Charity's Burden

by Edith Maxwell

  “Yes, in fact Mrs. Swift sent me a notice about it. I have asked Mr. Lowell to join me if he is able. You know, of course, that I am only a supervisor here. I work for the Lowells.”

  “A fine family who has done much for our town. Thee also did a great service to Ransom by offering him bereavement pay for this week. Many managers wouldn’t be so generous.”

  “Thank you. We—the Lowells and I—believe treating our employees with kindness and respect is paramount in running an effective business. They work hard for us in return and turn out high-quality boats.”

  “Admirable.” I spied my opening. “And I assume the workers treat each other well, too. Thee has a single lady working here, Delia Davies. Do Ransom and the other men get along with her?”

  He cocked his head, regarding me. “That’s a curious question.”

  I waited in silence.

  “Of course they all get along. Skells in particular has been quite, shall we say, solicitous of Miss Davies.” He lowered his voice from previously and raised one eyebrow.

  “Solicitous?”

  “Helping her onto the trolley, eating dinner with her, that kind of thing.”

  “Does thee think perhaps Ransom’s solicitude toward Delia went beyond that of a friendly fellow worker?”

  He turned and looked out the window. My gaze followed his to see a snow-covered tree, the iced-in river, and an enormous dark eagle beating its wings, its keen eyes boring out of the white head in search of prey.

  Jonathan faced me again. “If you are thinking what I imagine you are, I would say that you may well be correct about the degree of their friendship. However, I have seen nothing egregious, nothing to reprimand either of them about. It’s just a sense I have, glances of a certain type they have exchanged, that kind of thing.” He cleared his throat. “But surely you can’t think that either of them would kill Mrs. Skells over such matters.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m simply gathering facts for the official investigation.” Which was getting more interesting by the hour.

  twenty-nine

  I stood in front of an impressively large house on Moody Street fifteen minutes later. It was new and featured a round tower on one corner of the building topped by a conical roof reaching above the rest of the house. This sort of residence was becoming popular around town. I’d always imagined the charm of the very top room, that it could hold a comfortable chair and table, that one could while away the hours reading and gazing over the countryside in all directions.

  I checked the slip of paper in my hand again, which bore the address for Wallace Buckham. This was the place, and what a place it was. Did his herbalist business do so well he could afford to build such a big abode, such an elegantly proportioned house? I shrugged, tying Peaches to a hitching post. I stroked his neck.

  “I won’t be long,” I promised. I glanced up and down the street. It ran between Highland and Hillside Streets and was just off Greenwood, two blocks from where I had discovered a body on my way home from a birth some months ago. Despite my resolve last night to exercise renewed caution in my investigations, here I was alone on a road with only one other house nearby. But that building was directly across the street. The day was full of light, despite it being the weak cold light of winter, and I had a horse and buggy at the ready. If I let myself be cowed by fear, I’d never find out anything.

  And I doubted this herbalist was Charity’s killer, anyway. I simply needed to follow up all leads, and he was one. I marched up to the door and rang the bell. The brass plate next to it read Dr. Wallace Buckham. His advertisement hadn’t mentioned that he held a medical degree. Henryk had said Buckham called himself that and had implied he was a sham physician. With a spacious, fancy house, it looked very much like he earned a bona fide doctor’s pay. I’d have to ask David this afternoon what he knew about Dr. Buckham.

  The door was opened by a lean, dark-haired man with a pointed beard extending from his chin. He wore spectacles over dark eyes. His collar was the color of fresh snow and his suit and waistcoat of a fine wool. I was surprised he’d opened the door himself.

  “Good morning, miss. I am Dr. Buckham. May I help you?” He didn’t smile, but his voice was a gentle one.

  “I am Rose Carroll. I’m a midwife, Wallace, and wanted to speak with thee about thy herbal offerings. It seems we might have a common goal of helping women regain and maintain good health.” I smiled. “But thy advertisement in the newspaper didn’t mention thee also practices medicine.”

  If he was surprised by my use of his Christian name, he didn’t show it. “Please come in, Miss Carroll. Your skills as a midwife are well-regarded in the community.”

  So he knew of me. “I thank thee. Please call me Rose.” I followed him into an airy and tastefully decorated foyer, with a wide staircase curving gracefully upwards. A stained-glass window on the landing softened the light with color.

  “I am with a patient just now. Please have a seat and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” He disappeared into a door to my right, the latch clicking behind him. An engraved plaque on the door read simply, Office. The room was one that in other homes of this size might be the library or perhaps a sitting room.

  Instead of taking him up on his invitation to sit, I wandered around the foyer. On the walls hung several paintings of families, whether his or of others I did not know. Something seemed similar about all of them. I studied each in turn. At the third I murmured, “Aha.” To a one, the portraits featured families with well-spaced children. There were no stair-stepped six in a row, each a year apart. With the linen-suited father and summer-dressed mother in one family stood a boy of about fifteen, already towering over his mother, and a girl of eleven or twelve, her hair not yet put up and her skirts not yet let down. A younger girl of Betsy’s age was a miniature version of her sister, and a toddler wore a little sailor suit. Another family of five were similarly spaced, and the third painting showed more of the same. Was one of these families Wallace’s? Either way, the pictures taken together looked very much like advertisements for Wallace Buckham’s women’s health services. Finally I took a seat.

  After ten minutes the office door opened again. The doctor ushered out a woman, who clutched a small paper sack and wore a grateful expression. He showed her the door and then turned to me. “Thank you for waiting, Miss Carroll.” He made a little bow as he gestured toward the office. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  Inside I perched on an upholstered chair, careful of my hip, and folded my hands in my lap. The office, much larger and more well-appointed than Savoire’s, featured some of the same items as hers. A long table with dozens of canisters labeled with the names of herbs from pennyroyal to black hellebore to savin. A scale. A stack of mailing envelopes. An ornate oriental screen blocked a corner, as in Savoire’s office. But Wallace also had an examination table positioned near the half-curtained windows, and another counter containing metal instruments, one of the new flexible binaural stethoscopes, a rubber triangular reflex hammer, and other tools of a physician’s trade. A telephone sat on his wide desk in front of a set of medical texts, including the one I most frequently consulted, Leishman’s A System of Midwifery.

  “I see thee has Leishman’s on thy desk. Does thee include deliveries in thy practice?”

  “No, I leave that to expert midwives such as yourself. But it’s a good reference volume on women’s health, wouldn’t you agree?” He sat in the wooden arm chair in front of his desk, swiveling it to face me.

  “Certainly.” How could I ease into my questions? His seat gave me an idea. “Does thee know Thomas Jefferson invented the swivel chair?” I asked. “A brilliant invention.”

  “Indeed? I did not know that.” He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “But you didn’t come here to talk about furniture.”

  “No. Thy advertisement was for an herbalist, but it appears thee practices con
ventional medicine, as well. Does thee have a specialty?”

  “Yes, I am an orthopedic surgeon. I primarily correct deformities in children’s feet and legs.”

  “That’s good and needed work,” I said.

  “I believe so.”

  “I came here not to talk about orthopedics, though. I noticed the portraits in your hall feature families with nicely spaced children. Sometimes my pregnant mothers visit me bringing maladies brought on by too many births in a short span of years. I was curious about the products and services thee advertises.” I didn’t see any reason not to use the same phrasing I’d used with Savoire.

  He tented his fingers. “I see.” He seemed to ponder for a moment, and then came to a decision. He swiveled back and selected a red pamphlet from his desk. He half rose to hand it to me. “This is my catalog.”

  A little bell rang at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t think why. I thanked the doctor and leafed through it. The listings were very much like Savoire’s. “Has thee been able to steer clear of the Comstock laws?”

  “I offer only legal remedies, Miss Carroll.” His nostrils flared and he blinked. “It’s important for women to be able to regularize their systems.”

  “I agree. But what if a patient comes to thee early in a pregnancy bearing an unwanted child? Often women are forced to bear babies they cannot afford to care for. They could be unmarried and fear society’s approbation, or be pregnant because of a violent assault. Does thee ever assist a woman like that in reversing her situation?”

  He stood. “Our interview is over, Miss Carroll. I have heard not only of your reputation as a midwife but also of your repute as an amateur assistant to the police. I sense your purpose here is to learn whether I caused that poor woman’s death this week. I did not, and I’ll thank you to leave.” His voice was no longer gentle, his expression no longer kindly and welcoming.

  Within a minute I was down the front stairs, the thud of the door slamming behind me resonating in my ears. That certainly had not gone as planned, although I wasn’t sure how I’d expected him to react. Should he have said, “Why, yes, I do perform criminal mechanical abortions with one of these probes here on my table”? I glanced at my hand. I still grasped the pamphlet he’d given me. He must have been too angry to notice. I hurried down the walk to Peaches to make my getaway before the good doctor came back out to demand it. I thought Kevin just might be interested.

  thirty

  With my ban from the police station in effect, I made my way to Kevin’s home once again. The church bells all over town tolled eleven, so I would make this visit brief. I still needed to get home and make a nice soup for David’s visit, although he was unlikely to arrive before one o’clock. I had time so long as no black wagons came after me. The thought rippled a shudder through me and Peaches tossed his head. The shudder must have transmitted through the reins to him. How much did he remember from last night? I wished I could question the gelding. Did you recognize the horse pulling the wagon? What did you see of the driver? Was anything written on the side of the wagon?

  I laughed out loud, my balance restored. Lore had it animals could speak between midnight and dawn on Christmas Eve. This being Second Month, that night was a long way away. I didn’t believe the myth, anyway. It was going to be up to me to answer those questions, not the docile and dependable Peaches. Who now obediently pulled to a halt in front of the Donovan family home. Sean crouched out front, adding to a pile of several dozen snowballs near the wall of the house. I climbed out and hailed him.

  “Is thee stockpiling ammunition, Sean?”

  “Yes, Miss Rose.”

  I smiled at his use of his father’s appellation for me.

  “When Jimmy gets home from school we’re going to have a snowball fight,” he explained. “He’s my friend, but he has to go to regular school.”

  Clearly, Jimmy had the worse end of the stick in Sean’s view. And what child wouldn’t prefer to stay home and make snowballs? Jimmy probably envied Sean his freedom, not realizing his friend was learning at a more rapid pace than Jimmy was ever likely to.

  I held the gelding’s reins. “Would thee mind watching Peaches again while I speak with thy mother? I won’t be long.”

  He stood, his face a glow. “Don’t worry about a thing, Miss Rose. I’ll take good care of him. And if anybody tries to steal him, I have my weapons ready.” He saluted like a miniature soldier. No Quakers in this family.

  I thanked him and rang the doorbell, the red pamphlet securely in my bag. After Emmaline greeted me and said to come in, I replied, “I can’t tarry. But I have a few more bits of information to relay to Kevin.”

  She frowned but led the way to a desk. “Why don’t you sit and write down the facts? I don’t want to forget anything, and I don’t want to telephone Kevin at work today.” She set out a sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil.

  “Why the frown, Emmaline?”

  “Oh, that new chief of his is on the war path about the death. Wants the case solved yesterday. Doesn’t he understand these things take time? He’s threatening to demote Kevin if he doesn’t make an arrest by the end of today.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I sat at the desk. “And that’s why thee doesn’t want to call him?”

  She nodded.

  “Perhaps what I’ve learned will help him avoid his superior’s threat.” I began to scribble. I touched on the trust arrangements I’d learned from Sophie and what they meant. I wrote down a summary of my attack last night, assuring him that I was fine, and added what Henryk had said about Wallace Buckham. What else? I relayed what Jonathan Sherwood mentioned about Ransom and Delia’s friendship, and his alluding it might have been more than that. And finally Wallace’s reaction to my inquiries. I appended a suggestion.

  Thee might want to check into Wallace Buckham’s reputed medical practice. I don’t understand why a successful surgeon, and he appears to be one by the size of his new house, would conduct an herbalist business for women on the side.

  I jotted down the doctor’s Moody Street address, then glanced up at my hostess. “It’s fine if thee reads my notes, Emmaline.”

  She glanced at the sheet and gasped. “You were attacked?”

  “Yes. But I’m fine,” I added in haste when I saw the horrified expression on her face. “Truly I am.”

  “Kevin won’t be happy to hear about it.” Her tone took on a touch of scolding.

  “I know he won’t.” I stood and held my arms out to my sides. “I look fine, don’t I? Tell him.” I turned from side to side, but winced when my neck and upper back protested.

  “I suppose,” she said slowly. “You should be careful, Rose.”

  “I am.” I laid the pamphlet next to the paper. “I was given this by Wallace Buckham. Please make sure Kevin gets it.”

  “I will. What is it?”

  I hadn’t even leafed through the pages and did so now. “Buckham claims to be an herbalist who helps women regulate their monthlies. I wonder if he might do more to, ah …” I glanced at her. She likely shared her husband’s view on controlling family spacing. “To help women who are pregnant but don’t wish to be.”

  She gave me a level gaze. “To help them abort?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. Even though that’s not a service I’ll ever need, I think there are cases where it is well justified.”

  I smiled at her. “I am in agreement with thee, although only using herbal methods. Mechanical abortions are simply too dangerous. To wit, we have to find the person who perforated Charity’s womb. Of course Buckham denied it, but I want Kevin to investigate him. The doctor reacted rather too virulently to my suggestion that he was an abortionist, I thought.”

  “He protested too much?” she asked, pointing to a volume of Shakespeare’s work on a nearby bookshelf.

  “Exactly.”

  thirty-one
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  I rested my cheek on David’s chest in the front hallway of my house at a little past one. “I have missed thee so,” I murmured into the smooth cloth of his shirt as I inhaled his delicious smell of healthy man, today with a slight air of soot added from his train trip.

  He stroked my hair, which I’d unpinned and let flow loose down my back before he arrived. “And I, you, Rose,” he said with an accompaniment of growling stomach.

  I pulled away and laughed. “It sounds like thee is ready for a good home-cooked meal.”

  His eyes twinkled at me. “Almost nothing could sound so alluring. You can fill me in on your busy week as we eat.”

  I’d made it home in time to put together a thick ham and potato soup, which, with fresh bread and butter and glasses of sweet cider, were going to be our meal. I’d already set the table for two and sent Lina home early so I could have a rare hour alone with my betrothed. I had no antenatal appointments scheduled for a few hours, and as long as I didn’t get summoned to Lucy’s birth, we could cherish our time together.

  David sat at the table. I was ladling soup into deep bowls at the stove when I twisted my neck to glance at him.

  “Ow,” I said at a sharp pinch in my neck.

  “What is it, Rosie dear?” He stood and hurried to my side.

  “It’s nothing. My neck is a bit stiff from a little accident I had last night.”

  His eyes went wide. “An accident?”

  “Yes. Here, let’s sit and have our blessing before I tell thee.” I handed him one bowl and took the other to the table. We sat and held hands in silence, holding this moment and our meal in the Light of God. I squeezed his hand and opened my eyes.