Delivering the Truth

by Edith Maxwell

  He cleared his throat. “We’re still searching for the Parry murder weapon. But I have no doubt it will be found. No doubt at all.”

  “I heard conflicting stories at the mercantile about the stabbing. Can thee now share with me the method of death?”

  “I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. The news will be about town before long, anyway. It was some thin, sharp object to the neck. That’s all we know.” He threw his hands open.

  “Was Thomas drunk? The gossips at the mercantile said he was, and had been brawling outside.”

  “The autopsy hasn’t been completed yet, but my officers did detect quite the smell of alcohol on him, it’s true. Still isn’t cause for someone to kill him.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I simply wondered how the killer got close enough to stab a grown man in the neck. Ephraim sheds no light on the subject?”

  “He claims he’s innocent, of course. Don’t they all?”

  sixteen

  After I delivered the herbal mixture to Nell’s mother-in-law, I spent the end of the day worrying about Ephraim, to no avail. The Bailey family and I had just finished eating supper when a driver arrived in the Parry carriage. I answered the door and the driver handed me a note. I opened it to read that Lillian Parry was experiencing pains and asked that I come right away. I grabbed my satchel and cloak and ran to the conveyance. The murder must have affected Lillian more than she had let on in the morning. I closed my eyes and held her in the Light of God as we drove. A baby exiting the womb so early would likely not survive. I prayed the pains were only false labor brought on by the terrible news.

  For the second time that day, I trudged up the steps of the Parry home. The maid opened the door before I could knock, her eyes wide.

  “It must be the shock. She says she’s having pains. Please go up, Miss Carroll.”

  With the doors to the library and parlor still closed, I put away my thoughts of greeting William and hurried up the stairs. I composed myself in the hall for a moment before walking quietly into her bedroom.

  William sat in a chair by Lillian’s side holding her hand in both of his. She moaned once and then was quiet, her eyes shut. When I cleared my throat, William turned his head and rose.

  “Miss Carroll, thank you for coming. Is she having the baby?” His eyes were anguished. “It’s too soon, isn’t it?”

  I touched his arm. “Let me examine her, William. It’s common to have a semblance of labor pains at this stage. Don’t worry yet,” I said. I didn’t need him more upset than he already was.

  “If I were to lose her, too, I don’t know what I’d do.” He wrung his hands over and over. “Should we call Mr. Douglass? Or don’t you have a doctor friend we can consult with?”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but, yes, my friend David Dodge will consult with me if I ask him to. Please leave us for a few minutes. I’ll call thee as soon as I finish checking her.” I’d welcome a chance to see David, since it had been two days since the tea with his parents, but under happy social circumstances, of course, rather than with a difficult client.

  William cast a glance at Lillian but she kept her eyes closed, and he left the room. I shut the door after him, then I drew out my listening tube and moved to her side.

  “Lillian, it’s Rose. Can thee open thine eyes and tell me what thee is feeling?” I took William’s place in the chair, pulling it closer to the bed. “Lillian?”

  She peered under heavy lids at me and then pulled herself up to sitting. “Oh, Rose. My back hurts. And I feel a pressure down there.”

  “How often are the pains?”

  “They’re not regular. It feels like a big cramp, you know, like when I used to have my monthly. Except worse.”

  “If they’re not regular, that’s good. The labor of childbirth comes along like clockwork. I’ll take a listen.” I pulled down the coverlet and bent over her belly. The baby’s heartbeat was strong, as it had been all along.

  I glanced up. “I’m going to check thee inside. I don’t believe we’ve done this before. My hand will go inside the passage, and I’m going to feel the opening to the womb. If thee feels any discomfort, try to breathe down into my hand. It sounds odd, but it works.” Despite not being taught about instructing women to breathe down into pain, I had found it helped them, and I now made counseling women in this method part of my practice.

  She nodded.

  “Raise thy knees up and separate them.” I pushed up my sleeve and found my way to her cervical opening, the os. She gasped a little as I felt it, but the opening was closed nearly as tightly as a nonpregnant woman’s. I drew my hand out and wiped it clean.

  “I think thee is fine. Sometimes women have what we call practice pains. It’s the body getting ready to give birth. But these pains aren’t doing any work at all. Thy baby is safe inside to grow as big as he needs to be before entering our world.”

  Lillian leaned back, straightening her legs with a smile of relief. “But what can I do to stop having the pains?”

  “Nothing, really. But thee will feel better by getting out of bed and moving around. Get dressed, move about. William needs thee at this time. And surely there will be callers tomorrow to express their sympathies about Thomas. Thee must be ready for them.”

  “William seemed like his old self just now. He was so sweet to me, and he seemed so afraid I would die, too.” She bit her lip and her eyes filled. “He hasn’t been that way toward me for months. Since … well, never mind. I should be grateful he still cares for me.”

  “Of course he does.” It seemed to be true. The loss of someone close often made the survivor better appreciate those still living. I patted her hand. “Now, how about getting up and sitting in that chair? Put on a pretty house coat, brush thy hair, and I’ll call him back up here. Perhaps the two of you can have a bite to eat. He needs thy help in his own sorrow.”

  “But what if I get another pain?” Lillian swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  “Breathe down into it. It will pass. If thee tightens up from fear, it will be worse.” I bade her farewell and made my way down the stairs. William stood in the door to the library, his face a mask of fear.

  “Lillian is fine, William. She’s completely well and so is the baby. Her body is simply rehearsing for the birth. It’s nothing to worry about.” I smiled at him.

  His expression changed like a wave cresting into sunlight. “Truly? Oh, thank God.”

  “Go on up and sit with her. I’ll have the maid bring you both some supper.”

  “And thank you, Rose Carroll.” He reached out and embraced me quickly, then stepped back. “Forgive me. I’m not myself. But I am grateful.”

  “Get thee on upstairs, now.” I made a shooing motion until he trotted up the stairs. I shook my head in wonder at the complexity of humans. I had done almost nothing to cause such intense gratitude, only a simple visit and some commonsense advice. Now, where was that maid, anyway?

  The Baileys departed for school and work the next morning: Frederick and Luke on Star heading to the Academy, the twins walking and Betsy skipping to the Whittier grammar school a block over, and Faith trudging down the hill to Hamilton Mill.

  I had no impending births that I knew of, and no clients scheduled until the afternoon. Taking up one of the recently developed fountain pens, a gift from my father, I sat at my desk writing a letter to my parents, glad I didn’t have to pause every line to re-ink the pen. I wrote of the news of the fires and of Thomas Parry’s murder but told them a suspect had already been apprehended. Whether I thought Ephraim was the guilty person or not didn’t belong in a letter. I paused for a moment. Maybe it had been an error for me to tell Kevin about the smudge on Ephraim’s shirt. It was too late to take it back.

  Returning to my letter, I included a few funny stories about their grandchildren and urged them to come for a visit before too long. It was hard
for Father to find someone to mind his farm animals for a few days, and Mother was always so busy with her work for women’s suffrage. Still, the children were growing up fast. The four youngest ones had been invited to the farm for the summer months, though, and that season wasn’t so far off now. I was sure Faith would like to leave the city, too, but she had already said she wouldn’t quit her position at the mill. She’d had to grow up fast after her mother’s death. While I pined for Harriet, I knew the impact of her death on her children had been far greater.

  I gazed around the room and smiled at the sunlight burnishing the wide pine floorboards. It promised to be a lovely day, now that yesterday’s glowering clouds had blown away overnight. When I’d seen the children out the door a few minutes earlier, the air smelled fresh and was already warming. That would certainly encourage the trees to release their tightly furled baby leaves.

  A movement in the street caught my eye. The police wagon pulled up in front of the house. Did Kevin have another revelation to share with me? I hoped it was news he had found the true killer and released Ephraim. As I watched, Guy Gilbert climbed out instead and ascended the front steps. I went to the door as he began to knock.

  “Guy, what brings thee here? Will thee come in?”

  The young man straightened his spine and clasped his hands behind him. He didn’t remove his hat. “Miss Rose Carroll, I’m to bring you in for questioning in the matter of Thomas Parry’s murder. Please get your cloak and hat.” A thin line ran down his left cheek, like a scratch that was healing.

  “What?” I stared at him. “What might I have to add on that matter? I didn’t see the poor man killed. I know nothing of his assailant.”

  “Miss Carroll, please get your things.” He kept his head high, but wrinkled his forehead and spread his hands. “I’m not to tell you why. I’m to bring you to the station with all due dispatch.”

  I nodded slowly, my insides turning to ice. This was serious. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right there.” I fetched my bonnet and cloak even as I puzzled at the reason for this summons. I closed the door behind me and followed him down to the wagon, my sunny mood dissipated in an instant.

  “You can ride up front with me.” Guy extended a hand to help me up, then went around and climbed in.

  Five minutes later I sat alone in a room in the station. How long would I have to wait? I rued not bringing my knitting to both pass the time and calm my jitters. Guy hadn’t said a word as we drove, despite my questions to him. A folio of paper and a pen lay on the table across from me.

  A somber Kevin Donovan entered the interview room. He carried a slender packet a foot long wrapped in cloth and set it on the table between us.

  “Greetings, Kevin. What is the occasion for this interview?” I tried to smile, but a tic beat in my upper lip. “Have I been murdering people in my sleep?”

  He frowned at me and rapped the table with his fingers as if playing the same notes on a piano over and over. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. He did it another time. He glanced at his package on the table and back at me, then finally spoke.

  “When was the last time you knitted something, Miss Carroll?”

  “When I knitted something?” I stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. “Why is thee asking me that?”

  “We’ve found the object used to kill young Parry.” He watched me closely.

  “Wonderful news. I still don’t understand why I’m here, though.” I raised my eyebrows.

  He heaved a deep sigh, one that sounded wrenched out of him. He unwrapped his package, presenting me with a long thin knitting needle. One of my own. I stared. How could this be?

  He sat back. The pointed end of the needle was tinged with rust that ran halfway up the length, and it looked sharper than was customary.

  I gazed at him and then back at the needle. I took a deep breath in to calm myself. “That isn’t rust, is it? That’s dried blood.” A shiver rippled through me.

  “Correct. Is that your knitting needle, Rose Carroll?”

  “Yes. It’s one of a pair my mother painted for me as a birthday present.” I closed my mouth and sat with my hands clenched in my lap. This was the murder weapon. My own cherished knitting needle, used as an instrument of death to end Thomas Parry’s life. This was too awful to contemplate. But I had to. I forced myself to unclench my hands.

  Kevin regarding me sat in silence, as well. I’d read of this tactic in a serial novel, this silent treatment that was usually effective to prod guilty parties to talk. But I was a Quaker. I’d had a lifetime of sitting in silence. And I was guilty of nothing.

  With an exasperated sound, he spoke at last. “As you might surmise, this long sharp object was the weapon of death less than two days ago. We located it on the bank near the lower falls where Parry was killed.”

  “Does thee suspect me of murder?” I folded my arms across my chest.

  “No, of course not. But how in the devil’s name did this needle get from your blasted knitting bag, or wherever it resides, to Parry’s neck?” His voice rose. “Did you bring your bloody knitting when you visited Ephraim Pickard at his home, as you said you did?”

  “Thee need not speak of the devil, Kevin, or use offensive language.” I kept my voice level.

  He let out a big sigh. “I apologize, Miss Rose. I admit to much frustration with the case. Will you please answer the question?”

  “I didn’t carry my satchel to the Pickards. I brought only some foodstuffs to them.”

  “So there is no way Ephraim might have stolen the needle? Found it lying about?”

  “I can’t see how he could.”

  “A local gent reported you were asking questions about the murder weapon down at the mercantile. Didn’t I tell you to keep out of this investigation?”

  “Yes. I have every right to be curious about a public event, though. How did thee learn the needle was mine, anyway?”

  “It was actually Gilbert who recognized it. He said he’d seen you knitting during his wife’s long labor with their daughter last year, and his wife told him of your fancy painted needles. RMC are your initials, correct?”

  I nodded. “I remember knitting as Nell labored. I’d been working on a scarf to keep Luke’s neck warm on the ride to school.” I peered more closely at the needle but didn’t touch it. “It looks sharpened. Knitting needles are pointed but not sharp at all or they would split the yarn.”

  “I’ll consider that information, thank you.” Kevin cocked his head. “Tell me, what name does the M signify?”

  “Margaret. Mother wanted to honor the lady authors of New England. She’s very big on women’s rights. So my late older sister was named Harriet—”

  “Harriet Beecher Stowe?”

  “Yes. And Margaret is for Margaret Fuller, who was the editor of Mr. Emerson’s journal The Dial and also wrote for it. But Father wanted me to be called Rose, so Margaret had to take second place as my middle name.” I realized I was babbling on from nerves and closed my mouth.

  Kevin examined his hands. He glanced up with a wry smile. “I’ll tell you, I have never before discussed literature in this room.” He sighed again. “But to get back to business. I suppose you take your knitting every time you attend a birth.”

  “I’m afraid so. It helps to pass the time.”

  “When was the last time you can recall using this particular pair?”

  I ticked through the last week in my head. “I don’t think I have done any knitting for several days.”

  “When was the last time?” he repeated, sounding irritated.

  “I believe it was last Sixth Day evening. Yes, I was working on Betsy’s sweater.”

  He rolled his eyes. “What do you mean, Sixth Day?”

  “What most call Friday. Friends choose not to honor ancient deities with the names of the days of the week.”

  H
e let out an exasperated breath, then leaned forward. “And where were you on Friday evening?”

  “Why, I was at home. With the Bailey family.”

  He pressed his eyes shut for a moment and then slumped back in his chair. “So the needles have been safe at home for five days now?”

  “No, of course not. I keep them with the yarn in my birthing satchel. Which I carry nearly every time I go out. Except for this morning, obviously.”

  That caused him to sit up straight again. “I need you to tell me every single place you’ve been between Friday night, or whatever you want to call it, until now. Every place you’ve toted your bag of tricks along to.” He reached over and pulled a cord hanging out of the wall near the door.

  A bell rang faintly somewhere else in the building, and a few seconds later Guy popped his head into the room.

  “Need something, Detective?”

  “Come in and scribe. My writing can barely be read, even by myself.” Kevin glanced at me. “Thank goodness for younger officers with a legible script.”

  After Guy sat and lifted the pen, I relayed my whereabouts since Seventh Day morning. I spoke slowly, to keep pace with his scribing.

  “Let’s see. I visited Genevieve LaChance and then Minnie O’Toole on Seventh Day morning, carrying my satchel to both homes. Seventh Day afternoon was the memorial service, where I saw thee, Kevin, and I didn’t bring my satchel along to there. First Day is a day of rest, well, if surprising an arsonist can be called restful. I went to tea with David Dodge at the invitation of his mother in Newburyport. I was called to a birth in the evening and of course I went. I delivered Patience Henderson of a little boy late that night. In the early morning of Second Day, in truth.”

  I waited for Guy to finish noting my whereabouts so far. He bent his head low over the paper and his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth like a child’s.

  “On Second Day afternoon I visited John Whittier, came here, and then took my satchel to visit thy very wife, Guy. While I was out I paid a call on Orpha Perkins afterwards.”