Turning the Tide

by Edith Maxwell

  “Leaving his wife alone to stir up trouble with you and the suffragettes.”

  “May I remind thee that it’s a good and right trouble she was stirring up, Kevin?”

  “Be that as it may. I’m just not sure if all this change is good for the world, for our country.” He tapped the dashboard in front of us. The horse stomped a hoof and made a whoofing sound. Kevin spoke soothingly to it.

  “What if the killer is someone who is adamant about women not getting the vote and wanted to silence her?” I gazed at the horse, thinking aloud. “I hope he doesn’t plan to pick off the protesters one by one, starting with Mrs. Felch, and make them all look like burglaries. He’d have to kill a lot of people, in that case. The numbers of women—and men—in favor of enfranchisement are only growing.”

  “I suppose. But it could just be an interrupted break-in, plain and simple. Let’s think about what else we know.”

  Because I’d assisted Kevin in several murder investigations, by now he welcomed rather than rejected my thoughts and the pieces of information collected. I traveled in circles and to places he never could—women’s bedchambers and suffrage meetings, for a start—and he knew it.

  “Mrs. Felch was alive at least until, say, nine o’clock last evening.” He ticked off the facts on his fingers. “You happened across her at seven thirty this morning and her upper body was already stiff, so I’d venture a guess she was killed pretty close after nine. Rigor mortis can take up to twelve hours to completely set in, especially in the cold.”

  He had educated me on the process of the muscles contracting after death. “So the delay would explain her floppy legs.” I glanced at him. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned a woman’s legs.

  Kevin shifted, in fact looking uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “Exactly. And we know someone broke into the house. I’ll have my men round up the motley crew of locals who make a practice of common thievery. They don’t usually resort to murder, though.”

  “I wanted to tell you something odd about the break-in. I tried the front door and it was locked. If the robber broke the glass in order to unlock the door, why wasn’t the door open?”

  “Could he have come in the back door?”

  “Then why break the glass in the front door?”

  “Good question. You did observe that most of the shards were on the outside, which fits with breaking the glass from inside. What else?”

  “Bertie told me Rowena was leaving her husband. Bertie said he wants to have children and Rowena didn’t.”

  Kevin opened his mouth and then shut it again. In my experience with him, I knew he often expressed the typical opinion of men about women’s place. On the other hand, I’d also grown to know that, when it came right down to it, Kevin was fair and only wanted to ensure justice was done.

  “I’d certainly like to know where the husband is now,” Kevin said at last. “Could be he was furious about his wife’s moving out. They got into a fight and he hit her over the head.”

  “Then faked the burglary? A fake would explain why the front door was locked.”

  “Indeed it could.”

  “Bertie also said Zula Goodwin had offered to share her flat with Rowena,” I went on.

  “The unhappy Miss Goodwin?”

  “Just so. Possibly Rowena refused her offer and Zula was unhappy, or even irate. But surely she wouldn’t kill Rowena over it.” The tragedy of Rowena’s life being cut short dragged down my heart like a millstone.

  “Nothing is sure at the moment, Miss Rose. You more than anyone should know that.”

  four

  My niece Faith stood at the wide soapstone kitchen sink in the welcome warmth of the Bailey kitchen when I walked in. After my sister Harriet’s death the prior year, my moody brother-in-law hadn’t known what to do with five children. He’d invited me to use the parlor of the modest home as my bedroom and office, and I’d gladly accepted. The brunt of the housework had fallen to the eldest child, seventeen-year-old Faith, and myself. But Faith had taken over her mother’s job in the Hamilton Mills and I had my thriving midwifery practice. It exhausted us to cook and clean on top of our daily exertions, and I was away at births for hours, sometimes days, as well. I’d convinced Frederick last summer to hire a kitchen girl on weekdays, and we sent out the laundry, which greatly relieved our burden.

  I hated to have to give Faith the news about Rowena, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it for long.

  Faith turned, her hands still in a pan of sudsy water, and smiled at me. “Welcome, dear Rose.” She took another look, dried her hands, and hurried over to me.

  I set down my satchel and removed my bonnet and gloves. “Good morning, Faith. Or not such a good morning, as it turns out.” I squeezed her hands in mine.

  “Thee looks distraught. Did a baby die?”

  “No, but a fine woman did. I came across her body as I cycled home a while ago after the birth.”

  “What terrible news.” Faith’s eyes, brown like mine, drew down in concern. Escaped tendrils from her light brown braid framed her slender face. “It was someone thee knew?”

  “I’d met her only last night.” I filled Faith in on the suffrage meeting. “And then I spied Rowena, lying under a lilac bush.”

  “How dreadful for thee.” She took my cloak and hung it on a hook. “The police must have come.”

  I washed my hands and then sat at the table. “Yes. In fact, Kevin Donovan gave me a ride home.”

  Faith stared. “Does thee mean this woman was killed?”

  “It appears so, I’m afraid. She seemed to have been dragged under the shrub.”

  “What’s happening in our town? Will it be unsafe to even go out soon?”

  I blew out a breath and steadied my voice. “No, it will not. Thee mustn’t fear, Faith. I’m sure Rowena’s death was at the hands of a troubled person with a grudge against her. Most are.”

  “If thee says so,” she said, but it didn’t sound as if she quite believed me. She glanced at the stove. “The family has already had breakfast but we have plenty of porridge left. Has thee eaten?”

  In response, my stomach gave off a loud gurgle.

  Faith laughed. “Is thee planning on attending Meeting for Worship? I can give thee coffee unless thee plans to rest.”

  I checked the clock on the simple pine sideboard and groaned. “I have not slept since yesterday morning.” It was already after nine o’clock, and Meeting for Worship began at ten. “But I believe God would want me to join Friends in silent worship today, and I know it will do me good. So thee’d better pour me coffee.” Friends gathering in quiet expectant waiting held a power that still surprised me. The experience was far different from when I spent an hour of silent worship alone in my room. It was if the Spirit joined us and multiplied our prayers in a greater unity than simply a collection of individuals.

  Christabel, the fluffy gold and white kitten Faith had adopted as a mouser last summer, rubbed her back against my leg. I reached down to stroke her head. She was now six months old and still small, but she’d already shown talent at chasing down vermin in the house. Any murders she committed were perfectly legal and quite welcome. The world of humans was a different matter, though, and nowhere near as simple.

  Two minutes later Faith set a blue bowl brimming with oat porridge, milk, and bits of chopped apple in front of me. She brought over a spoon, the sugar crock, and a full tin mug of milky coffee, then sat at a right angle to me.

  “Thank thee.” I took her hand and we both closed our eyes for a moment of silent blessing. I opened my eyes and tucked into the porridge. Its warmth and hearty chewy texture were just what I needed. Somewhat revived, I thought of the next meal of the day.

  “Faith, dear, what shall we do about our First Day dinner? I was to help thee prepare it this morning. I’m so sorry I was absent.” David was joining the family for afterno
on dinner today. I hadn’t seen him in several days and was looking forward to spending time in the company of his sweet blue eyes and irresistible smile.

  “Don’t worry, Rose. I made a potato casserole earlier, and we have a dozen pork chops in the ice box. It’ll all be ready by one o’clock.”

  “And we have the apple pies for dessert.” Faith and I had spent yesterday afternoon making pies with the apples her steady beau, Zebulon Weed, had picked and brought over.

  “Zeb’s going to bring sweet potato fritters, too.”

  “Good.” As I sipped the coffee, also perfect, my gaze was drawn again to the sideboard, on which sat a pale green envelope.

  “Is the letter from thy grandmother?” I asked. Mother always used stationery and envelopes in unusual colors.

  She rose and brought it to me. “Yes, it’s from Granny Dot. Thee must have missed yesterday’s afternoon post.”

  “I suppose I did. Bertie invited me for supper before the suffrage meeting. I guess I’d already left.” After I perused the letter, I stared at Faith. “Mother is coming on the evening train tomorrow.” My parents lived on the outskirts of Lawrence, a mill city some twenty miles to the southwest, on the farm where Harriet and I had grown up. The train trip was not an overly long one, but Mother had plenty of obligations at home and in the suffrage movement, so she didn’t visit often. On the other hand, I hadn’t seen her in months. I would welcome her stay. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Why is she coming?” Faith asked. “I love Granny, but what is the significance to her coming at the beginning of November?” She blinked and snapped her fingers. “I know why. Because it’s thy twenty-seventh birthday this week! That must be her reason.”

  True, I was about to turn a year older several days after the election. “But thee knows we don’t make a fuss about birthdays in our family.”

  Faith was nearly bouncing in her chair. “But she is thy own mother. I would do the same with my children. To celebrate the day they came into the world.”

  I gazed fondly at Faith. It was looking very much as if Zeb would end up the father of her children eventually, and I couldn’t think of a better match for her.

  I held up the letter. “Actually, no. Mother says she wants to support us in the Election Day demonstration.” I smiled my first smile of the day. “Says she wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “Then I’m coming to the demonstration, too. Thee knows I want to support the suffrage effort. And I can write an article about it for the newspaper.” Faith had a great interest in becoming a writer, and had had several short articles published already. Her real goal was to leave the mill for a job as a journalist, but the family still needed her income from her Hamilton Mill shift.

  “Thee will have to inform thy supervisor at the mill.”

  “I will.” Her expression was determined and her eyes glowed. “I’m not going to miss this event. Maybe Annie and Jasmine will come, too.”

  Annie Beaumont was now my apprentice, but I’d met her only because she and Faith had worked at the mill together and had become fast friends.

  “We shall welcome thee, Faith, and thy friends. Thy grandmother, as well.”

  I awoke with a start. I’d decided to rest my eyes in my room for just a moment after breakfast. Despite the coffee, I must have fallen fast asleep. The house was quiet and I was dismayed to see my grandmother’s clock read nine fifty. The family must have already left for the Friends Meetinghouse only half a mile distant.

  Groggy rather than refreshed, I hurriedly splashed water on my face and tidied my hair. If I cycled, I could make it to worship on time. The elders frowned on members arriving late. Depending on the greeter, if one came too much after ten o’clock, one was forced to sit in the cold hall until worship had finished, which could be more than an hour. I knew no dispensation would be given even for a Friend who had been up all the night long—and found a body on the way home.

  Cloaked, bonneted, and gloved, I mounted my metal steed and rolled down the path from the house. The earlier snow had been just a flurry, as it turned out. I’d made it around the corner onto High Street when I braked to a stop. The police wagon was pulled to the side of the road and police officer Guy Gilbert held a man by the collar. The fellow, a wiry clean-shaven man in his forties, struggled to get away.

  “Hilarius Bauer, the detective just wants to talk with you,” Guy said. “Calm down, now.”

  To my surprise the man with the curious name relaxed and laughed. “Oh, sure. And then he’ll pop me in the clink. Just like last time.”

  “If you had anything to do with breaking and entering a home on Greenwood Street last night, he certainly will.”

  The smile slid off the man’s face and pearls of sweat popped onto his forehead despite the chilly morning. “Now why would you say a thing like that?”

  “Detective Donovan will explain everything. My job is to get you to the police station.” Guy opened the back door of the wagon. “Now, in with you.” He ushered the man in and fastened the latch.

  I hailed him. “Guy, does Kevin have reason to believe this man is our culprit?”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. He just asked me to go find Mr. Bauer.”

  “What an unusual name he has.”

  “I’ll say. But a Saint Hilarius lived a long time ago, you know. I learned about him from the nuns when I was young. Too bad this one doesn’t act so saintly. He’s known for being light-fingered around town.” He tipped his hat. “Good day, Miss Rose.”

  I cycled on, bumping along the cobblestones. Now I would be even later to Meeting for Worship, but I hadn’t been able to help myself from watching. What if this so-called light-fingered Hilarius had killed Rowena while committing a burglary? He’d certainly looked nervous when Guy had mentioned Greenwood Street. At least then it would mean the killer was not targeting suffragists.

  Five minutes later and breathless, I hurried up the granite steps into the Meetinghouse. I was relieved to see the greeter in the front hall today was the usually kindly Ruby Bracken, the gray-haired woman who’d asked the question about men interfering with the Election Day demonstration at the suffrage meeting last night. She frowned at my tardiness but moved silently toward the worship room entrance on the left. When she opened the door for me, I mouthed my thanks. I slid into a slim space in a pew at the back. The mother of the large family occupying it, Charity Skells, scooped a toddler onto her pregnant lap that already held a one-year-old and urged the other four young ones to scoot over, making room for me. I spied the Bailey family sitting together in the room on the right, the two large rooms currently divided only by a waist-high wall.

  John Greenleaf Whittier, one of the designers of this large but simple building nearly four decades earlier, sat at the far end with the other elders on the pew facing the rest of the congregation, about two hundred in number. John opened his eyes for a moment and raised his snowy eyebrows at me before closing his eyes again in prayer. I’d consulted with the famous abolitionist and poet before on the murder investigations in which I’d been involved. His wise counsel had helped me, but I was surprised he was here in Amesbury today. Even though his home was just down the street, of late he’d spent weeks at a time at his cousin’s home in Danvers. He must have returned to cast his vote in the election Tuesday. It was just my luck he’d caught me coming in tardy.

  I folded my hands and closed my eyes. The room was filled only with the small noises of people settling into worship: a rustle of petticoats, the creak of a bench, a soft cough, a whisper from a child to a parent. The air smelled of wool and leather, old wood, and gathered living bodies. The sunlight streaming through the eight-foot-

  high windows painted wavy shadow pictures on the broad pine floorboards, reminding us of the Light within as well as without.

  It was always hard for me to calm myself enough to allow God’s presence to fill me. I found stilling my thoughts es
pecially difficult today, both from arriving in a rush and from the events of earlier this morning. My heart slowed at last, and I breathed deeply and evenly to try to slow my brain, too. But I couldn’t. I saw Rowena’s deadly still form under the bush. I thought about Zula’s glare the night before, and about her walking with Rowena after the meeting, a matter I had forgotten to relate to Kevin. I pictured the ransacked dining room. I heard Guy telling Hilarius he had to come to the station. I wondered about Oscar Felch’s whereabouts. And most of all, I asked myself, had any of these people killed Rowena?

  This would never do. Friends came to sit in gathered worship to wait for a message from God. We were to empty our minds in expectant waiting. How could I empty myself of these thoughts and images? I blew out a breath.

  John stood, supporting himself with his cane. “Walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone.” He sank with care back onto the bench.

  He’d received a message to share the words of George Fox, one of the founders of our faith. Fox’s command, over two hundred years old, still rang true for me. It was one of the basic premises of the Religious Society of Friends: there is that of God in each of us. Thus we are all equal and we must refrain from violence against each other.

  But where was that of God in the person who had taken Rowena’s life?

  Ruby touched my elbow as I filed out after Rise of Meeting. “I’d like to speak with thee for a moment, Rose,” she said in a quiet voice. “Let’s go upstairs where it will be private.”

  What did the new clerk of the Women’s Business Meeting wish to speak with me about? Ruby had taken over for Althea, the previous clerk, earlier in the fall. Surely this conference wasn’t related to the Woman Suffrage meeting. I had no responsibility in the group. Last night was the first meeting I’d ever attended, and anyway, she’d been there herself. Faith, who overheard the exchange, cast me a glance.

  “Go on home without me,” I said. “I’ll be along soon.”