Judge Thee Not

by Edith Maxwell

  She nodded, light dawning.

  “I suggest thee place it here on the counter and go do thy business. Be expeditious, but no one will fault thee for doing what we all must.”

  “I don’t know why I was waiting for Bertie’s permission.” She grinned, reached under the counter for the engraved sign, and placed it facing out on the counter. “I owe thee a favor, Rose.” Eva, no older than Faith, tucked an auburn curl behind her ear before disappearing through the back door.

  I smiled back, despite feeling distinctly uncheerful. Where was Bertie? I turned to leave. I apparently had been last in line, because not a soul fumed impatiently behind me.

  Once outside, I stood gazing up and down the busy thoroughfare. I didn’t usually feel at a loss for where to go, but right now I surely was. I supposed I could investigate Bertie and Sophie’s cottage on Whittier Street and see if she was there. Kevin didn’t have her in custody, that seemed clear. Or, speaking of Whittier, I could seek counsel with the great man himself. Yes, calling on John was what I’d do.

  And if I couldn’t locate Bertie after my visit, well, it was Sixth Month. I would pass by the shop that sold tomato starts at this time of year. I’d been trying to expand our vegetable and herb garden at the house a little every year. There was no time like right before the solstice to plant our tomatoes. Frost had surely passed us by until the fall.

  Or . . . I exclaimed, startling a well-dressed couple passing arm in arm. Adoniram had offered me tomato seedlings. I had a plan. I’d go see the Settles’ gardener before I went to Friend John’s. Maybe I could learn something in the doing.

  Seventeen

  I did pass by Bertie’s home on my way to visit Adoniram, but she was not in evidence.

  “Damnation,” I muttered to myself, as Bertie herself often exclaimed. “Where are you, woman?”

  Not being present, she didn’t answer. If she had, I would have jumped right out of my skin.

  On I cycled, five minutes later pulling in behind the Settle house proper, where I heard the scritch of hoe on soil. I leaned my bike against the wall of the carriage house, which had white trim and gray paint matching that of the main house. The fragrant blooms of stock in a bed against the carriage house were lovely shades of pinks and purples.

  I followed my ears to Adoniram. The gardener was busy cutting weeds off at the roots between two long beds of infant flower plants. He pulled the long handle of a stirrup hoe, scuffling up the dark, rich-looking dirt and covering the decimated weeds so they wouldn’t resprout.

  I knew he’d seen me, but I sensed he needed to finish the row before speaking. Sure enough, at the end he leaned on the hoe’s handle and wiped his bony brow with a green kerchief.

  “Miss Carroll. Come for tomato starts?”

  “Good afternoon, Adoniram. Yes, I’d be happy to, if thee still has some to spare.”

  He regarded me with a faint smile from under bushy gray eyebrows. “Follow me.” He gestured off to the side with his chin.

  I paused when the hair stood up on my neck and arms. Wasn’t this gardener a possible suspect? Didn’t he have cause to kill Mayme, no matter how delayed a revenge it was? I might be putting myself in danger by following him.

  On the other hand, we walked in the full light of afternoon. Neighboring homes and gardens flanked us on both sides. I heard children squealing with joy nearby and the sounds of carpentry under way somewhere not too distant. I should be fine, but thought I’d throw in a bit of insurance.

  “I thank thee. I told a friend about thy seedlings and she said she’d be along in a minute, as well, to see if any are in surplus.” I figured God wouldn’t mind a minor Friendly prevarication in the service of personal safety. Even if He did, it was done now.

  “Why do you talk funny like that, anyway? I heard about them Shakers, up to Canterbury way. You one of them?”

  “No, I’m what people call a Quaker. I am a member of the Religious Society of Friends. More than two hundred years ago Friends began using ‘thee’ and ‘thy’ for everyone, because we believe we are all equal in God’s eyes.”

  He grunted. “Some wouldn’t have you think so.” His gaze cut to the big house at the other end of the property. It seemed he didn’t like his employers one bit. Why had he continued to work here, then? Perhaps they paid him well, or for some reason he thought he couldn’t garner other work that also came with lodgings.

  “I know. But now, curiously enough, our speech sets us apart again.” I laughed softly. “I daresay the oddities will be abandoned at some point in the future.”

  “Interesting.” The gaunt gardener led me along the side of a glass greenhouse some thirty feet in length. At the end he halted so abruptly I nearly ran into him.

  “There.” He pointed at a makeshift table with rows of small earthenware pots, each nurturing a plant five or six inches tall. The ones with textured and serrated leaves were tomatoes, while others with glossier spade-shaped foliage had to be peppers. The leaves on all were a healthy green. This man knew his horticulture. “Take as many as you’d like.”

  “I can fit only a half dozen in my bicycle basket, but a small number is all I have room for in the garden, anyway.” I surveyed the extensive yard. It wasn’t quite an estate, but had to be at least an acre of well-tended flower gardens, plus the vegetable garden at the back beyond the greenhouse. Tall hedges shielded the property from its neighbors and buffered the noise from the street, creating an oasis in the hubbub of daily life. “We don’t have a large piece of land like this.”

  “That’s fine, then.”

  “I’ll return the pots after I’ve emptied them.”

  “No need. Mr. Settle can afford the cost of new ones.”

  “Very well. So do the Settles have a big family? All these seedlings will yield quite a crop.” I smiled at him.

  “No. A grown daughter, lives out Amherst way. The son joined the merchant marine four years back, few months before my Alice died. He was lost at sea, they say. And good riddance.” He folded his arms and watched my face, as if daring me to challenge his speaking ill of the dead.

  “What a pity.” His death, in combination with Mayme and the daughter being estranged, had left her essentially childless. No wonder she’d wanted to help children in need. I waited to see if he’d say something similarly negative about Mayme. When he didn’t, I ventured, “And now his mother is dead, too. Did thee see anyone lurking about on the evening of Mayme’s death?”

  “No. And I told the copper as much.” He narrowed his eyes. “What are you, some kind of Pinkerton girl?”

  “No, not hardly. Put simply, Mayme’s death is the talk of the town.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I hope they find the culprit soon. The police have the wrong notion that a friend of mine was involved, but I know she wasn’t.”

  “Who’s the friend?” he asked.

  “Bertie Winslow, the postmistress.”

  “Her? She’s a queer one. Seems she leans the other way, if you know what I mean. Like the Settles’ daughter.”

  So what Bertie and I had conjectured was true.

  “Don’t matter none to me, though,” Adoniram continued. “Miss Winslow’s always been right nice to me when I been in the post office. She’s a good egg, she is.”

  “Bertie has a good soul,” I agreed. “Does the Settle daughter come to visit often?”

  “Her?” He shook his head slowly. “She’d like to, but her mother won’t accept her ways. Mrs. Settle nearly spits at the thought of her name. Mr. Settle, now, he travels out to that college to see the girl now and then.”

  Despite her mother’s disapproval, the daughter still loved her and wanted to see her. They must have been closer when the daughter was young. Interesting. “Well, I’d best be going.”

  He gestured at the seedlings. “Take a pepper or two, as well, if you like. What the family don’t eat I supply to my son and his kin, but we have plenty. And now the family here be down to only Mr. Settle.” He handed me a fla
t pan. “Load ’em in here to carry to your bicycle.”

  “I thank thee kindly.”

  “Come back for more if you’re needing them.”

  I nodded, loaded up, and headed back to my metal steed. The gardener didn’t accompany me. I transferred the starts to my basket. Before I rode off, I glanced back at Adoniram. Hands in his pockets, he was staring at me. He wasn’t an effusive man, but he’d seemed friendly enough when I’d encountered him this week. His look now? It was stern and unsmiling. Maybe this good Catholic boy, as Annie had put it, had turned irrevocably bitter after the loss of his only daughter.

  Eighteen

  Mrs. Cate, John Whittier’s housekeeper, led me through into the garden, where the elderly poet sat in the shade of one of his prized pear trees.

  “Ah, Rose. Do join me on this fine afternoon.” He smiled at me from under snowy brows, his thin face showing the passage of time in its furrows and loosened skin. His dark eighty-one-year-old eyes were clear, though, and had the same intense focus I’d seen in them ever since I’d met him.

  “Mrs. Cate, please bring Rose a cool drink, if thee would be so kind.”

  After the lean woman had gone back inside, I said, “I thank thee, John. Tell me why thee doesn’t address her by her Christian name, after the manner of Friends?”

  He smiled. “I respect her and her husband’s wishes. I am a weathered and seasoned Friend, Rose. One must not be rigid in these matters.”

  I winced inwardly. I had often displeased people by refusing to call them by their title and surname.

  “Also, Mrs. Cate simply wouldn’t stand for my addressing her as Caroline or her husband as George. Neither she nor her esteemed husband are Friends, as thee must know. I rely so on both of them, I don’t know what I would do without the pair living upstairs here and caring for the house in my frequent absences to hither and yon. So Judge and Mrs. Cate it is.”

  “I understand.” I smiled as I sank down to sit on the grass in front of him. “This shade is most welcome.”

  “One never knows which day will be one’s last. When God gives us a perfect day, aren’t we obliged to venture forth and enjoy it? Even though right here in my garden is as ‘forth’ as I’ll be venturing this day.” He gazed down at me. “I daresay thee didn’t pay me a call simply to enjoy a pearish shade with me. What is on thy mind, Rose?”

  Mrs. Cate came back out with a glass of lemonade for me. I thanked her and waited until she disappeared into the house before speaking.

  “Amesbury once again has a case of a violent death being visited upon one of its citizens,” I began.

  John nodded, looking somber. “I’ve already heard talk of Mayme Settle’s unfortunate death.”

  “Yes, Mayme is who it was. At the moment, Bertie Winslow is under suspicion, but only because someone lied about her actions.”

  “Our unconventional and most delightful postmistress. Thee has introduced me to her as thy friend.”

  “Yes, and a very dear one.” I smiled, thinking of her.

  “By unconventional I mean her loving cohabitation with the lady lawyer, of course.”

  “Yes, although Bertie feels free to reject many of society’s other strictures against the fairer sex, too.” Riding astride, holding a position of power in town, and speaking her mind were high on the list.

  “As well she might,” John said. He softened his voice. “Our Mrs. Cate calls Boston marriages an abomination, did thee know?”

  I made a sound in my throat. “Is this true?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. As thee knows, I find her employ so valuable I am willing to overlook a number of what some might call minor transgressions.”

  “It wouldn’t be minor to Bertie. Abomination or not, she is the least likely person to kill someone I know, next to thyself, of course.”

  A smile lurked behind John’s eyes. “Tell me, who might have had cause to kill the woman? As yet I’ve heard no names bandied about.”

  I ticked them off on my fingers. “Adoniram Riley is the Settles’ gardener. He has a grievance from several years back against the Settles and their son. The son has apparently perished in the merchant marine.” I related the story of Alice’s death. “Neither parent pushed their son to own up to fathering a child.”

  “The Settle father should have persuaded his son to act honorably.” John tented his fingers, as he was wont to do.

  “True,” I acknowledged. “I confess I have been primarily blaming Mayme for the death and the child’s abandonment. The responsibility in fact rested with the son.”

  “It appears the gardener still harbors deep pain.”

  “I agree. The question is whether he also harbors deep anger, and if so, why did he take four years to act on it.”

  “Who else has thee in thy bag of suspects, Rose?”

  “A friend said she overheard the banker Irvin Barclay having an argument with Mayme. I am caring for Irvin’s wife’s pregnancy at present.”

  “If everyone who argued killed the person with whom they disagreed, we’d have a much smaller population on this blessed sphere of ours.”

  “I know. I think Irvin might bear further investigation, though, in part because his first wife might have died under curious circumstances.” I gazed up at an oriole, its orange vest brilliant against a black head and coat, its notes rich and throaty. “And then there’s Mayme’s husband, Merton.”

  “Merton, eh? Why, I serve on the library board with him. He’s wealthy by way of inheritance, not from any efforts of his own. And he happens to love books.”

  “He might love books, but I’m not so sure he and Mayme loved each other. The evening I was at their home—” I stopped speaking when John raised his hand.

  “What evening would it have been?”

  “The very night Mayme was killed, or the evening before, anyway.”

  “Go on.”

  “She was rude to her husband and humiliated him—in front of twenty women.” I still could barely believe how she’d treated him. “After she turned away from Merton, the look I saw him give her in return was pure vitriol.”

  “This case has quite the twists and turns, doesn’t it? But seriously, it seems to me I heard something intriguing about Merton Settle. I can’t place who told me, but it regarded his heritage.”

  “The name Settle sounds British through and through, doesn’t it?” I sipped my lemonade, the perfect mix of sweet, tangy sour, and cold.

  “One would think so. In fact I believe it was originally some kind of appellation originating in Poland, which was Anglicized to make Merton’s ancestor—or perhaps he himself—better fit in here in America.”

  My eyebrows went up. Was Merton keeping secrets along with a name change? Perhaps it wasn’t a relative at all who had altered the surname, but Merton himself who’d revised his natal name when he immigrated to America. I had overheard a slight accent in his speech, I remembered. Had he changed his surname for naturalization purposes or a more nefarious reason? “And thee cannot recall who told thee he was Polish?”

  “I’m afraid not, Rose, dear. My brain seems to wish for me to continue creating poems, and it is reserving its energy primarily for poetry of late. ’Tis the plight of those who have seen fourscore years of sunrises.”

  Nineteen

  Riding my bicycle the short distance home from John’s home had never seemed so onerous, and not from the weight of the seedlings, either. A forty-minute rest this morning was no substitute for a full night’s sleep. Such was one of the hazards of my chosen profession, however. I should be able to retire to my bed several hours early tonight and refill the sleep reservoir at least in part.

  But not understanding the who and why of Mayme’s murder, nor the how, sapped my spirit. It and my sleep deficit were both laden atop wondering about when in the world I might be able finally to marry David, with the question of Bertie’s whereabouts permeating all of it. If I couldn’t locate my friend, how would I let Sophie know?

  I could address the las
t by popping over to her house again. It was four o’clock by now, and by rights she should still be at the post office, but nothing much was going by rights today. After I knocked and called her name and knocked again, I gave up. A whoof and a stomping of equine feet behind me in the road made me turn to look, but all I saw was a black rockaway carriage driving away with perhaps a flash of green fabric on the driver.

  Sighing, I knew I lacked sufficient energy to go to Bertie’s place of employment again, as it involved riding downhill and then back up, even though I’d promised Sophie I would. So I headed down Friend Street toward home.

  But as I neared the Armory, I spied a tall figure standing at the edge of the street. Jeanette repeatedly waved her arm and hand at passing conveyances. I couldn’t figure out what she was doing, so I pulled over and braked to a stop.

  “Jeanette, what is thee about?” I didn’t identify myself. She would recognize my voice. I’d seen too many people ignorant about the hearing of the blind, people who needlessly identified themselves time after time. I’d asked my friend once if her hearing was more acute than mine. She’d said no, but that she relied on her hearing for far more than I did and didn’t have the distraction of sight to muddle her perceptions.

  “Oh, curses, Rose. All I want is a conveyance for hire to take me home. But not a one has stopped for me. This happens more often than you can imagine.”

  “But how should they know thee wishes to hire them?”

  She pulled her mouth into a wry expression. “Well, exactly. There’s one fellow who takes me home nearly every day about this time, but when he is detained elsewhere, or if I leave work early or late, I’m left at the mercies of any driver who cares to stop. Or none, as you can see.”

  “Thee doesn’t live too far.”

  “No, I don’t. But can you picture me trying to walk there on my own? I’d be dead before supper.” She laughed and clapped one palm atop the other.