“I do know her a bit, actually.” He didn’t need to know Clarinda had lied to me once, trying to turn me against David. Between us we had discovered the true story, and her machinations had only brought us closer. “Will thee be going to her?”
“I can’t. I need this job. I’m in a lot of debt, you see, and . . . and that’s all I can say.” His face hardened as he began to turn away.
“Wait.” I stepped in front of him. “I must ask thee something else. Will thee promise to tell me the truth?”
“What’s the question?”
“Does thee promise?” I gazed straight into his face, so much like David’s and so different, too.
He stole a glance at the theater doors. “If I can.”
I mentally rolled my eyes, but forged ahead. “Did thee have sexual relations with Frannie Isley?” I kept my voice low and firm.
“What?” He reared back. “Me? It’s an outrage, Rose, to even suggest such a thing.”
“Did thee?” I pressed.
“I’m offended you would even consider such a scandalous idea.” He folded his arms across his chest, lifting his chin.
Both double doors opened. Wesley ushered Sadie and Marie through. I got a peek at red brocade swags and an abundance of gold paint before the door swung closed.
“We had quite the tour, Rose,” Sadie said.
“It’s lush in there,” Marie said, seeming not quite as wobbly as before.
“Have you conducted your business, Mrs. Dodge?” Wesley asked.
In a way. Except for Currie not answering my question. “Yes, and I thank thee.”
“I think we’d appreciate an escort back to our carriage, Wesley, if thee wouldn’t mind.” Sadie clasped her gloved hands.
“Of course, of course. My man Dodge here is going to get tidied up and open the ticket window without delay. Isn’t he?” Wesley stared at Currie.
“Yes, sir,” Currie said.
I looked back at him, now standing alone, before I stepped outside. I thought I saw a trace of panic remaining on his face. Was this alarm at having endangered his employment by tangling with his boss, or something worse?
Chapter Thirty-four
The afternoon had turned fine by the time we were back in West Falmouth. I’d declined Sadie’s offer to join my aunts indoors. Instead of going straight back to Tilly and Dru’s to freshen up before the burial, I took a stroll past the Friends Meetinghouse. I doubted the building would be open for a spur-of-the-moment midweek worshipper, but being near such a quiet and deeply spiritual place might help me discern my path forward in the murky fog that was this investigation.
It didn’t help that I’d come away from Falmouth no more the wiser, thanks to Currie. He’d been indignant when I’d asked if he’d had relations with Frannie. Or perhaps he’d had training as an actor. Either way, he hadn’t answered me. A pity there was no way to ascertain who the father of a given baby was, or fetus in this case. A woman, of course, nearly always knew who the mother of her child was. I imagined some future in which a simple blood test or other means would show if a baby had been sired by this man or that. He could thus be forced to be responsible for the child’s upbringing instead of leaving the mother destitute or having to rely on her family for support. As it was, we might never know who had impregnated poor Frannie.
I’d planned to think—even though praying might be more effective—as I perched on the low stone wall surrounding the burying ground behind the Meetinghouse. My plan, however, was thrown off course by a man with a shovel. A man with a salt-and-pepper braid who wore the same old cap Reuben had clapped on his head yesterday. This had to be Joseph Baxter. And he was digging Frannie’s grave.
He worked in a back corner of the graveyard, throwing dirt onto a growing pile next to the long hole in which he stood. Only the top half of his body appeared aboveground. Grunts accompanied the scritch of dirt on metal.
I didn’t think he’d seen me. Not wanting to startle him, I called, “Good afternoon, Friend.” I doubted he’d become a Quaker, but of course it was a friendly greeting whether the word was capitalized or not.
He paused and turned to look at me but didn’t speak. I approached him.
“Thee must be Joseph. I am Rose Carroll . . . I mean, Rose Dodge. I’m Frannie’s cousin.” Or was. I supposed one never ceased being a relation even when the relative was deceased.
“I’m Joseph Baxter. I’m digging the poor girl’s grave now.” He looked to be older than Zerviah, with a face more lined than his wife’s, but he had the same nearly imperceptible accent as hers.
It was interesting, I mused, that Reuben didn’t speak with any accent at all. Perhaps he didn’t speak much of the Wampanoag language, although he had used a few words in it with Zerviah. “Was thee close to Frannie, then?”
“Not close. But she grew up here, didn’t she? We all knew her. She would come to talk with me sometimes as I worked.” His brief smile was a sad one. “She was always full of questions about us being Indians. Wanted to learn some words in our language. Wanted to know how to use a saw and how to prune the fruit trees. The world’s missing a bright light since she’s gone.” Joseph took off the cap, swiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then donned the hat anew. “Burial’s at six, so forgive me if I keep working, ma’am.”
“Please don’t let me stop thee. I have met thy wife and thy youngest son. I am also a midwife, so Zerviah and I have much in common. May I fetch thee a cup of water?”
He paused mid-dig and regarded me. “I’d be much obliged, and I thank you kindly.”
As I headed for the pump near the building, which had a tin cup hanging from a hook, I heard him murmur, “Quakers. Some of those people take kindness a step too far.”
I expected he wasn’t the recipient of such kindnesses from Abial Latting, his employer. When I returned, Joseph paused long enough to drain the cup and hand it back to me.
“How was thy business trip?” I asked.
He peered up at me sideways. “Mrs. Baxter told you?”
“Yes.”
“Hmph. It was long. Had to journey out to Springfield. Got back on the last train last night.”
“Abial seems to do well for himself.” I supposed he did, given the size of his home. It seemed odd that a handyman would be sent to inspect a business, but perhaps Joseph was more of a right-hand man than a simple gardener and fix-it man. “What kind of business does he own out there?”
“You should ask him.”
Interesting. Did Abial have something to hide about his business dealings? “He must greatly appreciate thy talents. How long has thee worked for him?”
He leaned on the shovel handle for a moment. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Dodge, I don’t have time to be talking with you. I have a grave to dig for a poor lost soul.”
“Of course. Please forgive my intrusion.” He was right, of course. I was being nosy, and he had a job to do. I wandered to the far side of the cemetery, with the simple whitewashed Meetinghouse between us, its graceful eight-foot-tall windows looking out at the world. I didn’t want Joseph to think I was watching him. I sat on the wall facing the imposing Swift mansion on this side, with Abial’s visible beyond. I couldn’t see the handyman, but the rhythmic scratch and thud of shovel and dirt kept my thoughts company.
In a village this size, of course everyone would have known Frannie. I hadn’t thought of that. I so wished I’d known her, that our families had made the long journey to reunite more often, whether here or in Lawrence. When Daddy arrived, I’d have to ask him why we didn’t. I know I would have liked my cousin, ten years younger than I, with her spunk and her curiosity.
What a tragedy Frannie’s life had been cut short in such a cruel fashion. Had she known she was carrying a child? She was so young, she might not have. At sixteen some girls’ monthly cycles were not yet completely regular, and Frannie might not have noticed she’d missed one or two. My musings circled back to Currie. Had he been having intimate relations with the young
lady upstairs in the theater or simply canoodling? If he wasn’t the father of Frannie’s baby, was Reuben?
Or . . . I fixed my gaze on the turrets of Abial’s large abode. Brigid didn’t trust him. Sadie had described the son turning against his father, and the daughter being rescued. From a powerful man who preyed on newly matured girls, possibly including his own daughter? It was a horrifying thought, but I knew full well it went on in the world. Hazel and Brigid both had seen Abial be overly affectionate to Frannie in public, canoodling as it were, even if he thought he wasn’t being observed.
The shadows stretched out like skinny reflections as the sound of digging ceased. I shook loose my thoughts. I needed to hie myself to my aunts’ cottage so I could arrive back here in time to help Tilly inter her granddaughter and Drusilla her great-niece, an event entirely out of order in the way people’s lives were supposed to proceed. Before I left my perch, I closed my eyes and held Frannie’s released soul and my aunts in the Light, and Detective Edwin Merritt, as well. He could use all the help he could get.
Chapter Thirty-five
Wagon wheels creaked with the arrival of Frannie’s simple pine coffin at the Friends’ graveyard. The bell at the Methodist church tolled six times in the distance. We womenfolk—Tilly, Dru, Sadie, and Brigid—waited at graveside. I didn’t know how Brigid had learned of the solemn occasion, but I wasn’t surprised and was glad to see her. I half expected Hazel to appear, too. Brigid was already sniffling, and Dru patted her own eyes with a black-edged handkerchief. Tilly stood stony-faced and still, a monolith in her high-necked mourning gown. I hadn’t brought a black dress on the trip, but I knew no one cared what I wore. At least the Friends present didn’t.
Huldah, Abial, Joseph, and Edwin slid the coffin off the wagon and carried it to the gaping hole Joseph had dug. After Edwin had appeared near the wall a few minutes earlier, Huldah had enlisted him as pallbearer when Joseph scowled and said his helper was missing. Did he mean Reuben? I was surprised to see Abial here. Perhaps he acted as an elder of the Meeting, or maybe he simply got word of the burial and came to . . . what? Pay his respects or thank his lucky stars he hadn’t been caught in flagrante delicto with Frannie? I didn’t know.
Joseph had laid out two long ropes next to the grave. The men set the coffin atop them, then stepped back. Joseph retreated to the periphery of the burying ground, as did Edwin, but separately. Huldah joined Sadie. I’d thought perhaps Zerviah might be here, but she wasn’t, nor was Reuben. Tilly clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head while the others murmured in soft conversation.
I moved over to stand next to Abial, who today wore a long cloth coat that flapped in the breeze. “It’s a sad day,” I said in a soft voice.
“It most certainly is.” He wagged his head in sorrow. “A young girl taken before her time.”
I glanced at him. It seemed a rote response and didn’t sound heartfelt in the least. “I hope the detective soon finds the person who caused her death. It can’t be easy for my aunt to have such a person free to go about his life instead of being brought to justice.”
“No one is safe in our fair town until the wretched killer is apprehended.” Abial stared at the coffin. He cleared his throat, raising his voice as he addressed the gathering. “I shall offer a few words.”
“No.” Tilly spoke with force. She raised her head, glowering at him. “Thee shall not. Friend Sadie knew Frannie and loved her, unlike thee, Abial Latting. Sadie will speak of our girl.”
Abial blinked, with a look of displeasure passing fleetingly over his face. He folded his hands in front of his waist and pressed his lips together. He had no choice, and for this I was glad. Did Tilly say that because she knew of his association with Frannie? I was also grateful Tilly had found the strength to speak her wishes, a strength no doubt enabled by our faith, which recognized women’s role in life as equal to that of men. Why shouldn’t a female longtime member of the Meeting—a clerk of the women’s business meeting, no less—offer the burial message?
Sadie, more somber than I’d yet seen her, stepped forward, her blue dress matching the color of the shadows.
“Frannie Isley was dearly beloved by all who met her. Her lively interest in the workings of this world cheered us, and her energy invigorated so many of those whose nature is more sedate. May her bright soul, now released to God, find its peace with ease. May we each retain a portion of her sweet essence. May her love of music and joyful expression live on in our memories. And may our dear Frannie—” Sadie’s voice broke. She pressed her eyes shut and breathed deeply in and out, composing herself. She raised her voice, looking around the circle, and spoke slowly, somberly. “May our dear Frannie rest in God’s loving arms.”
Brigid murmured, “Amen,” and crossed herself.
I joined her, also saying “Amen.” To do so was not the custom of Friends. Still, the word echoed around the small group. I sneaked a glance at Abial, his face a pious mask.
“Let us hold Frannie in God’s Light.” Sadie closed her eyes again. We Friends followed suit. The silence was broken only by the scratching cry of a crow in a distant tree and the clatter of a carriage passing on the road. I cracked open my eyes and peeked at Brigid, who clutched a rosary, and at Edwin, who was regarding a bowed-head Joseph with keen interest.
After some minutes, Sadie spoke. “I thank each of thee for joining us. Gentlemen?” She moved to Tilly’s side and wrapped an arm around her.
I was next to Dru, and did the same to her. She whispered her thanks.
Joseph stepped forward, gesturing to Edwin to join him. Huldah and Abial also approached the coffin. Each took an end of rope. Slowly they lowered Frannie and her coffin into her final resting place.
Dru stooped and grabbed a handful of dirt from the mound. “From dust do we come and to dust do we return.” She tossed the dirt onto the coffin.
The other mourners slowly added their bit of God’s dust, with the exception of Edwin and Joseph, who stayed apart. Abial maintained his fake sorrowful expression, but after he tossed in a bit of dirt he immediately dusted off his hands and hurried away. When it was Brigid’s turn, she recited a prayer quietly. She slipped off the small cross she wore and kissed it before tossing it onto the coffin. I was next to last, and held Frannie in silent prayer for a moment while I listened to my contribution patter lightly onto the wood below. I glanced at Tilly.
She shook her head. “I shall not. Only when her murderer is behind bars shall I consider Frannie Isley decently buried.” She turned toward the gate but stopped stock-still. “Thee!” She pointed with a shaking finger. “Thee does not belong here.”
The object of her ire was Reuben. Hat in hand, he stood at the front entrance to the burying ground, tears streaming down his face. Zerviah stepped up beside him. Edwin edged nearer.
I hoped we wouldn’t have an altercation to ruin the somber moment.
Joseph glanced from Edwin to Reuben. “Son—”
“I only wanted to bid her farewell,” Reuben choked out. “Frannie was my light.”
Zerviah laid a hand on his shoulder, murmuring something only he could hear. Tilly glared at Edwin, but he shook his head slowly in response. Dru looked at me with panic in her eyes.
“What should we do?” she whispered.
“It’s time to go home, Tilly.” Quiet, competent Sadie took Tilly’s arm, nudging her toward the opening in the wall at the back of the graveyard. “Dru, come along with us. Rose, join us if thee wishes.”
I watched the three make their way down the path. Thank goodness for Sadie’s strong presence. At a touch to my arm, I turned back.
“Mrs. Dodge, will you Quakers be holding a funeral, too?” Brigid asked. “I didn’t miss it today, did I?”
“No, you didn’t, and yes, we are holding a Memorial Meeting for Worship on Sixth Day at two o’clock in the afternoon.” At her look of puzzlement, I added, “What thee calls Friday. Thee is welcome to join us here.” I gestured toward the dark-windowed Meetinghouse,
which silently observed the doings of the humans beyond it.
“I will come. My da won’t be pleased, and neither will the priest. We’re not supposed to be entering pagan houses of worship, are we, then? But I’m not after caring. Thank you, Mrs. Dodge. Frannie was a fine girl, and that good of a friend to me.” She trudged toward the gate with bowed head, but paused to greet Reuben and pat his grieving shoulder.
Brigid was Frannie’s closest friend, and she bore no ill will toward Reuben. A vote in favor of his innocence.
Edwin had slipped away, leaving only the Baxter family and me. Reuben must have been the helper Joseph mentioned earlier. Father and son now began the sad job of shoveling the pile of dirt into the burying hole, with Reuben pausing to blow his nose on a dirt-stained handkerchief. I joined Zerviah.
“I told my son he should wait until the mourners had left to join his father in this sad task, but he refused.”
I waited, listening to the thuds of shovelfuls of dirt as they covered the coffin.
“My boy is innocent, but he should not have disturbed the somber act.” She shook her head. “He is my most willful child, and I confess my most beloved, too.” She regarded me with those deep brown eyes. “Rose, I saw Mr. Latting leave as we arrived. What was he doing here? It seems an act of disrespect, nearly.”
“He’s a member of this Meeting. Why does thee say it was disrespectful for him to be present?”
She turned her gaze to the men, clasping her hands in front of her. “Everyone knows of his immoral behavior, Rose. Toward Frannie, even toward his own daughter. He should be in prison, but that’s unlikely in this world of men and their influence. The rest of us would be better off if he happened to meet with an unfortunate accident.”
I could only stare at her.
Chapter Thirty-six
I lit several lamps after I arrived back at my aunts’ home, but the windows pressed in with darkness. I hurried around pulling all the curtains shut and made sure the doors were locked, too. Maybe Dru and Tilly didn’t lock their doors, but I certainly did. I hadn’t been alone here at night before, and with an unapprehended murderer out there? Caution was only prudent. I sank into an armchair. Had it been only this morning when David received the bad news about Clarinda? It seemed like a week ago. I’d halfway hoped for a telegram from him to be stuck in the door, informing me of good news or bad. I’d have to wait for the morrow. I supposed I should write and tell him Currie wasn’t on his way.
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