I included my address and that I was available via telephone, slipped the note into an envelope, and readied it for the afternoon post. It was now three o’clock and the children would be home from school soon. But Faith would also be along soon, having made an arrangement with the newspaper that she could do part of her work at home. Her younger siblings were certainly responsible enough not to need my presence, and today I wished to do my searching in quiet.
After leaving a note for the family saying I wasn’t sure when I would be back, I grabbed my bag and headed out once again, this time to the public library.
sixteen
I trudged through streets messy with slush and dirty snow to the post office at nearly five o’clock. My two hours in the library room on the grounds of the Hamilton Mills had been peaceful but not overly fruitful, at least in terms of looking for others who offered services like Madame Restante’s. I’d perused the notices in my newspaper and jotted down a few, but they were even vaguer than Madame’s, and hadn’t included her reference to babies. I’d seen advertisements for Lamotte’s French Remedy, Cullen’s Female Specific, and Rimmel’s Medicated Vinegar. The last was a douching solution that women used to wash away the products of sexual intimacy and thereby prevent pregnancy, although the product itself would never promise exactly that.
On the next-to-last page of the paper I found one more lead that looked promising. It was an advertisement for a Wallace Buckham, who described his herbalist treatments. Gain relief from the tensions of a mother’s life. Achieve regularity. Safe and effective treatments. Initial consultation at no cost. The language made me wonder if he, too, was a clandestine abortionist, so I noted the name and address.
It was calm and quiet in the library, and sitting surrounded by high shelves full of books had always been one of my favorite things to do. So much knowledge, so many stories. I’d spent the last hour losing myself in a book of George Eliot’s poems, finally rousing myself to venture out into the winter twilight toward the post office.
Bertie was just locking up. “Evening, Rosetta. Come along home with me and we’ll talk. I could tell by the look on your face you had a crime to work through with me.” She pulled a fanciful purple felt hat onto her head as I followed her to the nearby stable where she kept Grover during the workday. Together we walked him up Main Street to the cottage on Whittier Street she shared with her lover, Sophie. Once Grover was settled and we were inside with lamps and fire lit, Bertie fixed me a cup of tea and poured herself a sherry.
“Now, what’s up?” she asked, settling into one of the cozy armchairs in the sitting room.
A giggling snort slipped out of me from my chair opposite hers. “It’s not that what I want to discuss is funny, but a man named Joe Swift was behind me in the post office and I bumped into him by accident. He proposed he join us both at five o’clock for a spot of sherry. In a bar, no doubt.”
She cocked her head. “Do you know this fellow?”
“He is—was—Charity’s cousin. I met him briefly when Ransom and I went to inform Virtue of the death.”
“I’m always happy to partake in a spot of sherry,” Bertie said. “Even though neither of us happens to be in need of one Joe Swift to drink or otherwise consort with.” She clinked her glass with my teacup and took a sip. “So?”
“So I told thee yesterday about Charity’s demise, as well as her mention of money, and of Orpha’s caution which Charity hadn’t heeded. Thee talked about Ransom Skells’s behavior. Now I’ve learned more.” I told her what I’d observed of Ransom. “His mother-in-law, Virtue Swift, doesn’t care for him at all and he told me Charity’s father likes him even less.”
“Swift. Related to this Joe in the post office?”
“Yes, his aunt and uncle. Something about Joey nags at my inner voice. Virtue herself said he was a drunken gambler who has fallen away from being a Quaker. His father, also Joseph, apparently made quite the fortune in rum but is recently deceased.”
“Joseph Swift,” Bertie said, furrowing her brow. “Now where did I hear that name? I’ll have to ask Sophie. Maybe his was the complicated will she’s been executing. Something about trusts, too.”
“Joseph was Charity’s uncle. And she mentioned something about money as she was dying. I wonder …”
“I’ll get the whole story for you from Sophie.”
I thanked her. “There is a Delia Davies who is a secretary at the Lowell Boat Shop.”
“Where Skells now works?”
“Exactly.”
“She seemed a bit protective of Ransom when I went to give him the news about Charity’s death.”
“Delia Davies,” Bertie said, brow furrowed. “I say. If memory serves, Mr. Skells mailed her a package last week sometime.”
“I wonder why he would do that. Was it big?”
She tapped her finger against her glass. “No. Not much bigger than a shirt box. Maybe he’s getting a bit of sugar on the side. Maybe he mailed her some fancy undergarment.”
“It’s possible. He called her a chippy and then claimed he didn’t intend to say she was a prostitute, but was just a girl who means nothing to him.”
“Isn’t that what they all say?” Bertie swung a foot up and over the chair’s arm, splaying her bloomer-clad legs. “Sakes alive, my pins are beat from standing nearly all day. Do go on, Rose.”
“Today I learned the results of the autopsy. As I suspected, Charity’s excessive bleeding was not the result of a miscarriage, but rather her womb had been perforated more than once by a sharp object.”
Bertie sucked in a breath. She swilled the rest of her sherry. Her posture was more relaxed than when we’d arrived home, likely due to the effect of the alcohol, but her face was knit into a somber expression at the autopsy news.
Once in a while, now being one of those times, I envied Bertie her life. Not that she was carefree, exactly. She held a position of some responsibility as postmistress, a job she’d had to fight for. Her love of a bit of drink, her ability to live without care for society’s strictures? These things appealed to me in a theoretical way. I knew I was unlikely to cut loose like she did, but it was fun to live her life vicariously on occasion. Except for the parts where townspeople spat at her and openly disapproved of her living arrangement with Sophie, and especially her situation of being estranged from her mother, something she didn’t like to discuss. If it were me, I would hate not having my mother’s comfort, wisdom, and humor in my life.
“So it was a botched termination?” she asked.
“She died of a poorly done abortion, whether intentionally or by accident,” I said.
“Do you mean murder?” She sat up straight, both feet on the floor. “Now this is a horse of a different color.”
“I doubt it, but Charity’s womb was perforated. That point is beyond dispute. Let me lay out the rest of the facts as I see them.”
Bertie held up a hand. “I think best with a pen in my hand. Wait a moment.” She moved quickly to a desk at the side of the room and opened a journal to a blank page. Pen inked and ready, she gave me a nod. “Go.”
“Someone killed Charity. I want to discover who.”
“You want to? What about your darling Kevin?” Her expression was full of mischief. “He was the homicide detective, last I knew.”
“He’s not mine and he’s not darling. More important, his new chief doesn’t want me working with him anymore.”
“A pity, that.” Bertie looked genuinely rueful.
“But yes, I do seek to get to the bottom of Charity’s death. Kevin was able to send me the autopsy report. Any information I gather I’m to mail to him at home. I believe our collaboration will continue, just along the alleyways, not in his office.” I cleared my throat. “Shall I go on?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” She scribbled in the journal. “We now have a Suspects heading. Please proceed.”
“Fine. I guess the simplest case is an incompetent provider of criminal abortions, who meant to terminate Charity’s pregnancy but instead killed her.”
“All right. The anonymous fumble-fingered practitioner.”
“Thee might write down the husband, Ransom. He never seemed particularly loving toward Charity.”
“To the extent of murdering her?” Bertie asked.
“I don’t know how he could have managed, or why, really. I mean, he would have to take over the care of a passel of children, as is now the case. But he might have inadvertently steered her toward an incompetent practitioner.”
“Got it. What about this Delia element?”
“I met her briefly and that’s the extent of my knowledge. I’d say go ahead and add her to the list. Ransom was rather too vehement with me that he had no connection to the girl.”
“Which probably means he does.” Bertie bent over the sheet. “If he’s poking her, she might have wanted to eliminate the wife.”
“And inherit six little ones?” I batted away a look from Bertie. “I know, we’re just throwing out ideas. I have a client who knows Delia and lives across the road from her. I’m going there tomorrow or the next day for a home visit and will try to glean more facts.”
“Who else?” Bertie asked. “Do we know anything else about Joe the younger?”
“No. He knows Ransom. He would, of course, as Charity’s cousin. When I saw them together Ransom didn’t seem a bit happy to see Joey. I don’t know what’s going on between them.” I took a sip of tea. “By the way, I actually wondered if Joey followed me into the post office today. Dark messy hair, blue eyes, yesterday’s beard, smelled of drink and tobacco. Did he stay and buy stamps or mail anything?”
Bertie thought, but finally shook her head. “No. And I was alone there, as you saw. But he could have checked his box if he has one, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, I’ll write him down. Now, do you think any of these types would have done the actual deed?” Bertie asked. “Or would they have hired an abortionist to kill Charity for them under the guise of ending her pregnancy? Which she would have had to agree with, of course.”
That was quite the sticking point. “It’s awfully complicated, isn’t it?” I drained my tea. “First, there is the question of whether Charity was in fact pregnant. The medical examiner couldn’t tell.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t she think she was?”
“Maybe. She’d not gotten a monthly after her premature baby was born only three months ago, but that could have been due to her being malnourished. What if Ransom put it in her head she was with child and hired an unscrupulous person to kill her under the guise of an abortion?”
“Then he’s a very wicked, disgustingly bad person.” Bertie’s lip curled in disgust. “And that seems unlikely even though I know such humans exist. Also, it would mean he’d have all those babes to look after by himself. No, I think we should look at the money, instead. That’s a more likely cause of murder, isn’t it?”
The money. “I suppose.” I smoothed my hair back off my brow despite it being tidily in place. “Except we don’t know which money.”
“Now, what about the purpose of your visit this afternoon?” Bertie asked.
“I found a public notice from a Madame Restante when I was at the Mercantile.” I dug in my bag until I found the paper I’d written on and read out the text. “I think that’s a coded way of saying she’ll help women avoid pregnancy, or end it if it’s already underway.”
“Coded because of the Comstock Laws, I’d wager.”
“Exactly. Bertie, as postmistress thee must be obliged to enforce those laws. How do the authorities expect thee to do that? Open every parcel, inspect every missive?”
She made a psh sound and tossed her head. “As if anyone has time for that. I am obliged to post the official summary of the federal law on the notices board in the post office. You know, the board where the Wanted posters are, and the rates for the postal boxes.”
I nodded. “Does anyone actually check to make sure materials to contravene pregnancy aren’t being conveyed through the post?”
“They might inspect a parcel at some point in its travel through the system on its way to the addressee. I’ve had an inspector visit unannounced only once. He spent an hour opening parcels. Didn’t find anything illegal of any sort and left.” She rolled her eyes.
“I just had a thought,” I said. “Thee said Ransom mailed a package to Delia. If the two are having illicit relations, I wonder if he mailed abortifacient herbs, or French letters he didn’t want to keep at home for fear Charity would come across them.”
Bertie nodded. “Possible. The parcel wasn’t too heavy, as I recall.”
“This Madame Restante has a post box. I wondered if thee knew her, or at least knew of her.”
“Let me see that.” Bertie held out her hand for the piece of paper on which I’d written. “Box 89. I know this lady.”
“Thee does?”
“Yes. She claims her name is Savoire Restante and she puts on a fake French accent. Tu parles français, non?”
“Oui, un peu.” I agreed that I did speak French, a little. “So she says her name is Knowledge Remaining, with an extra e on knowledge. That’s an invented name if I ever heard one.”
“I know. But most around here would have no idea what the name means. She wears shades of purple and blue and flowing scarves, with a black turban. Very mysterious. Or at least that’s the image she wants to project.”
“I mailed her a note, saying I often had clients needing services like those she provides. A client I saw this afternoon has well-spaced children. She confessed that one time her pregnancy control methods failed, and she visited a Madame who ‘took care of it,’ in her words. I believe she meant she underwent a mechanical abortion performed by Madame.” I tapped my fingertips together. “Does thee think this Madame might be our culprit?”
“I’ve never visited her for any of her products, of course.” Bertie was in need of neither contraception nor criminal abortion. “But despite her sham name—someone I met whispered she’s really called Sally Davies—she doesn’t strike me as a criminal nor someone that incompetent.”
“Certainly Lucy survived her abortion, so the woman must be skilled. I’ll see what I think when I meet her, I guess. But Davies? That’s Delia’s surname. Perhaps they’re related.”
“Stranger things have happened, Rosetta.”
seventeen
The morning dawned bitterly cold once more. A wicked wind crept in through the cracks of the house and chilled me to the core. I made a big pot of samp, the nutty cornmeal porridge the family loved. I heated milk to go with it so breakfast wouldn’t cool in the bowls. Topped with sugar and cut-up fall apples, it was a hearty first meal that warmed us all.
After everyone made their way out for the day, I carried a second cup of coffee to my parlor and checked the day’s schedule. On top of it lay Bertie’s Suspects list, which she’d sent home with me last evening. She’d persuaded me to stay for supper, since Sophie had to work late, and had given me a ride back to my house behind her on Grover so I didn’t have to walk.
I read through the list again. Abortionist, Ransom, Delia, Joey. I knew very little about Delia except where she lived and where she worked. Neither of the men was the nicest I’d met, but murderers? An anonymous abortionist wasn’t much help, either. I sighed and laid the sheet aside, turning to my schedule.
Oh, my. My client Genevieve LaChance was coming at nine this morning, and it was already past eight thirty. How had I forgotten? Clearly Charity’s death was pushing business concerns out of my mind, which was not the way I liked to conduct myself.
I quickly tidied my room and pinned up my hair, making sure I was presentable. Genevieve trudged with a heavy step up the path at five minutes before
nine. I was about to go and greet her when I saw the Suspects list face up on the desk. This would never do. Talk of homicide suspects had no place in a pregnant woman’s visit. I hurried to stash it in the top drawer, and then did my best to reorder my brain before greeting one of my favorite clients.
After she was in my parlor and out of her coat and hat, I asked her to sit. “What can I help thee with, Genevieve? Is thee with child again so soon?” She’d given birth to her fourth child and first daughter only ten months ago. She’d said at the time her husband Jean was worried about providing for the family with that many children, as his job at the Walkers Shoe factory did not pay well. Genevieve herself took in piece work to bolster the coffers, but they lived in a small tenement down on the Flats where many French-Canadians resided, and space was already tight.
“I tink I am,” she said in accented English. “After four times, I know the signs, even so early, even though I miss only the one monthly.”
“Congratulations, Genevieve.”
Her face fell. “Do not say it, please, Rose. The family, we barely make it now. How can I have one more? And little Elsie, she has only ten month, she still drink my milk.” Genevieve clasped her hands in her lap. She was a full-figured woman who’d always had an easy time giving birth. Last year she’d tied the baby to her back the day after the birth and returned to her washing and cooking. “Can you help me, you know, be rid of it?”
How did my world suddenly revolve more around preventing children rather than bringing them into the world? Still, it was all in the same realm—my realm—and my mothers’ health was predominant. If helping Genevieve space out future children or even not have any more was what she wanted, it was my responsibility to do what I could.
“I can offer thee no sure measures, because they don’t exist. But especially if thee isn’t too far along, I can recommend several things to try. Thee must take the dose I suggest and no more, though. These things can be dangerous in excess.”
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