Turning the Tide

by Edith Maxwell

  “Without a doubt. With the Senate voting against the suffrage amendment two to one in ’86, though, the prospects seem bleak for the foreseeable future.” She twirled the sash again. “But we shall link arms and stand tall. Isn’t that what Mrs. Stanton said?” She tucked her arm through mine.

  “She did, indeed.”

  “What’s your betrothed going to think of you demonstrating for the vote on Tuesday?” she asked.

  The word betrothed brought a blush to my cheeks. “David will be in favor of it, I’m certain.” The handsome and delightful Newburyport doctor David Dodge was indeed my betrothed, as he had proposed marriage to me in the summer and I’d happily accepted. We faced a few obstacles yet in our path, his society-minded Episcopalian mother being primary among them, along with my own Friends Meeting frowning on marrying outside the faith. “David is an open-minded man who supports equality between the sexes.”

  “And you wouldn’t be with any other kind of man.” She squeezed my arm. “How soon is the midwife going to have children of her own, by the way?”

  “What is thee thinking, Bertie! Not until after we are wed, certainly.” When I thought of the children I was very much looking forward to having with David, it made me remember Rowena’s cool greeting to the little suffragists in the meeting. It was almost as if she didn’t like children. “Bertie, does Sophie know Rowena Felch?” Bertie lived with her friend Sophie, a lawyer, in what many called a Boston Marriage, but I knew it was a deeper relationship than two unmarried ladies simply sharing a house.

  “Yes, Sophie and Mrs. Felch are friends as well as lady lawyers. Mrs. Felch came to tea one day and told us she is about to leave Oscar, her husband.”

  I halted under one of the new electrical streetlights at the corner where our paths would diverge. “Oh? Why?”

  “Apparently Mr. Felch is eager to start a family and she’s having none of it. She wants to continue her profession in the law.”

  I nodded. Whether she did or didn’t like children was irrelevant in her case to not wanting to bear any. “And the only way to absolutely ensure not having babies is to refrain from intimate relations with her husband.”

  “Exactly. Which is hard to do if you’re sharing a bed.” Bertie shook her head. “When she first married him, she thought she could do it all—have a career and raise a family. Once she got into it, she realized that wasn’t going to be possible for her.”

  “Where’s she planning to move to, does thee know?”

  “She said Miss Zula Goodwin offered to share her flat,” Bertie said.

  “Who is this Zula, and what kind of odd name is that?”

  “She’s a young suffragist and a writer. I think Zula is short for Ursula. Her family has a lot of money, and bought her an elegant flat not too far from my house. She was at the meeting tonight. She has a severe appearance about her. Not plain, like certain Quakers I know, but severe.” Bertie elbowed me with the jest about my habit of dressing without ornamentation, after the manner of Friends.

  “I think I saw her,” I said. “She didn’t look very happy with Rowena.”

  “Interesting. I can ask Sophie when I get home. She might know. Maybe Mrs. Felch decided not to share Miss Goodwin’s flat after all.”

  A carriage clattered by on the cobblestones even as the clouds bumped over the moon, darkening our path. I pulled my cloak closer around my neck as I sniffed the chilly air.

  “I hope we’re not getting an early snow,” I said. “I have a woman overdue to go into labor. Her husband is a factory worker and they don’t have the funds to send a conveyance for me.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time it snowed on November third. But I’ll admit snow would make riding your bicycle to a birth a messy prospect.”

  Bertie had suggested I purchase a bicycle last spring and I’d been glad ever since I’d followed her advice. But I hadn’t yet gone through a winter with it, and I suspected my cycle would be spending several months stored in the shed at the back of the house I shared with my late sister’s husband and my five nieces and nephews.

  “Be well, my friend. I’ll see thee soon.” I detached her arm and squeezed her hand.

  “Stay out of trouble, Rose.” Bertie grinned. “See you Tuesday morning at the polls, if not before.”

  I waved and turned toward home. I prayed my sole trouble would be finding a way to attend a birth in a snowstorm. After becoming involved with helping the police solve several murders over the last six months, I longed for my town to stay peaceful, and for me to solve only the miraculous mystery of babies being safely born.

  two

  I cycled home at dawn the next morning. I had been called to the birth last night, after all, and had chanced taking my bicycle, its clever oil lamp mounted on the front illuminating my way in the darkness. Grateful that snow hadn’t yet materialized, I yawned as I bumped slowly and carefully along the planks temporarily paving Greenwood Street. They ran parallel to the sides of the road and, if I wasn’t careful, my wheel could become trapped in the slot between planks.

  The baby had emerged after only a few hours of labor. It had been my new apprentice’s first birth observation, and Annie Beaumont had done wonderfully. She possessed a quiet presence, which is essential to fostering a feeling of comfort and security in a laboring woman. The newborn and his mother were blessedly both healthy, and the father had proudly paid me my fee. With any luck I’d be able to snatch an hour or two of sleep before Friends Meeting for Worship at ten o’clock.

  I was halfway down the hill and in front of a well-appointed residence when I gasped. I pulled the spoon brake lever and pushed back on the pedals to stop the cycle. A shoe stuck out from where no shoe should be. Its red color echoed the frost-burnished leaves of the lilac bush above it.

  I let my bicycle fall and hurried to the shrub growing to the side of the home’s front door. Pulling back the branches, my heart athud, I let out a moan. The shoe was on the black-stockinged foot of Rowena Felch, still wearing her lovely green dress from last night. I pulled off my glove and knelt to touch her neck. Her skin was cold and yellow, and not from the chilly fall air, either. Poor Rowena.

  I grieved for her even as my mind raced. How had she died? Surely it wasn’t from natural causes, not with her ending up under a bush. I ran my gaze over her body. I saw no bullet hole or stab wound. I wanted to investigate further—perhaps she had an injury on her back or her head—but I knew from my previous encounters with him that Detective Kevin Donovan of the Amesbury Police Department would need to see her in situ. I glimpsed a slip of paper tucked into her far hand. I tried to make out the words but couldn’t from this angle, although I did see that the handwriting was in an unusual upright style.

  I stood. I narrowed my eyes when I spied the two arched glass panes in the door. A gaping hole split the one nearer to the latch, with sharp shards lying on the granite stoop. A sudden shiver ran through me as questions roiled in my brain. Had someone broken in? Then why were the shards on the outside? It was a fine house, not as large and elaborate as those of the carriage factory owners two blocks away on Hillside, but still a very nice abode. It certainly contained items worth stealing. A matching carriage house stood back from the street to the right. Was this property Rowena’s home? Maybe Rowena had surprised the burglar and been killed in the process.

  I wanted to see if someone was inside the house. At the same time, I feared the criminal was still within. I peered through the hole in the glass, anyway. I couldn’t see any lights.

  “Hello? Is anyone home?” Silence answered me. I grasped the door handle but it didn’t turn. When the door wouldn’t budge, I was relieved of the need to venture into a possibly dangerous situation.

  The house was built on a slope and the front windows were too high for even my five feet eight inches to peer into. I hurried along the side of the house to a sash low enough to see that it looked into a dining room
. No lamps were lit, no maid set out breakfast or cleaned the hearth. I cupped my hands on the glass to look closer and gasped again. The room had been ransacked. Drawers from the sideboard were pulled open, with one lying on the floor. A portrait on the wall hung akilter and a dining chair lay on its side. I imagined this had to be Rowena’s house, which must have been broken into and robbed. Maybe she’d tried to escape and had been killed by the thief. But where was her husband? I made my way to the back door. I pounded on it.

  “Oscar Felch,” I called out, and continued to pound. “Anyone? Help, please!”

  When I heard no answer, I returned to Rowena’s body and made a scan up and down the street. No one seemed to be about. It was too late for the milkman and too early for the postman. I was about to set out for one of the neighboring houses when I perked my ears. Clopping along the planks, a horse approached pulling an open buggy. I stepped into the street in front of the house, signaling the driver to stop.

  “Can thee please hurry to the police station and ask for Kevin Donovan to come?” I asked in an urgent tone.

  He frowned. “The police, eh? What’s happened?”

  “A lady has died.”

  “And why not the funeral parlor, miss?” asked the portly gentleman in a great coat and bowler. “If she’s dead, as you say.”

  How much to tell him? “Please, I believe the police are needed in this case.” I clasped my hands in front of me. Despite being half his age, I used my most authoritative voice and stood tall. “Tell him Rose Carroll sent thee.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” He made as if to climb out of the buggy.

  “No, please.” I held up my hand. “The help I need is for thee to notify the detective.”

  He shrugged. “Very well.” He clucked to the dark horse and clattered away.

  I returned to Rowena’s side. I knelt and closed my eyes, holding her released spirit in the Light of God. I also held my own, still very much of this world. I’m a midwife, not a detective, and am accustomed on occasion to witness the demise of one of my mothers or newborns. Those were natural deaths, though. Tragic but unavoidable despite my best efforts. Unless I was seriously mistaken, Rowena’s was not a natural end to life. Why did I keep encountering cases of violent demise?

  three

  Kevin Donovan squatted next to Rowena’s body twenty minutes later, the silver buttons on the detective’s blue serge uniform straining. He narrowed his eyes as he examined the still form without touching it. He glanced up at me. I shivered from waiting in the cold for what had seemed like hours but had been more like thirty minutes. It had been a sad vigil, but I wasn’t about to leave Rowena’s side.

  “So you say you saw Mrs. Felch last evening, Miss Rose? About what time?”

  “I was at a meeting from seven to eight thirty or so, I’d say.”

  “What kind of meeting would that have been?”

  “It was the Woman Suffrage Association.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re getting yourself involved with those radicals now, are you?” He took off his hat and rubbed his wispy carrot-colored hair, then replaced the hat.

  “Indeed I am. But women’s suffrage is not the business of this morning.” Or was it? Perhaps she’d been killed because of her political activities.

  “How can you be so sure? I’ll need to talk with you later about who else was at the gathering and what took place there.”

  “Regardless, this was not a natural death, Kevin. Look at those marks.” I gestured to two wide indented lines in the dirt near Rowena’s feet. “I very much doubt she put herself neatly on her back under a lilac to die. Someone dragged her to that spot.”

  He nodded. “I think you’re right. Gilbert,” he called to Guy Gilbert, the young officer who’d come in the police wagon with him, “help me move her out from here.” Kevin boosted himself up with an “oomph.”

  “Make sure you keep that note in her hand.” I pointed.

  His eyebrows went up. “I should say we will. Could be an important clue.”

  A minute later they’d shifted the body onto the path leading to the front door. Rowena’s upper body was stiff, but her legs and feet flopped. Kevin leaned over and turned her onto her side facing away from him. Her left arm stuck up in a sadly grotesque fashion. Kevin pointed.

  “Whacked on the back of the head, from all appearances.”

  I gasped and brought my hand to my mouth. Rowena’s light hair was matted with dried blood. Guy took a step back and stood somberly, hands clasped behind his back.

  “It’ll be up to the coroner to figure out if the blow killed her, or something else.” Kevin gently rolled her onto her back again.

  “What a terrible thing,” I said. “To hit her and then leave her here in the cold all night.” My heart went out to Rowena. I prayed she hadn’t regained consciousness to realize she was dying. I shivered and pulled my cloak closer around me. My lack of sleep was taking its toll. My nerves buzzed and I was slightly sick from exhaustion. But at least I was alive.

  “Murderers don’t have a care for such things, Miss Rose.” Kevin stood.

  “But her death might have been an accident.” I moved toward the house and beckoned for him to join me, then showed him the broken glass in the door. “I peered in a window toward the back and saw the dining room in great disarray, as if it had been robbed. Maybe she came home from the meeting to find a robbery in progress and the criminal hit her so he could escape.”

  “Possible.”

  “Except the broken glass is on the outside. Wouldn’t it be on the inside if someone broke in?”

  “Good observation, Miss Rose.” He peered into the hall on the other side of the door. “There are shards of glass in there, too. It must have fallen both ways.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Show me the ransacked room, would you?”

  I led him along the side of the house and pointed to the window. “In there.”

  He pursed his lips. “Looks like a robbery, all right. Where in blazes is her husband, is what I want to know.”

  “Maybe he’s traveling. I’m not certain this is her house, but if not, why would she be under that particular bush?”

  With a great clatter another wagon pulled around the corner onto the street, bells ringing, hooves clopping. The ambulance pulled to a halt.

  Kevin strode out to greet the driver, shook his head, and pointed to Rowena. I returned to the front, too, pausing at the lilac. I narrowed my eyes, spying something white where Rowena’s body had laid. I knelt to see a fine lady’s handkerchief edged in lilac-colored thread, its white linen now stained with blood. I picked it up by a corner and turned it in front of my face, but I couldn’t see a monogram or indication of whose it was. I sniffed, thinking I detected a scent on it, but I couldn’t identify what it was. The handkerchief could be Rowena’s. Or it could belong to the killer.

  At a soft wet touch on my nose, I looked up. The snow had arrived, falling in gentle sparse flakes all around.

  I sat in the police wagon with Kevin in front of the house after they’d taken away the body. He’d offered to give me and my bicycle a ride home, which I gratefully accepted. The snow now blanketing the world, combined with my fatigue, had made the decision easy. A church bell tolled nine times. Guy stood watch in front of the house until such time as the summoned police reinforcements arrived to investigate the burglary. White flakes speckled his dark blue police great coat.

  I handed Kevin the handkerchief. “This was under the lilac. It must have been hidden beneath Rowena’s body.”

  He took it and examined it as I had. “No initials. Ever seen one like it?”

  “No. All ladies carry one, though.”

  “Not all as fine as this one.” He thanked me for finding the handkerchief and pocketed it. “Now, I need to know more about this meeting and about Mrs. Felch. What can yo
u tell me?”

  “Rowena led the meeting, which was held at the Free Will Baptist Church. They’re organizing a demonstration for Tuesday in front of the polling place—”

  “The devil you say!”

  I stared at him over the top of my spectacles. “The devil has nothing to do with it. We have every right to show our displeasure with being shut out of the electoral process. Half the population, Kevin. Half the adults in this country are forbidden to decide who our lawmakers will be. It’s simply not right.”

  “All right, go on, go on.” He waved a hand.

  “Rowena chaired the meeting. She discussed logistics for the demonstration, but it was also a sort of rally to raise the women’s spirits. Elizabeth Cady Stanton made an appearance, too.”

  “I’ve heard of her.”

  “I should hope thee has.” Elizabeth was famous nationally for joining with Lucretia Mott forty years earlier to hold the first women’s rights convention in Seneca Falls. My mother had told me the story as a bedtime tale since before I could remember. She’d proudly pointed out that all the organizers except Elizabeth were Friends.

  “Did you see anyone disagreeing with Mrs. Felch at the gathering? Any arguments?” Kevin asked.

  “I didn’t hear them talking, but a young woman named Zula Goodwin was looking very unhappy with Rowena. I don’t know why.”

  He nodded. “I know of a Mr. Goodwin. Prosperous gent. Must be her father. Think Miss Goodwin would know the whereabouts of Mr. Felch?”

  “Possibly. Bertie told me Oscar is a physician. I’ll be seeing David Dodge later today.”

  “Your doctor fellow?”

  I nodded. “I can ask him if he knows. Perhaps a medical convention is underway somewhere to which Oscar might have traveled.”