Two minutes later I glanced in all directions and lifted my skirts slightly to cross the busy, muddy, manure-laden intersection where Main, Elm, Market, and High Streets meet. I entered the store, which sold all manner of goods. Thread. Awls. Cheese. Great coats. Sacks of flour. Toys. Ale.
Bolts of fabric lined one corner. Opposite were rows of horseshoes, brushes, and crops. Jars of candy sat on the front counter. Behind the register a glass-fronted cabinet held bottles of tonic and jars of liniment. Above the cabinet a poster proclaimed the corrective and invigorating powers of Hostetter’s Celebrated Stomach Bitters. A woman was purchasing a length of cloth and sewing notions. A small boy pushed a toy truck back and forth on the floor behind her. A white-haired man and a taller one with almost no hair stood near the stove warming their hands and talking in low voices.
I waved to Catherine Toomey, the owner, where she stood behind the counter. She was a good-natured woman I had assisted in the birth of her twin daughters a few years earlier. I moved to the stove. Drawing off my gloves, I joined the men appreciating the slow steady warmth.
“Terrible news this morning, wasn’t it?” I said, not looking directly at either of them. I wagered these two would be a rich lode of gossip to mine.
“Oh, certainly, miss,” the taller one said. “May Thomas Parry rest in peace.”
“It’s a sad morning for his family,” I murmured. “Have you heard who found him, and where?”
The slighter of the two men pursed his lips. “I won’t want to be spreading gossip around, but I have heard you’re a trustworthy type. Miss Carroll, the midwife, isn’t it?”
I nodded and smiled with what I hoped was a trustworthy look.
“Well, it was O’Toole who reported it. Said he was on his way home from the pub when he stumbled across the body down near the lower falls, by where Wing Supply overlooks the river.”
“Jotham O’Toole?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” the taller man said. “He ran up the hill to Market Square here yelling his fool head off. ‘A body! A body!’ he was shouting. ‘A man is dead!’” The man acted it out with great enthusiasm. “My son was on his own way home and he caught up O’Toole and asked him who the body was. ‘Parry. Thomas Parry. He’s been stabbed,’ O’Toole told my boy. Then my son saw young Officer Gilbert driving by on the night patrol and hailed him. He sounded the alarm. And here we are. No more the wiser.”
The other man shook his head. “Haven’t caught the killer yet, not that I know of.”
“I’m sure they will soon,” I said.
“Parry had been taking a goodly amount of drink at the pub earlier on, I did hear,” the tall one remarked. “And had himself some words with that Pickard fellow, the one what’s always got his nose in a book.”
Ephraim was involved, then.
“They had a drunken brawl outside, was what I was told,” said the white-haired man.
“Have you heard what Thomas was stabbed with?” I asked, lowering my voice. “The murder weapon, so to speak?”
The slighter man gazed around, and then back at us. “They said ’twas a needle. A knittin’ needle. One of them sharp ones.” He pantomimed sliding a slender object up and under his own ribs.
“No,” scoffed the taller one. “It was a cotter pin. See that one there?” He pointed at the wall of tools, fasteners, and the like. Several long pins with rings at one end and a sharp pointed end at the other hung from a hook. “That was the weapon. That would do the trick right nice.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s your interest in all this, then, Miss Carroll? Don’t let that detective know you’ve been asking so many questions, he’ll say you’ve a been meddling.”
“I’m a curious person, I suppose,” I said with a little laugh as I pulled my gloves back on. “I must go,” I said to the men. Each touched his forehead as if tipping his hat, if he had been wearing one instead of holding it in his hand. At the counter, I selected a piece of candy for each Bailey child, and then added several more, thinking of Orpha’s great-granddaughters. Sometimes it was handy to have a few spares tucked away, just in case, a practice I had learned from Harriet. I paid at the register, exchanging a few words with Catherine. Crossing the intersection again, I headed down Water Street toward Genevieve LaChance’s home in the Flats.
According to the gossip of the men in the store, who probably had no real information and were only conjecturing, the murder weapon wasn’t a knife. They’d guessed a knitting needle, or perhaps a cotter pin. Either would do the job for someone who knew where to strike. How to avoid the ribs. Where the vital blood vessels lay. Or maybe the man’s miming of a stab up into the heart was wrong. Perhaps Thomas’s neck was fatally pierced and his life seeped out where he lay. Jotham O’Toole reported finding the body on his way home from the pub. After last call at the drinking establishment, I assumed, which set the time at about midnight. Thomas Parry, by all reports a difficult man, might easily have gotten into a brawl at the pub. But if the weapon was a knitting needle, that could mean the killer was a woman.
What would my sister think of this whole affair? She had been unfailingly loving to all she met and would have been horrified at the thought of murder right here in our town. But she also would have tried to understand the motivation of the killer, and would have been ready with as much forgiveness as possible. I missed her with a sharp dart to my heart.
I surely hadn’t learned anything Kevin Donovan didn’t already know, but I had expanded my own set of facts, including that it was Minnie O’Toole’s brother who had found Thomas’s body. After I checked in on Genevieve LaChance and her baby, I might detour over to Fruit Street and pay Minnie and her baby boy their own postpartum visit.
As I walked near the lower falls, I glanced to my right where the water rushed over sharp crags of boulders. I imagined what Thomas’s death must have looked like: the dead man lying perhaps at an odd angle on the rocks, nearly tumbled into the rushing Powow itself, blood soaking his white collar like he’d dyed it red. I shuddered.
I climbed the outside steps to the LaChance flat to ascertain whether Genevieve and the baby were both healthy and thriving. I found the newly delivered mother scrubbing clothes out on the laundry porch only three days after the birth, the babe tied to her back with a wide strip of cloth. Genevieve’s cheeks showed color and she moved with vigor. She slid the baby girl around to the front and invited me to sit.
I took the tiny girl onto my lap. After checking her, I asked, “And thee is recovering well?” I held the infant to my shoulder and patted her back. My Quaker sense of simplicity was nourished by this straightforward new being, who needed only her mother’s milk and care to thrive.
“I am, of course. This body is made to grow and birth babies, isn’t it? And that daughter of mine is a lusty nurser,” she said, rising and pinning a small shirt to a clothesline.
“I’m glad to hear it. Thee holds a good attitude about thy body.
I sometimes muse on women giving birth around the world and throughout all time. In darkest Africa, in the far East, in Europe—women are all alike. They carry their young, give birth to them, and then care for them. Speaking of young, how about thy boys?” I asked.
“My sons are adjusting to being big brothers. Although this one”—she gestured to the shirt—“can’t quite understand he’s no longer the baby.” She laughed.
“And is thy husband getting used to the idea of a fourth child?”
She nodded with a quiet smile. “He realized he’s going to have a little girl to dote on.”
Half an hour later I was in Minnie’s tiny flat. Minnie, five days postpartum, presented a picture in sharp contrast to Genevieve. Minnie wore nightclothes and her hair lay loose on her shoulder, although she was out of bed and sitting in a chair filing her nails in the dim light of curtained windows. The baby slept on a blanket in a bureau drawer resting on the bed. A glass of ale sat by Minnie’s s
ide, but neither Jotham nor the sister were in evidence. The air in the room smelled stale, like it hadn’t been freshened in a long time.
I greeted her and pulled open the curtains on both windows. “How is thee?” I cracked open one window at the top.
She squinted at the light as she waved a lazy hand. “All right, I suppose. The baby doesn’t let me sleep at night. I’m tired all the time.”
“I recommend some fresh air. Take the babe for a walk outdoors. Thee needs to be up and around, Minnie, to restore thy health and to be able to produce plentiful milk for thy son.”
“Oh, I suppose. But it takes so much energy to get up. And when little Billy wants to eat, well, he’s very insistent.”
“So thee has named him, then?” I stroked the baby’s cheek. He opened his little mouth and turned it toward my fingers in the feeding reflex.
She gave me a sharp glance. “Yes. His name’s Billy O’Toole. At least for now.” She gave her head a defiant shake, as if to say, And if you don’t like it, too bad.
“Has thy brother been by this morning?”
“Why do you ask?” Minnie’s voice took on a cagey tone.
“I’ve heard he had a very upsetting experience last night. Well, in the wee hours of this morning, to be accurate.” I watched her.
“Oh, that. Yes, he came by and said he’d found Will—I mean, Mr. Parry’s son Thomas dead by the river. It quite upset Jotham, it did.”
“I should think so. Where is he now?”
“He has his own place.” She furrowed her brow. “But I expect he’s down at the police being questioned. He said they wanted to talk to him more. I hope they didn’t think he killed poor Thomas. Jotham’s got a hot head, but he always means well.”
Little Billy began to stir. He whimpered several times and, when he was ignored, let out a cry surprisingly loud for such a newly minted person.
“Oh, hush, child.” Minnie sounded impatient. She hoisted herself out of her chair and sank onto the bed. She drew him out of his makeshift cot and held him in the air in front of her. She cooed and murmured, but that only worked for a few moments before he commenced to howl again. She held him closer and sniffed.
“Oh, mother of God, would you smell that?” She laid him on the bed and unwrapped the cloth fastened around him, revealing a fine mess. She gazed up at me. “My sister Ida’s been helping me. There’s a basin of water in the kitchen and dry diapers on the line. I hope. Do you mind?”
I fetched the basin and a washing cloth, as well as two dry diapers. “Make sure thee dries him off well after thee cleans him,” I said, handing her the cloths. “So he doesn’t get a rash.”
Minnie made an unpleasant face, but she managed to get her baby clean, dry, and wrapped up again, and her own hands cleaned, even as he continued to yell.
“He’s got a good set of lungs,” I said. “Give him the breast and he’ll quiet soon enough.” I carried the soiled items out and dumped them in a bucket of water and soap that sat at the ready, surely of the sister’s doing. Minnie didn’t seem like the practical sort, but she’d learn. She’d have to.
I returned to the bedroom. She sat propped up by pillows with her left breast exposed and a hungry baby latched onto it. She glanced up and sighed.
“Motherhood. It’s not all nature and instinct, is it?” Her tone was resigned.
“Not entirely, no. But thee is doing a good job of it.” I brought her the glass of ale. “The two of you will learn together. Keep listening to little Billy there, and to thy own heart.”
The outer door slammed and shattered our domestic calm.
“That bloody copper. Can’t stop asking me questions!” Jotham stormed into the bedroom.
Minnie grabbed her shawl and drew it hurriedly over the baby and her exposed breast.
Jotham stopped short when he saw me. “Oh, Miss Carroll. I didn’t know you were here.” He took a deep breath and the red ire in his face began to drain away.
“Is thee speaking of the detective?” I asked.
“That’s him. Donovan,” Jotham spat. “Bloody hell.”
“Brother, I’ll ask you to watch your language,” Minnie said. “There’s a lady and a baby in the room.”
Jotham glared at his sister for a moment as if he longed to refute what she said, but he kept his mouth shut.
“Has thy sister gone home, Minnie?” I asked.
Jotham muttered something under his breath and turned away, fidgeting with his hat.
“Yes,” Minnie said. “She has her own babes to look after. But she’ll be bringing dinner by.”
“Excellent. I’ll take my leave, then. Bring Billy by for a checkup in two weeks’ time. And get thyself up and out of the house. It will do you both good.” I faced Jotham. “Might I have a word with thee?”
He raised his eyebrows but followed me out of the room.
“I understand thee found Thomas Parry dead. That must have been a terrible shock.”
He pulled his brows together and pursed his lips, nodding. “Yes, yes. A terrible shock.” He shook his head. “Never found a dead man before. Stabbed to death.”
“That was what I heard. Was the weapon at hand?”
“I didn’t see it about.”
“Where was he attacked?”
“Down beyond Wing’s Carriage Supplies. By the lower falls. The water makes such a noise, I expect no one heard him cry out.”
“I actually meant to ask where on his body was he stabbed? Thee must have seen a great deal of blood.”
“What, now you’re interrogating me, too? You in cahoots with Detective Donovan or something?” His face began to redden again.
“Calm thyself. Thee needn’t answer if thee doesn’t care to. And no, I’m simply curious. I’m a midwife. I don’t work for the police.” My curiosity about the murder had nothing to do with Kevin’s investigation, since he had explicitly instructed me to keep out of it. Although if I learned something, I would share it with Kevin immediately, of course.
“All right, then. It was in his neck where he was killed. But the blood wasn’t fresh when I found him. Sort of dried up.” His tone was matter of fact.
“I wonder who had cause to murder Thomas.” I busied myself with the handle of my bag.
He shrugged. “Not my job to find out.”
“Oh, Jotham,” Minnie called,“can you take your nephew for a minute?”
“Nice talking with you, Miss Carroll.” He rolled his eyes. “Now I’m the nanny-uncle.” I spied a smile before he turned back to the bedroom.
I let myself out and walked the few blocks home under a leaden sky. So Thomas was stabbed in the neck. Jotham said he hadn’t seen the murder weapon. Perhaps the killer tossed it into the falls, or carried it away to bury or hide. How would Kevin solve the case? I found the idea of accumulating evidence and solving clues intriguing. But that was his job, not mine. I had a full practice and there was no shortage of new pregnancies in town. Unless I did something egregiously wrong, I was assured of steady employment for as long as I wanted it. And if I didn’t pick up my step, I’d be late for my next client, who was due at my office any minute now.
After my last client left at two o’clock, I drew several jars of dried herbs off the high shelf in my office and brought them to the kitchen table. Carefully spreading out a clean white tea towel, I measured out portions of Saint John’s wort and chamomile, with smaller parts of peppermint and licorice, according to Orpha’s directions. I didn’t have any star anise, unfortunately. I rubbed the dried leaves together between my palms, crumbling them to make an even-textured tea, then poured it all into a clean Ball jar. I hoped it would help to stabilize Nell Gilbert’s mood and lighten her spirits. I’d ask Josephine to make sure Nell drank a cup of it several times a day.
After I stowed the herbs back in the parlor and tucked the jar into my bag, I opened the side do
or to set out for the Gilbert house. Instead I spied Kevin Donovan walking up the path as the church bells in town tolled three times. Why was he here again? To ask for my help with the murder, after all?
I beckoned to him. “Kevin, I am at the side here.”
He glanced up with a start then made his way toward me. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, tapping his hand on his leg, squinting at the afternoon sunlight reflecting off a window across the road.
“Has there been a development in the case?” I asked. I walked down to stand next to him.
“Indeed, Miss Carroll, there has.” He removed his hat and clutched it in both hands.
I clasped my hands in front of me and waited.
“I’m holding Ephraim Pickard on suspicion for Thomas Parry’s murder and for the factory arson, as well. I thought you might want to know.” He tucked his hat under his arm and rubbed his hands together. “We’ve got our man.”
“Oh, gracious.” Sadness crept through me. “Is thee sure? What is the evidence against him?”
“A witness came forward and placed him at the site of the murder at the correct time.”
“Who is the witness?”
Kevin frowned. “That’s for the police to know. I had a thought the killer might have been someone else, but the witness account changed that. We have also learned that earlier in the evening Pickard argued in the tavern with the victim. And you, as well, said you saw someone limping right before the fire was set on Carriage Hill. Pickard limps from an old injury.”
“I told thee I didn’t see the person clearly.” I shook my head. “It was only a shape, nothing more. And doesn’t thee need evidence?”
Delivering the Truth Page 11
