I snorted, not something I thought I usually did. Clearly evidence of my already being under the influence. Still, I sat and raised my glass. I decided to ignore whichever path of corruption down which I was apparently tiptoeing. I was determined to enjoy the evening with my dear friend, and that was that.
She once again clinked glasses with me. We both sipped and began to eat. I couldn’t quite believe I hadn’t even asked for God’s blessing on the meal, but this was apparently Rome, and I would do as the Romans did. Or Bertie, in this case.
“We’ve done quite the job at creating a private room out here, haven’t we?” She gestured around the garden.
“True.” The growth shielded where we sat from the eyes of inquisitive neighbors. “Was that by design?”
“Yes, indeed. We have one particularly nosy fellow over the fence to the back. The man, Mrs. Settle’s match in his attitude, goes to great lengths to snoop into matters that are none of his business. He even tried to peep into our bedroom window a few years back.”
“He didn’t!”
“He did, the rat. That was when we realized we needed to draw heavy curtains every day at dusk. He took himself downtown and wanted to lodge a complaint of indecent behavior against us. But my Sophie countered with a charge of trespassing, pointing out that he had to come onto private property to get anywhere near that window. The scoundrel withdrew the complaint.”
“What’s the aphorism? Let he who casts the first stone . . . something or other.” I felt a laugh bubble up at my inability to finish it.
“I think it’s more like, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone at her.’ Which in that case was an adulterous woman. But the point Jesus was making is also in Matthew. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,’ by which he meant we should live righteous lives without hypocrisy.”
I pointed my fork at her. “I had no idea thee was a biblical scholar.”
She smiled to herself. “I am far from that, but I did have a solid Christian education.”
“Now, this is quite a delicious pie, my dear.” I stared at the green bits in it. “And asparagus, too? Thee could open a restaurant.” I had to work a little to get the last word out clearly. Uh-oh. Rose Carroll, Drunkard Midwife might have to be my epitaph. I giggled, thinking of it, and then sobered. If Sissy Barclay went into labor tonight, I would be in hot water. I’d have to hope Annie could handle the birth, which was entirely irresponsible of me. Still, I was feeling gloriously relaxed. Guilt could wait.
“Slow down a little, Miss Rose.” Bertie made a pressing-down motion with both hands. “You don’t have to drink the whole bottle at one sitting. You’ll feel mighty bad tomorrow if you do.”
“Very well. I will slow down. But thee has to tell me where thee disappeared to at midday today.” I gestured with my fork, sending an errant speck of pie sailing past Bertie’s shoulder. “Poor Eva was at her wit’s end, and Sophie was worried about thee, too. That’s one reason I’m here.” Except the way I pronounced “that’s” came out sounding like “thash.” I’d lost control of my tongue.
Bertie stood and whisked away both my glass and the bottle. While she was gone I drained the rest of her glass and giggled again. She returned with a big glass of cold water for me, but stood with arms akimbo staring at her empty glass.
“And now Miss Carroll has taken to thieving, too?” She winked and sat. “Drink your water, girl, and I’ll tell you what’s what.”
Twenty-one
At the crowing of a rooster, I awoke fully clothed on the chaise in Bertie and Sophie’s sitting room the next morning. My head pounded, my mouth seemed to be full of a foul-tasting cotton, and I was fiercely thirsty. Someone had left a glass of water on a small table next to me as well as a small brown bottle. I donned my spectacles and peered at it with bleary eyes. The label indicated it was some kind of tonic claiming to cure “the effects of dissipation.”
What did I have to lose? I downed the bitter tonic, chasing it down with the entire glass of water. Dissipated I certainly was. Whether cured or not, only time would tell. Why, oh why, had this good Friend fallen for the lure of an easy escape from her troubles? I could scarcely believe it. Sudden distress seized me. I rushed outside to the necessary, barely seeing the fanciful painting on the outhouse door.
Being cleansed from both ends was not my idea of a happy Sixth Day. Being saved from my young relatives witnessing my intoxication and subsequent distress tempered the pain to a degree. I scrubbed my hands and rinsed my mouth at the pump then fell back onto my makeshift bed inside, moaning only twice before I lost awareness of the dawn.
When I again awoke, Bertie was in the kitchen bustling about. From what I could see, she was washed, dressed, combed, and laying rashers of bacon on the stove. Very gingerly I swung my feet onto the floor and came up to sitting. By some miracle my head had returned halfway back to normal. I stood and stumbled toward the kitchen.
“Well, look who’s arisen from the dead, or the den of intoxication, more accurately.” Bertie grinned and held her arms out for an embrace.
I ignored the gesture, instead collapsing into a chair. I set one elbow on the table and my poor chin in my hand, staring at her from under heavy lids.
“Why did thee corrupt me so, Bertie? Here we have a case to solve, and instead thee entices me to drink myself senseless.”
She chortled. “Come now, Rosetta. What’s a one-night intoxication spree? I wouldn’t have lured you if I’d thought you were susceptible to needing alcohol day and night. Wasn’t it fun at the time?” She leaned her head down and peered at my face. “Am I right?”
I groaned. “Yes, thee is right. It was great fun. But now I will need an entire day to recover. And it’s a day I do not have at my disposal.”
She set a steaming mug of coffee before me. “I’ve already dosed it with fresh cream and sugar. I don’t suppose you’d like to try the hair of the dog, too?”
“Whatever that is, it sounds completely distasteful and I’d rather not.” I took a sip of the full-flavored, aromatic, dark-roasted beverage and moaned with pleasure. “Bertie, this coffee is the best drink I have ever tasted.” I sipped again. “In my entire life. In the entire universe. In the history of the world.”
“Thank you,” Bertie said but ended up laughing until she was bent over. “Oh my, Rose. You were the easiest drunk ever.”
“What does thee mean?” I couldn’t help but smile at her amusement, despite it being at my expense. “Thee tempted me, certainly, but imbibing was my own decision.”
She perched on the chair opposite me, spatula in hand. “Of course it was, dear.” She opened her mouth to speak, but shut it. Then opened it again. “I apologize for finding amusement. I do hope you can write off last night as one of life’s rich experiences and not berate yourself for it.”
“I shall try.”
My friend tossed her head. “I’ll tell you, girl. If I chastised myself for every ‘life experience’ I’ve ever been through, chastisement would occupy my every waking hour.” The skin around her eyes crinkled in amusement.
I drained my coffee and struggled to dredge up memories from last night. “As I recall, I had asked thee where thee had been during the midday hours yesterday. Thee absented thyself from the post office, leaving poor Eva to tend to all the customers and her bladder, too.”
Bertie winced at this reminder, the amusement sliding off her face.
“Alas, I appear to have lost my memory of thy response,” I continued. “Please remind me, if thee will?”
Sophie appeared in the doorway. “Remind you of what, Rose?” she asked in a sleep-husky voice.
“Good morning, Sophie,” I ventured. She hadn’t had her coffee yet, either, but Bertie soon remedied that state of affairs.
“Good morning to you both. This kitchen smells heavenly.” After she kissed the top of Bertie’s head, Sophie pulled an Asian-looking wrapper closer to her body. She snugged up the tie and plopped into the chair next to mine. Her dark hair hung loose ab
out her shoulders, the first time I’d seen it out of its customary bun. She tucked a silver-streaked lock behind her ear.
“I must apologize,” I began. “I did track down our Bertie yesterday and accompanied her home after the post office closed. Thee asked for someone to be at hand looking after her. But”—I cleared my throat—“apparently I myself was the one needing looking after. I quite blissfully slept there in thy sitting room from I don’t know when last night until ever so recently.” I yawned. “I had not slept at all the previous night because of a birth, so I had some catching up to do.”
“Assisted by our friend on the sideboard there.” Bertie gestured with her chin to the half-empty bottle.
“Yes.” The thought of the drink sent a shudder through me. I pointed at Bertie. “No more avoiding. Where did thee get thyself off to yesterday?”
She turned the bacon, one rasher at a time. She finally looked up. “I had to get away. I’ve been accused of immoral behavior before but never suspected of murder. Your detective was in the post office in the morning asking me to come back to the station for more questioning. I told him I couldn’t talk to him at work, but I was afraid he’d be back.”
“You were running from the law, my darling?” Sophie asked.
“In a way. I rode Grover up to the top of Po Hill and sat there pondering my situation for more than an hour. And when I came down, I went straight to the station and answered his questions. He added a few new ones to the original set, which were mostly about my whereabouts that evening.”
“New questions?” Sophie frowned, immediately looking more awake.
“Yes. Did I garden? What did I have in my shed? What cleaning supplies do I keep in the house? Do we have a problem with rodents? Had I ever made study of mushrooms? That kind of thing.”
“So he’s trying to find poisons on this property and learn what you know about them,” I said.
Bertie nodded. “I believe so. And then he pressed me about my cohabitation.” She laid her hand on Sophie’s. “I told the man in no uncertain terms that I had never been arrested for a crime, and that what I did in the privacy of my own home was none of his business.”
“Well done, love,” Sophie said. “All true.”
“It’s not that nobody has ever cast aspersions on the way I choose to live, but it’s not criminal and that’s that.” Bertie gazed at us. “I also apologized thoroughly to the ever-patient Eva upon my return.”
“Detective Donovan has no evidence against you, Bert,” Sophie pointed out. “And I was able to convince him to tell me your accuser was Irvin Barclay.”
“Barclay?” Bertie set her fists on her hips. “That windbag? He’s got the nerve.”
The nerve, indeed. But why would he want to cast suspicion on Bertie? Unless it was to divert it from himself—or someone he was protecting.
Twenty-two
I stayed eating breakfast at Bertie’s until she left at a quarter before eight. I knew the Baileys would have left the house for the day by the time I arrived home. Frederick was going to have to learn to step up and care for his children in all kinds of domestic ways. Faith and I had carried the burden for over a year, but she had now started her own life with Zeb, and I was hoping to do the same soon with David.
Once outside, I stared at my poor seedlings languishing in my bicycle’s basket. I’d ridden all over town with them yesterday and forgotten them completely last evening. I drew a cup of water at the outside pump and gave them each a drink, then pedaled home, thinking as I went.
A thick fog lay over the town this morning, coating everything with heavy moisture, so the plantlets weren’t as dry as they might have been. The fog made even commonplace sights look mysterious. I rode past the Friends Meetinghouse, whose tall windows loomed dark and grim, giving no hint of the inspiring sight they presented from the inside. I pedaled up Whitehall Road, but turned off onto Thompson before I reached the Settle home. I coasted down to the bridge over the Powow River and slowed to a stop. A mother duck trailed eight yellow puffballs behind her. On the opposite bank I spied the fluffy tail of a fox, and I suspected fewer ducklings would be waddling single file tomorrow.
I rode on. Bertie and I hadn’t done a thing to solve the case. Kevin was clearly still interested in her, despite my protestations. Mayme’s killer was still somewhere walking as freely as the fox, as far as I knew. I’d laid out the facts for John Whittier yesterday. Truly, talking with the wise poet hadn’t helped, either. I now knew Merton’s childhood surname. But was his name even relevant?
Irvin Barclay. I thought again about his arguing with Mayme at the courthouse. Had Jeanette heard what it had been about? I didn’t think she’d told me. It must have been a serious matter if they were both in court. How could I delve into the topic of their argument? I had a home visit scheduled with Sissy for this afternoon. Perhaps she could tell me of the issue between her husband and Mayme. I also pondered Sophie’s information about Irvin’s claim he’d seen Bertie at the Settle home. It didn’t make sense.
Turning onto Powow Street, I pushed on the pedals to get me up the sloping road until I reached Center Street. Powow became a sharply steeper hill a hundred yards farther along, but the highest point in town wasn’t my destination today. I’d settle for ascending the summit of the investigation, instead.
Once home, at the middle house of the triplets that had been built for the Hamilton Mill workers a decade earlier, I removed the seedlings and stashed them safely on the ground in a spot where the house would shade them when the fog burned off. I pumped water and made sure they were all well wetted before I trudged up the side steps and unlocked the door.
Lina wasn’t here yet, and goodness, did she have her work cut out for her in the kitchen today. Dirty dishes and pans seemed to be everywhere. Porridge stuck to the sides of a pot. A porcelain cup was stained with leftover coffee. Half a loaf of bread had been left out unwrapped to stale on the cutting board. Drops of egg yolk congealed on the table. A saucer of milk sat on the floor for the cat, except half the milk was on the floor itself. And more, much more. Four males and a little girl could do a lot of damage without someone to rein them in. My brother-in-law had never been much of one for enforcing the children’s chores, either. They knew better. Frederick himself had probably never washed a dish in his life. The state of the kitchen smacked of him punishing me for not coming home to cook yesterday.
I spied my name on a missive propped up on the sideboard. The note was written in Betsy’s girlish hand on paper torn from an exercise book.
Uncle David called for thee, Aunte Rose. He wood like thee to return his call at thy erlyest cunveenyense. Love, Betsy
I smiled at her phonetic spellings, and my heart lightened at the prospect of hearing David’s voice. The kitchen clock read eight fifteen. He would certainly be up by now and possibly not yet at the hospital. But if he’d already departed, I might be forced to speak with his mother, Clarinda. She had never approved of his courting me and had become even less happy when he’d asked me to marry him last summer.
I fingered the simple gold love-knot ring on my left hand, which he’d given me as a token of his affection. We’d been betrothed for nearly a year and still had no ceremony planned. Clarinda had finally given us her blessing a few months ago—or if not a blessing, she’d agreed to not stand in the way of our marriage. But she’d insisted on needing time to plan all the festivities, and so far David hadn’t protested about the delay. Wasn’t arranging a wedding supposed to be the purview of the bride and her family? I had to admit my own Meeting had stood in the way of our union, too, and still did, to some extent.
I was overdue for a visit to my parents on the farm where I’d had a happy childhood. The farm was on the outskirts of the now-thriving mill city of Lawrence some thirty miles to the southwest from here. Once this case was settled, I would catch the next train and put my head together with Mother. She was a sensible person and gentle in her forthrightness. We would come up with a plan and present it to Clar
inda, plain and simple. I truly longed for a plain and simple wedding, like Faith’s had been. And I longed even more to be finally united in matrimony with my beloved David.
Whom I still had not called. I went into the sitting room and stared at the phone. No, I would call him in an hour and speak to him in the safety of his office.
Twenty-three
The telephone rang at nine as I was going through my accounts. I hurried to answer it, hoping it was David reaching out for me again. I should have returned his call by now. Instead a tearful Georgia Clarke was on the line.
“Rose, please come quickly.”
“Is thee . . . is it . . . tell me what is happening, Georgia. Speak to me.”
“I’m bleeding,” she whispered. Her voice dissolved in a sob.
Oh. “I’ll be right there.” I hung up and hurried to tidy my hair and wash my hands. I grabbed my birthing satchel. She lived only a block away, but I hopped on my bicycle anyway, in case I needed it afterward. Alas, it sounded very much as if she was experiencing the end of her newest pregnancy. That she hadn’t yet sensed the baby move and that I’d been unable to detect a heartbeat two days ago comported with the possibility of a miscarriage. But I would see what I would see.
A frightened-looking white-capped maid let me into the stately home and pointed upstairs. “Shall I show you the way, miss?”
“No, I know where to go.” I thanked her and trotted up.
“Georgia?” I pushed open the door to her room but didn’t see her.
“In here,” she called in a weak voice from the bathroom.
Robert Clarke had spared no expense when he’d had this fine home constructed. He and some of the other “Captains of Industry,” as the small group of factory and mill owners liked to call themselves, had formed a private water company and run pipes to pump water to their own homes. Georgia’s bathroom was a roomy tiled space with a deep tub, a sink with gold fixtures, and a flush commode, on which she currently perched bent over nearly in half. Her head hung down over her forearms, which rested on her knees.
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