfectly arranged silver were illuminated by chandeliers overhead. Once settled, George ordered for our quartet while Miri relayed anecdotes about the hotel’s grand history.

  Through several courses of rich roe and lobster bisque, I made small talk, compensating for Merinda’s disinterest in anything other than Del’s disappearance. Finally, George insisted on Boston cream pie for dessert—the chocolate-covered sponge cake with buttery filling original to the hotel.

  At long last, brandy and coffee served, George sparked Merinda’s interest by veering back into the territory of the missing Del.

  “I also prided myself on my connections,” he said, staring ruefully into his brandy glass. “But like my dear Miri, I came upon dead end after dead end when it came to sweet Del.”

  Merinda and I exchanged a glance. We knew he was a liar, but how could we reveal him as one? We weren’t supposed to have seen that letter.

  Miri excused herself to powder her nose, and Merinda kicked me under the table—a message I took as an order to follow our hostess. I hoped Merinda would behave herself in my absence.

  In the grand foyer, Miri avoided the powder room altogether. Instead, she sat outside on a red chair, buried her face in her hands, and cried.

  I longed to dash over and put my arm around her trembling shoulders, but I knew it would embarrass her something fierce. I turned in the direction of the powder room.

  When I returned to the table I found Merinda apologizing profusely for spilling an entire goblet of red wine over George Winthrop’s vest as waiters fluttered about with fizzy water and napkins for the stains.