Delivering the Truth

by Edith Maxwell

  “What are things coming to in this town?” Faith asked. “It used to be quiet and ordered. Didn’t it, Father?”

  “In a way, although when one is a child, life appears simpler. In a town bustling with commerce as is ours, intrigue and disorder abound. I think, my dear, it feels more disordered to thee now thee is an adult.” Frederick smiled at Faith.

  “Speaking of disorder,” I said, remembering my encounter of the afternoon, “Frederick, or even thee, Zeb, do you know of Alexander Locke? He’s Lillian Parry’s younger brother. About thy age Zeb, I’d say.”

  “I know of him.” Frederick pursed his lips. “He was at the Academy. And was in trouble constantly. He has a bent toward addictions.”

  “Gambling is one, I’ve heard,” Zeb said.

  “We finally had to expel him.” Frederick pulled his heavy brows together. “Why does thee ask about Alexander?”

  “He and a friend nearly ran me down today,” I said. “Their gig almost knocked me off my bicycle. It brushed by me so out of control that Alexander fell out onto the ground. When I rushed to help him, I noticed he was under the influence of some kind of drug. His pupils were contracted, and his manner was both lethargic and gay, as was his friend’s. Perhaps they take morphine.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Frederick said. “Although their father, Henry Locke of Newburyport, is of substantial means, I think Alexander’s impecunious and frivolous ways might be eating into the family wealth.”

  Faith rose and began to clear the table. When Zeb stood to help, Faith gave him the sweetest of smiles. “Thee is a different sort of man. I like that.” Her face glowed and her eyes crinkled at their edges.

  “And why should men not help in the work of the household? Do we not live by the principles of quality?” Zeb took the stack of plates from her hands and carried them to the sink.

  Frederick snorted but blessedly kept quiet. Sometimes I wondered why he even claimed to be a Friend, since he acted in decidedly unFriendly ways when his temper flared and he became the opposite of peace-loving and charitable. But because his mood swung so unpredictably and almost violently from one extreme to the other, I suspected he suffered from a kind of mental unbalance. Not like Nell’s, but some other sort of disorder, although I knew many would say it was a weakness of character, not an illness. Whatever its cause, his swings of temperament had worsened since Harriet’s death, but his family had certainly experienced it before, Harriet most particularly. I’d asked her several times about her husband’s rages, but she’d only said she loved him, warts and all.

  I watched Faith and Zeb’s simple affection, suddenly dreading tomorrow night’s affair. Why couldn’t my feelings for David, so strong and sweet a man, take a simple form, too? Why did I have to wrestle with his mother and dress up to share a part of his life? I rubbed my brow and then leaned my head onto my hand, suddenly tired. I longed to be with David, but what would that life be like without a common faith? Would I always feel out of place and unacceptable to his mother? Or was I putting the cart before the horse and worrying before I needed to?

  “Is thee well, Rose?” Frederick asked.

  I glanced up to make sure he wasn’t harboring storm clouds in his question. His face was still, so I responded. “It has been quite the week.” I thought for a moment. “Does thee know anything of Guy Gilbert or his wife, Nell? She is quite unwell at the moment. Unwell in her head, I should say.”

  “He’s the young police officer.”

  I nodded.

  “He didn’t attend the Academy, so he must have gone to Amesbury High School. Why does the name Nell ring a bell?” Frederick stroked his trim beard. “It’s possible her maiden name was O’Toole. I believe Harriet knew her mother.”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it again. If Nell was related to Minnie and Jotham and Ida, then the light on this case might be brightening. Or darkening.

  The next morning’s post brought a note from David saying he would pick me up at seven, and that he was looking forward to seeing me. I sighed and checked my outfit once again. The pink dress hung in the wardrobe, the new shoes sat underneath. The stockings and gloves still lay in their paper and Orpha’s cameo rested on my desk.

  “But what will I do for a bag?” I said aloud to my armoire. I’d forgotten about acquiring one, and I owned no small fancy bag to carry. I didn’t think Faith did, either. But maybe Bertie possessed such a thing. I donned my cloak and set out on my bicycle for Bertie’s house. I was glad for the cloak, as it was a cloudy, chilly morning. Five minutes later I knocked on her door.

  Bertie peeked through the window, then opened the door with a smile followed by a yawn. Her curly hair danced on her shoulders and she wore a flowered wrapper over her nightdress.

  “A pleasure as always to see you, Rosetta. But the hour is early yet. What brings you out and about?”

  “I’m going to a fancy dinner dance tonight and—”

  “That’s right, I had forgotten. Come in and remind me of the details.” She led the way into her compact kitchen, where lamplight streamed onto a buttery yellow tablecloth, the air warm and redolent with the rich smell of coffee and the allure of something with cinnamon baking.

  “Sit.” Bertie pointed to a chair and plopped herself down into the one across the round table. She drew both knees up and wrapped her arms around them.

  I sat. “It’s David Dodge’s mother’s party. She insisted David attend, and he very much wanted me to accompany him. I mentioned to thee that I have a party dress. I obtained new shoes, stockings, gloves. But I have no bag to carry. Does thee have such an object?”

  “What color is the dress?”

  “Rose,” I said with a smile. “What other color could it be?”

  Bertie jumped up and held a finger in the air. “I’ve just the thing.” She hurried out and was back in a flash.

  She laid a small reticule on the table. I picked it up and examined it. Yellow, purple, and rose-colored flowers were worked in petit point into a cream brocade fabric. Green leaves peeked out from behind the blooms in the design, and a honeybee rested on a stem. Two small beads shaped and colored like roses decorated the slender chain the bag hung from, and the clasp was a tiny crown. I opened it and found it lined in rose silk.

  “Oh, it’s lovely. And the colors are perfect.” I put my hand to my mouth. “I don’t sound much like a Quaker, do I?”

  “Folderol. Aren’t you always talking about ‘that of God’ in everyone? What about that of God in things of beauty? You should be able to appreciate beauty, too.”

  I nodded. “Tell me where thee purchased the bag.”

  “I like doing petit point in the evenings,” Bertie said with a grin.

  “Thee didn’t make this thyself.” I stared at her.

  “I certainly did. Well, I bought the bag itself but it was plain. I simply added the decoration. I like pretty things.”

  “Thy talents are endless. I’d love to borrow this pretty thing, if thee can part with it.”

  “You can have it. I’ll make another for the next fancy dinner party I go to.” She laughed, ending with a snort. “As if I went to fancy dinner parties.”

  “Thee is wonderful. I must confess I’m uneasy about going to this event. David’s mother—well, she’s not an easy woman.” I smiled. “But his father, Herbert—what a delight.”

  “Oh? The shoe magnate?”

  “Yes. He’s a successful businessman, but quite direct, with a simple manner full of joy. Much as is his son. I liked Herbert greatly when I met him at tea last First Day.”

  “I’ve met your young doctor and I agree. He takes after his father.”

  “I’m grateful for that. The affair tonight will provide a welcome respite from a week full of murder and lies. At least I hope it will.”

  Bertie sobered. “I’ve heard no news, or no good news, that is, about them letting
Ephraim go.”

  “Perhaps thee has the answer to a question that arose at supper last evening. Thee seems to know everything and everyone in town. Does thee know Nell Gilbert’s maiden name?”

  Bertie tapped her fingers on the table as she stared out the window. “Irish, I think, even though Guy’s family is French-Canadian. O’Grady, maybe? O’Neil? No.”

  “How about O’Toole?”

  “That’s it.” She stared at me. “Same as dead Minnie.”

  I nodded.

  “Now I remember,” Bertie said. “I think Minnie and Nell’s grandfathers were cousins.”

  “Which makes Nell, what, Minnie’s third cousin? And that of her sister and Jotham, the unpleasant brother.” Perhaps that was why Nell and Jotham were speaking that day. “They both lied to me, Nell saying she didn’t know Jotham, and he the same about her.” I narrowed my eyes, thinking.

  “I wouldn’t want to be related to that scoundrel Jotham.” Bertie frowned, too.

  “What has he done?”

  “He always seems to be in the middle of trouble. He gets in fights, he picks fights, and he doesn’t stay employed long because he’s so difficult to get along with.”

  I told her about my encounter with him and the baby the day before. “You should have heard him singing to little Billy. He seems to want to hold tight to him, but I think I convinced him to let Patience nurse Billy.”

  “Of course she should,” she scoffed. “What’s Jotham going to do, pour a tin of milk down the infant’s throat?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  thirty

  As I bicycled homeward, the bag tucked into a pocket in my cloak, a large open-sided carriage pulled up slowly across from me.

  “Hallo, Rose Carroll!”

  I inwardly groaned but managed to smile back at Ned Bailey, who reined his pair of horses to a stop and leaned into the unoccupied passenger seat.

  “Good morning, Ned.” I also stopped and set a foot on the ground. I rubbed my already chilled hands together, wishing I had remembered my everyday gloves. The sun peeked out from scudding clouds, but it wasn’t enough to warm the air.

  “I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “I’d offer you a ride, but I see you have your own transport.” He chuckled. “That’s quite the contraption.”

  His gaze strayed to my exposed ankles. I cleared my throat and he hastily looked up again.

  “It helps me get to my various sites of work. It’s quite useful.”

  “Indeed, indeed.”

  I cocked my head. Ned was a lifelong resident of Amesbury and was in the carriage trade. Perhaps he could shed light on the week’s events. All the deaths being connected to William Parry was eating at me.

  “Ned, what can thee tell me about the Parry factory? Before the fire, I mean. Is William a successful businessman? Thee must have regular dealings with him.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “The deaths this week, the fire last week—they all seem linked to William.”

  “But what affair is it of yours? That’s more properly the realm of the police, I should say.”

  “I am called to seek justice.” I waited with what I hoped was a look inviting his confidence.

  He scooted all the way onto the passenger side and swung his legs out to face me. “See this carriage?” At my nod, he went on. “Bailey carriages are made with the finest workmanship. We pay top price for the best-quality wood, metal, leather. Our design is both the most durable and the most beautiful. We hire the most skilled workers and pay them accordingly.”

  “It’s a lovely vehicle,” I said. “Its lines flow and it appears sturdy and well made.”

  “It is. And the ride is the most comfortable you can imagine. Would you like to take a spin around the block?” His smile bordered on a leer.

  “No, thanks. I’ve ridden in a Bailey buggy, however. It was truly a luxurious experience.”

  “Now, certain of our competitors cut corners. They hire workers who are less skilled and don’t treat them well. They buy cheap parts. They rush to production without the care that ensures quality.”

  “Does thee speak of the Parry factory?” I asked.

  “I might. I might, indeed. Their sales have been in slump of late. That cheap quality has caught up with them.”

  “Interesting.” Also interesting that he seemed to be a man invested in running a high-quality business, proud of his workers and his product. A pity he wasn’t more sensible when it came to trying to attract female attentions, if how he acted with me was any indication.

  “And then we had the curious incident of the fire,” he went on in a lower voice. “Suppose someone wanted to collect the fire insurance payout?”

  My face creased into horror. “Does thee mean a factory owner would have burned his own place down to collect the money?”

  He lowered his voice. “It’s a possibility.”

  “All those men who died, all the other buildings destroyed. It would take a monster.” I shivered, and not only from the cold.

  “If last week’s conflagration wasn’t an accident, I agree. It was truly a monstrous act.”

  My thoughts tumbled furiously in my head. I stared at the handlebars on my bicycle. Would William have set the fire? Or arranged to have it set?

  “These are purely speculative thoughts, mind you. Don’t worry your lovely head about them.”

  I glanced up at Ned. “I’ll worry about what I wish. This is very disturbing, thee must admit.”

  “Oh, indeed.” Ned gave a little cough. “So did you check your calendar?” His tone brightened as he waved toward town with an expansive gesture. “I could take you out tonight. The Currier Hotel has a very fine dining room. The chef is up from Boston, they say.”

  The man’s desire to court me was relentless. “I’m afraid not, Ned, but I thank thee for the invitation. I’m otherwise engaged tonight. In fact, I should have told you straight out earlier my affections lie elsewhere. I must be getting home now.”

  “I won’t give up, you know.” He grinned. Ducking his head, he climbed back into the driver’s seat. He clucked at his team and shook the reins.

  I shook my head and placed one foot on the pedal but waited until he drove off before beginning to ride. The police station was on my way home. Perhaps I could have a moment with Kevin.

  The detective himself strode down the front stairs of the police station as I rode by minutes later. He halted as I pulled up and dismounted.

  “Miss Carroll. Top of the morning to you.” He tipped his hat.

  “And to thee. I heard a disturbing thing a few minutes ago.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I saw Ned Bailey in the last hour. He conjectured that the arson last week could have been the doing of a factory owner.”

  “Like Parry himself, for example?”

  I nodded. “It might be simply Ned’s pride, but he mentioned some of his competitors cut corners and produce substandard wares, which eventually results in lower sales. And that they or William, specifically, might have needed the insurance money.”

  “Do you really think we haven’t thought of that?” he asked with an air of self-satisfaction. “You’re not to worry about such things.”

  If one more person told me what to do or not do, I mused, I might explode. I folded my own arms on my chest, letting the bicycle rest against me.

  “Our investigation will be thorough and complete,” he continued. “When it’s complete. Now, how’s that ride of yours?”

  I didn’t smile, but I answered him. “It makes my life easier. Most of the time.” I pulled my mouth to the side. “When I don’t run into an errant cobblestone and when errant vehicles don’t run into me.”

  “What? Did a carriage knock you over?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Not quite, but I’ve had a couple of c
lose calls.” With that reminder, my knee twinged. I might have to take it to the doctor, a prospect that made me smile.

  “And you’re staying out of trouble, I suppose, since I haven’t seen you in, what, an entire day?”

  “I did learn something I’m much concerned with. Thee might consider it trouble.”

  Kevin’s eyebrows shot up. “Something about Minnie O’Toole’s death?”

  “No.”

  “What, then? Is this thing news I need to hear?” His voice was impatient.

  I took a deep breath. “I went to see Nell Gilbert again yesterday. Guy’s wife. She’s most unwell in her mind.” I pictured Nell’s tormented face and again smelled her stale, sour odor.

  He frowned. “Yes, I know. But I try not to delve too deeply into my colleagues’ personal lives.”

  I lowered my voice and glanced around, ascertaining no passersby were near. “She said she’s brought death, even though she didn’t want to.”

  Kevin took a step closer with his gaze focused on me.

  “And that the Devil made her do it.” I kept my hands firmly on the handlebars.

  “So Mrs. Gilbert is still off her head. What do you think she meant by that?” He cocked his head, also using a tone only I could hear.

  “She goes out wandering in the town alone.” A pang of remorse struck me, talking with Kevin about poor Guy’s troubled wife, but I felt obliged to do so. “And she has the kind of postpartum melancholia that can lead to acts of insanity.”

  Another police officer strode down the street toward Kevin. He opened his mouth to speak, but, hearing my last comment, he glanced at me with alarm.

  “I’ve got this, Joe,” Kevin said to him, holding up his hand. “I’ll talk to you inside.”

  The officer headed for the building, glancing behind himself at us before he entered.

  Kevin waited until the door closed after the man before speaking again, still in a low voice. “An insane wife and mother is sad and terrible. But how does this concern me?”