Judge Thee Not

by Edith Maxwell

  “Oh?”

  “She died from complications after she gave birth.” Annie slowed to a stop. “Her name was Alice Riley.” She pronounced the girl’s name like ah-Leese rai-Lee. “Her mama, she was a Rousseau, from our village of Gentilly in Quebec. The girl worked as a maid here in Amesbury after her mama died. But the son of the family where she worked, he made her pregnant, and then said he hadn’t. And the lady of the house wouldn’t let her see a doctor when the pregnancy made her sick.”

  I stopped, too. “I know this story,” I said. “So thee was acquainted with Alice?”

  “Of course. We French Canadians all know each other. Her mother moved here a long time before my family did. She married Mr. Riley and upset her parents because he was Irish, and upset the priest at home, too, but she didn’t care. She said he was a good Catholic boy and his faith was all that should matter. Alice was born, then her little brother. The children and their mama came home every summer to visit.”

  “I attended Alice’s birth when I was apprenticed to Orpha,” I said. “We tried everything after she began to hemorrhage, but we weren’t able to save her. I talked with Adoniram Riley, her father, yesterday. He works for the Settle family.”

  “Settle? I never knew Settle was the name of the family.” Annie took a step back. “But that’s the name of the lady who was killed yesterday.”

  “The same.”

  She crossed herself, then pressed her hands to her cheeks and stared at me. “Are you helping Mr. Donovan with the case?”

  “No, although I will tell thee they are questioning my dear friend Bertie, which is a travesty.”

  “Miss Winslow? Oh, she never would.” Annie’s mouth pulled down at the edges and she shook her head.

  “Of course not. But . . .”

  “But now you want to find out who did kill Mrs. Settle.” She cocked her head. “Where did the bad son go?”

  “Orpha told me he joined the merchant marine.”

  “And never supported the girl he made pregnant.” Her mouth formed an O. “What if Mr. Riley killed Mrs. Settle to make revenge for his daughter’s death? He would have committed a mortal sin.”

  Fourteen

  The rest of the morning was spent in work, worry, and anything but rest, despite my not having grabbed even a wink during the night. The coffee I brewed upon my arrival home had stood me through making breakfast and helping the family off to school and work. The second cup kept my eyes from shutting during my only antenatal visit of the morning at nine o’clock.

  Throughout the hours I worried about Bertie. Had she had to return to the station for more grilling? Had Kevin found someone else to be interested in? He and his team should be looking for evidence, checking people’s alibis, querying Mayme’s enemies, who must be legion. I longed to telephone Bertie, but I didn’t want to get in the way, either, nor disturb her at work.

  I also spent some time thinking about my conversation with David last night. Yes, Mayme’s children and Bertie all stepped outside the normal paths of behavior. But didn’t I, as well? I was an independent businesswoman. I rode all over town alone at any hour of the day or night. I didn’t curtsy to ladies or use titles for men in power, and I barely followed the strictures of fashion. I knew I was a moral, principled person but knew some didn’t see me that way. I was likely as judged for my rather tame unconventional behavior as others were for theirs, no matter the reason. I shook my head and returned to my notes on the visit that had just ended.

  Now, at ten thirty, I couldn’t decide whether to venture into town seeking information or collapse on my bed in search of sleep. I compromised by laying my head on my arms where they rested on my desk.

  I apparently fell fast asleep, because I sat up all a-startle at an insistent bell ringing at ten past eleven. Spittle marred the ink of my notes about the day’s first client as well as my cheek. I swiped the drool off my face and headed for the front door. Only then did I realize the clang had been the telephone ringing, not the doorbell. Changing course, I lifted the receiver in the sitting room—only to hear nothing.

  I depressed the hook switch twice. “Gertrude, this is Rose Carroll. I missed a call.”

  “Yes, Miss Carroll,” came the tinny reply. “I’ll put you through to Miss Ribeiro.”

  Sophie’s voice came on the line. “Rose? I’m so glad you’re there.”

  “Is Bertie all right?” My urgent words tumbled out. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing’s happened. Not to worry. She’s fine, and went along to the post office at her usual time.”

  My relief made my knees nearly buckle. I slid my back along the wall and sank to sit on the floor.

  “But I have to take the next train into Boston for a critical trial and she could use some steadying,” Sophie said. “Can you possibly stop by her workplace during the afternoon and then spend the evening with her?”

  “Of course I can, unless I’m summoned to a woman in labor.” I’d have to check my schedule, but I was pretty sure I could support my friend in such a way. “But Sophie, nothing further from the police?”

  “No, not since Detective Donovan had said he wanted her back. One does wonder, but I daren’t call and jog their memory.”

  I laughed. “I agree. Go off to thy trial. I’ll watch out for our Bertie.”

  “I’ll be home on the last train.” She thanked me and disconnected the call.

  I whooshed out a breath not unlike those Peaches exhaled, the horse I’d had on loan during the winter. I shook my head all about like her, too, trying to clear it. So far Bertie had escaped arrest, despite her accuser’s false claim. Her freedom alone made things right in my world.

  Today was our kitchen girl’s midweek day off, so the house was quiet. I pushed myself up and headed into the kitchen for a hearty snack. An involuntary nap, a bite to eat, and some interim good news—or lack of bad, more accurately—did wonders for my mood and motivation. After I tidied up both kitchen and person, I headed into town.

  Fifteen

  First I needed to stop by Emmaline’s and make sure Rosalie was on the path back to health. One month postpartum could be a risky milestone for both mother and child. Mothers with plentiful milk sometimes suffered from infections in their breasts. For first-time mothers, the lack of sleep and sheer amount of work it took to care for a newborn could trigger serious postpartum melancholia, as I’d witnessed in a mother over a year ago. Babies were sensitive to the amount of milk, whether too much or not enough. And all of it was apart from infants catching any of the many illnesses besetting our world.

  I leaned my bike against a tree, surprised not to see Sean out playing, and rapped on the Donovans’ front door. To my surprise, Kevin himself pulled it open.

  “Miss Rose, top of the morning to you. Would you be looking for me, then?” His native brogue was much more in evidence at his home than at the office.

  “Not exactly, since I didn’t expect thee to be at home. I wanted to be sure thy wife and daughter were back on the path to good health.”

  Kevin beamed and stepped back. “Please come in and see for yourself.” He turned his head. “Emmie, Miss Rose is here. Make yerself decent, now.”

  I stepped inside. Emmaline was stationed on the love seat almost exactly as I’d left her yesterday. She sat bare-chested, but this time with a diapered Rosalie latched on and nursing like a champ, judging from the slurping sounds filling the room.

  “Decent? Listen, husband, Rose Carroll has seen me with nary a stitch on my body and howling like a banshee. She doesn’t care about your decent when it comes to birthing women, or afterward, either, I daresay.” Emmaline laughed. “Oh, Rose, did you ever save our lives yesterday. Look at our dearie now.” She gazed down at her daughter.

  Kevin cleared his throat behind me. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  “We mortified him good and simple,” Emmaline said with a grin. “Come feel how cool she is.”

  I laid my hand on the baby’s bare back. She wasn’t cool, but he
r temperature was normal. I touched her bottom, happy to detect a damp diaper, which indicated she was getting sufficient fluid. I perched next to the pair.

  “Thee can’t know how happy I am to see this,” I said. “So the cool moist cloths and spoon feeding helped?” I prayed the fever would not return.

  “It was like a miracle.” Emmaline frowned. “But Rose, why was I so addled? I’m usually a sensible person. I have never been afflicted with panic about Sean’s health, even when he got the influenza last year. Yesterday? I was like an imbecile, or a helpless child.” She searched my face with puzzled eyes.

  I stroked the baby’s head. “Thee is a new mother again, Emmaline. Thy woman’s body is in a state of enormous change. It can affect thy mind a bit, and add to that a very real worry about Rosalie’s fever? Thee had every reason to become a little crazed.”

  “I should say so.” She shook her head.

  “The thing to remember is it’s always fine to ask for help. Thy doctor, thy husband, me, thy neighbor. Even Sean. He could have summoned someone. Thee isn’t alone. Does thee understand?” In one sense it seemed odd to act as her counselor. Emmaline was a good ten years older than I. Still, I was the expert in the room, and she clearly didn’t mind my words of advice.

  She nodded and wiped away a tear. “All’s well that ends well. Isn’t that what you’re fond of saying?”

  “Indeed it is.” I stood. “I’m going to have a word with Kevin, if I may.”

  “You may.” She waved me away. “And Rose?” she called after me.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  I gave a single nod. I pushed open the door to the kitchen and stopped short. Kevin Donovan, stalwart police detective, sat with his arms folded on his knees, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

  “Oh, Kevin,” I murmured. “All seems to be well now.” I ventured to pat his shoulder.

  He scrubbed at his face with his fists and sat up straight. “I apologize, Miss Rose. It hit me like an andiron dropped from the sky how close I came to losing little Rosalie, and maybe my Emmie, too.” He gazed at me from an extra-ruddy face, this time with reddened eyes I’d never seen on him.

  “No need to apologize.” I determined that getting down to business might be the best approach to avoid further embarrassing him. I sat at the table across from him. Over his shoulder I spied a sink full of dirty dishes and two crusted pans on the stove, the plight of every mother with a newborn and a busy husband. If I had a chance to clean the kitchen before I left, I would. “Where is thy son, by the way?”

  “Our Sean’s got himself ‘apprenticed’ to Mr. Jonathan Sherwood down to the Lowell Boat Shop.” He emphasized the word “apprenticed” to indicate he knew it wasn’t a real apprenticeship. “My son told the man he wants to learn the practical application of the mathematics he’s been studying. The boy’s only seven years old, but Sherwood, bless his heart, took him on.”

  I smiled at the image of a child younger than Betsy wielding saws, planes, and hammers to construct sturdy wooden dories. “Anyone can see how bright Sean is. Yesterday he seemed to be leap-frogging directly into medical school.” I rose and moved to the sink, pumped water into a basin, and rolled up my sleeves.

  “The good Lord only knows how he’ll apply that brain of his. He must have gotten it from his sainted mother. His intelligence is certainly not an inheritance from my side.” He rolled his eyes. “Now, Miss Rose. I’m quite sure your own brain’s been working overtime on this business of Mrs. Settle’s death. Homicide, more’s the pity.”

  “I confess the murder has been uppermost in my thoughts. Thee must know Bertie Winslow cannot in any way, shape, or means have had anything to do with Mayme’s murder.” I fixed my sternest gaze on his visage.

  “I tend to agree with you. But a certain influential businessman in town is exerting pressure on Chief Talbot to arrive at a resolution.”

  “Might the man be Irvin Barclay?”

  Kevin bobbed his head once without actually saying it was.

  “I assume thee knows a controversy surrounds the death of his first wife,” I went on. “His second—and pregnant—wife is under my care, but I heard—from sources other than wife number two—he might have engineered wife number one’s death.”

  “Hmm. I had heard rumblings of same. A poison-induced heart failure.”

  “A number of people seem to know, yet he has retained his position as a banker. Curious.”

  “If nothing was proved, of course he would,” Kevin pointed out.

  “In addition, the childbed death of Alice Riley, the Settles’ gardener’s daughter, seems to have direct ties to both Mayme and Merton Settle and their wayward son.”

  “Said gardener’s name?”

  I hesitated as I scrubbed a particularly stubborn pot. Adoniram had been nothing but nice to me, and he’d been in the Settles’ employ for years. Why would he kill Mayme now?

  Kevin drummed his fingers on the table. “Miss Rose?”

  “You won’t forget this one. Adoniram Riley.”

  “I should think not. Duly noted,” Kevin said, despite having pencil and paper nowhere in sight. “Anything else?”

  I thought back to the Ladies Circle gathering. “Thee might want to look into Merton Settle. He seemed quite the browbeaten husband. His wife humiliated him in front of a gathering of her friends the evening before she died. I was there. He smelled strongly of alcohol, and I glimpsed a flash of a look from him, as if he were shooting daggers of hatred at his supposed beloved.”

  “Or of poison, one supposes.”

  “Was Mayme poisoned, then?”

  “They are thinking so. You know it’s near impossible to ascertain something like poison in the autopsy. My men confiscated a cup we found by her bedside. Apparently she made a practice of taking a hot drink before bed. Our chemist is examining the dregs in the vessel.”

  “Surely a murderer would have rinsed out the cup.”

  “If he had a chance. You know very well that killers are often not the smartest among us.”

  “Will thee let me know what he finds?”

  “Surely. Curiously, the deceased also had remnants of something white under her fingernails.” Kevin glanced at the clock on the wall. “Crikey!” He leapt to his feet. “I’m late for a meeting with the boss. Let yerself out, Miss Rose.” He smashed his hat onto his head and dashed in to kiss his wife and baby before rushing out.

  Sixteen

  I pedaled toward Market Square after I’d cleaned up the Donovans’ sink. I barely avoided being run down by a dray piled high with bales from the first haying, likely bound for stables and carriage houses at homes like Georgia Clarke’s or even Jeanette Papka’s. I’d love to chat with Jeanette about Mayme’s murder but assumed she would be working at the courthouse.

  What Kevin had mentioned about a white substance under Mayme’s fingernails intrigued me. Someone else had mentioned it, too. Oh, yes, it was Georgia Clarke, courtesy of the Settles’ maid. I mused on it as I rode. What could the substance be? Face powder wouldn’t be white. Besides, I didn’t remember seeing her with powder on her face. Perhaps talc? Or a lotion? But any cream or lotion would have been absorbed by the skin. I wished I could find out more. Maybe Georgia could manage an introduction to the maid for me.

  My lack of sleep was catching up with me again as I made my way to the post office. I’d promised Sophie to check in on Bertie. Maybe I could pretend it was my idea to have some fun tonight. Right now I wasn’t sure I could stay awake until the evening. My nerves were afire with the edgy sensation of being beyond tired, and every push of a pedal seemed twice as hard as usual.

  I parked my bicycle outside the post office and took my place at the end of a line of citizens wanting to buy stamps, pick up parcels, and who knew what else. The queue threatened to spill over onto the sidewalk, but I couldn’t spy Bertie at the counter. Young Eva, Bertie’s assistant, was barely keeping up with customers asking this and demanding that. Where had our esteemed postmis
tress disappeared to? I slid out of the line since I had no postal business to conduct and headed to the right side of the facility, where the post boxes were lined up on the wall in rows and columns worthy of a military battalion. Bertie’s office lay beyond the boxes, but the door labeled Postmistress Winslow was shut tight. I knocked anyway and got no answer, and when I tried the knob the door was locked. Where was my friend?

  Confound it, as my mother often said to avoid any more inflammatory language. I knew Kevin uttering “Crikey” when he’d realized he was late was only a disguised version of saying “Christ,” as were so many other presumably mild expletives. For me, I knew God had a window into my soul. If I were upset, He would know it no matter what I said. Still, there was something satisfying about letting loose with a vehement utterance in times of strife, even if uttered silently or under one’s breath.

  I made my way to the end of the queue again and waited as it inched forward. This was a new building, as the previous post office had burned down in the Great Fire of 1888 over a year ago. The ornate metalwork of the little post boxes shone, and the public telephone box near the door contained a stern-looking man conversing with someone at the other end of the line. When at last I approached Eva Stillwell, a fellow Quaker, I didn’t even need to ask where my friend was.

  “She said she had to go somewhere,” Bertie’s young assistant offered, glancing at the wall clock with a look of desperation in her light eyes. “She left at eleven thirty and it’s now half past one, Rose.” She beckoned me closer and whispered, “And I’ve a need to use the necessary. I don’t suppose thee could—”

  Her face fell and she stopped speaking when I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know the first thing about the duties of post office clerk,” I said, and it was true. “But thee must have a notice at hand saying the clerk will return shortly?”