My dear and cherished Rose,
How splendid it was to dine and visit with you yesterday. I had missed you greatly during our days apart and I couldn’t have asked for a better homecoming.
I stopped reading for a moment and held my cool hands to my warm face, smiling, then continued.
I want to tell you that I have investigated Wallace Buckham’s history, and it is as I suspected. The AMA censured him last fall for ethical lapses and took away his license to practice medicine. The hospital withdrew his privileges in the operating theater.
Of course David could have telephoned me with this information, but a letter was private with no chance of a nosy operator listening in.
My memory served me well. The lapse in question involved Buckham performing a mechanical abortion on the mother of one of his pediatric patients. Your instincts were correct in this matter. Buckham was lucky the AMA didn’t turn him in to the police for a violation of the Comstock laws, and the mother in question was lucky to survive the procedure.
I was right about Wallace. Kevin had probably already discovered the same, so I felt no need to convey this bit. And if he hadn’t, I could tell him in person this afternoon. I read on to the end.
Buckham’s crimes and indiscretions also resulted in his wife and children leaving him. I shall bid you farewell now, but very much look forward to spending the day tomorrow with you as we celebrate Faith and Zebulon’s blessed union. Ours will be along soon enough, I promise.
With deep and everlasting affection,
I remain ever your humble servant,
David
I sat back, smoothing the fine paper with my hand. Silly David with his flowery ending salutation. I didn’t sign my messages thusly, but I loved him for it.
I reread the results of his queries. So Buckham was a confirmed abortionist. I wished Kevin had been able to discern whether Savoire was, too. Based on what my client had told me, Madame Restante also offered mechanical terminations. Charity’s death had to have been at the hands of one of the two. Didn’t it? But neither of them needed motive to want Charity dead. Either could have been hired for the job. Or the killer could be someone else entirely.
Orpha’s words of caution came to mind. She’d asked me to proceed carefully and with consideration. She’d said those who studied the best methods of mechanical abortion and offered them to women also provided contraceptive information, that this was a great service in spacing pregnancies to conserve women’s health. Of course I was in favor of spacing children in a family. Orpha had ended by asking me not to prosecute too hastily.
Which was fine if, say, Charity had gone to Savoire of her own free will. Savoire might believe she was helping women gain health by spacing out their pregnancies. An incompetent abortionist wasn’t much help, though. And what if the killer had persuaded Charity to go to the abortionist he—or she—had hired to commit murder? Even if Charity’s death was the result of innocent incompetence, that person still should not be allowed to continue offering a dangerous solution.
forty-one
At ten before two o’clock, I handed the reins to the young man our Meeting had hired for the day and hurried around to help Orpha down from the buggy. The Bailey family hadn’t accompanied me, with Betsy nursing a cold, Frederick out with the fast-growing twins to buy them new clothes for the wedding, and Faith hurriedly stitching the hem on her marital sheets. None in the family had known Charity well and I doubted their absence would be noted by the Swifts.
A light snow fell, making the world look like a giant had sprinkled confectioner’s sugar over every surface. I handed Orpha her cane once she was down.
“Carefully now.” I tucked Orpha’s hand firmly through my elbow and held her close. “It’s likely to be slippery.” I worried about my mentor and her increasing frailty, but she was a strong-minded woman and didn’t let much stop her.
“Yes, Mother,” she said in a wry tone. “I have my cane, you know.”
I laughed softly and squeezed her gloved hand.
We followed others up the broad granite steps into the Meetinghouse and into the door on the left. One could enter the main room from two interior doors, but when the central divider was raised it became a single space inside, with wooden pews in rows facing the far end. The building, which John Whittier had helped design, was now nearly forty years old, and the tall broad windows cast light within from three sides. The simplicity of the configuration and lack of ornate trappings freed the heart and mind to listen quietly in the company of Friends for God’s guidance.
On a day like today, though, with a sad service to which all friends of the deceased were invited whether Quaker or not, the atmosphere was anything but quiet and calming. Skirts rustled. Townspeople whispered among themselves. A boy spoke in a loud voice and was quickly hushed. Benches creaked with restless bodies. Few rested with eyes closed to wait for the Light.
The family sat on the facing bench at the front, the seat usually reserved for Meeting elders. Virtue was in the middle with Elias to her left. Beyond him was a younger woman, likely Charity’s sister who lived several towns distant, with her two young children. On Virtue’s other side sat Ransom and the children except for the youngest, and then Joey Swift. Ransom must have left the baby in the care of a neighbor or perhaps Virtue’s nursemaid. Virtue’s eyes were reddened and she kneaded a handkerchief in her lap, but sat with her usual erect posture. Charity’s sister also looked grief-stricken, and Elias sat with a hand shielding his forehead—and maybe his emotions, too. Ransom, on the other hand, looked harassed. He held Howie on his lap and was busy trying to keep him and two of the girls quiet. Charity’s sister’s older daughter, who looked about twelve, fetched her five-year-old cousin and brought her back to sit with her family.
Nine-year-old Priscilla surveyed the filling room with a solemn air, her chin held high. When her gaze passed over me, I raised my hand in a small wave and smiled at her. She lifted her hand in return and it looked like she was fighting to keep a smile from her face. Good. She knew I was an ally.
Everyone in the room kept their wraps on. The space would warm a bit once it was full, simply from the heat of all the bodies, but the furnace in the cellar wasn’t making much of a dent in the temperature of the room today.
Kevin was perched near the back on one of the benches built into the side wall. I took a seat next to him, with Orpha on my other side. I knew he’d chosen that vantage point from which to observe the room. I couldn’t help but want to do the same. We exchanged a brief glance.
Instead of observing, I folded my hands in my lap and closed my eyes. I held Charity’s released soul in the Light and prayed for her children, that they might find peace in their newly motherless life. I held Ransom, too, although that brought up thoughts of homicide, on which I did not care to dwell this afternoon. I opened my eyes when someone began to speak. It was the Clerk of Meeting.
“We are gathered here today to remember the too-short life of our sister, Charity Swift Skells, whose soul was released to God this week. For those of you not familiar with the ways of Friends, we sit in silent expectant waiting for a message from God. We have no sermon, no hymns, and no single minister, as we believe we all minister to one another. Today we ask you to also remain quiet until you are so moved to share a message about Charity. Please stand and do so in a loud and clear voice so all may hear. It is our custom to then leave a period of silence before the next message. May Charity rest well in God’s Light.” He sat again.
I spied raised eyebrows and frowns as well as small nods and smiles of approval. For those used to the busy rituals of the Catholic or Episcopalian churches, or even the hymns and sermons of the Protestant faiths, our ways were unusual and could be unsettling. Many people were not comfortable with silence, with communicating directly with God.
I shut out the world again. I hoped a message would arise for me to share, and let my thoughts r
oam over what I knew of Charity before this week. She had most recently come to me for an antenatal visit in Eleventh Month, well along in her pregnancy, but too thin. She’d said Ransom had been out of work for some time and what monies they had went to food for the other children. I had encouraged her to accept aid from the women of the Meeting, saying starving herself was also starving the baby inside her. She’d responded that, despite her name, she much preferred giving charity than accepting it, but agreed reluctantly to let donations of food begin.
A woman cleared her throat and the room quieted. I opened my eyes to see a stalwart and kindly Friend, the one who had organized the food donations.
“I knew Charity for her entire life. She cared very much for others, and never hesitated to lend a helping hand. May she rest easy in her heavenly home, and may we all follow her example, giving charity where it is needed.” The bench thumped when she sat again. After a minute, another woman stood. She looked familiar but I couldn’t place her until she began to speak, and then I realized it was Jeanne Peele, the nurse from the hospital. I hadn’t recognized her without her white hat and starched uniform.
“I had the privilege of sitting with Mrs. Skells as her soul passed from this earthly sphere,” Jeanne said in a clear voice. “I didn’t know her except in her last hours, but I want to express my appreciation for allowing me to help ease her final journey. May the good Lord bless her and keep her, and her family, too, in their hour of need.” She sat.
I wiped away a tear. What a lovely thing to say. It was, indeed, a privilege to sit with someone who was dying. It was as much a privilege as that of watching life come into this world of ours, which of course I did much more frequently.
Several more messages followed, all from Quakers who had known Charity and her family.
A minute after the last one ended, Orpha stirred next to me and pushed herself to her feet, leaning on her cane. “I helped Charity birth her babies and I saw what a devoted mother she was. Children,” she said directly to the girls and Howie, her voice wobbling with age but still strong, “your mama loved you deeply. You keep that in your hearts, and do your best to live as she did, as all these people are attesting.” She lowered herself down again.
A lovely message, and an important one for the children. I squeezed Orpha’s hand.
With a sidelong glance at Kevin I caught him frowning at the door to the far side. Two women paused in the doorway. My eyes widened. It was Delia and Savoire Davies. Savoire wore a black lace mantilla over her face and a long purple cloak. Delia, a stylish black hat pinned to her hair, brushed snow off her black coat.
My goodness, what motivated them to come? I watched as they slid into a back pew on the other side after a family scooted over to make room.
Orpha murmured a soft “Hmm,” and nudged me. When I looked at her, she raised her eyebrows in a knowing glance.
I shot my gaze toward Ransom. Had he seen them? I couldn’t tell. Delia, his lover from all appearances, as well as his fellow employee. Her mother, who dabbled in abortifacients. More than dabbled; she prescribed them. If she had inadvertently or willfully killed Charity, appearing here was a brazen act, indeed, as was Delia’s.
As my gaze traveled over others of those gathered, I paused on the sight of Sophie in one of the pews, with Bertie perched next to her. I knew Bertie, as a public servant, attended every funeral she could. And Sophie was the Swift estate’s lawyer, of which the Skells children were beneficiaries.
Movement on the facing bench brought my attention there. Virtue stood, regal in her grief.
“My daughter was a good woman.” She looked over at her grandchildren. “As that lady said, children, thee each should follow in Mama’s footsteps. Heed well that thee acts charitably and with love toward others.” She gazed out at the assemblage again. “I am distraught beyond words, however, at the way Charity’s life ended. Her time as a wife did not turn out the way she had hoped it would.”
Ransom shot her a venomous glare.
“And the life of this gentle woman ended in violence,” Virtue continued. The color was high in her face.
Young Priscilla turned her head to look at her grandmother with alarm on her face. The adults must have been successful in keeping the news from her and her siblings as to how their mother died. She whispered to her father, but he only shook his head, a finger to his lips. Why had Virtue said that in such a public gathering, and in front of the children?
“May God deliver a swift and just retribution.” Virtue set her lips in a grim line as she sat. She closed her eyes, but tears leaked out. They tracked down her cheek as she faced the room, as if challenging anyone to say otherwise.
forty-two
An extended period of silence followed Virtue’s shocking message, which had caused a thrum of whispers. A soft “Amen” popped up here and there. Who didn’t want a swift and just retribution for Charity’s death? The killer certainly didn’t, but otherwise it seemed to be a shared sentiment. The words Virtue uttered were the shocking part. Didn’t retribution mean punishment? We who frequented this room were more often heard to express a wish for love, for understanding, for grace. And yet we also stood on the side of justice.
The silence was punctuated by Priscilla’s next-younger sister’s kicks on the wooden bench support. My heart wrenched to see Priscilla reach out a hand to still her young sibling’s fidgets. Even at her tender age, Priscilla was already standing in for her mother. Depending on how Ransom handled his family, Priscilla’s childhood might be over if he relied on her to be a little mother. I’d seen it happen in other large families where the mother died too young.
In the quiet a soft snore droned. This was not unusual in First Day Meeting for Worship but was uncommon in a public meeting like this one. I surveyed the room, and frowned to see the snoozer was Joey Swift, right there on the facing bench for all to see. Head hung down and body slumped in the corner of the bench, he was sleeping off his liquid lunch, no doubt. I tried not to judge others for their weaknesses, as I had plenty of my own, and Orpha had cautioned me about leaping to condemn. But this was too blatant to ignore. He should be ashamed of himself.
The absence of voices was broken by a woman who had been childhood friends with Charity, and other messages followed in that vein. Outside the snow had gathered strength and was falling heavily. I watched through the far windows. At least it wasn’t windy, too. Windblown storms tended to do more damage and be much harder to navigate.
Just when I thought the Clerk might signal the end of the Memorial Meeting, a man stood in the other room at the far back corner. I craned my neck but couldn’t see him clearly. When he spoke, I realized it was Jonathan Sherwood.
“Ransom Skells works for me at Lowell’s Boat Shop. I met his wife several times over the last months and very much admired her devotion to her husband and her family. May she rest in peace, knowing that many of us are working to ensure justice will be done.” He lowered himself into his seat.
Many of us? A quick glance at Kevin showed not the same surprise I felt, but rather a quick nod toward Jonathan. Had Jonathan conveyed information to Kevin about Ransom and Delia? Had the benevolent manager turned against his employee? I longed to engage Kevin in conversation, except that couldn’t happen here or now.
The Clerk stood and invited all gathered to greet their neighbors with the handshake of fellowship.
“We thank you all for coming today. The Swift family invites you to join them in a light refreshment at their home.” He gave the address. “Please remain seated until the family enters the hall.” He gestured to those seated on the facing bench, who stood and filed out.
I turned to Kevin. I opened my mouth to speak but he raised a palm.
“Not here, Miss Rose. Will you be going to the Swift house?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I hadn’t realized there was going to be a gathering.”
“It’s the pr
oper thing to do,” Orpha chimed in from my other side. “I’d like to go, if you’ll take me.”
“Of course I will.” I smiled at her. “Then, yes, Kevin, I’ll be there. You?”
He heaved a sigh. “My boy wanted me to get home and play snow fort with him. But duty calls. I’ll be there.”
The collected assemblage was already filing out of the room when raised male voices came through the open door to the entryway.
“You were never good enough for my girl.”
Those angry words sounded like Elias Swift’s voice.
“She loved me, Elias,” Ransom’s reedy voice shouted. “And I loved her.”
All around me women’s eyes widened, men’s brows furrowed. Was Elias speaking out of guilt because he hadn’t helped his daughter sufficiently, if at all?
“I know you mean I was never good enough for you,” Ransom added. “But you took it out on your daughter, didn’t you? Shunning her because she chose me over her daddy’s advice. And now she’s dead and you’ll never be able to make it right with her.”
“How dare you?” Elias’s voice shook with ire.
The Friend in front of me shook her head, making a tsking sound.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” Joey’s voice slurred. “The Quakers aren’t gonna like you fighting here in their sacred place.”
Kevin pushed through the crowd, excusing himself, apologizing, but not stopping until he disappeared through the door. The shouts ceased.
“Tempers are high, Rose,” Orpha murmured. “I’d watch my back, if I were you.”
forty-three
Inside the front door of the Swift home a maid took the mourners’ snowy outerwear. I kept a firm hold on Orpha’s elbow, making sure she didn’t get jostled in the crush of arrivals. The drive over had been slow going, as the snow on the roads had not yet been packed down by the town’s big horse-drawn rollers. With any luck the return trip would be easier by the time we left.
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