William hailed me from the library as I passed. “Miss Carroll, come and speak to me a moment, will you?”
I turned left and stood in the doorway. “How fares thee, William?”
He sat in a leather armchair and didn’t appear to be faring too well at all. His eyes were dark and a tic pulled at the edge of his lip. He gestured with two open hands.
“Did you tell her?” he asked.
“I told Lillian she was well, blessedly,” I said, but I suspected that was not what he was asking about. “She then spoke to me of the funeral,” I said. “I will attend.”
“Oh, good. You’ve been such a help to us in these painful days.” He patted the cassock next to him. “Will you sit?”
I remained on my feet. “I thank thee, but I have clients to notify of my absence from my office this afternoon.”
He stood, as well. “It’s, ah, a matter of some discretion I must bring up with you.” He put his hands in his pockets and then took them out, clasping them behind his back.
I waited, knowing full well what this matter was.
“The other day, last week, oh, it might have been Saturday, I saw you coming out of Minnie O’Toole’s home.” He didn’t meet my eyes.
“And I saw thee going in.”
He cleared his throat. “Precisely. I wondered if I might request of you to keep that visit to yourself. If my dear wife discovered it, why, she would be most unhappy. We don’t want to imperil the baby’s health now, do we?”
“I make no promise to maintain thy deception, William.” When I saw his nostrils flare and his face darken, I held up my hand. “But I also want Lillian to avoid extreme upsets, and I’ll not divulge your visit unless I find it necessary to do so.”
“How dare you not promise this?” He clenched his fists at his sides.
“I dare because it is my right.” I stood straight and still in front of this seething man.
“That will have to do, I suppose,” he said, folding his arms.
“Yes, it will. Now, I bid thee good day. I’ll see thee this afternoon.”
I stomped down the front steps. He had the nerve to ask me to keep his dirty secret. And now Lillian was his dear wife. How dear was she to him when he was consorting with Minnie O’Toole?
twenty-two
At home, I found the delivery from the mercantile on the back stoop. I’d forgotten all about it. Where had my brain gone to? I was glad the day was fine and not drenching the packages with rain. I bundled them inside and stored the staples in their appropriate bins.
I had to get notes out to my afternoon clients and I’d missed the morning post. I sat at my desk and scribbled them, even as the picture of Patience Henderson’s haggard face and swollen breasts filled my mind. I’d stopped in to see her on my way home from the Parrys. I was grateful to see that her mother had arrived to help. Patience wouldn’t speak to me, and her full breasts were leaking and a bit hot, but I didn’t think infection had set in. Her milk would dry up in another day or two if she kept them bound. It was the most bitter of reminders of the dead baby. When Hiram had continued coughing, I took him aside and urged him to see a doctor in town before he made anyone else sick.
I’d had a client the year before who lost a baby at the tender age of one month, and a client who had died in childbirth in the same week. The bereft mother agreed to nurse the motherless infant. I saw how difficult it was for her, but she had three older, healthy children, so she was an old hand at nursing and insisted she wanted to help. A pity I could think of no infant who needed similar help, although surely not a pity that a new mother hadn’t recently met her demise.
Now, who could I get to deliver these notes? If I went traipsing around town, it would take me an hour or two, and then I’d be heated and tired and late for the funeral. It was times like this I wished for a horse of my own, or even one of the new safety bicycles with their wheels of equal sizes. I glanced out the window. Speaking of bicycles, a man was cycling down the road at that very moment on an ordinary bicycle, sitting up high over its enormous front wheel.
I ran to the front door and hailed him. “Might thee deliver a few letters for me? I have some urgency for them to arrive to their destinations, all here in Amesbury.”
He hopped off and touched his green tweed cap. “I’d be glad to, miss.” He was younger than I and had a pleasant toothy smile.
“Just one moment.” I hurried back inside and addressed the three envelopes. I grabbed a coin, too, and brought it all back out to him. “I thank thee very kindly for this favor. Here is something for your trouble.” I handed him the coin.
He checked the addresses and slipped the notes into his pocket. “I’ll be off. Much obliged for the payment, miss.” He smiled again and mounted his iron steed.
One problem solved. Now I needed to eat, wash up, and make my way to St. John’s Episcopal Church before one o’clock struck.
I approached a pew toward the back of St. John’s minutes before the service began. The woman at the end edged away from the aisle closer to her husband to make room for me and I nodded my thanks. I slid in and smoothed down my good dress with my gloves as I caught sight of the casket at the front of the sanctuary, covered with a white cloth trimmed in gold. I closed my eyes, holding Thomas Parry in the Light.
My moment of silence was short-lived, however. The organ sprang to life and the priest began to speak. The ceremony seemed to go on forever. I was so accustomed to the quiet way of Friends that it struck me as impossibly busy. The townspeople who packed the church stood and knelt and spoke in response. Hymns were sung. Biblical passages were read. I spied John Whittier across the church, and each time I checked, he remained sitting with hands on his knees, eyes closed in Quaker prayer, despite the lack of silence all around.
I glanced at a movement in the side aisle at the end of my pew. Kevin Donovan stood in a dark suit, holding his hat, his eyes roving over the attendees. Exactly as he had done after Isaiah’s memorial meeting. Our glances met and he gave a tiny nod acknowledging me.
A man in a black suit made his way to the priest’s podium from the front row. He bore a resemblance to William, although he was younger and with a less robust figure. When he identified himself as Thomas’s uncle, my guess was confirmed. He delivered a eulogy touching only on Thomas’s good points, as was appropriate, and didn’t mention his violent death, saying only that he was taken into the Lord’s hands “suddenly and far too early.” He ended by inviting all present to the Parry home for drink and sustenance after the burial.
Finally the service ended with the priest and his white-clad acolytes walking down the center aisle, the priest swinging an exotically scented ball. Following were eight men carrying the casket, including William Parry and his brother, as well as Robert Clarke, our distant cousin Ned Bailey, the mill owner Cyrus Hamilton, and two other men I’d seen about town. The last on my side was a tall young man. I took a second look. It was Zebulon Weed. A pallbearer? Friends didn’t normally participate in such ritual, but he had every right to do as he wished for his employer. He gave me a little smile as he passed. Lillian and several other women, all dressed in mourning attire, black lace veiling their faces, followed the casket.
By the time the attendees had filed out, the casket sat on a hearse hitched to four elegant black horses ready to convey it to the Union Cemetery. The burying yard sat on Haverhill Street half a mile down Main Street toward the Merrimack River. The pallbearers lined up behind the wagon, and the entire population of the church set out behind. I was pleased to see Lillian climb into a carriage for the short trip. She should not be walking even that far at such a stressful time. A light-haired young man handed her up, the same one I had seen in her carriage and at the Parry home last week.
Bertie fell in at my side. As usual, she tucked her arm through mine as we walked.
“Does thee know who that fellow is?” I pointed to the ca
rriage where the slender blond man now climbed in beside Lillian. “I saw him at the Parry home.”
“Lillian’s ne’er-do-well brother, Alexander Locke.”
“What has he never done well?”
“Gambling, for one. He’s lost great amounts of money. I hear he’s trying to straighten out. Don’t know how he will with that father of theirs always paying off his debts.”
“Was thee in the church?” I asked.
She nodded. “And what is a humble midwife doing at the funeral for a murdered man?”
“I’m watching over his stepmother’s pregnancy.”
“The child bride.”
“Not exactly, though her and William’s ages are quite disparate. They both seemed keen on my attending, so here I am. I hadn’t even known of the service before this morning.”
“I’ll bet you’re also hoping to learn more about exactly who murdered Thomas with your evil implement of death.” She grinned up at me.
“Thee heard. Thee and all the rest of this town. I still find it hard to believe someone would do such a thing. I suppose for a person already resolved to kill, stealing a knitting needle would be a trifle. But thee, Bertie—what brings thee to this somber event?”
“Curiosity. Do you have any idea how much about the town’s underbelly I overhear in the post office? I know Thomas wasn’t universally liked. Hardly liked at all would be more accurate. And, with no current workplace, I actually have time to do this.”
We strolled along in step, her forthright short-legged stride keeping up with the reach of my longer legs. As the trolley passed us going toward town, the conductor slowed the team of horses, doffed his hat, and rang the bell slowly ten times.
“Maybe the murderer was sitting right there in the church with all of us. Think of that.” Bertie sounded delighted at the idea as we walked on.
“Kevin Donovan had the same idea. I spied him focusing all his attention on the mourners and none on the service.” I now saw him walking ahead of us but at the edge of the crowd, his eyes still roaming. “See, there he is.” I pointed. Guy Gilbert was keeping pace with the crowd on the other side. I hoped I’d get a chance to ask him how it went when he told Kevin about Nell being out the night of the murder.
“Ah, the infamous detective,” she said.
“Infamous for what?”
Instead of speaking, she only waggled her eyebrows.
The graveside service was short and somber. When they lowered the casket into the grave and the time had come for William to throw a handful of dirt onto the elaborate box, tears broke through the stoic manner he’d maintained until then. He sank to his knees sobbing Thomas’s name. William’s brother needed to help him away from the gravesite. Lillian, on the other hand, sat composed throughout, her head bowed. I guessed I needn’t have worried that the funeral and burial would upset her enough to endanger her pregnancy. After William’s demonstration, she stroked his back in a comforting move. I found it reassuring to see her showing care for him.
I felt an upswelling of tears myself at one point, remembering Harriet’s burial a year ago, but I shook my head and swallowed the sorrow away.
After the burial, most present continued on up Haverhill Street to where it curved into Highland. We walked past the windmill, which always made me feel like I should be in Holland, and from there it was only a few blocks to the Parry mansion. I stood in the parlor and accepted a glass of punch from a maid who circulated holding a tray of drinks. Bertie, on the other hand, helped herself to a glass of claret.
“You ought to let your hair down and have a drink one of these days,” she told me. She took a sip and sighed. “That’s more like it.”
“Thee knows Friends don’t imbibe. Thee shouldn’t even suggest it. Although—”
“Although what?”
I told her about the invitation and my party frock. “I hope I won’t be pressured to drink alcohol at the affair.”
“Ooh, joining high society, are we? I don’t envy you. I’ve had a run-in with your Clarinda Dodge,” Bertie said. “She’s a woman to be reckoned with, that one.”
I grimaced. “What kind of run-in?” Hearing that certainly did not set my mind at ease. I had only two more days until the dinner.
Before Bertie could answer, Zeb appeared at my elbow also holding a cup of punch. He greeted me and I introduced him to Bertie.
“Bertie Winslow, I’m pleased to meet thee.” Zeb smiled.
“Ah, another Quaker.” Bertie smiled back and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, as well, Zebulon. I’m so sorry about the loss of your brother in the fire.”
“I thank thee.” Zeb’s smile was gone. “I miss him terribly.”
“I’ll let you two talk,” Bertie said. “I’m off to sample the best mourning food Amesbury has to offer, and see what gossip I can pick up.” She headed for the dining room, where we’d been invited to partake of nonliquid refreshment.
“Zeb, I was surprised to see thee as a pallbearer,” I said.
“Not as surprised as I when William asked me.” He shook his head.
“How did that come about?”
“I had worked for Thomas and not complained too much. Perhaps William thought we were friends, since Thomas was about the same age as I am. I didn’t mind. I’m tall, young, strong. Some of those other gentlemen, the factory owners, they were struggling a bit to keep their hold on the coffin.”
“Was it not difficult for thy heart, so soon after losing thy brother?” He had certainly also carried Isaiah’s casket, although his simple burial had taken place in the Quaker section of the Union Cemetery late on the day after the fire. Only the family and a few close friends had been present, Faith had told me.
He swallowed. “Yes. But it was a way to pass on all the comfort I have received.”
I sipped my punch, which tasted of strawberry and mint. Its cool temperature and sweetness was most welcome to my throat after all our walking. The day had become almost warm, at least for Fourth Month. I imagined how miserable it would have been for all if the chilly rain from the night before had persisted.
“I think I’ll find a bite to eat, then go through and pay my respects now the line is dwindling.” I patted his arm.
“Be well, Rose.”
“And thee, Zeb. Come visit Faith soon. She misses thee.”
He nodded. On my way toward the food, Ned Bailey suddenly blocked my way. His hair was slightly tamed compared to how it usually sprang out in all directions, but he exuded nervous energy as always.
“Miss Carroll! What a delight to see you.” Beaming, he reached for my hand and held it in his sweaty one.
“Greetings, Ned.” I pulled my hand back with some difficulty and surreptitiously wiped it on my skirt.
He lowered his voice. “When can I take you out on the town? I want to show you a fine time. Get to know you better and all that.” He glanced around. “I hope you don’t mind me asking at such a solemn occasion.”
I swallowed. “That is a kind offer. I’ll have to check my calendar and get back to thee.” Perhaps never, I added silently.
“Excellent, excellent.” He patted his stomach with satisfaction. A man across the room waved him over. “I’ll talk to you soon, then,” he said before leaving me.
I escaped with relief at last into the dining room. Dozens of delicacies filled the long table. I spied chicken salad, lobster salad, turkey and jelly, ham and dressing, and a cold beef pyramid. The sideboard held assorted cakes: jelly cake, coffee cake, sponge cake, Washington pie, and other pastries I couldn’t even name but that tempted my empty belly mightily. I filled a small plate with both kinds of salads, a small roll, and a sliver of sponge cake.
A man I knew only by sight from around town took one look at me and, with a grim set to his face, whispered to his wife. Her eyes flew open in alarm as he took her arm and steered her in the op
posite direction from where I stood. How would I ever overcome my new reputation as Supplier of Murder Weapon? I picked at the food on my plate. My appetite had vanished, though, and as I could barely taste even the lobster salad, I set the plate on a tray in the corner with other abandoned dishes.
I moved through to the library, where William and his brother stood. Blessedly Lillian wasn’t standing but sat in a comfortable chair next to her husband. I noticed her brother wasn’t at her side. Well, he wasn’t related to Thomas except through his sister’s marriage. And Lillian didn’t seem to need comfort from anyone.
A dozen townspeople preceded me in the line. I was surprised to see the round head of Jotham O’Toole. Hat in hand, he moved
restlessly several places ahead of where I stood. His social class was far from that of the Parrys, if one attended to such things. I imagined William and Lillian paid close attention to class, along with all the other factory owners and their wives. This reception had been opened to the public, though. Certainly no one would try to oust Minnie’s brother, although I didn’t remember seeing him at the church or at the burial ground.
Jotham glanced at the line behind him. I caught his eye and had started to nod when he turned back. His face was ruddier than usual, likely from helping himself to more than one glass of claret. I remembered his anger in Minnie’s rooms and hoped he wasn’t about to confront William about her. He had every right to, but not here. Not now. The line inched forward. Cyrus Hamilton leaned over, paying his respects to Lillian. He was a trim man of average height with a neat dark mustache and a hairline halfway toward the crown of his head. Another man with a difficult son; if Stephen were convicted for the Meetinghouse fire, the sentence for arson was severe. Which would be worse, to lose your son to death or to years in either prison or the Danvers Hospital for the Criminally Insane, both places nearly as bad as death?
Delivering the Truth Page 16
