Delivering the Truth

by Edith Maxwell

  “Fire! Get out!” I screamed. “Fire! Bring buckets!”

  I heard a shriek from within.

  Stephen turned toward me. “I saw how you looked at me, asking me about the fire.” He waved his hands, which were covered with phosphorus burns from the matches he must have been lighting every chance he got. This was what I had realized during worship.

  Coughing now from the smoke, I threw my cloak onto the burning leaves but the fire was too great to smother. “Thee set the factory aflame.” I beat at the burning wall with my hands. I wouldn’t let my beloved Meetinghouse fall victim to Stephen’s warped mind.

  “Not I, although I wish I had.” He threw his head back and laughed again. “Thomas Parry looked at me the same way. I hate him.”

  Suddenly we were surrounded by Friends. Stephen tried to slip away in the confusion, but Zeb and another young man wrestled him to the ground. Others filled buckets full of water from the pond down the slope and threw them on the wall. Frederick, John Whittier, and another elder spread coats on top of the burning leaves, finally extinguishing the flames. Someone hailed a passing police officer, who cuffed Stephen’s hands behind his back. I explained what Stephen had said. The officer said Detective Donovan would find me and marched the still-grinning arsonist away.

  I sank to the ground, fearing my shaky legs would no longer hold me. John Whittier bent over to speak with me, supporting himself with his hands on his knees.

  “Rose, what made thee discover poor Stephen and the fire?”

  “I saw the marks on his hands yesterday. When I lit the stove this morning, a bit of phosphorus split off and singed my own hand. But it wasn’t until my thoughts ranged far from the Light this morning that I realized those marks were a sign of a careless person lighting match after match.”

  “By breaking the silence thee saved us all and our Meetinghouse.” John patted my arm.

  For this I was grateful. And prayed I wouldn’t have occasion to meet an arsonist ever again.

  nine

  At a sound that afternoon, as I sat fretting about the impending tea even as I looked forward to seeing David again so soon, I peeked out the front window to see Kevin Donovan rapping on the front door, then waiting with his police hat in his hands. One of the twins ran to the door. I listened.

  “I’m Detective Donovan. I’d like to speak with Rose Carroll, the midwife, young man.”

  I walked into the hallway to hear Matthew say, “Yes, sir!” The boy saluted with a grin. “Come with me, sir.” He turned and marched into the house, swinging straight arms and nearly crashing into me.

  Matthew looked up with a start. “Auntie Rose, a policeman to see thee.”

  “Kevin Donovan, what a surprise,” I said. “Come in, please.”

  Matthew stood staring, a delighted smile still on his face.

  “Thank thee, Matthew,” I said, matching his smile.

  “And I thank you for answering the door, young man.” Kevin ruffled Matthew’s hair. Kevin was in full uniform today, his blue serge fastened up with silver buttons and his detective badge a shiny silver on his chest.

  “Is thee really a detective?” Matthew’s eyes were wide.

  “That I am. Are you wanting to be with the police yourself when you grow bigger?”

  Matthew nodded.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Kevin placed his hat on Matthew’s dark curly hair. “I can’t say as we’ve ever had an officer from your faith. But there’s always a first time. Study hard, and stay out of trouble. And come see me in about ten years’ time.”

  This was a side of the detective I’d not seen before. Despite his views on domestic relations, he clearly had a soft spot for children.

  Matthew stood up as tall as he could. “Yes, Mr. Detective, sir.” He put a hand up to feel the hat, now listing over his right eyebrow.

  He pressed his lips together but a smile escaped anyway.

  I laughed. “Would thee like some tea?” I asked Kevin.

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Then please sit down.” I gestured to a chair in my parlor office.

  He glanced at Matthew as he sat. “You can wear the hat while I visit with your auntie.”

  “Mattie, run along, now.” I smiled but closed the door firmly, leaving my nephew in the hall. “What’s the cause of your visit? I trust thee has Stephen Hamilton firmly behind bars?” I sat facing him.

  “We do. That was quick thinking and acting on your part, Miss Carroll.” He folded his hands in his lap but kept worrying one clean trim thumbnail with the other. His full reddish-brown mustache curved right down to his jawline, hiding his upper lip.

  “Call me Rose. I only did what any able-bodied person would do.”

  “We’ve arrested Hamilton for arson on your meetinghouse.” He frowned. “And he’ll do time for it, mark my words. He’s a real firebug, that one. We’ve nabbed him setting small fires before.”

  “And thee has charged him with the Parry factory fire, as well, of course?” Surely they had.

  “Well, there’s the problem. He claims he didn’t do it.”

  “He said as much to me, too. Surely people like him lie about their crimes all the time.” I leaned forward, my hands clasped in my lap.

  “It’s just that he was in McFarley’s Pub at the time the fire was getting started, Miss Carroll—I mean, Miss Rose. He’d been there for several hours and stayed until the alarm was raised. A dozen men attest to it.”

  I sat back in my chair as if I’d been pushed there. “With his crazy ideas and burn marks all over his hands? But a dozen men wouldn’t lie, I suppose.”

  “Especially not for a disturbed person like young Hamilton.”

  “If not him, then who else could have set the fire? Who would want that factory, and all the others, incinerated?”

  “It’s my job to find out.” He tapped his hand against his leg. “And with Hamilton out of the picture, my job just became much harder.”

  “I don’t envy thee this profession.”

  “That is the cause of my visit.” He cleared his throat. “I wondered if you might keep your ears and eyes out. You most certainly travel in circles I have no place in. Your midwifery affairs and your Quakers and all.”

  “I’d say that is true. I don’t suppose thee would ever attend a birth in progress or sit in a group of silent Friends for an hour or more.”

  “No, no.” He smiled. “And you seem like an intelligent woman and a courageous one. Can you keep a listen out for me, Miss Rose?”

  “Thee doesn’t have to call me Miss.”

  “Old habits.” He shrugged. “I can’t call you simply Rose. It isn’t right.”

  “As thee wishes. I’m not sure how much help I can be, though. I’m a midwife. I’m not trained in the art of detecting. I’m not sure I’d know a clue if I saw one.”

  “Leave the clues and such to me.”

  I thought of something. “Does thee use the lines on people’s fingertips to convict them? I read about it in Twain’s memoir.”

  “What, Life on the Mississippi?” He snorted. “That’s more likely fiction, Miss Carroll. Although I have heard rumblings about how it might have basis in fact. We’re still waiting for the science on it to be presented.”

  “I see.”

  “But much of detecting is simply watching people, listening to them. That you can do.”

  Which was what he had done at the reception after Isaiah Weed’s service, after all. He had been watching and listening. “I agree, then,” I said. “I’ll try to help the investigation. I admit to hearing quite a lot in my practice that might not otherwise be said. Should I learn something pertaining to the destruction of Carriage Hill, I’ll tell thee if I can.”

  “If you can?”

  “Kevin, I’m at times like a counselor of sorts to my laboring mothers. If I learn something sai
d in confidentiality, I feel I must keep it to myself.”

  When he began to object, I held up a hand. “I’ve said I’ll help thee with the search and I will.” I looked out at the street for a moment, then back at Kevin. “Should the people of our town fear another fire? Are we in danger?” I frowned.

  “We could be. It all depends on why the fire was set in the first place. It’s almost too bad the arsonist isn’t Stephen Hamilton. The town would now be safe. But this is my job, and I’ve brought in plenty of criminals in the past. I’ll find this one, too.” He stood. “So I’d best be off and back to the job. I thank you for agreeing to assist. Don’t do anything that puts you at risk, of course. But if you happen to hear anything, see anything—that’s what I’d like to be knowing.”

  I stood, too, and followed him to the parlor door.

  In the front hallway, Matthew sat on the floor reading. Mark sat beside him, his hands on raised knees, looking like a copy of his twin, except a towheaded one. He wore the police hat tilted back on his head. When they saw the adults, they both jumped up.

  “I want to be police, too,” Mark said. He extended the hat to Kevin with a hopeful smile.

  “I’m glad of it, young man. What’s your name, now?”

  “Mark, sir.”

  “I’m studying, Mr. Detective.” Matthew held up his schoolbook, McGuffey’s Third Reader, with eyes wide. “Just like thee said to do. I memorized my work for tomorrow. Want to hear?”

  Kevin nodded in all seriousness.

  “It’s called ‘The Blacksmith.’” Matthew set his feet straight with each other and clasped his hands behind his back. He screwed his face into concentration, gazing beyond Kevin at the glass doorknob. “‘Clink, clink, clinkerty clink.’” His head bobbed the rhythm of the poem. “‘We begin to hammer at morning’s blink, and hammer away ‘til the busy day, like us, aweary, to rest shall sink.’” Matthew looked at Kevin, mouth open to go on.

  The detective held up a hand. “That’s perfect, laddy. Keep it up, now. Both of ye.”

  I showed Kevin to the outer door. “I thank thee for the attention to the boys. They are much impressed.”

  He waved off my thanks, trotting down the front steps and walking with a purposeful stride along the path back toward Market Square and the business of the town.

  I turned back to the boys. “Taking a job with the police department isn’t quite in line with Friends’ holding with peace, boys.” I folded my arms in mock chastisement.

  “But Auntie Rose …” Matthew entreated.

  “And don’t the police need some peaceful officers?” Mark asked with a knit brow.

  Amused, I ruffled his light hair. “I dare say they do.”

  David handed me up into his buggy at the appointed hour.

  “I thank thee.” I sat and gathered my best cloak around me with nervous hands. As I had watched Kevin disappear around the corner onto High Street an hour earlier, I’d remembered about the smudge on Ephraim Pickard’s shirt. I should have told Kevin about my visit to Ephraim, but I had been so disarmed by his request for help that I had completely forgotten to relate Ephraim’s behavior and the condition of his shirt.

  David went around and sat in the driver’s seat. He smiled at me, handing over a plaid lap blanket. “You look beautiful, Rose.”

  “Thee is most kind,” I said with a voice that quavered. I cleared my throat to try to master my anxiety. I knew I wasn’t any great beauty, but had been reasonably satisfied with my examination in the mirror a few moments earlier. Faith had helped me arrange my dark hair, even adding a curl to the side of my brow, although I thought my eyeglasses somewhat spoiled the look. My deep red best dress was plain but was fairly recently sewn, so at least it was tailored in something like the current fashion, with the new covered buttons and slimmer profile. Mother had tatted the lace collar only last year and I had made sure it was freshly laundered and starched this afternoon. I was glad I’d only worn my everyday cloak to Meeting this morning, as it was now singed and imbued with smoke from Stephen’s fire. It was my nerves that weren’t satisfied.

  “I hope I’ll be able to eat something. I’m nervous about meeting thy mother.”

  “She won’t eat you alive, I promise.” He clucked to the horse, who set off down the road.

  I silently repeated the names he’d told me. Chase and Currier were as well-known and prosperous families as the Dodges. What was I getting myself into? A voice inside told me I didn’t deserve these people. Or David’s affection, for that matter. I tried to silently answer myself that indeed, I did deserve goodness and love. It was an ongoing battle.

  “How was your day, Rosie?” David glanced at me as we traveled up the Elm Street hill. “Was it as lovely as you?”

  “Oh, no.” I uttered a laugh without any humor behind it. “It was quite momentous, as it turned out. I discovered young Stephen Hamilton setting fire to the Meetinghouse during worship. I sent up a cry of alarm—I had to break a window to do it—and Friends managed to both capture him and put out the fire.”

  David took in a sharp breath. “You could have been hurt!”

  “But I wasn’t. It was just that I realized during Meeting the scars I had seen on Stephen’s hands were from match sparks. I went out and found him with a pile of leaves aflame that had spread to the back wall.” I shuddered. “He simply stood there and laughed. He’s an ill man, David.”

  “I should say. So he must have been the firebug who set Carriage Hill on fire, as well. I hope he’s in police custody now. Perhaps more rightly he should be in the prison asylum.”

  I nodded. “He’s in jail, all right. But that’s the thing. Kevin Donovan, the detective on the case, stopped by this afternoon. He said Stephen has a clear alibi for the hours prior to when the fire started. Many men saw him at McFarley’s Pub. He’s certainly under arrest for trying to burn down the Meetinghouse, though.”

  “The real arsonist is still at large, then.” David frowned.

  “It’s a fearful thought. Do arsonists strike twice?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose some do, and some don’t. It would depend on the motive. If the carriage factory fire was started to settle a grudge, that might be the end of it.”

  “We can only hope.” I gazed at the water as we clattered over the new Essex-Merrimack Drawbridge leading to Deer Island, which sat just two miles from the center of Amesbury, and then over the chain-supported suspension bridge to the busy shipping port of Newburyport. A white-headed eagle streaked feet first into the river and came up with a wriggling fish in its talons. A few strong beats of its wide wings brought it to a tree overhanging the water. A chilly breeze came off the Merrimack and I was glad for my woolen cloak and the blanket.

  “But why did Donovan come to the house to tell you about Stephen Hamilton?” David asked.

  “I suppose because it was I who stopped Stephen in his evil task. But then he asked me to keep a watch out for him and report anything I might learn around town.”

  “He wants you to become a detective?” David frowned again as the mare took us up the hill to High Street.

  “No, silly.” I laughed. “But I do go places he can’t and hear things he would not. As does thee. A detective would never hear a laboring mother cry out about a man who beat her or a pregnant woman confess her husband was seeing what she called a strumpet.”

  “I hope you will be careful. Very careful.”

  “Of course. I’ll just be going about my life. And if I glean any information, I’ll inform the detective. Don’t worry thy head.”

  We continued to talk as we drove the additional two miles to David’s house. He made me laugh with a tale of The Henrietta, a humorous play he’d seen about the shenanigans of Wall Street, and I told him about Matthew and Mark’s aspirations to become police officers.

  “I’ll have to give them some gentle eldering about treating all eq
ually. They addressed Kevin as Detective and Sir over and over.” I smiled. “But they’re young yet.”

  “Here we are,” he said as we finally turned onto Olive Street and pulled up at the first house, which sat on the corner with High. A large home with elegant proportions perched there, with lights in every downstairs window despite the early hour. Even the plantings emerging from snowbanks appeared well tended and graceful.

  Acting as assistant detective was child’s play compared to the ordeal I anticipated.

  I perched on the needlework seat of the chair Clarinda Dodge had assigned me to. It was beautiful, with glowing cherry wood shaped into curving lines. A low table in the middle of the cluster of chairs and settees held a silver tea service as well as plates of tiny sandwiches and sweets that a uniformed colored maid had delivered. I tried to hold my cup and saucer steady in my lap. The cup, decorated with sprigs of roses, was of a china so fine I could see light through it.

  “So David tells us you work as a midwife, Miss Carroll. How quaint. Women still use midwives, do they?” Clarinda smiled ever so slightly. Her silver hair was drawn into an impeccable knot on top of her head and she wore a gown in a matching color. She poised her slender figure with erect posture.

  “They do, and I am one. Helping mothers to have healthy pregnancies and assisting babies to enter the world safely is my calling, and it serves a great need in the community.” I smiled back with somewhat more feeling. “And please call me Rose.”

  “She’s as good as a doctor with deliveries, Mother.” David sat next to his mother on a settee upholstered in a burgundy damask that nearly matched my dress. “I’ve seen her in action. Why, just the other day—”

  “I don’t think the details of giving birth is an appropriate topic of conversation, dear.” Clarinda’s mouth twisted as if her tea were laced with sour lemon.

  “Thee has a lovely home,” I said, hoping to lighten the conversation. It was true. While the style was more ornate than one would find in the home of any Friend, the rich reds and deep greens of the cushions and the draperies were harmonious and all the pieces of furniture were of the same gleaming cherry as my perch, except the black grand piano that sat in the far corner of the spacious room near tall windows.