Taken Too Soon

by Edith Maxwell

  “This is true, alas.” The very same thing as Tilly underwent had happened to me in my teen years, minus the promise of marriage. A wild boy I’d liked had forced himself on me. I’d been fortunate my body had miscarried the fetus early on. I hadn’t had to carry a child to term whose father was a despicable and irresponsible man. “Tilly’s history must have been why she was so strict with Frannie.”

  “Not strict enough, as it turned out.”

  “Or too strict. Frannie might have felt pent in. Some man took advantage of that.” Dare I again raise the possibility with him about Currie being the culprit not just in enlisting Frannie for the theater—which was distasteful but legal—but perhaps being the father of her baby? No, I would wait and see what else I could learn. With any luck, I would be completely wrong.

  We walked in silence for a couple of minutes, each in our thoughts.

  “Rosie, have you wondered if my brother might have been too zealous in his courting of young ladies for his employment? Of Frannie, in particular?”

  Aha. What did they say? Great minds think alike? “I confess the thought had crossed my mind, but I didn’t want to speak of it.”

  He pulled me closer to his side. “Wife, you can tell me all your thoughts. I want to know them.”

  “I am of a like mind. Currie’s rakish ways are a bit, shall we say, unseemly.”

  David let out a long sigh. “He has always been a rascal, but I would hope he wouldn’t cross the line into having intimate relations with young girls.”

  “I would hope the same. But some man did. I pray it does not turn out to be Reuben Baxter, either.”

  “He would seem to be the most likely culprit, being of the same age and enamored of Frannie.”

  “And she with him, from all reports,” I said. “This morning, when he learned I knew Frannie, he looked somewhat evasive. I couldn’t figure out why.”

  “I’m sure you will, with your talent for detecting. But please promise me you won’t attempt anything risky, dear Rose. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you.” His voice rasped with emotion.

  “I promise, dear David. I shall keep myself safe and preferably at thy side.” With any luck, for the rest of our days together.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I’d begun to awaken the next morning when a loud rapping came at the door. I nudged David’s shoulder.

  “Huh?” His eyes fluttered open. He smiled, reaching his arms toward me.

  “Someone’s at the door,” I said over the sound of rain pattering on the roof.

  More knocking was followed by a voice calling, “Telegram for Dodge.”

  “Oh!” David pushed aside the covers and hurried to the window.

  It was probably Daddy’s return telegram, but why so early? Regardless of the telegram’s contents, I couldn’t help but admire my husband’s naked backside.

  “Just a moment,” he called down. He hurriedly pulled on his trousers without the benefit of underdrawers, fastened the pants, and grabbed his shirt before trotting down the stairs in his bare feet.

  I pulled on my dressing gown, donned my glasses, and peered out the window as David took the missive and gave the boy, wearing a slicker against the rain, a coin. I waited a moment, but when David didn’t return to bed I padded down the stairs. I found him sitting at the kitchen table staring at the yellow paper, the raindrop-spotted envelope abandoned on the table. He looked stricken. I laid my hand on his shoulder.

  “What is it?” I asked in a soft voice.

  “It’s Mother. She’s fallen gravely ill, Rose. Father thinks it might be her heart.”

  I brought my other hand to my mouth, eyes wide. “I’m so sorry.” Clarinda was a trim woman who took care of herself. She wasn’t the kind of overindulgent and sedentary person sometimes prone to ill health. “Has she had heart incidents before?”

  “She’s had a few troubling attacks previously, yes.”

  “It might be a condition she was born with. Either way, we must go to Clarinda.” And pray for her. His mother and I had come into conflict many times, but I did not wish her harm, nor want David to lose his mother so soon.

  He stood and took me in his arms. I embraced him tightly. His heart beat against mine and I breathed in the scent on his neck, so much a part of him.

  After a long minute, he pushed back and took my hand. “No, I must go to her. I’m so sorry to interrupt our stay in West Falmouth, my darling Rose. But you’re needed here. Tilly needs you.”

  “But thee is my husband.” I tilted my head to the side. “I should be at thy side as thy helpmate.”

  He put a finger under my chin, his face full of love. “You will be with me in spirit, and you’ll be home before long. Who knows, this could be a ploy by Mother to ruin our first week as a married couple.”

  The same unkind thought had skipped through my mind. Unfortunately, it was a possibility. And David, as wonderful as he was, still seemed to be at Clarinda’s beck and call.

  “I know you, Rose. Stay and resolve this mystery, or you won’t be able to rest easy. Also, I have a task for you.”

  “A task?”

  “Yes. Please find Currie and tell him Mother is possibly on her deathbed.” His voice caught on the last word. “Ask him to travel home to see her, to be by her side. Tell my brother his mother needs him.”

  I opened my mouth, but closed it. What if Currie was the guilty party in Frannie’s pregnancy—or even her death? He should not be leaving Barnstable County.

  Finally I spoke. “Very well. But I will be home as soon as I ever can be.”

  “To our new house.”

  “To our home and to thee.”

  “Oh!”

  “Oh, what?” I asked.

  “I never searched for Miss Tilly’s birth record for you. I said I would.”

  “It doesn’t matter, David. I can, or Edwin might already have.”

  A frown creased my husband’s handsome brow. “But you will be careful, won’t you? Do your detecting, but please, please, pass along anything you learn to Detective Merritt and be content with doing only that.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m serious, Rosie.” He set his hands on my arms and peered into my face. “Will you promise me not to put your lovely self in harm’s way?”

  “Yes, my dear.” I smiled to reassure him. “I promise. Now run along and get thyself washed and properly dressed. I’ll put together some bread and cheese for thee. It’s nearly seven, and thee should be able to catch the morning express to Boston.”

  “Have I told you I love you lately?” he growled.

  “Not today, thee hasn’t.”

  “I love you, Rose Carroll Dodge.” He swept me into a long and passionate kiss.

  I pulled away, laughing. “Go!”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I trudged up the wide steps to the well-appointed Bowman home on Main Street later that morning. I was grateful today I’d brought my oilskin cloak on the trip, because a chilly wind drove the rain sideways. I felt I needed to speak with Hazel again. Maybe she knew something about the father of Frannie’s baby. The man’s identity had to be part of the key to solving her murder. She and Hazel had been close friends. She surely had some knowledge of whom Frannie spent time with, if anyone, apart from Reuben. I would go in search of Currie soon. I also prayed Clarinda would recover before David even arrived

  A moment later I trudged back down. A uniformed maid had told me Hazel was at work at Mrs. Boyce’s tag factory, which was situated near the train station. It would be interesting to see a thriving business owned and run by a woman, and if I could have a short conversation with Hazel, so much the better. I had only a short walk down Chappaquoit Street to the factory, a two-story building adjacent to the tracks.

  I entered a busy office, with a boy loading boxes onto a handcart and a woman at a counter addressing a stack of labels. Others packed fat bundles, presumably of tied tags, into boxes. One employee secured sturdy string around full bo
xes, readying them for shipping. Rain dripped off my cloak as I pushed back the hood. I removed my spectacles, drying them with a clean handkerchief.

  The woman at the counter glanced up. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m Rose Dodge, Tilly Carroll’s niece.”

  “We all miss our dear Miss Isley. Poor Miss Tilly.” She wagged her head in sorrow. “What a grievous loss she’s had. How is she coping?”

  “As best she can, I thank thee. I’m here because I’d like to have a brief word with Hazel Bowman, if I may.”

  “Miss Bowman is working upstairs.” She frowned. “But by rights you should ask Mrs. Boyce if she approves. That’s her office there.” She gestured to an open door with her chin.

  I turned toward the office.

  “The thing is, Mrs. Boyce stepped out to the post office a little bit ago,” the woman said. “What’s it in regard to, anyway, your word with Miss Bowman?”

  “I’d like to talk with her for only a minute or two about Frannie’s death.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Are you a Pinkerton girl?” she whispered.

  “No, not at all. But she was my aunt’s ward.” Given Tilly’s revelation, I now knew I was Frannie’s blood cousin, a first cousin once removed. This woman didn’t need to know that, though. “And I know Hazel and Frannie were friends.”

  “Well, that’ll be fine, then. You go on up. Have you met Miss Bowman before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I don’t need to introduce you. The stairs are around the back, but you can leave your rain garment down here first, if you like.”

  I hung my cloak on the coat tree and made my way up. Two dozen women, both young and older, sat around long tables deftly threading strings through holes in the ends of thin cardboard tags in various colors and sizes. Their fingers moved like flashes of light. Another operated a metal winding machine, and yet another cut winds of cotton string. I spied Hazel using a machine that perforated a stack of tags with one press of a lever. I approached.

  She started when she saw me. “Hello, there. Mrs. Dodge, isn’t it? Frannie’s relation?” She’d tied a kerchief on her light hair today, and wore an apron over a summery dress.

  “Yes. Good morning, Hazel. This is quite the enterprise.”

  “You could say so. Might I ask what you’re doing here? You didn’t come to the factory to study how we string tags, surely.”

  I laughed. “No, but it’s quite fascinating now I see what’s involved. Do the tags come already cut?”

  “Yes, except for the holes.”

  “That’s an ingenious machine.” I gestured toward the winding device.

  “Different-sized tags need different lengths of string,” Hazel explained. “You can change the setting so the strings will be the correct size once they’re cut.” She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess. You want to talk about Frannie.”

  “I do. I’m curious about any suitors Frannie might have had. Boys or men she spent time with?”

  “She never wanted for attention from the opposite sex, I can tell you. She was pretty and shapely and saucy.”

  Hazel’s tone contained a touch of envy. She herself was not unattractive, but she wasn’t particularly striking. Her observation concurred with what Dru had told me about Frannie. Not the saucy part, but the beauty.

  “Can thee help me with details, please, about with whom she might have been consorting?” I asked.

  She twisted her mouth. “You mean like Reuben Baxter? He pretends to be a nice boy, but he can be pushy. And he’s an Indian. I don’t know what Frannie saw in him.”

  “How did they meet?”

  “Around town, how else?” Hazel raised a single eyebrow.

  “Was there anyone else?”

  “Yes.” She glanced around the room and turned her back on the bustle. “Mr. Latting was, shall we say, overly solicitous to Frannie.

  Abial Latting? The Quaker businessman? This was not the suitor I’d expected her to speak of. Although Tilly had also mentioned an older gentleman.

  “Thee means Abial Latting?”

  “Yes. I saw the two of them together not too long ago,” she continued. “They were behind a stone wall and I’m sure they thought no one could see them. She was giggling, and he was not acting like a proper gentleman, I’ll tell you. Kissing her hand and playing with her hair and all. Disgusting, that’s what it was. He was near old enough to be her grandfather.” Her whisper was harsh.

  An older woman at the table cleared her throat, looking pointedly at Hazel.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Dodge,” Hazel said. “I’m here to work. I don’t want yon biddy to report me to Mrs. Boyce.”

  “I thank thee for thy time, Hazel. I’ll be at my aunts’ for a few more days, at least. If thee thinks of anything else, please send me a note.”

  “Very well.” She straightened the stack of tags on her machine and slammed down the perforating handle. With a thunk, a sharp rod sliced through the cards.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  After talking with Hazel, I felt compelled to tell the detective what she’d shared with me. I retraced my steps through the rain toward Main Street and Huldah’s law office. The sky was lightening a bit and the wind had eased up, but a steady salt-scented rain still fell. A covered buggy pulled by a spirited mare sped through a wide puddle in the road, wetting the hem of my dress and even spattering my face. I cried out to no avail. The vehicle was gone. Drivers needed to be far more careful not to splash pedestrians.

  As I picked my way along, I mused about Hazel mentioning Abial’s behavior. He had been alone at Meeting for Worship. Was he married? Was his wife ill, or away? Did he have children? They would be adults, unless he’d been married later in life to a younger woman, as many men were.

  I also thought about why a girl of sixteen would have enjoyed the attentions of an older man like him. Hazel had said Frannie was giggling and seeming to enjoy Abial’s behavior. Was it because she’d grown up fatherless? Liking to flirt was one thing. Having intimate relations was another entirely. I prayed Abial hadn’t forced himself on Frannie. And if Reuben knew about Abial—his father’s employer—how had he felt? He would have been powerless to react.

  This time when I called on Edwin Merritt, he was in. Today Larkin was extra solicitous of me, deferential and polite as he led me back to Edwin’s office. The young fellow took my wet cloak and said he’d hang it for me, then nearly bowed before he hurried back to the front. I smothered a laugh, glad the lesson on respect had taken. Or perhaps it was because Larkin knew I’d report him to Edwin if he didn’t treat me well.

  I sat in the wooden chair opposite Edwin’s desk, which was marginally neater today than the last time I was here on Second Day. I once again had to dry my glasses. They didn’t do much good speckled with raindrops.

  After the niceties were out of the way, the detective said, “I hope you’ve dug up some useful information for me, Mrs. Dodge. This is a tough case, and the sheriff isn’t appreciating our lack of progress.”

  “Thee isn’t any closer to making an arrest, I gather?”

  “Alas, no.”

  “On First Day thee seemed to believe one of the Baxter men might be the culprit. Clearly thee isn’t in possession of pertinent or sufficient evidence to accuse either Joseph or Reuben.” And why would Joseph be suspected at all? I would hate for it to be merely because he was an Indian.

  “I don’t mean to say our inquiries have gotten us nowhere, but it’s hard when a witness or two is obviously lying.”

  “Who might that be?”

  He gave me the same kind of look Kevin often did. “You must know I can’t tell you.”

  “Very well. I assume thee and thy men are attempting to track Frannie’s movement in the time before her death.”

  “Yes, of course we are.” Edwin spoke as if that was obvious.

  “What did thee think of Marie Deorocki’s observation? She came and told thee, didn’t she?”

  “She did.
I’m afraid what she says she saw was rather too vague to be of use.”

  “That’s a pity. Well, I came here because Hazel Bowman told me something interesting not half an hour earlier.”

  “She did, did she?” He folded his hands on his desk.

  “She said she’d seen Abial Latting alone with Frannie, and he was behaving with her in a manner unseemly for a gentleman.”

  “Mr. Latting?” His voice rose. “The Quaker businessman? Curiouser and curiouser, as thy namesake author put it.”

  I was impressed he’d read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland closely enough to remember the coined phrase. “Lewis Carroll was a pseudonym, thee must know.”

  “That’s as it may be. I believe we were discussing an equally fanciful thought, that an upstanding member of our community—and your own faith—might have been dallying with a girl of sixteen.”

  “Edwin,” I began. I straightened my spine and wiped any trace of amusement off my face. “Surely this is an avenue of investigation thee must pursue, regardless of Abial’s position in thy regard. If Frannie was carrying a child when she died, some man was responsible for her condition, whether he participated in her death or not.”

  The detective harrumphed as he tidied the papers on his desk. “Of course, of course. Tell me more.”

  “Hazel saw Frannie and Abial somewhere in town. I expect others might have spotted them, too. The topic is worth pursuing, including Abial’s alibi—or lack thereof—during the period in which Frannie’s whereabouts are unaccounted for. Also, Brigid McChesney told me Abial Latting was not a man one wishes to tangle with. I suspect, Quaker or not, he might be manipulative in his business dealings. And if this is true, such behavior could easily extend into his private life.”

  “I’ll grant you that, Mrs. Dodge.” Edwin jotted down a note, then selected a piece of paper with an official-looking stamp on it. “I have the autopsy report. Miss Isley was definitely with child. Her condition was advanced about fourteen weeks.”