A Changing Light

by Edith Maxwell

  I answered by folding my hands and closing my eyes. Praying with John never failed to be a deepening experience, no matter how long it lasted. I included Zeb in my circle of Light, that he be free from the taint of suspicion.

  After only a couple of minutes, John cleared his throat. I opened my eyes to see him regarding me.

  “Ned Bailey came to see me.”

  “About his motorcar scheme?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m an old man, Rose, and I can barely conceive of a motor-powered vehicle. Still, I’ve seen many inventions come to pass during my fourscore years. Why not a carriage that runs by its own power?”

  Mrs. Cate set down a tray holding two full cups and saucers. “Well, I never.” She straightened and folded her arms. “What? Will carriages be driving themselves around like some alien beings come down from the stars? I can’t imagine what could possibly go wrong with that. Mark my words, Mr. Whittier.” She raised an index finger in the air. “Only bad will come of this idea. And worse.” She huffed her way out.

  John’s eyes twinkled as he sipped his tea. He murmured, “And there thee has the voice—and thoughts—of the common man and woman.”

  “I expect so. Motorcars would be quite a shift for society as a whole. But in all seriousness, Ned also spoke to me of that plan only yesterday. Was he seeking thy counsel on the matter?”

  “In truth, I’m not altogether sure of his purpose. I am a kind of town elder, I suppose, and he might have wanted my blessing. I advised him to go forth and create the future. I certainly won’t be around to see it.”

  His words stabbed my heart. But, like Orpha, he was of advanced years, and no one lives forever. Still, I knew I would miss John keenly after his soul was released to God. I wrenched my thoughts from death back to motorcars. “Kevin says some sort of design plans went missing from Ned’s uncle’s home. I feel this has to be connected with the murder.”

  “Thee thinks this Justice might have made off with them and been murdered for his efforts?”

  “Perhaps,” I said slowly. “But why wouldn’t Ned have had the plans in his own possession? Unless maybe they were the elder Bailey’s plans that Ned himself absconded with.”

  “In which case Ned should have been the victim, not the Canadian.”

  “True.”

  “’Tis a pity this branch of Baileys does not share our faith, unlike thy brother-in-law, Frederick, and his family,” John remarked. “They might more easily find their way to a peaceful settlement of their concerns.”

  “Yes.” I agreed, but such wishful thinking wouldn’t make it happen. “I also wondered if somehow William Parry is involved. The carriages from his factory have always been of a lesser quality. Perhaps he learned of some innovation and found a way to come into possession of its design.”

  “I daresay thee will solve this conundrum before the week is out.” John drained his tea. “I’m afraid all this excitement has tired me, Rose. I’ll have to free thee to continue on thy investigations.”

  I stood and took his extended hand, now only slightly warmer from the tea, in both of mine. “I shall see thee again soon. Be well, Friend.”

  “God willing, we will meet again.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Rose, dear,” Georgia exclaimed after a maid showed me into the parlor of the fine home on Powow Street. “I’m pleased to see you.”

  “Good morning, Georgia,” I said. “I hope thee is well.”

  “I am. Please sit.” It was a tastefully appointed room, with plush rugs, rich window decor, and elegant furniture reflecting the family’s comfortable financial position. The enticing smell of bread baking wafted in from the back of the house. “Do you know Mrs. Harrington?” Georgia asked.

  Luthera, clad in what must be the stylish black dress Alma had described, sat on an embroidered settee. She bobbed her head at me. I perched on the brocade cushion of an upright chair.

  “Yes, Ned Bailey introduced us only two days ago.” I smiled at the Canadian. “Hello, Luthera.”

  She blinked at my use of her first name.

  “So you’ve met Rose, that is, Mrs. Dodge.” Georgia beamed.

  “May I offer my condolences on the sudden loss of thy husband?” I asked Luthera.

  “Thank you.” She sniffed and held a black-trimmed handkerchief to her nose, but her eyes were not the red-rimmed ones of a new widow. She was also well-coiffed and her face nicely powdered.

  “I expect Rose is already hard on the heels of the scoundrel who took Mr. Harrington’s life.” Georgia’s eyes gleamed. “She’s quite the private investigator.”

  Luthera gaped. I groaned inwardly as I held up my hand in a stop gesture. Georgia had several times previously become far too excited about the news of a murder, wanting me to share my detecting progress with her.

  “In actuality, Luthera, I am a midwife, not a detective.”

  “But you work closely with the police, Rose,” Georgia protested. “I know you do.”

  “I have several times in the past, it’s true. But only as someone with whom the detective can discuss his ideas.”

  Georgia winked at me, as if we shared a secret.

  “Isn’t working with the police dangerous for a lady?” Luthera asked, her pale blue eyes wide. “Do murderers come after you because of what you know?”

  “I do my best to stay out of harm’s way.” In fact, I had encountered danger in the past, and my life had been threatened more than once.

  “Ladies should be able to do anything men do,” Georgia went on. “Rose and I have worked toward suffrage for women. How is it where you live, Mrs. Harrington? Can ladies vote in Ottawa?”

  “Women who own property may vote in municipal elections, and I have exercised my franchise to protect my family’s business, in which I take an active part.” Luthera sniffed with disdain. “But I am not a rabble-rouser and give little thought to the subject of suffrage.”

  Georgia raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth.

  I thought it was time to change the topic of conversation. “Does thee have children?” I asked Luthera before Georgia could go on about our efforts to secure the vote.

  “Mr. Harrington and I were married only last year and had not yet been blessed with offspring. Now I expect I never shall be.” She let out a tragic sigh.

  “There, there, Mrs. Harrington,” Georgia said. “You are young and beautiful. After a suitable period of mourning, I know some dashing gentleman will offer you his hand, and you’ll raise a passel of young ones.”

  Luthera raised her arm and held the back of her hand against her brow. “I am sure that will not come to pass, Mrs. Clarke.”

  I studied her. She feigned sorrow at the thought, but I doubted it was real.

  “Georgia, how is thy passel?” I asked.

  She laughed and smoothed back her white-streaked brown hair, done up today in a classic but somewhat out-of-fashion chignon. “They are blessedly all well, including little Rosie. Mrs. Dodge saved my life after I gave birth to my youngest,” she told Luthera. “And we named the baby after her.”

  The long case clock in the entryway chimed eleven times.

  Luthera stood and lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be getting into town for a meeting with prospective customers. My father’s business continues regardless of personal tragedy.”

  I rose, too. “Shall I walk with thee?”

  The corners of her mouth turned down. “Thank you, Mrs. Dodge, but I’m sure Mrs. Clarke will be supplying me with more suitable transportation.”

  “Yes, with pleasure.” Georgia rang a little bell. When the maid arrived, Georgia said, “Please have Wilson bring the buggy around for Mrs. Harrington.”

  “Thank you,” Luthera said. “I’ll fetch my hat and my reticule. It was pleasant to visit with you, Mrs. Dodge.”

  I doubted she had actually found it so. “I was glad for the chance, Luthera. I hope the rest of thy stay is uneventful. When will thee be traveling back north?”

 
“It is not yet certain. Good day.”

  I sat again after she disappeared into the hall, the clicking of her heels on the stairs growing fainter as she ascended.

  “Well, well, Rose.” Georgia clasped her hands in her lap. “Now you can tell me what you know.”

  “I am more interested in what thee knows.” I leaned closer and murmured, “About thy guest.”

  “Let’s wait a moment, shall we?” She cast her gaze upward, from whence came footsteps returning down the stairs.

  Luthera, now clad in coat, gloves, and a different, fur-trimmed hat, with one hand in a fur muff, said from the doorway, “I shall return at the end of the day, Mrs. Clarke.” She raised a gloved hand.

  “Farewell, Mrs. Harrington.” Georgia waited until the front door clicked shut after Luthera. “What do you mean, what I know about her?”

  “For example, I heard she was at the soiree last evening. What about the night before? Did she stay out late? Was thee with her then?”

  “Let’s see, now.” Georgia tapped her mouth, thinking. “Why, no, I wasn’t. The Harringtons were at the banquet, of course. My oldest was feeling poorly, and I decided to stay at home to comfort him. He’s nine but still appreciates his mama’s affection. I hope he always will.”

  “Did thee notice what time Luthera returned?” I asked. Obviously Justice didn’t return with her. He was lying dead in an alley.

  “No. But I can ask Wilson when he returns what time he brought them home. Oh! I mean her.”

  “Wilson is thy driver?”

  “Yes, and he does all manner of other tasks around here. He’s an entirely competent and genteel man.”

  “I would appreciate thee inquiring of him. In a discreet manner, naturally.”

  “Rose.” Georgia grasped my hand. “You can’t think Mrs. Harrington would kill her own husband, can you?”

  “One must suspect everyone at this stage in an investigation. Perhaps she stands to benefit from his death. They could have had an unhappy marriage, short as it was. Or he might have been abusing her in private. We don’t know.” And Luthera was a tall woman with a slender shape. In the dark, she might be mistaken for a tall lean man wearing a long coat. If the person Pierrot saw had been Zeb, I prayed he had a good explanation for his presence in the alley.

  “But surely others would have had more cause than his wife to end Mr. Harrington’s life,” Georgia protested.

  “That’s also entirely possible.”

  She nodded, then gazed with a little smile at my waist. “Rose Dodge, I think you’ve been holding out on me. Are you carrying a child?”

  I smiled back. “As it happens, I am. And this week everyone seems to be noticing. I guess I’m finally showing my condition, as the phrase goes.”

  “Indeed you are, and I couldn’t be happier for you. You’ll be giving birth in the summertime, I wager.”

  “Thee is correct.” I rose. “I must be off, but I wonder if I might avail myself of thy water closet before I continue.”

  “Any time, my dear. I know well the urge to relieve oneself when one carries around an increasingly full womb. It’s under the stairs.”

  “Please telephone me after thee speaks with thy manservant.”

  “I will. And you be careful out there.”

  “Have no fear.” I supposed everyone telling me to be cautious went hand in hand with people noticing my gravid state. So be it. I had no intention of coming to bodily harm, or worse.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After a rest at home and a bite to eat, I ventured out again toward Carriage Hill. All the factories were hosting open-door showrooms this afternoon. If I paid a visit to the Parry and Bailey displays, I might be able to learn something. And I very much wanted to speak with Zeb in private, if I could.

  I left my cycle at home and strolled instead of riding. I passed the bustling TW Lane carriage manufacturer on Elm Street and kept going up the hill to the Parry factory on Chestnut Street. The broad doors were flung all the way open, despite the brisk air, and people bustled about. Several vehicles stood outside for viewing. As a man regarding a surrey spit to the side, I covered my mouth and gave him a wide berth. I’d read that physicians in New York City had implored their public health department to ban public expectoration. The department had complied by widely circulating a leaflet cautioning against the germ-spreading practice. I wished Amesbury would follow suit, or perhaps the Commonwealth would enact a law to that effect.

  I meandered inside. The latest innovations in carriage design were displayed, from a bright red governess wagon to a four-person closed Rockaway with the wheel cutout that allowed for easier turning. A section along the back wall held various structural components, half of which I didn’t know the function of.

  The crowd was made up mostly of men. The smell of tobacco and hair pomade scented the air, but it was diluted by the chill breeze coming in from outside. A few women perused the wares, and I glimpsed Luthera among them, deep in conversation with William Parry across the room. She certainly seemed to be devoted to her father’s business.

  I wandered among the vehicles. I supposed after our baby grew into a child, and definitely after more children came along, David and I would want to purchase a carriage larger than his two-person doctor’s buggy. But surely not one manufactured by Parry and company. A Bailey or a Clarke carriage would be of higher quality.

  I stroked the high wheel on a runabout, casting my gaze over the gathering. Ah. In the far corner stood Zeb, an arched undercarriage part in his hands, looking like he was explaining it to a portly gentleman. I headed in that direction, but I didn’t get far before William Parry intercepted me.

  “Mrs. Dodge, good afternoon. Shopping for a new carriage, are we?” He beamed. “This runabout is a fine vehicle for a lady to drive. Easy to handle, not too large.”

  “It’s a very nice carriage, but I’m not looking to purchase at this moment, no.” I gestured around the room. “This open house looks very well attended.”

  “Yes, indeed. I venture a guess that we are drawing more interest this week than is any other firm.”

  Unlikely, I thought, but I kept my opinion to myself. “That will be good for thy business. If thee will excuse me, I want to say hello to my friend Zebulon.”

  “Mr. Weed is a most excellent fellow to have about. Most excellent. He has quite the way with customers.”

  I made my way to Zeb and waited, gazing at the wall of component parts until the man with whom he was speaking turned away.

  “Rose, what a nice surprise,” Zeb said. “Thee is looking well.”

  “As is thee, Zeb, and making some sales, by the looks of it.”

  “I’m doing my best.” He lowered his voice. “I’d rather be working for Robert Clarke or the Baileys. The quality of their products is much superior.”

  “I would have to agree with thee.”

  He frowned at me and continued to speak softly. “But thee isn’t here to buy a carriage. Thee must have heard of Justice Harrington’s death. Is thee investigating his murder?”

  “I admit I’m attempting to gather a few facts to help the police.”

  “An avocation at which thee excels.”

  “Zeb,” I matched his soft tone. “One thing I’ve learned is that a night watchman saw thee in the very alley where the body was found. On that same night. I know thee wasn’t involved in the death, but can thee tell me what thee was doing there?”

  “No,” he said in a rush. The smile slid off his face and his expression turned grim. “I was doing nothing. I wasn’t there. This watchman is lying.”

  I opened my mouth to object but closed it before I spoke. Despite sensing that it was Zeb who lied, it wasn’t my place or business to challenge his account. Let Kevin do that.

  I touched his arm. “I’m glad to hear thee was far from the violent deed.” Had Annie’s brother in fact lied? But why? And what was the reason for Zeb’s grim look?

  His nostrils flared as he caught sight of something over my s
houlder.

  Oh. Kevin suddenly stood at my elbow, in a gray serge suit instead of a uniform. I’d apparently conjured him up by merely thinking of him. But no uniform? Perhaps civilian attire was what a chief of police was supposed to wear. Or maybe he was trying not to be conspicuous as an officer of the peace. Which was all very well for the strangers to town, but anyone from Amesbury well knew Kevin’s profession.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Miss Rose.” Kevin clasped his hands behind his back. “Good afternoon, Mr. Weed.”

  “Greetings, Detective.” Zeb bobbed his head. “If thee isn’t here to purchase a carriage, I’ll be off to my customers.”

  “Actually, Weed, I’d like to have a word with you,” Kevin said, his voice steely. “In private, if we might.”

  Uh-oh.

  Zeb’s eyes shifted left and right, as if he wanted to escape. Had I sealed his fate by passing along Pete’s report? It would kill Faith if Zeb were guilty of any misdeed. The ultimate violent act of homicide? I couldn’t even imagine how she would react. Or . . . perhaps I could.

  “Two Quakers and a detective, is it?” William Parry said from a few paces away.

  His tone was hearty, but his visage countered it. The factory owner looked either nervous or worried. I couldn’t tell which

  “What can we help you with today, Mr. Donovan?” William went on. “I hear you’re now heading up our fine department of boys in blue, as it were.”

  “Mr. Parry, I have a little matter to clear up with Weed here,” Kevin replied. “Can you spare him for a few minutes?”

  “Of course, of course,” William said. “In fact, you can use my office. Mr. Weed knows where it is. Anything to help keep the peace in our fair town.”

  Zeb cast me a desperate glance before leading Kevin through a door to the side of the showroom.

  “Has my best young salesman done something wrong, Mrs. Dodge?” The worried expression was gone. William sounded downright jovial. “Only a criminal act would merit the attentions of our chief of police.”

  “No.” I gave him my sternest look. “Zeb is an honest and law-abiding person, William. I won’t hear of thee even mentioning the idea of him committing a crime.” Even though I was the one responsible for bringing Kevin here.