A Simple Shaker Murder

by Deborah Woodworth

  The girl had settled in the crook of two branches. She still said nothing, but she seemed to relax slightly as she watched Rose return. Perhaps even being with a stranger was more comfortable than being alone.

  Rose decided to try once more. “I’d really like to know your name,” she said. The beautiful eyes regarded her with mute distrust.

  “It’s just that I’m a little nervous around people when I don’t know their names, and I’d feel so much more at ease if you’d tell me yours.”

  The girl’s small chest expanded, as if she were inhaling to speak. But the silence dragged on until, ready to give up, Rose sighed and leaned against the tree trunk to keep an eye on the death scene in the distance.

  “Mairin.”

  At first Rose thought it was a trick of the wind she’d heard, not a soft voice. She peered up into the serious light brown face.

  “Did you say your name is Mary?” Rose asked.

  “No.” The girl’s voice held a hint of irritation. “Mair-in,” she pronounced.

  “What a lovely name. It’s Irish, isn’t it? For ‘Mary’? My full name is Rose Callahan; I’m part Irish, too.” From the girl’s coloring, Rose guessed she must be of mixed race. All the more reason to bring her back to the Shaker village; a mixed-race child could not have an easy life, especially in this part of the country and during such difficult times. It had been more man seventy-five years since North Homage had bought slaves in order to free them, so Rose, only in her late thirties, was too young to remember. But the Shakers had retained their firm belief in the basic humanity of all people.

  The girl said nothing.

  “My mother’s family was part Irish, but she grew up around here,” Rose continued brightly, as if chatting to someone in a tree, with a dead man in the distance, was the most natural thing to do before breakfast “My father was from Ireland. I don’t remember them, not really. My mother died when I was born, and my father died when I was three. That’s when I came to live here. How old are you?”

  Mairin opened her small mouth, closed it then opened it again. “Eleven,” she said.

  For a moment, words failed Rose. The girl looked far too tiny to be eleven years old, yet she did have an air of self-sufficiency. “Eleven? Truly?”

  Mairin nodded, without smiling. ‘Twelve come spring.”

  “Oh? When is your birthday?”

  The girl shrugged one slight shoulder. “Don’t know. Spring is all they told me.”

  “Mairin, do you think we could be friends now? Would you come down here and talk with me?” Rose once again raised her hand.

  Mairin rolled on her stomach and lowered herself to the next branch, just above Rose. She slid to the ground so quickly that Rose barely had time to step aside. She moved with the agility and assurance of one who spent much of her time hiding in trees.

  Brushing off her pantaloons, Mairin straightened and gazed up at Rose, who was taller than average and must have seemed a thin giant to the girl who didn’t even come up to her waist Rose lowered herself to the ground, smoothing her cloak over the blanket of dried leaves, so that her eyes and Mairin’s would be equal.

  Rose bubbled with curiosity about this strange child and what she might have seen, but before she could begin her questions, the sound of crackling leaves and branches told her the others were approaching. To her irritation, she saw not just Charlotte and Andrew, but a group of three women and three men tramping toward them. Leading the arrivals was a tall, slender woman. There was no mistaking the emotion in her forceful stride. She was furious.

  FOUR

  “YOU WICKED CHILD, YOU RAN AWAY AGAIN!” THE WOMAN’S pale cheeks flushed, which only served to emphasize her high cheekbones. Her loose-fitting mud-brown trousers and shirt barely disguised her long, well-shaped body as she trampled undergrowth. Though older than the woman by perhaps a decade, Rose couldn’t help feeling a twinge of alarm, as if she were the wicked child.

  Before Rose could push to her feet, Mairin lurched against her shoulder. Shivers ran through the girl’s small body. Instinctively Rose circled an arm around her. Mairin stiffened slightly and pulled away.

  The woman stood frowning down at Rose and Mairin, one hand on a slim hip. Her beauty disappeared as she waggled a finger at the child. Her blue eyes hardened, and grim lines appeared around the corners of her mouth.

  Standing beside the woman were Gilbert Griffiths and Earl Weston. Gilbert came up behind her. “This is Celia,” he explained to Rose. “Hugh’s wife.” He put a calming hand on her shoulder, which she shook off.

  “No, Gil, not this time,” she said. “This girl is impossible. I can’t imagine why we took her in, and I think it’s more than time I reconsidered, now that Hugh’s gone.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared down.

  By this time the rest of the group had straggled in, panting. They heard Celia’s comment and responded with silence. Celia showed no apparent grief or shock over her husband’s ugly death. Mairin watched Celia dispassionately, as if observing the behavior of a mildly interesting but common species of bird. Mairin was a small girl, yet somehow she managed to look haughty.

  Sister Charlotte slipped in front of Celia and held out her hand to Mairin. “You remember me, don’t you, Mairin? I’m Charlotte. I teach at our school, and I care for the Shaker children. We met when you first arrived, remember?”

  Mairin did not respond, but her stance softened, making her look younger. “I hear you’ve been a little, uh, bored since you got here,” Charlotte said, with a quick peek at Celia. “I have an idea. If your mama doesn’t mind, perhaps you could come back with me to the Children’s Dwelling House. We’ve canceled school for the morning, so we thought we’d all bundle up and go hunt for black walnuts after breakfast. Would you like to join us?”

  “She’s not my mama,” Mairin said. She had a low, melodious voice with no more than a hint of childhood left in it.

  Charlotte threw an unhappy glance at Rose, as Mairin thrust her arm straight out in front of her.

  “As you can see,” Mairin said, “we’re different colors.” In the silence that followed her matter-of-fact observation, the girl dropped her arm, stepped toward Charlotte, and said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’ll drop by to visit you a bit later,” Rose said, “just to see how you’re settling in.”

  Mairin turned her head and nodded once. Without looking at Celia, Earl, or Gilbert, she followed Charlotte out of the orchard. Josie walked along beside her. A squirrel skittered away from them into the dry undergrowth. The adults watched in silence as Mairin disappeared from view.

  So far no one seemed to have tumbled to the notion that Mairin might have witnessed a suicide—hardly surprising, given the girl’s unflappable manner. Andrew might not have mentioned that she had been hiding in the tree, in full view of the tragedy, but it still surprised Rose that Gilbert and Celia showed no concern for the child’s emotional state. Perhaps they were too accustomed to not knowing what that was. Following an instinct she didn’t stop to analyze, Rose kept quiet about what Mairin might have seen. She’d talk to the girl later, alone.

  “That child is so ungrateful.” Celia leaned a slender shoulder against a plum tree and crossed her arms and ankles, creating a tableau. Earl stood beside her like a hefty bodyguard.

  “Now, Celia, she’s had a hard life,” Gilbert said, running his hand over his balding head.

  “All the more reason she should be grateful. She had nothing, and we’ve given her everything she could possibly need—a warm home, food, clothing, education. And what does she do? Runs away, over and over.”

  “She just needs more time to learn how to conduct herself in society,” Gilbert said.

  “She’s had two full years,” Celia snapped. “How long does it take to become civilized?”

  Observing the brief argument, Rose had a fair suspicion why Mairin was disinclined to stay home. Now she was eager to learn what she could about the girl’s background.

  “I ga
ther Mairin is adopted?” she asked.

  “Not adopted,” Gilbert said. “You might say we took her in.”

  “That girl is certainly not ready for adoption,” Celia said.

  Rose cringed inwardly. “So she is an orphan? Where did she come from?”

  “We found the poor thing wandering the streets of Indianapolis, dirty and starving,” Gilbert said. “Or rather, Hugh found her while he was traveling about Indiana, looking for a suitable place for our new community. We wanted to be close to the original Owenite colony, New Harmony, you see, so that we might draw inspiration from—”

  “Gil, she doesn’t want to hear your speech,” Celia said. “We don’t know Mairin’s background, except it’s obvious she was never taught manners. Hugh felt sorry for her and brought her home; he’s the soft-hearted one.” Celia’s tone conveyed clearly that “soft-hearted” translated as “irresponsible.”

  “Was, my dear. Hugh was the soft-hearted one,” Gilbert said softly.

  Celia had the grace to look chagrined at this reminder of the dead man lying just out of their sight.

  “Hugh was far too gentle to die like this,” Gilbert continued.

  Celia rolled sapphire eyes. “On the contrary,” she said, “it’s just like him to leave his mess for everyone else to clean up.”

  “Celia!”

  “Well, it’s true, and you know it. You just don’t want to admit it. Look at how he stuck us with Mairin. He brought her home and dumped her on us—on me—without so much as a warning. Now we’ll never be rid of her.” Celia rubbed her upper arms. “I’m freezing. Must we stay out here?” Earl Weston removed his jacket and slid it around her shoulders.

  “I’m puzzled,” Rose said. “Why did Hugh bring Mairin to you in the first place? We Shakers certainly took in many orphans at one time, but now that there are orphanages, we take only those who are left with us by a family member or friend. Yet Hugh brought Mairin from Indianapolis to live with you. Did he try to locate any of her people?”

  Celia and Gilbert exchanged an unreadable glance. Gilbert cleared his throat. “I’m sure he just thought it would be best for the child,” he said. “Remember how he took care of you when your stage career faltered, Celia?”

  “Oh, Gil, stop it, for heaven’s sakes.” Celia shivered and pulled Earl’s jacket tightly around her. “Let’s be honest,” she said. “Neither you nor Hugh has ever been genuinely softhearted. Hugh just had his head in the clouds. I think he actually felt sorry for her, but really he brought her home for the same reason you agreed to take her in—she’s a project—to be saved, reformed, made happy and productive, so the world will admire your devotion to the betterment of mankind.”

  It was Gilbert’s turn to flush. He sputtered inarticulately, but Celia ignored him and turned to Rose.

  “Gilbert’s middle name is Owen,” she said. “He believes he is directly descended from the original Robert Owen, who founded New Harmony over a century ago.”

  “I more than just believe it, I know it. I am a descendant of Robert Owen,” Gilbert said.

  “Have you even come close to proving it?”

  “Well, not yet, but—”

  “Just because he was born in southwest Indiana, and his parents gave him Owen as a middle name, he has convinced himself he was born to recreate Robert Owen’s utopia—and to make it work this time.” Celia’s sleek black bob swung across her cheeks as she shook her head. “The original Owenites took in a homeless boy, who became successful and wealthy, so Gil and Hugh had to do the same. Unfortunately, they picked a girl with a disturbed mind and questionable parentage. And then they expected me to turn her into something. As for locating her family, Hugh didn’t even bother. The shape she was in, she couldn’t have had anyone looking out for her.”

  “I see,” Rose said. She didn’t know which disturbed her more, Gilbert’s crass use of a child to further his reformist reputation, or Celia’s heartless attitude toward the girl. With difficulty, she hid her distaste; if she wanted any more information, it was best not to criticize the New-Owenite leaders. Not yet, anyway.

  “Are you certain her mind is disturbed?” Rose asked.

  Again Celia and Gilbert exchanged a quick glance.

  “Well . . .” Celia hesitated. “She has always been somewhat odd. Everyone has noticed it. She has no manners whatsoever; we have to keep her out of civilized company for the most part. Mostly she says nothing, just watches everyone as if we were all in a play and she was reviewing us. Then all at once she’ll blurt out a more or less intelligent sentence.”

  “She looks quite young to have been wandering the streets by herself.”

  “She’s eleven, or so she told us,” Gilbert said. “I know she looks to be much younger, but I’m afraid that’s a legacy of her sad past. She won’t talk about it, so we may never know the details, but when we took her to our physician, we discovered she had rickets, and it was stunting her growth. If you look carefully, some of her bones are malformed.”

  “You may have noticed that she swings through trees more easily than she walks upright,” Celia said, with a short laugh. “In fact, she—”

  “She may never be able to bear children normally,” Gilbert said. “Her body is certainly damaged, but her mind is capable.” He tossed a reproving frown at Celia, who glared at the ground. “No matter what Celia may believe, the girl is redeemable.”

  As Celia opened her mouth to retort, the sound of voices distracted her. Rose almost preferred Celia’s outrageous comments to the presence of Sheriff Harry Brock, who was approaching the death scene a few yards away from them. What sounded like a curse pierced the air, and Rose assumed he’d discovered that the body had been cut down. Deputy Grady O’Neal accompanied the sheriff, which lessened Rose’s dread as she and the others approached them. Grady was a friend to the Shakers.

  Sheriff Brock’s wiry body stopped its agitated pacing as Rose came into view. He arched an eyebrow at her. She shot a hopeful look at Grady, who avoided her gaze, and she then knew no support would come from that quarter.

  “I suppose you’re responsible for this mess,” Brock said.

  For a startled second, Rose thought she was being accused of murder.

  “You shouldn’t have moved the deceased, and you know it. Don’t matter if it was suicide, not that we can figure much out now you’ve let a herd of cattle trample the ground. Makes me wonder what was on your mind.” Brock kicked aside a dead branch in frustration.

  Anger flushed her cheeks, but Rose held her tongue and reminded herself to be cautious. She did not bother to blame the condition of the scene on Wilhelm. It would make no difference to Brock which Shaker was responsible; he would undoubtedly use the information to discredit all of them. As this Depression wore on, North Homage’s Kentucky neighbors grew more restive in the face of the Shakers’ relative prosperity. The fact that Believers willingly shared their food with the poor families living nearby did not always quiet the resentment of the world.

  Brock watched her, his mouth hovering on the edge of a smile, which only heightened Rose’s wariness. She beckoned toward Gilbert and Celia.

  “Sheriff, you should be aware that our guests, Gilbert Griffiths and Celia Griffiths, are kin of the unfortunate man. They are very upset, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  Brock’s quick eyes snapped to the couple, who looked anything but upset.

  “Wife?”

  Celia nodded.

  “Don’t miss him much?” Brock asked.

  “Sheriff, I can assure you that Celia is devastated,” Earl said, stepping to Celia’s side.

  ‘True,” said Gilbert. “Celia does not easily display her emotions.”

  “Uh-huh. You a brother of the deceased?” Brock asked. “I see you’re about the same size.”

  “First cousin,” Gilbert said.

  “You were close, then?” Deputy Grady O’Neal asked. Rose knew the sympathy in his voice to be genuine. His own people were local tobacco growers and well-to-do, but t
hey maintained the closeness of hill-country families. Grady had practically grown up with his first cousins.

  “Hugh believed as we do in the principles of Robert Owen,” Gilbert said. “You see, we are convinced that a civilized and happy human being emerges only from the right kind of education; that is, if all children were taught to be rational and truth-seeking in their thinking, they would inevitably—”

  “Anybody hate your cousin enough to want him dead?” Sheriff Brock asked. He tilted his head as if to observe Gilbert from a more revealing angle.

  Gilbert stared at him for several moments. “Hate? I . . .” His eyes- slid over to Hugh’s still form, now covered by a worn blanket. He cleared his throat. “I hardly think so. Hugh had a very kind heart. Are you . . . do you really suspect he might have been murdered?”

  Brock’s smirk suggested that where Shakers were concerned, any abomination was possible. Rose’s jaw set in determination. She knew that from now on, when she put her hands to work, it must be in the search for truth. Sheriff Brock would stop searching as soon as he’d settled on the truth that pleased him.

  FIVE

  “WAS IT THINE INTENTION THAT I NOT BE TOLD OF THE SHERIFF’S arrival? Isn’t it enough that I must dine alone in the Ministry House; is the village now run without me? Am I no longer elder?”

  “Wilhelm, there was no slight intended,” Rose said, feeling weary, though it was still morning. Wilhelm often drained her energy, like a fire sucking oxygen from a burning building. It didn’t help that he insisted on using the archaic “thee” instead of “you.” Somehow it lent an almost scriptural significance to anything he said.

  “Sheriff Brock and Grady know the layout of the village,” she said. “You told them the body was in the orchard, so they simply went directly to the orchard. They believed there was no time to waste. Would you have preferred that I leave them there alone, while I came back to fetch you?”