Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  “You know that they have asked men not to attend the meeting tomorrow,” Tom said. I nodded. “I tried my utmost to be allowed in, but Mrs. Stanton herself has asked me not to come. The women would be timid enough in front of men, she said, and more so if they knew there was a journalist in the room. I agreed on the condition that you be allowed to take notes for me. Will you do that?”

  My mind was in such turmoil that I agreed without wondering if I were up to the task.

  * * * *

  Early in the morning, the six of us climbed into a farm wagon and headed east for the opening day of the convention. Mr. Anderson and Mr. Longwood would attend to their business while we women would attend the sessions. Tom would interview any of the men who might be waiting outside for the women to join them for the midday meal.

  It was a short and pleasant ride. I chose a seat as far from Mr. Anderson as I could.

  When we arrived, we found that the door to the chapel was locked. A crowd of both sexes milled about on the grounds. Someone had the idea to put a lad through an open window to unbar the door from the inside.

  As we found our seats, Martha Longwood continued to enlighten me. Perhaps I should hand her the paper and pencils.

  After the call to order and a few greetings, the women got down to business. Mrs. Stanton read a document called the Declaration of Sentiments. It sounded much like the Declaration of Independence to me. I listened to both the words and the tone of each speaker and noted the things I thought were important. Martha whispered the speakers’ names to me and helped me spell them correctly. I couldn’t write fast enough to get down everything that was said, but I was sure there would be printed copies that Tom could use to write his article. I had filled about half a page when my mind was swept up in what I was hearing.

  There were phrases that stood out, and I jotted them down. “Civilly dead” was one. Was I dead, simply because I chose to marry? If Tom died, I would have to pay taxes, but I would have nothing to say about the government I paid them to.

  A whole world was opening before me, one I had lived in but never seen. Then, there it was: “The first right of a citizen, the elective franchise.”

  These people, not just the women here, but the men gathered outside, were indeed asking that the right to vote be extended to women.

  As I listened I realized two things: these women were right in their condemnation of the status quo, and I had led a very sheltered life, ending up, by some twist of fate, in good hands. It might easily have been otherwise. I was so engrossed in what I was hearing that I hardly noticed when Lucy excused herself and left the building, telling us she would walk home.

  The morning advanced, and what cool air there was turned warm, then hot. Beside me, Martha seemed quite content and comfortable, but the large woman who had slid into Lucy’s spot squirmed and fidgeted.

  * * * *

  Tom joined me as we filed out of the first session sometime after two in the afternoon. I expected him to ask about the session, but he took my arm and led me away from the others and said quietly, “Two hours ago Paul Anderson was found stabbed to death in a ditch on the Waterloo road near the outskirts of town. A teamster found him.”

  My mind was so muddled from the morning’s activity that I found it hard to take in his words. When I did I was too upset to reply. At last I gathered my wits and I stammered, “Why would anyone kill him?”

  “I could give you a few reasons and the names of those who might have done it,” Tom said.

  I knew at once there were more candidates than Tom suspected. Any wife whose door he knocked on, any husband of a wife accosted. The underpaid drivers, perhaps even his business associates.

  “Can they tell what kind of knife it was?” I asked.

  I had learned a few things being the wife of a newspaper man, but why had I not asked after Lucy first?

  “Yes. The police have it. Apparently it is unique, has a green handle, but the sheriff is keeping that information very close to his vest. It took all my training to get that much information out of them.”

  I was shocked at my own response. “That will not reflect well on the convention.”

  Then I asked what I should have asked first, “Does Lucy know? Is she all right?”

  “The Seneca Falls police found her wandering along the road. She had blood on her clothing and hands. She seemed too dazed to talk about what happened. She has been driven home and is with friends now.”

  “The knife you describe sounds like the one from her knitting basket. I have never seen another like it.” I couldn’t picture Lucy picking up a knife and driving it into anyone, least of all her husband. Nevertheless, I felt compelled to tell him that Lucy had left the convention early.

  “She left about an hour after the convention started. She might have caught up with him or they may have planned to meet. Even walking she could have been home before noon. You think she might have overtaken him on the road and killed him? Why?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t know much about their life together. We may never know who did it or why.”

  “What will become of the business with one partner dead?” I asked. “Do you think Anderson’s family really will take care of her?”

  “It is too soon to know,” he said. “The police have put a guard on their home and have asked us to seek other lodgings.”

  “I must find Martha and let her know. As bad as this is for Lucy, it leaves us with nowhere to stay.”

  He patted my hand and said, “You stay and take notes. I will try to find a place for the four of us to stay. Then I will borrow a horse and call on Lucy and make sure she is cared for.” He glanced around to make sure we were alone, then gave me a peck on the cheek and headed for the livery stable.

  Just then we were called back into session. I found Martha by the door and drew her aside to let her know about poor Lucy.

  “Poor woman. She may be a dolt, but she deserved better.”

  I had no response as we took the same seats next to the window. I read through my morning notes, then I put a big question mark at the top of the next page. What would the outcome of our meeting here be, and how did I really feel about it? And the murder of Mr. Anderson, why here and now?

  As the afternoon wore on, I began to weigh everything I heard against the situation in which Lucy Anderson now found herself.

  * * * *

  I was torn between attending the evening session and going to call on Lucy to see what I could do. Tom made the decision for me when he handed me back the notebook and pencils. Mr. Longwood refilled the picnic basket he had supplied for us and carried it to the gig he had rented.

  “Martha, what do you think Lucy will do now?” I asked. The four of us were enjoying a picnic of cold meat and pickled vegetables on a patch of grass outside the chapel.

  She seemed eager enough to tell me. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but she is well rid of that husband. I couldn’t stand him, and I didn’t have to live with him. Pompous. Reckless. Money hungry. He runs—ran—roughshod over Ned.” She touched her husband’s hand. “Any business problems they are now having are his fault. Ned thinks he stole pay from the drivers. Told them it was some kind of fee or tax. That is why they are unable to hire good drivers.”

  “Do you think one of the drivers could have killed him?” Tom asked.

  “It’s unlikely,” Mr. Longwood said. “There is plenty of work for teamsters, even with the canal.”

  “What about you? Has he ever given you problems?” I asked Martha.

  “You mean pounding on my door in the evening? I bet he pounded on yours as well. Ruth, I am not an attractive woman, and I must admit to being flattered by his attention, but I was never going to put what I had in jeopardy to bed such a serpent.”

  * * * *

  Tom managed to find the only two beds in Seneca Falls that were still unoccupi
ed. We would have to share the room with the Longwoods. While it was uncomfortable, it was not unusual to find oneself forced to make such arrangements while traveling. The room was built onto the back of a house with no access to the main building. The only door opened onto a lane that passed behind the house so we could come and go as we pleased. I thought it must have been built to house workers who were not welcome in the house itself. The place smelled musty, but the tiny fire on the hearth held the damp at bay. There were two windows and we joked that we could each have possession of one.

  The complicated manners around sharing a room with strangers drove me to distraction. I liked both Martha and her husband, but I wasn’t sure I cared to use the pot-de-chambre with them in the room.

  I slept poorly. My mind would not stop grinding the grist of the day. The murder of Mr. Anderson unsettled me. But the things that had been said by the women who spoke today weighed heavily, as well. It was clear to me that women should be able to own property and to have custody of their children. But vote? I wasn’t so sure about that. The notion of voting had never crossed my mind before I came here. Now I was thinking it might not be such a bad thing. Should we wait around to have our rights handed to us or should we be in a positon to take what we needed?

  Nor was I alone in my thoughts. I could hear Mr. Longwood tossing and turning, though his concerns were probably different from mine.

  As quietly as I could, I picked up my wrapper and slipped out the door for some fresh air. The night was alive with sound. Water lapped at the shore of the lake where the canal poured into it. Some insects buzzed in the trees overhead. The breeze rustled the leaves. The door behind me creaked opened.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Mrs. Hill.” I could see Mr. Longwood outlined by the light of the waning moon. As he approached, I noticed that he carried a tin cup with glowing coals in it and a small paper packet.

  “Mr. Longwood, everything is topsy-turvy, so I don’t imagine anyone will mind this small breach of etiquette.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

  “No, there has been too much turmoil, both with the convention and with the murder of poor Mr. Anderson.”

  “Poor Mr. Anderson? Yes, of course, but pity the others, too.”

  “The others?” I asked. Would he think of the same people I did?

  “Shall I list them for you?” He lifted a finger. “First there are the wagon drivers who carry our goods. We have been having trouble recruiting new ones, and we ended up paying the exorbitant fees to ship on the canal. You don’t know how lucky you are that Tom didn’t go into the business. ”

  He lifted a second finger. “Then there is Samuel Anderson.” When I looked questioningly at him, he added, “Paul’s brother. Who, by the way, now owns Lucy’s house, in payment for the money he poured into the business so Paul could spend it willy-nilly. I can’t imagine he will let her stay. Poor Lucy. Her parents will have to take her back.”

  He held up two more fingers. “Then there’s me and Martha.” Though he didn’t explain, I knew that the business was in deep trouble because of Mr. Anderson’s reckless management.

  He picked up the tin cup and lit one of those new French cigarettes that he pulled from the paper packet. He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. “In the end, you’re right. Lucy is the hardest hit. She didn’t care much for the rooster she married, but he did give her a good life.”

  Rooster? Had he knocked at more doors than mine and Martha’s? “Lucy is a suspect, you know,” I said.

  “I can’t see Lucy wielding a knife against her husband,” he said. “She is too frail, too dependent.”

  Had I heard affection in his voice?

  “She was found with blood on her dress and no explanation,” I told him.

  “Perhaps she found him, saw that it was her knife, and tried to pull it out.”

  “Her knife? The green onyx one?” I asked. He nodded.

  How did he know? Wasn’t the sheriff keeping that fact to himself? Perhaps Ned had found out the same way Tom had. Or perhaps he knew which knife it was because he had used it himself. Had he loved Lucy? Had he killed to protect her? Or the business? Or both?

  “How did you get the knife?” I asked.

  He looked at me sharply, but for some reason I felt no fear. Tom would come if I called to him. I don’t know how long it was that we stared at each other in the moonlight.

  At length he sighed and said, “She had her knitting bag with her when she met us. She was walking home. We had been trying to convince a teamster to work for us again, with little success. Paul grabbed her and was about to hit her. He had such a nasty temper. She dropped the bag. I knew the knife was there.”

  * * * *

  Now both Lucy and Martha were at the mercy of whatever man was responsible for them.

  Since this was a matter for the sheriff, and had nothing to do with the convention, Tom spoke to the police in my stead. Coverture had its advantages. Still...

  The second day of the convention was far different with neither Martha nor Lucy beside me. I filled pages with words. I even managed to write a full article, which I believe Tom submitted without revision.

  When the next issue of the Gazette came out I was astonished to find the article I had written unchanged and published under my own name, Mrs. Thomas Hill.

  * * * *

  Author’s note: My apologies to Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Lucretia Mott, Martha Wright, and the other great women who had the courage to arrange the first women’s rights convention. I do not mean to sully your hard work with a murder.

  DARK SECRETS, by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  On an oppressively hot July evening, when I truly regretted not being able to abandon the city to join my wife at our summer place, an old childhood friend happened to ring up asking if he could come around for a drink. I greeted him heartily and told him I’d be delighted to see him. Although we hadn’t spoken in some years, I detected a note of strain in his usually buoyant voice. Fearing he had bad news to impart, I tentatively asked after his family.

  “Fine, fine,” he said, almost absently. “Jean and the kids are good. She’s visiting her mother in Boston while I’m in New York. We’re all fine. You?”

  “Yes, fine. Fiona is in Amagansett for the summer with my daughter and some of the grandchildren. My sister is doing well in Connecticut. Lives with her cat and happily runs a bed-and-breakfast. Nothing much new.”

  With divorce and catastrophic illness off the table, I ventured, “So, thinking about moving back here, are you?”

  “What? No, we’re off to Sao Paulo the end of the week. I’ll be joining Jean tomorrow.”

  “Well, then—”

  “Actually, the thing is I got roped into attending this odd sort of convention here, and now I wish I hadn’t because...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I think I witnessed a murder.”

  “What! Where?”

  “At this convention. It seems so, anyway.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they’ve been called, but as soon as I saw the body, I left.”

  “You left? But shouldn’t you—?”

  “I had to get out of there. You see, I think whoever might have murdered this person thought he was killing me.”

  “Hang on, you’re saying you were the intended victim?”

  “I’m certain of it, but I didn’t want to give whoever it is a second chance. So I left. ”

  “Then, have you any idea who was actually murdered?”

  “No, but . . . I’m telling you, he looked like me.”

  I chuckled and relaxed my grip on the phone. Daniel was up to his old tricks, winding me up. He’d always had a flair for the dramatic and once again I’d fallen for it. “Cheating death is reason enough for a cold martini. Come over and we’ll drink to your narro
w escape.”

  “Thanks, Paul, I knew I could count on you.”

  “Right, then. See you shortly.” I was about to add that I would meet him somewhere, if that was more convenient, but he’d abruptly hung up. I tucked the phone in my pocket and went to the kitchen to see if there was any cheese left to set out.

  Of course, Dan was having me on, but still—what a thing to say. I couldn’t shake off my uneasiness. I opened the fridge and peered into the cheese drawer, relieved to see a good-sized piece of English cheddar and an unopened cello-wrapped wedge of Brie. As if by rote, I placed them on a wooden tray with a bowl of Kalamata olives, some biscuits, two knives, plates, and some napkins. If he were to stay longer, I’d take him over to my club for a meal. The thought of having a companion for dinner cheered me, and I was intrigued by this talk of murder.

  But who in the world would want to kill Daniel?

  Certainly much had happened in the intervening years since I last saw him, but I’d be surprised to learn he was involved in anything criminal, or even the least bit unsavory. He’d always been a happy-go-lucky chap, warm and outgoing. He was a prankster, of course, but not the sort who would get himself into a real jam.

  One could say we had little in common, yet we’d connected on a certain level as twelve-year-olds, and the friendship stuck, despite living continents apart for quite some time. In my sixteenth year, my family returned to England, much to my disappointment. But Dan and I kept in touch with robust letter writing and later e-mail, which cemented our longstanding friendship.

  It had taken me more than twenty years to make my way back to New York under my own steam, landing a position in publishing with the same firm I’d started with in London. Meanwhile, Dan changed courses entirely, going into the restaurant business and then departing to South America, where he managed a chain of luxury resort hotels.

  Daniel Harrison had grown up in New York City on Riverside Drive in the sort of sprawling prewar apartment New Yorkers call a “classic six” overlooking the park. Our own family lived on the same floor in a similar flat, which is how we came to meet.