I carried the plate out to the bricked area facing the garden. The railroad tracks ran beyond the back hedge, but unless a train clattered by, it was a peaceful place to sit and think. And think, I did.
Abial having a soft spot for puppies had surprised me greatly. I wondered why he hadn’t taken up breeding again as an adult. And his reaction to my question about fishing had been extreme. Too extreme? Maybe he was covering up his own crime.
I also wondered what Joseph had been ordering his son to do. Reuben hadn’t been happy about it, whatever the demand was. Of course, it needn’t have anything to do with Frannie’s death. Sons who were nearly men and their fathers often came into conflict, butting heads like stags, as Abial and his son apparently had also done. I was curious about what happened to Reuben’s cap, and whether it could have gotten lost in a tussle on a boat. A tussle about what, I did not know. And whose boat? It was strange that Dru had said Reuben had a temper. The angriest I’d seen him was a little while ago as he argued with Joseph. Reuben’s temper hadn’t seemed out of control at all. It seemed Dru had been spreading gossip, not fact.
Currie. Could he possibly have killed Frannie? He’d said he was in debt. If he’d fathered her child, he might have been desperate to avoid having to support her and a baby, too. David had said his brother was terrified of the water, or at least of the ocean. It was hard to conceive of him going out in a boat. I supposed he—or someone else—could have whacked Frannie on the head and then pushed her boat into an outgoing tide. I shuddered at the thought. But tides, now. Those were a matter of record. I would check into the tides first thing in the morning. Perhaps Tilly even had a tide table here in the house somewhere.
Or maybe Hazel was the villain. She was clearly comfortable in a boat. She was a habitual liar, according to my aunts. She was manipulative, according to both Reuben and Brigid, and abused laudanum. According to Reuben, she was jealous of Frannie consorting with him.
And then there was my fanciful idea of Wesley Stewart being confronted by Frannie. It saddened me to imagine their meeting, Frannie perhaps both nervous and excited to meet a blood relative—her mother’s father—and him shocked and threatened by his past coming back to meet him in an unexpected way. Currie had said he didn’t know if Frannie had met his employer, but was he telling the truth? Now I wished I had relayed my thought about the theater owner to Edwin. I would do so tomorrow early. But . . . wait. Frannie hadn’t known Tilly was her grandmother, had she? It seemed Tilly might have been about to tell her in her letter. How sad she never got the chance.
I popped in the last bite of my simple repast and leaned back in my chair. A blue jay called its metallic see-sawing song, bouncing my thoughts from suspect to suspect. Why did I feel so compelled to do the work of the detective? Was my need for justice so strong? Was it my Quaker upbringing or something in my nature that drove me? Perhaps I loved the intellectual exercise of solving the puzzle. I closed my eyes, the late afternoon sun warming my cheek.
At the scrape of metal on brick, my eyes flew open. Drusilla settled herself in the other chair.
“Thee was asleep,” she observed. “I am sorry I woke thee.”
“Goodness.” I wiped a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth and sat up straight. “Good afternoon, Aunt Dru. I was helping Zerviah with a birth all last night and my lack of sleep caught up with me.” The sun was lower but it wasn’t yet dark out. I might have napped for half an hour.
“I came by because I needed to fetch a few things for my sister and myself. Will thee be joining us for supper?”
“No, I already dined here. How is Aunt Tilly doing? I think tomorrow might be very difficult for her, and for thee.”
“I expect it will be. Tilly has reverted to her usual taciturn stolid self, Rose. Thee witnessed her emotions flowing out through the cracks of sorrow, but she’s got them sealed up tight again.”
We watched a busy chickadee flit from one branch to another.
“Aunt Dru,” I ventured, “I know thee seemed shocked when the detective relayed the news to thee that Frannie was carrying a child. Was thee aware of her condition and simply didn’t want to acknowledge that the girl might have strayed?”
“I truly didn’t know, Rose. I never attained the blessed state of motherhood myself. I’ve always wished I had. I must have missed the signs in our girl.”
I gazed at her. My aunt didn’t seem a bit dotty at the moment. She was speaking clearly and making sense. How odd the onset of senility was. “Does thee think Tilly was aware of Frannie’s condition? Thee wasn’t in the room when Edwin asked her if she knew, but I was. She never answered him.”
Dru didn’t speak for a moment. “I think this is entirely possible. Not from Frannie confiding in her, but Tilly has a sharp eye. She notices things, and she carried a child herself. I wouldn’t be surprised. Not that we’ve spoken of it, of course.”
What an odd relationship the sisters had, to share a home yet not to speak of something like Frannie’s pregnancy. “Then there’s the question of who fathered Frannie’s child,” I went on. Had anyone asked Reuben directly if he’d had intimate relations with Frannie? “Was it a loving Reuben? Or had she been accosted against her will by another man?”
“Like Abial Latting?” Dru murmured.
I looked over at her. “Yes, like him.” I supposed in a town this size his wrongdoings would be common knowledge. Why hadn’t anyone stopped him?
“Girls are not safe alone around that man.” Dru’s nostrils flared. “And Tilly told Frannie as much.”
If Abial was responsible for Frannie’s pregnancy, had he impregnated other girls in town? Fathered other children? And why didn’t Tilly suspect Abial of the murder over Reuben?
Chapter Forty-seven
After Dru fetched what she needed and left, I had an urge to gaze at the bay and revisit the sun setting over the water as David and I had our first evening here. I found it soothing to do nothing but watch a large expanse of water over which I had no control. I carefully locked the house and made my way through last year’s dry oak leaves on the path to extract one of the bicycles from the shed. I hopped on, tucking my skirt up in front so it wouldn’t become entangled with the spokes. I had a split-skirt cycling garment at home but hadn’t thought to bring it on this trip.
I sat on the beach with my knees to my chin, arms wrapped around my legs. Few others kept me company here on the sand. A brisk wind blew the water in at an angle to the shore, and layers of clouds let the sun’s light pass through without the sun itself blazing forth. A few minutes later, shimmering pale golden light diffused rays in an inverted fan onto the clouds below. This sight always reminded of me paintings purporting to depict God sitting on the highest cloud. While I wasn’t sure God was up there on a cloud somewhere, the effect did look holy and miraculous, and what was God if not Light?
One trim silver-haired lady in a sensible dress with the new slightly higher hems walked purposely along water’s edge. She swung her arms as she went. The Calisthenics movement encouraged people to perform a daily healthy exertion. It appeared at least one West Falmouth resident had adopted it. A crew of little sandpipers ran along the beach ahead of her. Once she’d passed, a few of the birds circled around to settle pecking the wet sand in front of me.
I wished I could peck out bits of information as easily. It was a pity that, between Edwin and me, we hadn’t solved this case before Frannie’s farewell Meeting tomorrow. A resolution, an arrest, would have at least given Tilly the satisfaction of seeing justice served. It would have bestowed peace of mind for all, knowing a killer was securely behind bars.
I doubted I would have a chance to talk things over with my father after he arrived. He’d said he wouldn’t get to West Falmouth until noon. He must be taking the same express train the medical examiner had arrived on to examine Frannie’s body.
As the large orange orb flattened itself into a half disk before slipping below the horizon, the wind increased, making me shiver. I hadn’t atta
ined the peace of mind and absence from thought I’d hoped for by coming here. I removed my glasses and closed my eyes for some moments of prayer.
I’d been working hard on my own to investigate the murder, but I hadn’t been calling on God’s help nearly as often as I might. I held Edwin and his team in the Light of God, that Way would open for them to put together the pieces of this awful puzzle. I held Tilly, for an eventual peaceful acceptance in her heart of Frannie’s passing. I held the killer, whoever it was, for repentance and a cessation of wrongdoing. And I held myself, too, praying I might discern the path to clarity and do so safely.
When the cold breeze caused another shiver to run through me, I donned my spectacles again and pushed up to standing. It was time to peddle home before darkness fully fell. I brushed sand off my posterior and commenced trudging across the beach toward my metal steed. Near the road the sand turned to a narrow dirt track weaving through prickly sea rose bushes. Earlier in the summer the air would have been filled with the sweet scent of their dark pink blooms, but now their rust-colored rose hips matched the turning leaves. Fall was in its ascendance.
At a rustle from the shrubs to my left, I started. My heart pounded as I hurried on. It wasn’t a straight pathway. I couldn’t yet spy my destination. Was I being followed? Tracked down for getting too close to identifying a murderer, at least in his or her mind? I certainly wasn’t close in my own mind. I’d been pursued and attacked during previous cases in Amesbury. While I’d obviously survived, it wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat. My palms were clammy, and I nearly tripped over my skirt in my rush to safety.
The bushes rustled again as a huge osprey flew up nearby with a struggling fish in its talons. I slowed, patting my heart. It hadn’t been a human looking for prey, after all, but a fish hawk seeking its own prey in a nearby salt pond. Still, I pedaled back to Tilly and Dru’s like a madwoman. Darkness had arrived sooner than I’d expected, and the moon was not yet up. I had to rely on traces of light in the sky and the illumination pushing out from the windows of houses on the route to find my way. Breathing hard, I wheeled the bike into the shed.
Slam. The door shut hard behind me. It wasn’t so windy out, was it? I turned toward the door but cried out when I hit my hip on a wooden box next to the wall. Click. A gruff curse followed from outside.
What? I finally made my way to the door. I pushed hard. It wouldn’t give. I rattled the handle inside. Nothing. I leaned my shoulder against it, set my feet, and pushed with all my might. The door wasn’t just stuck. The click had been someone locking me in.
“Let me out!” I shouted.
“That’ll teach you,” came a hoarse whisper through the crack. “Mind your own business, Midwife Dodge.”
Chapter Forty-eight
“Open the door, please,” I pleaded. I pounded my fist on the rough wood.
The noise from a scuffling of leaves trailed away, then nothing but silence answered me.
I slid down with my back to the door to sit on the packed dirt floor. I pushed my bonnet back off my hair and sank my head into my hands. I’d been attacked, after all. At least I hadn’t been hit over the head before being locked inside. Who had whispered the threat? It could have been man or woman. Not Abial, because the person had said “you” and “your” instead of “thee” and “thy.” So Hazel or Currie. Reuben or even Wesley. Or, I mused, Abial disguising his Quakerly manner of speech. Yes, any one of them could be my jailer.
Why did I do something so stupid as attempt a bicycle ride home from the beach after the sun had set? I could have easily stayed in the house, safe and secure. Or at least left the shore well before dusk. In frustration, I stamped my feet where I sat. But doing so only raised dust, which made me sneeze. Clearly Dru and Tilly’s housekeeping didn’t extend to the outbuilding.
I had to get out of here. For one thing, I had a need to pass water. I was thirsty from my ride, and a bit hungry, too, but if I had to, I knew I could go without drinking or eating until tomorrow. Surely someone would come looking for me when I didn’t meet my father at the train or appear at the Memorial Meeting. Still, I was determined to find a way out. I had no desire to sit in this dusty, flimsy structure for up to twenty hours.
Flimsy. Was it flimsy? I stood. If, in fact, the building was old and poorly constructed, maybe I could push it on its side. Or break down a wall. But with what? The shed didn’t include a window, even a small one. My eyes had adjusted to the dark as best they could, which wasn’t much.
I braced myself and pushed against the side wall. It didn’t budge. So much for thinking I could tip it over. If I could find a sledge or a post to exert extra pressure on the door, I might be able to break the lock. I made my way around the perimeter, feeling for what leaned against the walls or hung from hooks. At the back wall the sharp corner of a high shelf dug into my forehead.
I cried out again. When I felt the wound, my hand came away wet with blood. I patted it with my sleeved forearm. I didn’t care about staining my clothing at this point. I stilled. Crying out. A house sat to each side of my aunts’ abode. Would a neighbor be able to hear my entreaties?
“Help! Please help me,” I yelled with all my might and pounded on the door with my fists. I waited, repeating my shouts every minute. “Help!” I pressed my face close to one side of the shed and yelled again, then tried the other side.
After some minutes, my voice grew hoarse from shouting and my fists ached from the pounding. I abandoned my frantic efforts. I sat again, hugging my knees. The other homes were too distant from my prison and they must have already shut their windows for the night. No one was coming to rescue me. Tears welled in my eyes and my throat thickened. This was supposed to have been the happiest week of my life. I was finally married to David. I’d tasted the full fruit of intimacy and found I loved it. I had a new home awaiting me back in Amesbury.
Instead the week was a disaster. I was a failure. I hadn’t found Frannie’s killer. I hadn’t convinced Currie to go see his ailing mother. My dear husband and I were apart, and I missed him terribly. Why did I even think I could go around investigating homicide? I had no training nor a team to back me up. It was dangerous work.
My calling was to a very different occupation. Why didn’t I stick to helping pregnant and birthing women? I was good at it, and my services back home were in much demand. Midwifery didn’t normally put my life in peril. What did I think I was doing raising the suspicions of a person who had already committed one murder, someone who might be feeling desperate at the thought of exposure? And now look at me. I was alone and locked in a filthy dark shed until tomorrow with no one the wiser—except my jailer.
I closed my eyes, miserable at my plight. I prayed for clarity but found only darkness. When a sob welled up, I choked it back.
No. I sniffed and straightened my glasses, not that they did me any good in the dark. I wasn’t going to wallow in self-pity. I had only myself to rely on. I could rest here. I could try to sleep. Except . . . what if my attacker set the shed on fire? Or came back with a firearm. Bullets could likely make it through this old wood. I would be trapped and without defenses. Maybe that was the person’s plan all along. It didn’t make sense to simply lock me in and leave me until I was discovered.
The better plan was to do my Rose Carroll Dodge best to find a way out. I pushed myself up and smoothed down my dress, feeling the key to the house in my pocket. Could it possibly fit the lock on the shed door, too? I made my way with care to the door and ran my hand up and down the wood at the edge. I shook my head in disappointment. That would have been too easy. No keyhole presented itself. Whoever had locked me in had either jammed a piece of wood in the latch after clicking it closed or had clicked shut a padlock. The door to the shed had been open all week, so I hadn’t paid attention to what kind of latch it had.
The roar of a train grew near. It clattered by with a huge noise, being only a few yards from the shed. I took a deep breath after it had passed. I’d stopped my survey of the shed’s c
ontents when my forehead met up with the shelf’s corner. There had to be something in here I could use as a tool. I felt my way back to the shelf, ducking this time, and continued gingerly around the perimeter. I felt like Laura Bridgman, the deaf and blind woman Charles Dickens had written about in American Notes, who learned everything through touch. My blind friend Jeanette had told me about a young student recently arrived at the Perkins School for the Blind in Boston. Jeanette said Helen Keller, also deaf and blind, had acquired language through finger spelling. She apparently had a keen intelligence and was learning to read Braille.
What I needed to feel for was not so fine-tuned. I came across a wooden rake and hefted it, but it was too lightweight to be of use. A hoe leaned against the wall next to the rake. I felt the blade, which was rusted and chipped away. I discovered a small hammer hanging from a nail, a tool far too puny to do me any good. I sighed and took another step. My foot hit an obstacle. I leaned down to feel a rock about the size of the football my nephew played with. Perhaps my aunts normally used it to prop open the door. Maybe it would help me open it once again.
I hefted the heavy stone and tried battering the door at around waist level, where the latch should be, but I couldn’t get much leverage. I hoisted the rock over my head with both hands and battered the top of the door, over and over. As someone who believes in nonviolence to her fellow humans—and practices it—I felt remarkably good exerting such force on an inanimate object. Thud. Whack. Thud.
The door wobbled more with each hit but remained in place. On my last attempt, one of my hands slipped. The rock rotated. My ring finger came between the rock and the wood. “Ow!” I yelled.
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