“That is possible.”
“Or maybe his wife arranged for the factory to be torched so he might spend more time with her instead of with the business,” I said. “She would certainly have the funds to pay a criminal to do her bidding, although I am not sure whether she would act so desperately or with such vindictiveness.”
“Aye, but then she would have destroyed the source of those same funds. We might need to let these thoughts season a while.”
Season. Another Quaker habit that wasn’t easy for me: waiting, letting a situation rest and evolve. John gave a sharp glance out the glass inset of the door. I heard steps on the front porch and the door knocker thudded twice. He stood and donned a cloak that hung on a peg. “Will thee walk with me a spell?” Opening the door to the back garden, he placed his hat on his head, his eyes twinkling, and picked up a silver-tipped cane.
“I’d be happy to, Friend.” I grabbed my own wrap and saw Mrs. Cate heading to answer the front door as I preceded John out into the garden with its perennial herbs sticking their heads through the remaining snow on our left, and along a path through garden beds on both sides.
“I could have Mrs. Cate act as stern guard, but I am more comfortable letting her tell the truth to visitors, that I am not at home,” John said. He paused in front of a tree, one of four in a row. “These pear trees make the very finest compote.” He stroked a bud not yet in flower. “The variety is called Bartlett of Boston.”
“The shape of that one looks like an apple tree,” I said, pointing at a taller tree toward the back of the garden.
“Indeed it is. A Blue Pearmain. The fruit has a bluish bloom over dark purple skin and they glow like plums against the foliage. Was thee also raised up on a farm?”
I nodded. “I was, in distant Lawrence.” We strolled through the gate, along the street in back of the house, then past St. Joseph’s Catholic Church on School Street before turning onto Sparhawk.
“Like my cane?” he asked, twirling it.
When I nodded, he continued. “It is made of walnut saved from the fire that burned down Pennsylvania Hall.” He shook his head. “That beautiful edifice was only three days old when the pro-slavery folks burned it, simply because Garrison and I were writing our abolitionist newsletter within. And holding meetings, too, of course. They would have liked to have burned us down along with the presses for the Pennsylvania Freeman.” He sighed. “But that was going on fifty years ago now.”
“It’s a lovely cane, John.” The dark wood gleamed with the warmth of years of use. “I’m glad thee wasn’t caught in the fire.”
He laughed. “Look. Has my name engraved in the silver. I suppose they thought I might lose it.” He then asked after the Bailey children’s health and mentioned a poem he was working on.
“I have been rolling this passage around in my mind,” he said, holding his index finger in the air. “What thinks thee of this? ‘A summer-miracle in our winter clime, God gave a perfect day.’”
“I like it. Does thee mean for it to—”
“Miss Carroll! Mr. Whittier!” A voice hailed us from the opposite side of the street. A thin man hurried across. He removed his hat and held it in his left hand while he pumped John’s hand with extra vigor. The man’s smile was full of nervous energy, as were his movements. His sandy hair stuck out in all directions from his head, like it was electrified.
“Ned Bailey, how is thee?” I smiled but wished my brother-in-law’s relative hadn’t appeared to pierce the friendly bubble of my visit with John Whittier. Ned was of the family branch who had laid down their membership in the Religious Society of Friends, which didn’t concern me. I simply didn’t care for his company.
“Most excellent.” Ned’s open-mouthed smile revealed missing teeth, with those remaining stained by nicotine.
“Greetings, Ned.” John smiled a little, his tall calm carriage a study in contrast to our visitor’s enthusiastic agitation.
“Why, I’ll bet you two were working up some new poem together, am I right?”
Despite that being nearly true, I protested. “John Whittier writes beautiful meaningful verse entirely on his own, and I deliver beautiful healthy babies, not alone at all.”
“Certainly, certainly.” Ned replaced his hat. “Now Rose, you know I long to take you away from all that. I’ve had my cap set for you for a great while now.”
I cringed inwardly. I was aware of his feelings, which I had never reciprocated in the slightest. I tried to be kind but he was very persistent.
“And why would thee wish to take a talented midwife away from her much-needed services?” John’s voice boomed deeper than usual. He fixed unsmiling eyes on Ned.
“Well, sir. I mean to make her my wife, you see. And after that happy event, of course, she wouldn’t want to be out working in public. Wouldn’t need to, what with the income from the Bailey carriages. Best in the country, they say.” He preened, oblivious to both John’s somber reaction and my barely concealed grimace. “Rose here would be taking care of me and of our babies.”
An image passed through my brain of a me with no profession, forced by circumstance to marry a man I did not care for, ending up an unhappy wife and the mother of five whining children. I blessed Orpha again for taking me in at my request, teaching and training me, and sending me out to catch babies, first at her side and then alone. If I ended up wife and mother, it was to be my own choice and with a man of my choosing, as well.
John drew out his pocket watch and glanced at it rather pointedly. He glanced up again. “Ned, it was good to see thee again. If thee will excuse us, we have some business to conduct.” John extended his elbow to me.
I tucked my hand through his proffered arm and we turned away.
“I’ll visit you at home soon, Rose! Then we’ll have a night on the town,” Ned called after us.
I pretended not to hear.
John cleared his throat. “Now, I was thinking to begin my new poem with, ‘Through thin cloud-films a pallid ghost looked down, the waning moon half-faced.’”
A shiver ran through me at the image of a pallid ghost, and I huddled in my cloak.
twelve
After John and I finished our walk and parted ways, I decided to stop into the police station before I went home. I needed to tell Kevin Donovan what I’d forgotten to relay about Ephraim Pickard, as well as the results of my conversation with our Meeting’s most esteemed elder.
On my way, I passed by the construction for the new Armory, workers sawing and hammering with great commotion. I sneezed when the breeze blew a fine sawdust my way. I glanced up at the stately Opera House. Its red brick lined in red mortar held a dignified air, and the slate roof came down to meet fancy tile work with designs depicting the dramatic arts. I hadn’t attended a single play there and secretly longed to, but I imagined the price of tickets was a bit beyond my budget, although I had never actually checked.
Reaching the station, I pulled open the heavy door and entered. A tall officer not much older than I sat at the desk. I had delivered his wife of a daughter the year before. The same wife, Nell, who had acted oddly downtown only a couple of days ago. Why had she spoken with Jotham in public and then denied knowing him? Could the two be having their own illicit dalliance?
“Guy Gilbert, isn’t it?” I smiled.
He stood and began to bluster. He threw his chest out so far the buttons seemed at risk of popping off despite his thin build. “That would be Officer Gilbert to you, Miss—” He took a good look at me and caught himself. “Miss Carroll! How good to see you.” He extended a hand. “I apologize. We often have unmannerly folks comin’ in, and … oh, never mind.”
I shook his hand. “How are those girls of yours, Guy, thy wife and thy daughter?” I clasped my hands in front of me.
He beamed and his dark eyes shone. “Oh, little Lizzy is quite well, Miss Carroll. She’s starting to walk a b
it and she says ‘Dada’ to me. She’s so smart. Imagine that, her first word being my name.” He bounced on his heels, his hands behind his back.
“That’s splendid. But I saw Nell downtown recently and she didn’t seem to be herself. Has she been ill?” Would he tell me what was wrong with her?
A shadow passed over his face. “Nell’s not what I’d call well, exactly. But she loves our Lizzy.” He brightened. “Lizzy says ‘Mama’ too.” He gazed into his own memories.
“What seems to be the problem with Nell?”
Gazing at me with dark shadows under his eyes, he said, “I don’t know. She’s indeed not herself.” He stared at the desk as if into an abyss.
“I’ll pay her a visit soon.”
“I’d appreciate that, Miss Carroll.” He glanced up but still seemed lost in his thoughts.
I cleared my throat. “Is Kevin Donovan in? I have a few pieces of information for him regarding the Carriage Hill fire.”
“Oh! I’ll fetch him. Won’t you sit down?” He gestured at the waiting bench and then disappeared through a door behind the desk.
Kevin approached me as I stood examining a large framed photograph. Twenty men in matching dark uniforms stood in two rows, shoulders back, expressions stern, identical rounded helmets perched atop their heads. Their hands hung slack at their sides and polished buttons marched up the middle of their jackets. Who had told them all to point their toes slightly outward? Perhaps they thought it a suitable pose for a photograph. Kevin Donovan stood at one end of the group and at the other posed a taller man who I thought was the captain. I peered more closely. Guy Gilbert formed part of the back row.
“How do you like my photographic image? I’d say I’m the best looking in the entire department.”
I glanced at Kevin as he came to stand beside me. He shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded me with a single eyebrow raised into the vast expanse of his shiny forehead. His hair, of a rusty color indicating he’d been a carrot top as a child, had receded halfway back to the crown of his round ball of a head. He was clean shaven except for the mustache.
“Exceedingly handsome,” I said, not even trying to sound sincere, then faced him. “Does thee have a moment free? I’d like to share several bits of information.”
“Right this way, Miss Carroll.” He gestured toward the interior door with a little bow.
A moment later I sat opposite him on a chair that complained mightily when I descended upon it. Kevin’s broad oak desk was scarred and dented. Scrawled-on scraps of paper, an ash receptacle, and pens in various stages of assembly littered its top. He lowered himself into his own seat behind the desk with a sigh and patted a midsection that proved he rarely missed a meal.
“So, do you have an answer for me?” He rubbed his hands together. “Did you find our firebug?”
“Thee might temper thy anticipation. I did forget to share one piece of information yesterday afternoon, however, that I feel obliged to tell thee.” I proceeded to relate my visit with Ephraim Pickard at his home. “His shirt showed a definite smudge of soot. But, of course, it could have come from his own cooking fire.” I frowned, unsure how much to speculate in front of him.
“What? You know something else.” He leaned forward. His tongue darted out to smooth the closest section of mustache, then he wiped his knuckle over that section as if to dry it.
“Faith Bailey, Isaiah Weed, rest his soul, and I spoke with Ephraim as he was leaving the factory. Almost early evening, it was. I remember because the electric lights came on not too much later. Ephraim said he was fired from his job on the afternoon of the fire.”
“Fired? For what cause?”
“He said it was because he was late once too often, and because he’d been reading on his lunch break. He said it was William Parry’s son Thomas who let him go. And it was directly after that when I saw the person in the twilight of which I told thee.”
Kevin’s mouth looked like he’d tasted spoiled milk. “Thomas Parry isn’t well regarded in town. What is it with the self-made, rich owners around here? They work hard themselves but then indulge their sons until they become worthless spoiled brats of men.”
“If thee refers to Stephen Hamilton, I do believe he suffers from a mental disorder, not simply the indulgence of his father.”
“I suppose.” Kevin glanced out the window and then returned to look at me. “What else, Rose Carroll? How can we solve this mystery?”
“I discussed some ideas with John Whittier.” When I saw Kevin begin to object, I held up a hand. “He’s a wise elder and he knows this town better than both thee and me put together. I wondered who would profit from destroying the Parry factory. William Parry’s competitors might well want to see him put out of business.”
“That had occurred to me, too.” Kevin laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “It’d be Babcock, Clarke, Bailey, even Osgood. They all do better than Parry.”
“And something else.” I hesitated. I might be about to violate Minnie’s confidence. Perhaps I wouldn’t if I spoke in a vague manner. “I attended the birth of a young woman the day before the fire. She had a baby boy, and while she was able to pay my fee, she wouldn’t name the father.”
Kevin narrowed his eyes.
“I also care for William Parry’s wife, who will bear their first child in eight weeks. She complained her husband has not been at home much. And I observed William Parry entering that young woman’s home.”
“Aha,” Kevin said. “I’ve heard rumors of Parry’s mistress. What’s this harlot’s name?”
“I can’t reveal that, Kevin. And she’s not a harlot, only a young woman who was taken advantage of.”
He frowned at me and rapped his fingers on the desk.
“I told thee yesterday I needed to keep certain confidences. But what if this affair of William’s was somehow responsible for the fire?” I asked.
“How?” he scoffed.
“I don’t know. I simply feel there might be a connection.”
“Feeling doesn’t enter into police work, Miss Carroll. You know, maybe his wife hired someone to burn down the factory so he might spend more time with her instead of with the business, although that doesn’t make much sense, since it would cut off the money that supports her. But maybe it truly has nothing to do with a mistress.”
“I suppose,” I said. “The baby’s father could be someone else entirely.”
“So we have competing factory owners, an unhappy wife, or a fired worker.” Kevin slapped the table and sat up straight. “I doubt it’s the wife, and I was already working on the competitors, but I thank you for the lead on Ephraim Pickard.” He got to his feet.
I followed suit, suppressing both a yawn and my frustration that the detective dismissed my ideas. He ushered me into the hall and back into the lobby. At the desk, Guy stood in a hurry, smoothing down his uniform jacket.
“I’ll be in touch,” Kevin said. “Thank you, Miss Carroll, for the tip.”
“Thee is welcome.” I glanced at Guy. “Good-bye, Guy. Tell thy wife I will stop by and check on Lizzy,” I said. “I like to visit my babies and mothers some months after the birth to see about their well-being.”
Guy cocked his head, his eyes dragging down at the edges and a sigh escaped, as if a visit might not make much difference to Nell’s situation. “I’ll tell her, miss.”
Kevin pushed open the outer door. I made my way down the stairs, then turned. “Let us pray this arsonist won’t strike again.”
“Prayers might not be quite what we need right now,” Kevin said. “I plan to apply some good old-fashioned detective work instead. Although I suppose a prayer can’t hurt, either.”
“Roberta,” I called out. I hadn’t walked yet a block before I saw Bertie turning onto Aubin Street.
She glanced behind her with a scowl that turned to a broad smile wh
en she caught sight of me. She set her hands on her hips and waited for me to approach.
“Thee looked well displeased at being hailed by thy given name.” I raised an eyebrow.
“You know nobody but you gets to say that name to me. I’ve worked long and hard to be called Bertie, and by gum, I won’t let anybody change it.”
“One day thee must tell me the reason thee so hates being called Roberta.” I knew she’d had some quarrel with her mother long ago and they were estranged, despite her mother living just across the river in West Newbury. Perhaps the quarrel had played a part, since surely it was her mother who’d bestowed on her the now-despised name.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Where have you been, and where are you off to?” she inquired.
“I’ve just been to see the police with a few ideas I had concerning the fire.” I told her about the shadowy figure I’d seen right before it started.
“I’d love to help find this cursed arsonist who burned down my place of employment,” she said. “It’s headache after headache trying to plan, trying to answer the concerns of the town’s selectmen, trying to get the mail delivered again, I’ll tell you.”
“Thee has been successful on that front. I received a letter already this morning from my mother. If thee hears any gossip around town regarding the arsonist, please tell me,” I said. “Or better yet, tell the detective.”
“I will.” She sighed. “We’ve had to cancel the afternoon delivery for now and people are not happy about it.”
I yawned, this time not concealing it.
“I’m so boring, am I?” She poked me with her elbow.
“Of course not,” I protested. “But last night I was at a birth until late and I have clients coming in two short hours.”
“Get yourself home for a rest, then. I’m heading for my own abode, in fact. Sophie just returned from New York.” The color rose in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.
Delivering the Truth Page 8