“I read he was shot in the back.”
“Yes, several times. Some coward killed him. We haven’t found the weapon, in case you were about to ask.”
I had been, but I moved on. I relayed how Ned had introduced me to the couple. “He said they were off to meet Mr. Bailey, senior, Ned’s uncle.”
“And apparently they did, then moved on to the banquet in the opera house.”
“Does thee have thoughts about who might have done the deed, and why?”
“In truth, I don’t, Miss Rose. Mrs. Harrington is understandably distraught. At the same time, she’s clearheaded enough to be demanding an arrest.”
“I suppose it could have been some malingerer who thought he could rob a rich Canadian.”
“That’s possible.” He made a little grunt. “The Titans of Industry, as they call themselves, came here in force to tighten the screws on me.”
The self-named titans were the owners of the better-known carriage factories, as well as Cyrus Hamilton of the Hamilton Mills Company. “Was William Parry among them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I just came from a pregnant lady who said she witnessed William arguing with Justice Harrington yesterday morning.”
“Oh? Her name, if you would be so kind.” Kevin put a stubby pencil to paper and gazed at me.
“Hmm.” I tilted my head and gazed back at him. “Does thee remember the case of Akwasi Ayensu two years ago?”
“Yes.” Kevin wrinkled his nose. “I was sorely mistaken about the culprit.”
Yes, thee was. “He’s now married to Esther, a calligrapher producing signage for the Spring Opening. It was she who overheard the disagreement.”
“Think she’d talk to me?”
“I’m not sure. She’s due to give birth very soon, likely within the next week or two.”
He let out a miserable sigh.
“But I’ll ask her if she’s willing,” I said. “Or to speak on the telephone, perhaps.”
“I would greatly appreciate you doing so, Miss Rose. Also keep your ears open for talk of some kind of plans. The elder Mr. Bailey claims papers of his have gone missing.”
“What kind of plans?”
“For a new carriage design, he said. To tell the truth, I’m not sure he’s all there upstairs.” Kevin tapped the side of his head with a finger. “If you get my meaning.”
“I will listen for such talk.” But the patriarch of the legendary Bailey family going dotty? That would be a shame.
The clock on the wall ticked over to two o’clock. “Oh, Jesus and . . .” He clapped his hand over his mouth. “Forgive me, Miss Rose. It’s just that I have a meeting at Town Hall I’m about to be late for.”
I laughed. “I wish thee luck. I will help in any way I can, thee knows.”
“I do know, and I thank you.”
“I’m sorry I neglected to ask about thy family.”
“They are well, thanks be to the saints. My wife always loves your visits.” He stood and grabbed his hat.
“I’ll try to go see her soon, and the children.” I rose. “And Kevin? Good luck.”
Chapter Six
I stood with my bicycle on the walk outside the police station, undecided as to my direction. I could ride home, put my feet up, and have a quiet afternoon. I could pick up a few items at the Mercantile, pay a visit to my niece Faith in the newspaper office where she now worked as a reporter, or stop by Mary Chatigny’s office to ask her more details about Orpha’s health. Or all of it. We still had a plentiful amount of a hearty beef stew David had concocted on First Day, so I didn’t need to worry about preparing dinner.
My husband insisted he found cooking relaxing, and he’d developed quite the talent for it. On days when he wasn’t overly busy with his responsibilities as a physician, he often prepared a big pot of something that we could dine on for more than one meal. I loved that he was willing to share the domestic chores. I’d hired the sister of the kitchen girl in my former home to come in mornings to clean the kitchen and the house so neither David nor I had to take time away from our work. We also sent out the laundry every week. We both knew once the baby arrived, I would be busy nursing him—or her—and David had insisted we could well afford to hire out cleaning and laundry.
For now, I resolved to first visit Mary’s office on Elm Street. I’d noted the address in an advertisement for her services in this morning’s newspaper. I walked my bicycle down Main Street toward Market Square, passing Nayson Druggist, John F. Johnson Books and Stationery, and the Wendall Barber Shop, among other establishments. The road was too lively with carriages of all sorts pulled by horses in all hues for me to ride alongside. The rushing Powow River flowed under Main Street at one point, and then partly through more Hamilton Mill buildings, providing power as it descended to the lower millyard. I made my way past the square and the busy railroad depot, then pushed the bike up Elm toward Carriage Hill.
When I was nearly to the address, a woman approached on the walk. I took a second look as she drew closer. Yes, it was Marie Deorocki, an Amesbury lady I’d met on Cape Cod last fall.
“Good afternoon, Marie.” I slowed and smiled at her.
“Rose, hello.” She was thinner than she had been half a year earlier, and her woolen coat was buttoned right up despite today’s milder temperatures and sunshine. She turned her face away and coughed into a handkerchief. “Pardon me.”
“Is thee unwell?”
“I admit to not feeling as well as I might, yes.” A faint crackling rale came from her chest as she breathed.
“I hope thee recovers soon. It was good to see thee.”
“And likewise, you, Rose.” She bobbed her head and continued down the road.
I found the large new house on the corner of Marston Street. It featured a hip roof, ornate trim, a bow window on the front, and a glassed-in front entryway. A discreet sign reading Dr. M. Chatigny hung outside a side door. Mary herself opened it after I rang the bell for the office.
“Mrs. Dodge.” Her pale eyebrows went up. “Did you come about Mrs. Perkins?”
“No. Well, in a way. I don’t want to disturb your business, but I wondered if you have a moment to talk.”
She glanced to her side at a clock hanging on the wall. “My next patient is not due to arrive until three o’clock. Do come in.” She showed me into an office with a large desk under a tall window, a comfortable armchair, and an examining table. A small sink was attached to the wall near the table. “Please sit.” She sank onto the swivel chair at the desk and turned to face me.
“I thank thee,” I said. “Does thee bear the brunt of disagreeable treatment for being a lady doctor? I shouldn’t think there are many of both thy sex and training.”
“Good heavens, there are not. We are few and had to fight every step of the way to get as far as we have. It’s the plight of women everywhere, isn’t it?”
“Certainly, any who wish to do work normally carried out by the male of the species,” I agreed.
“And yes, I have had quite my share of unpleasantness from those who feel threatened by me. I don’t care. I stand on my reputation, and my husband has always supported my efforts.”
I gazed at a poster hanging on the wall, which displayed an intricate drawing of the human respiratory system. “Does thee have a high number of tuberculosis patients?”
“Yes. I’m afraid the number is ever rising, and we have no treatment to speak of. Are you yourself feeling ill, Mrs. Dodge?”
“No, not at all. But I did want to talk about Orpha, if thee will. When I visited her yesterday, she told me she senses death approaching within her. Does she have a cancer of some kind?”
“I don’t believe so. As I think I mentioned, what she has is advanced age. All the body’s systems begin to break down with time. She has already lived more than four decades, which is remarkable. The apoplexy weakened her even though she survived it. You might know better than I what an intuitive being she is. I’m not surprised she understa
nds she is dying.”
I only nodded. I truly wasn’t surprised, either. A bell clanged outside but slowly, not furiously as it would if it signaled fire. The doctor and I both glanced out the window to see a fire wagon followed by a procession of decorated carriages drive toward the town center.
She made a tsking sound. “I daresay Amesbury will see an uptick in tuberculosis in the coming month. So many strangers are here bringing their germs from all over the world.”
“I hadn’t thought of that aspect of the Spring Opening.”
“We now know the disease can be spread from person to person, via spittle or coughing, among other avenues. I understand the local commerce needs the sales, but medically it’s a pity.”
“And if the visitors associate closely with a resident who is sick, they might carry the illness home with them,” I said.
“Exactly. With neither a vaccine nor a cure available, it truly is a grim prospect. I’ve heard rumblings from Germany that Dr. Koch is developing a cure, but I imagine it will come to naught. Much of the populace is unfortunately opposed to the use of any vaccine. Even when one is developed, it won’t be easy to convince the common person of its necessity.”
The clock now read five before three. I stood and extended my hand. “I thank thee for thy time, Mary. I plan to stop in at Orpha’s before I return home this afternoon.”
She rose and shook my hand. “If Mrs. Perkins shows a marked change, please have her granddaughter telephone me.”
I nodded. “I’ll let myself out.” I closed the door behind me and heard a cough from farther down the side street. It was William Parry trudging up the hill that Marston ended in. I hadn’t seen the carriage factory owner since the murders two years ago, when he’d lost nearly his whole family. His factory, rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1888, sat along Oakland Street not far from here. I waited for William to arrive, then greeted him.
“Miss Carroll.” His cheeks above his chinstrap beard were flushed with the exertion. He didn’t look happy to see me.
“It’s actually Mrs. Dodge now. How fares little Billy?” I wondered why the factory owner hadn’t arrived in a Parry carriage, but I didn’t ask.
He brightened, beaming. “He’s a healthy strapping lad of nearly two, as you know.”
I did know, having delivered the boy. “I’m happy to hear it. How is the Opening going for thee and thy factory?”
“We’re having an excellent showing.” He scowled. “But the matter of that Canadian being murdered is casting a shadow on the whole affair.”
“I should think it might.” I was not surprised that William went straight to business rather than expressing sorrow at the tragedy or sympathy for the widow. I’d always found him a self-centered type of man. “Had thee done business with the Harringtons’ firm?”
“We were about to sign a deal, as a matter of fact. Now I don’t know what will happen, more’s the pity.”
A deal? I wondered what kind. “When I met them yesterday, it appeared that Luthera holds as much power in the company as her husband did.”
“Be that as it may.” He cleared his throat. “If you will excuse me, I, uh, have a consultation to attend.” He glanced behind me at Mary’s office.
“Good day, then.” I stepped aside and retrieved my cycle. Did he have consumption, too? He’d looked as hale and well fed as he had two years ago. Well, it wasn’t my business. And he was certainly in good hands with Mary Chatigny.
Chapter Seven
“Good afternoon, Rose.” Store manager Catherine Toomey greeted me from behind the counter at the Mercantile. Besides being manager of the busy shop, she was a rosy-cheeked, friendly mother of three and the grandmother of a little boy I had helped into the world.
I waved and made my way to the notions area. I’d run out of black thread and needed to reattach a button on one of David’s coats. The store, which sold all manner of dry goods, also stocked hardware, paints, toiletries, tonics, and staples like flour and sugar.
From behind a row of shelving, I heard coughing. I hoped it wasn’t someone with tuberculosis. The ill should be home resting, not out making purchases in public, or worse, working at an establishment and possibly transmitting the bacteria to those shopping.
I added a new box of writing paper to my basket, since I was running low, and a supply of pencils for my bookkeeping. As I passed through a small section of children’s toys, I fingered a carved baby rattle. I scolded myself silently, setting it down. Our infant wouldn’t need a rattle until well into the fall, and I didn’t want to tempt fate by acquiring toys for him—or her—until after the birth.
Marie stood at the counter when I arrived with my basket.
“We meet again, Marie.” I smiled at her.
“You two know each other?” Catherine asked.
“I met Rose when I was caring for my mother in West Falmouth in September,” Marie told the shopkeeper.
“Excellent. Here are your tonics.” Catherine handed her several bottles wrapped in brown paper. “Now, do read the dosages, Mrs. Deorocki. These aren’t to be trifled with.”
As she nodded, I again heard the ominous crackle of the rale.
Marie paid, said goodbye, and walked toward the exit, coughing anew before the door shut behind her.
“She’s not well,” I said in a soft tone, even though no one else seemed to be nearby.
Catherine surveyed the store and lowered her voice, too. “No, she’s not.”
“I met her on Elm Street a little while ago as I was going to visit with Dr. Mary Chatigny. Does Marie have—”
“Galloping consumption? She does. We volunteer at the same Catholic charity and have become good friends.”
“She should be resting.”
“Aye, she should. I tell her as much, and so does her husband. She says she has too much to do. I’m afraid she’ll collapse one of these days, and then what will she be able to accomplish?” Catherine set my purchases on the counter and began to tally up the prices.
“How are thy twins, and little Charlie?” I asked.
“Charlie’s a right sturdy lad, and fearless, even though he can’t see a speck.”
A disease transmitted from his mother’s birth passage had blinded the boy after he’d entered the world. I’d asked my sightless friend Jeanette to assist the parents in understanding how to cope, educate their son, and help him navigate the world.
Catherine beamed. “My girlies have been helping to take care of him. Funny, he’s their nephew despite them being only six and him a toddler. Now, what else can I get you today?”
“Nothing, I think.” I peered at the glass-fronted cabinet behind her, which was full of bottles, pills, and powders. “What kind of tonics did Marie buy, may I ask?”
“Mellin’s Emulsion and Dr. Sproule’s tonic, two of our strongest, as well as Dr. Ayer’s Cherry Pectoral Plaster and Beecham’s Pills. She thinks they’ll cure her. That and prayer.”
“Prayer can be powerful,” I offered.
“I suppose. Say, what do you think about that Canuck gent being murdered?” Her eyebrows went up.
“I think it’s a sad and horrible end to a young man’s life, no matter where he was from.”
She crossed herself. “Will you be working with the police again?” Catherine’s witness testimony had helped solve a case a year ago.
“I’ll be poking around as I can. Naturally, the department will be doing the actual investigation.”
“Tell them they ought to . . .” Catherine glanced around the store again, but we were still alone. She spoke in a near whisper. “They might want to look into the wife. Those two were in here yesterday. I overheard her berating the poor fellow. They were behind the paint shelves, and I’m sure she thought I couldn’t hear.” The shopkeeper laughed heartily. “My sainted husband says I have better ears than a dog’s.”
“Interesting. I shall pass that along.” I smiled. “About Luthera Harrington, not about thy acute hearing.”
“That’s fi
ne, then.” She looked me up and down. “You’re with child, are you now, Rose?”
“I am.” My cheeks heated up. “I feel quite blessed about it. But thee could tell? I didn’t think my condition was that obvious yet.”
She gave a knowing nod, with a finger next to her eye. “I’ve borne three, and you and I both helped my daughter-in-law birth little Charlie. But it’s also that I watch people in here all day long. You’ve the look, Rose, and there’s no mistaking it. Your garment is a bit snug, too.”
“Thee has a keen eye as well as keen ears. I’m ordering new dresses from a seamstress to accommodate my growing girth.” I paid her for my purchases and bade her farewell. As I walked up Friend Street, I mused on what she’d said before we started discussing my pregnancy. Would Luthera have been so bold as to shoot her own husband here in a strange town? Perhaps she thought few would know her, and she’d be able to get away with the crime. But why?
Chapter Eight
“Rose, what a surprise,” my niece Faith said at the door to the busy newsroom of the Amesbury Daily News a few minutes later.
“I was passing by and thought I’d stop in. I’ve never visited thee in thy workplace before.”
I glanced beyond her at a room full of desks at which sat men in shirtsleeves and vests, scribbling away or conversing. One leaned back in his chair chewing on a red pencil. The young fellow who had let me in and fetched Faith scurried busily about. When a reporter wearing a visor waved a paper in the air, the lad ran over, grabbed it, and took it into another room.
“Is thee the only female employed here?” I asked.
“Pretty much. There’s a lady who types letters for the boss and makes the coffee, but no other reporters of my sex.” She frowned, drawing her brows together over brown eyes so much like my own. “The editor keeps asking me to cover society events instead of the news. That’s a girl’s purview, he says.”
“It’s a start, isn’t it? And thee is writing for a living, which is what thee has always wanted to do.”
“I know, Rose. And I’m still young. But if they’d even let me cover the Board of Trade proceedings, that would be a start.” She whispered, “The board is gathering in an hour to discuss the effect of the killing on the week’s activities, and it’s an open meeting. Do I get to cover it? I do not.”
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