Turning the Tide

by Edith Maxwell

  I liked that she spoke to the condition of both women and men. I reflected that I, myself, had been well-blessed with a Quaker upbringing. We were taught to act with personal responsibility from a young age.

  I checked the wall clock. Eight twenty. Where was Kevin? He was always at the station by eight. Was he already so busy this morning he didn’t have time to speak with me? He was going to want to know about the outspoken anti-suffrage hothead Leroy Dunnsmore, and I wanted to speak to him about what Zula had said last night, too. I’d hate it if she were the killer, but justice was more important than my feelings. And she was an odd bird, no doubt about it. I also wanted to tell him what David had said about Hilarius. But I couldn’t wait here for much longer.

  David. I worried at a stray thread on my sleeve. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ruby’s message to me from the women, and David’s reaction before he’d left yesterday. Was he simply trying to be lovingly generous, giving me an escape hatch from having to leave my Meeting? Or did he want to escape our union himself ? I hadn’t slept well last night, tangling myself in my sheets as I searched my heart for a solution.

  I paced to the door and peered out the glass, then paced back to the waiting bench. The young officer at the reception desk had said he would let the detective know I was here, and then he’d vanished into the interior of the station and not returned. I knew it might behoove me to sit in silent prayer and wait for discernment on whether I should wait any longer or not, whether I should even be helping the police at all. But I had a strong feeling—whether from God or from my moral compass—that God would want me to act for justice. So I waited. And paced.

  I perked up when the outer door pushed open. A weary Kevin let it slam behind him.

  “Miss Rose.” His words slid out with a sigh. “What can I do for you?” He had dark patches under his eyes and his uniform jacket was misbuttoned, with one corner of the collar sticking into his neck and the opposite bottom corner hanging below the other side.

  “Kevin, is thee well? Thee looks terrible.”

  “I’m fine, but my boy’s sick. Fever. I was up all night with my six-

  year-old lad. Wife is feeling a bit poorly, too.”

  The poor man. I knew how tender he was about his wife and children. “I’m so sorry to hear this. Thee is using cold compresses and plentiful fluids for the fever, I trust.”

  “We are. Which is why I didn’t sleep last night. If anything happens to my boy, Miss Rose, why …” He gazed at the floor and then turned away to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. When he faced me again his shoulders were straight but his eyes were rimmed in red. “I’m thinking you want to have a discussion with me about the murder.”

  “Yes. But only if thee is able.”

  “Bosh.” He swatted away the idea. “Of course I am. Come along back, then.”

  I followed him to his office. On the way he stopped and asked a young officer if he’d bring us each a cup of coffee. The station had

  a small kitchen in the back.

  “There won’t be enough coffee in the known world to keep me going through this day, but I have to start somewhere,” Kevin said once we’d arrived in his office.

  “I felt the same way yesterday, myself. I am often up all night long with a laboring woman.”

  “Yes, I suppose you are. Please have a seat.”

  I removed a stack of papers from the chair in front of his desk and set them on the floor while he sank with a groan into his own chair.

  “I’ve learned several things I thought thee would want to know,” I said, clasping my hands on my lap. “My niece’s friend works with a man named Leroy Dunnsmore at the Parry Carriage Factory.” I relayed what Zeb had said. “And last night I was with a group of women and two of them also knew of this man’s feelings. I suspect he might be a good person to look at for Rowena’s death.”

  Kevin jotted down the name with a pencil. “I dare say quite a few gentlemen share your opinion about women and the vote.”

  “Perhaps. But this Leroy is apparently a particularly vocal one. Thee should look into his alibi. He lives on Whitehall Road. And also keep an eye on him tomorrow.”

  He rolled his eyes at the mention of tomorrow but didn’t address it. “All right. What else?”

  “I saw Guy bring in a man named Hilarius Bauer yesterday.”

  “And what of it? He has a record of larceny.”

  “He’s done work for David Dodge’s father in Newburyport. David said he’s quite trustworthy and a good worker. And last night the man did me a generous favor unbidden.” I hoped Kevin wouldn’t ask what the favor was. Frederick didn’t need a reputation as a drunkard family man to become any more widely known than it already was, what with him sitting right there getting himself sloshed in a public place.

  “How nice for you.” Kevin leaned his chin on his palm. The young officer came in with a tray holding two cups of coffee, spoons, a chipped cream pitcher, and a half-empty sugar bowl. “Thank the blessed Mary. Oh, and you, too, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The young man, who didn’t look much older than Faith, unloaded the tray and went out. We took a moment to doctor our drinks and Kevin took a long drag from his before heaving a sigh of relief.

  I sipped mine and put it down on the desk. I should have known the brew would be thick and bitter. It was police coffee. I’d make more at home if I needed some.

  “Where were we?” Kevin asked.

  “Talking about Hilarius Bauer. Did thee determine if he has an alibi for the time of the murder? Because when I asked him, he didn’t answer and he looked … well, uncomfortable. Either fearful or nervous or both.”

  “So far we haven’t been able to locate a witness, no. But I have no evidence to arrest him, either. And I’ll tell you, Rose, I expect the chief to come in any minute now. He’ll tell me to solve this thing, and soon.” He pulled a piece of paper out from a drawer. “Take a look at this.”

  I read the handwritten note. It asked Rowena to meet in front of her house at ten o’clock p.m. “Goodness.” I’d forgotten about the paper Rowena had grasped.

  “Indeed.”

  “So this means the author of the note planned to kill her?” I wrinkled my nose. “If so, why didn’t he leave her body on the front steps to continue the ruse of a robbery caught in the act? Why drag her body under the bush?”

  “I had the same questions, Miss Rose. Sure looks like the killer wanted the body to be found, in either case. She wasn’t exactly hidden from view under that shrub.”

  I nodded slowly, examining the note. “The handwriting is unusual,” I said. “It’s unfortunate the missive isn’t signed.”

  “More’s the pity. A signature would make our job too easy, now, wouldn’t it? Do you think the hand looks like a woman’s or a man’s?”

  I examined it again. “The writing is fairly delicate. I’d guess a woman’s, but I suppose a man could have written it, too. And it’s just plain paper, with no monogram or color, so we can’t tell anything from it.” I handed it back to him.

  “Exactly. Tell me, have you heard from Dr. Dodge about Dr. Felch being away at a medical meeting?”

  “Not yet. And have you learned anything about Zula Goodwin?” I asked. “Last night she said her father wouldn’t let her come here to be questioned. That sounds like a flimsy excuse, to me.”

  “I’ve learned nothing.” Kevin spit out an exasperated sound. “You are correct. She did not comply with our request for an interview. Her father turns out to be good buddies with the chief.”

  “I’m not surprised. But I forgot to tell you something yesterday. After the Woman Suffrage Association meeting I saw Zula and Rowena walking away together. Zula appeared to be arguing with Rowena.”

  He stared at me. “So she might be the last person to have seen the victim alive. Other than the killer. Unless she’s our culprit, herself
. Very interesting, Miss Rose.”

  “I should say.”

  “And since young Miss Goodwin is in the scandalous position of living alone at age twenty-one, there’s no one to vouch for her whereabouts after your meeting let out Saturday night.” He leaned closer over the desk. “How am I supposed to solve a crime when I can’t even question one of the suspects?”

  ten

  The rosy-cheeked woman reclining on my chaise for her ante-natal exam had a slightly higher pulse than I would have liked. It was still within the normal range, though, but at the top end.

  “Thy heart is beating a bit higher than usual, Emily, but I think it’s fine. Let’s check the baby now.”

  “Whatever you say, Rose.” This was Emily Hersey’s third baby, and Zula’s sister knew the routine. She bent her knees and lifted her skirts and chemise above her nearly at-term belly, then pulled down her silk knickers.

  I palpated her stretched-smooth skin with both hands to ascertain the position of the baby. “It’s nicely head down and already in a good position for birth. Has thee been having any practice pains?” Women often experienced a semblance of contractions in the weeks leading up to the birth, but they were irregular in timing and weaker than those of true labor.

  “Oh, yes.” She waved off the idea. “But after bearing two girls, I know what the pains are by now. It’s nothing to stop me from going about my life. I still have my piano students coming to the house for lessons.”

  “And your prior labors were easy, I believe thee said?” She’d told me she’d been attended by a midwife across the river in Newburyport, where she’d been living, for her earlier births. Now that she and her husband had moved back to Amesbury, she’d elected to hire me for her midwifery care. Her and Zula’s family was quite wealthy, so it had surprised me when Emily told me she taught piano, but said she loved it and it made her feel useful.

  “The first labor was longer, maybe twelve hours. My second popped out in about an hour, though. That was nearly two years ago now.” She smiled. “I’m not sure little Zadie’s ready to be supplanted by a newborn, but she’ll learn.”

  This pleasant maternal woman was quite the contrast to her single suffragist sister. I pressed the Pinard horn gently against Emily’s womb and listened. “Baby’s heartbeat is strong and healthy. I’m going to feel for the opening, if thee is ready.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “Remember to breathe down into my hand if it feels at all uncomfortable.” I pushed up first my glasses and then my sleeve, and slid my hand into her opening.

  The end of the womb, the cervix, which in a nonpregnant woman is a tight little knob not much bigger than a plump cherry, begins a process in the last month or so of thinning and readying itself to open a whole fist’s worth, or more, at the time of the birth. It’s an efficient and miraculous process when things go smoothly, with the womb pulling up and away as the baby’s head presses down and prepares to emerge.

  “Thy cervix is completely effaced and”—I felt more carefully—“beginning to dilate.” I slid my hand out and wiped it clean. Glancing at her face I spied a look of confusion. I sometimes forgot and used the medical terms with clients who didn’t know those words and didn’t care to learn. “I apologize. By that I only mean that thy labor could start at any time. Thy body is ready.”

  “You don’t say.” She frowned.

  I stood. “Thee can restore thy garments.”

  She pulled up her drawers and lowered her skirts. “But I thought my due date wasn’t for two more weeks.”

  I checked the paperwork on my desk. “That’s correct. But this is thy third child, and the baby is plenty big enough to thrive out in the world by now. I wouldn’t worry. I would ensure that everything is in place for the birth itself, though, because thy baby could be wanting to make its appearance soon. Thee has someone to care for the older children during thy labor?”

  “Yes, we have a nursemaid. And my older sister will come to assist in the birth and with the baby. Zula, though, is far too occupied with her suffrage work, even though she loves her little nieces.” She shook her head, but it was with a fond smile playing about her lips, not a disapproving look.

  “She’s quite active in the organization. I saw her several times recently.”

  “Oh?” Emily cocked her head. “Are you a suffragist, too?”

  “I suppose I am. I haven’t lifted a finger for the cause as yet, but I plan to attend the protest at the polls tomorrow.”

  “Yellow sash and all?”

  “Yellow sash and all.” I marked Emily’s status in my file and turned back to her. “Does thee have any concerns about thy labor or how thee is feeling?”

  She thought for a moment. “No, in that regard I am well and content. I know other ladies have problems bearing their babies, but my body seems built for it. I am a well-oiled baby machine. I’m concerned about my younger sister, however. She’s quite torn up about the death of her friend.”

  “Rowena,” I murmured. I chose not to mention that I had found her body. Well-oiled baby machine or not, a woman this close to term didn’t need to have an image of a violent death linger in her mind.

  “Yes. They were very close.” She smoothed her pale plum-colored dress, of a fine wool weave, over her belly.

  When she paused her hand I saw a bump move under it, a healthy baby’s kick. “Is that why she won’t also be attending thee in thy labor?”

  This made Emily snort. “Zula? She’s my polar opposite, not interested at all in raising a family of her own. Why, as a child she would stage battles with our dolls instead of dressing and playing with them like a normal girl, and she’s always been something of a rebel. But I don’t mind, and she’s quite good with Zadie and her big sister Hattie, who adore their Auntie Zu. Besides, not everyone should be the same in this world, don’t you think?”

  After my last client left at eleven o’clock, the morning post brought a note from David. I stared at it for a minute, then opened it with a trembling hand.

  My dearest Rose,

  I want to thank you for the splendid dinner yesterday. I always enjoy time with your family—and you, most importantly. I hope Mr. Bailey returned and made his peace with the family before too long. I could see he still suffers greatly from the loss of his wife, your sister.

  I sat back, gazing at the linen paper in my hand. David really was extraordinary, to see that Frederick’s rage came out of grief, of hurt, which of course it did. I read on.

  I was able to discover a portion of the information you sought. My colleague here at the hospital has told me that, indeed, Oscar Felch has been attending a medical convention in New York City. But it ends today, so he should be back in Amesbury tonight or tomorrow. I have written separately to Detective Donovan of Mr. Felch’s whereabouts.

  So the husband’s absence was explained, and the convention very likely gave him an alibi for the murder.

  I saw how much my words hurt you yesterday, Rosie, and I can’t adequately express my chagrin at having said them. I only wish I could withdraw the moment from your memory. I truly want to marry you, create a family with you, grow old with you. Nothing will make me happier. Please believe me. We shall face your Quaker women together and endure whatever may come with hands joined, if it is your wish.

  I shall take my leave of you now, as I have patients awaiting my services.

  I remain ever

  Your adoring servant,

  David

  I caressed the paper once before folding it and stowing it in the carved box where I kept all his correspondence. He was trying to make amends with me, certainly. I had trusted him with my feelings from the beginning of our relationship, or nearly so. Now, with these words of his echoing in my brain and with a bit of distance between yesterday and today, my doubts began to shrink again. I hoped they would never have occasion to revive themselves, although I did wonde
r why I didn’t feel more secure in his love. I didn’t wonder long. I knew it was based in the long-ago horror from my teenage years, when I’d been abused and abandoned by my first love. I’d thought with my engagement that I had put that nightmare firmly behind me. Apparently not. But I resolved for the rest of today, and going forward, that I would. I would take one day at time in my healing.

  I sat and thought. I could spend the next hour wandering off into reveries about my intended husband or into whatever grim scenario the Women’s Business Meeting might present me, but what I really needed to do was learn more about who might have had cause to kill Rowena. Bertie had said Rowena was a lawyer. If I knew where she practiced, I could visit the firm. I snapped my fingers. I had a home visit with Lyda Osgood scheduled for today. And her husband practiced law.

  Twenty minutes later a young maid led me up the stairs at the Osgood home, which sat on a hill heading north on Market Street. Lyda, cradling her eight-month-pregnant belly under a floral-print fabric that strained at her full bosom, opened the door to her airy and spacious bedroom and invited me in.

  “Will this do, Rose?” Lyda asked, waving her arm to encompass the space. A four-poster bedstead draped with creamy brocade curtains held position of honor. Two upholstered armchairs nestled near the east-facing window and a marble-faced fireplace was tucked into the opposite wall. She smoothed chestnut-colored hair off her brow with a faint whiff of violet. The color was high in her creamy skin, as befit her late stage, and her breaths were slightly shallow, also normal for her condition. A woman’s lungs could become quite compressed by a full womb pushing up on them.

  “It will do quite nicely, Lyda.” I made home visits to every client, whether the wife of a mill owner or the young mill worker, herself. I thought it passing odd Lyda had even asked if it would do, since she’d given birth here twice before, although my teacher Orpha Perkins had attended her.