Taken Too Soon

by Edith Maxwell

  For now, a little more than three hours of sleep would have to suffice. I had things to do and places to go today, starting with a good wash downstairs, some breakfast, and penning a letter to my husband.

  With a clean self garbed in a fresh day dress and freshly washed hair in a plait down my back, coffee and two eggs happily in my belly, I found paper and pen on the small desk in Tilly’s room. It was sparsely decorated, smelling faintly of rosewater. A small vase filled with dried wildflowers sat on a doily on the dresser, and a bookmark marked her place in the novel Middlemarch on the stand next to the bed.

  I wondered again if Tilly felt bad not to be in her own home during her time of mourning, and concluded again it might be easier for her to not be surrounded by reminders of Frannie, at least for these first few days.

  I sat at the writing desk to compose a missive to my husband. A dictionary, a volume of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, Whittier’s Snowbound, and a copy of The Journal of John Woolman were lined up between bookends on the shallow shelf above the desk. A small brass letter holder next to the books contained envelopes that had been slit open and restuffed with their contents.

  Instead of writing, I took down the itinerant Quaker minister’s journal, penned over a hundred years earlier, and read about his occasional employment as a scribe. When a Quaker slave owner hired Woolman to write his will, Friend John refused to include the part about deeding the slaves to the man’s son, thereby convincing him to grant them emancipation upon his death. John Woolman was a man who lived by the values of his faith.

  I sat back. Did I do the same? I tried, certainly. I did not kowtow to power. I treated all as equal children of God, and I attempted to conduct myself peaceably. I had to admit I had occasionally blurred the lines of integrity, telling a small lie here and there, but only in the pursuit of a murderer. My mother had once remarked that if we were all perfect, God would get jealous. I didn’t think there was much danger of that happening in my case.

  Peering more closely at the letter file, I spied a corner of paper sticking up at an odd angle behind the envelopes. I could see only the letters Fra. It had to be about Frannie, or maybe a note to her that hadn’t been delivered in time. But why would Tilly write a message to a girl who lived in her household?

  I was dying to look, but this was Tilly’s private correspondence. In light of Quakerly integrity, I had no business poking into her personal files. On the other hand, she had requested my help in finding the person who ended her ward’s—her granddaughter’s—life. What if the slip of paper held a clue? My hand crept toward it, but I pulled it back. I could simply ask Tilly. She might not tell me, though. I sensed she still held back a secret beyond the one of Frannie’s identity, which she’d already revealed.

  No matter how much I wanted to see what else was written, I had to let integrity rule. I tore my gaze away from the siren call of that “Fra” and began my letter to David.

  How I miss thee, my dearest David. I am apprehensive to receive news of Clarinda’s condition and pray she is already much improved.

  But had I prayed enough for her? I laid down the pen and closed my eyes, holding my mother-in-law in God’s Light. I pictured her in fine form, tending her gardens, hosting her lady friends, and attending services at her beloved St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. I exiled all negative thoughts about her less-than-pleasant side.

  I resumed writing.

  I am well, although a bit fatigued from being up all night assisting at a birth with Zerviah, the Indian midwife. She’s a wise woman, and we are fast becoming friends.

  We had the sorrow of burying Frannie last evening and will remember her with a Memorial Meeting for Worship tomorrow afternoon. Daddy arrives tonight, for which I am grateful.

  I lifted the pen for a moment. While Sadie and Huldah had been more than welcoming, they weren’t family, and I’d never been close to my aunts. I was truly looking forward to my father’s support and comfort. Both he and Mother had always offered the kind of love that had no conditions set upon it. Even when my sister and I had been firmly disciplined as children—with words, not corporally—it was with the understanding it was about our behavior. We knew we were still loved for ourselves. I hoped to be such a parent myself.

  I regret to write that, although I was able to locate thy brother at his place of employment yesterday, he was not eager to journey home and rally around thy mother in her time of need. He seemed to think she might have been claiming to be ill as a ruse to lure him home. I was unable to convince him otherwise. We met the owner of the opera house, who also is the proprietor of the burlesque theater. It’s located in, shall we say, an interesting neighborhood. I’ll tell you all about it when we are joyfully reunited.

  I’ve been working diligently—and safely, I assure thee—to uncover the truth about Frannie’s death, but I plan to travel back to Amesbury on Seventh Day, whether the case is solved or not.

  David didn’t need to know about my scare last night, which had turned out not to be a threat at all.

  I expect I’ll go as far as Boston with Daddy, and perhaps he’ll decide to accompany me all the way to Amesbury so he can enjoy a few days with his Bailey grandchildren. Won’t it be a delight when we can also invite him to come and play with a few Dodge grandchildren?

  I hope thee and thy father are both well, and that Clarinda’s health is rapidly improving. Please convey my best wishes to her.

  Adding a few endearments, I signed the letter and set it aside while I addressed the envelope. I looked up, startled, at a loud knocking. I peeked out the curtain at the front, still drawn from last night, to see Edwin Merritt raising his hand to knock again. I hurried to open the door.

  “Good morning, Edwin.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Dodge. I wondered if I could trouble you for a few minutes of your time.”

  I gazed out at the day, which was sunny and mild. “Let’s sit out here.” I led him to two chairs at a small ironwork table in the shade of a young maple tree, its leaves beginning to transform themselves into fall’s unQuakerly bright palette of reds and golds.

  I folded my hands and waited.

  “More and more troubling details seem to be drifting into my case, Mrs. Dodge. I don’t mind telling you I’m stumped. Donovan up there in Amesbury wrote again urging me to avail myself of your keen investigator’s brain, so here I am. Might you have discovered anything new for me?”

  “Let’s see. We last spoke yesterday morning, I think.” What had I learned since then? Not much, really, except possible confirmation of Currie’s involvement with young women. No, Sadie had told me the bit about Abial’s daughter. “I did hear about the unfortunate circumstance regarding the departure of Abial Latting’s children, particularly his daughter. Thee must be aware of what happened.”

  He tilted his head, regarding me. “When his late wife’s sister removed the girl from the house? Yes. Is there more than that?”

  “I’m not sure. But if he was beginning to accost his own daughter, surely that would be reason for her to want to flee.”

  Edwin’s expression turned to that of a man who had tasted spoiled milk. Still, he jotted down something in his small notebook.

  “Thee thyself heard what Tilly said to Abial yesterday as we were burying Frannie. She had harsh words for him.”

  He looked thoughtful. “Yes, I did.”

  “And thee also witnessed the extent of Reuben’s grief?”

  “Yes, indeed.” The detective sighed. “I’m no more the wiser.”

  “Thee hasn’t had luck discovering any more facts about the actual death on the water?”

  “Alas and alack, nothing specific. But we might have a lead on it.”

  “And what about Hazel Bowman?” I asked. “Is she on the list of suspects? We spoke of her on Second Day, as I recall.”

  “Miss Bowman is certainly a person we’ve been watching carefully. This line of inquiry might prove fruitful yet, Mrs. Dodge.”

  “Both Tilly and Dru say she is prone to te
lling mistruths, that she makes a habit of it.”

  “Duly noted.” He stood. “I must be off. I thank you for your time.”

  I rose, too. “Thee is welcome to join us at Frannie’s Memorial Meeting tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock,” I said. “I should inform thee I plan to leave for home the following day.”

  “Let’s hope we get a break in this conundrum today.”

  “I shall pray for a swift resolution.” I watched him trudge away. I would do more than pray, if I could.

  Chapter Forty

  At a few minutes past noon I once again sat at Sadie’s table with her, Marie, and my aunts. We partook today of a lettuce salad topped with late tomatoes, steamed green beans, bits of ham, and sliced boiled eggs, with fresh bread as accompaniment. I savored the creamy topping.

  “Sadie, thee could be a chef in a restaurant. What is this delicious sauce?”

  “It’s my own mayonnaise dressing. I’m glad thee likes it. It’s lighter than the usual recipe.”

  Dru nodded her approval, her mouth full of bread topped with thickly slathered butter.

  “And the tomatoes must again be from thy mother’s garden,” I said to Marie.

  “Indeed they are.” She smiled.

  “Marie brought over many more yesterday,” Sadie said. “I did a spot of canning this morning and have several jars to return to her as thanks.”

  “What has thee been up to, Rose?” Tilly asked. She was looking a bit less haggard today, more herself.

  “I attended a birth during the night with Zerviah Baxter, and I learned a trick or two from observing her. She’s a talented midwife.”

  “I expect she is,” Tilly said. “Was the newly delivered mother Indian or white?”

  “In this case she was a member of the Wampanoag tribe, but Zerviah assists any birthing woman.”

  Tilly tapped her fork on her plate. “When I asked, I meant what has thee been up to with regard to the investigation.”

  “Doesn’t thee think we should leave investigating to Edwin and his men?” Dru asked her sister.

  “Drusilla, I’ll thank thee to mind thy own business.” Tilly glared at Dru.

  Dru lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “I think it could be dangerous for our dear Rose to toy with a killer.”

  “Of course it is ultimately up to the county sheriff.” I hurried to placate Dru, who today seemed more clear-minded than in past days. I knew senility could wax and wane for a time as it developed. “In fact, I had a chat with the detective this morning. He hinted he might have a couple of leads.” Well, only one, but they didn’t need to know that. And I didn’t want to go into the sordid details of Abial’s or Currie’s consorting with girls too young for them.

  “Good.” Tilly resumed nibbling at her salad.

  “Did thee find the errant brother-in-law in Falmouth yesterday?” Dru asked.

  Sadie must not have told them. “Yes,” I replied. “Thanks to Sadie’s friend who owns the opera house. Wesley was most helpful.”

  “I partook rather too generously of Mr. Stewart’s libations, I’m afraid,” Marie said in a rueful tone.

  “Wesley Stewart?” Dru asked, her voice rising. She glanced at Tilly, who stared at her plate. “Thee knows him, Sadie?”

  “Yes, we have become friendly due to Huldah’s and my support of the opera house. I took Rose to meet him, thinking he might be able to locate David’s brother, and he did. Why does thee ask?”

  Dru kept her gaze on her sister, who did not return it. “Oh, the name sounds familiar from long ago, that’s all.”

  We ladies ate in silence for the next minute or two, absorbed in our thoughts, accompanied only by a show-off mockingbird’s wildly varying songs floating in through the open window. Something was clearly up between my aunts at the mention of Wesley Stewart, but I hadn’t a clue what.

  I sipped from the glass of lemonade Sadie had served, then addressed Tilly. “I took the liberty of borrowing thy writing desk and supplies this morning, Tilly, to pen a note to my husband. I hope thee doesn’t mind.”

  My aunt’s fork froze halfway to her mouth. Why? I wished there was some way to ask her about the corner of paper. Try as I might, I couldn’t devise one.

  Tilly set down the implement. “Using my desk is fine, of course. I’m afraid thee might have glimpsed a piece of correspondence I’d begun but not finished. I can’t remember if I left it out on the desk or if I’d put it away.”

  The letters. “There was nothing on the desk, but I did see the corner of a piece of paper sticking out from thy correspondence file.” I took a chance, speaking gently. “All I saw were the letters F-r-a. Had thee been composing a letter to Frannie?”

  She stared at the wall above my head. “Yes, Rose.” She stood. “If thee will excuse me, Sadie, I am indisposed.” She kept her shoulders straight and her chin high as she moved out of the room. A door shut quietly in the hall beyond.

  “I’ve upset her. I feel terrible at mentioning the letter.” I gazed after my aunt. “Should I go to her?” I looked from Sadie to Dru.

  “No.” Sadie patted my hand. “Our Tilly is troubled at present. I think we should let her rest.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Dru said with a little roll of her eyes. “My sister keeps her feelings to herself.”

  “Tilly has had a hard week,” Marie said. “I think she can be excused from her reaction. Whatever she’d been writing, she took it to heart.”

  I jiggled my heel on the floor, thinking. “Dru, tell me how thee knows the name Wesley Stewart?”

  She chewed a bite of egg and swallowed before speaking. “Once again, I think thee should ask Tilly for the details. But I’ll tell thee this. Long ago Wesley was a dashing and charming young man who stole my sister’s heart.” She rapped the table once.

  Sadie’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline, and mine did the same. Was silver-haired Wesley the man who had left Tilly pregnant all those years ago? He was certainly still charming. Had Frannie been his granddaughter?

  “My, my,” Marie murmured.

  “I had no idea,” Sadie whispered.

  “Well, he did,” Dru said in a firm tone. “He broke her heart, too. He spoke to her of marriage. When he had the nerve to disappear, Tilly’s heart shattered into a million pieces. She never heard from him again.”

  So much for letting Tilly tell her own story.

  “And thee hadn’t heard Wesley’s name bandied about?” Sadie asked.

  “No. As we don’t frequent the opera, we didn’t know the man was sitting right down the road there in Falmouth.”

  “Hearing his name must have been like conjuring a ghost for her,” I said softly. My thoughts then took a darker turn as a clock chimed once somewhere in the house. What if Frannie had discovered her grandfather? Was there any way exposure of his past would have threatened him in his comfortable, successful life? My brain spun at the idea. Could he be the murderous culprit we’d been searching for?

  Chapter Forty-one

  I meandered back toward my temporary lodgings half an hour later. How could I find out if Wesley knew about Frannie? If he did, it clearly wouldn’t be from Tilly or Dru telling him. They’d both been surprised to hear he was living not ten miles distant. Didn’t they read the newspaper? Surely his name would have appeared in conjunction with owning the opera house. Or perhaps not.

  It occurred to me that I’d talked with Wesley about Frannie’s death but I’d referred to Tilly not by name but as my aunt. I was pretty sure he hadn’t reacted about my connection with Tilly. If he knew about Frannie’s death, he must have read Tilly’s name in the paper. Had he forgotten her, or had his lack of reaction been an act?

  But I didn’t want to take the time to make the trip to Falmouth once again, this time on a train for which I didn’t know the schedule. Anyway, the smooth-talking owner of the opera house might not take kindly to my questioning him about his amorous activities of many decades past. I had no idea why he’d disappeared so long ago, nor where to. Should I
inform Edwin what I had discovered? I wasn’t sure it was pertinent to the case, so I wouldn’t, not yet, anyway. So far nothing but my imagination pointed to Wesley Stewart as a killer.

  Also, in lieu of a confession from the guilty party, the most important aspect of the investigation into Frannie’s death was finding evidence to convict the killer. Edwin and his team had to have already questioned the wharfmaster about the comings and goings of local boats. Perhaps I could pose my queries differently. How, I hadn’t a clue, but I’d found in the past I had a certain knack for improvising on the spot. I prayed as I changed my route that Way would open for me again this time. I pushed my spectacles back up the bridge of my nose and quickened my pace. I was always happier when I had a goal in mind, a purpose to achieve.

  A train’s whistle shrieked as its cars clacked southward several blocks away. Wagons must have been awaiting the delivery of goods, evidenced by the heavy commerce on Chappaquoit Road. Horses clopped along hauling ponderous loads. A woman trudged pulling a cart laden with small boxes. When I reached the station, a man stood outside directing the movement of bundles and bales.

  I crossed the tracks and kept up my brisk pace until I reached the inlet and the small wharf. This, in contrast to the train station, was calm, bordering on sleepy. Here was not the busy fishing town of Falmouth. There ships dropped anchor offshore and plied their wares on land. Seamen came into town for fresh food and fresh entertainment, possibly in the neighborhood of the burlesque theater. New goods were rowed out to the larger vessels.

  In contrast, West Falmouth supported only the locals: boaters, clam-diggers, and those who enjoyed a quieter life. I approached the wharf, which was merely a long dock with a building barely more than a shed erected on it. A man sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, hat over his eyes, having his postprandial snooze, perhaps.