A Changing Light

by Edith Maxwell

  She smiled. “They’ve introduced themselves.”

  “We’ve lost a jewel,” Catherine said. “Mrs. Perkins delivered my Patrick yon these thirty years.”

  “And my daughter, too,” Frannie offered.

  “My children, as well,” Mary said. She gazed at the street, where William had already turned onto the sidewalk. “And a child of his, I suppose.”

  “Yes, his first,” I said. “William doesn’t seem at all well.”

  “He’s not.” Mary pressed her lips together. “And he should be resting at home, not gallivanting around to funerals.”

  “Rose, have you untangled the matter of the murder yet?” Annie asked me.

  “Not exactly.” I surveyed the group’s eager expressions. All but Mary knew me well, and they were acquainted with my history assisting on official investigations. “I did report to the police what thy maid saw, Frannie, and the new acting chief—that is, Kevin—is looking into it. But I’m afraid the facts of the case are still quite murky. Does any of thee know Ned Bailey personally?”

  “Not I,” Mary said.

  Catherine and Frannie shook their heads.

  “He’s my husband’s cousin’s wife’s nephew,” Jeanette offered.

  “That’s a convoluted connection,” I said.

  She laughed and slapped her thigh. “Isn’t it? Still, Mr. Papka’s family loves big gatherings. I’ve sat with Ned a few times at summer picnics and whatnot.”

  “He mentioned to me he was excited about a plan for a horseless motorcar,” I said in a quiet voice. “And he was seen in intense conversation with Justice Harrington the night of the murder. Does thee think, Jeanette, thee could ask thy husband to inquire of his cousin’s wife about any business dealings between the two?”

  Jeanette shook her head. “I would, but the cousin and his wife were called away to Vermont to her mother’s deathbed.”

  Drat the luck. “And thee doesn’t know of any dealings?” I asked her.

  “No, but I’ll see what I can learn.”

  “Thank thee.”

  “What about the wife?” Catherine asked. “I told you how she was being scornful and insulting to her husband before he was killed.”

  “You did,” I said. “I believe Kevin regards her with interest in terms of being a possible culprit.”

  “But not your nephew-in-law, I hope,” Jeanette said.

  “Good heavens, no,” I said. “Zeb is innocent of any wrongdoing, and I think I have convinced Kevin of such.”

  Mary followed our volleying of questions and answers with an amused expression.

  “His mother’s quite the tippler, isn’t she?” Catherine murmured.

  “I’ve heard the same.” Frannie snorted. “We all have our weaknesses, though, don’t we? I, for one, can’t resist a good pipe of tobacco.”

  I stared at her. Frannie smoked a pipe? I had no idea.

  “Give me chocolate any day,” Jeanette added. “In any form.”

  Catherine nodded. “For me it’s ale. There’s nothing like a cold tankard to relax a soul.”

  I supposed my weakness was wanting to tease out the facts of a mystery, which was not my job in the least.

  Mary gave a little enigmatic smile. “I have no minor vices.”

  I blinked, trying to sort out what she meant. Did she have a major vice?

  David waved at me from the church. I held up a finger, signaling I’d be along in a minute. “Who else is going to Alma’s?”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Alma’s house was packed with mourners, and the dining table groaned with the food the ladies had prepared. I tasted a savory lamb tart, a chicken dumpling, and a miniature deep-fried fishcake. Perhaps this could take the place of our supper at home. Sweet treats also abounded, as did tea, sherry, and some other spirit. David helped himself to a plate, as well as a small glass of what looked like whiskey.

  Alma’s mother particularly thanked me for helping care for Orpha and for my message during the funeral. “You took my place at her deathbed, and I will be ever indebted.” She glanced at her cantankerous husband and lowered her voice. “I simply couldn’t get away.”

  Alma’s father, on the other hand, was perfunctory in his greeting to the point of curtness. Alma’s little girls, now five and seven, were helpful for a bit, offering to take visitors’ coats and directing them to the food, but they eventually disappeared to play.

  I still found it painful to be in the house where my mentor had lived the entire time I’d known her. I could see David was eager to leave. He’d had a long conversation with Mary about things medical, then had ended up in polite congress with Alma’s husband. When I suggested we depart, his relief was tangible.

  The sun was sinking below the trees as David and I strolled toward home, my hand comfortably tucked through his arm. Today had augured spring more than recent ones, with a moderate temperature and only a slight breeze.

  “I would have thought the ground would be soft enough by now for a burial,” I said.

  “Perhaps it is. What he said could have been an excuse to hold a private burial tomorrow or one day soon.”

  “So a Congregational minister would lie for the convenience of the family?” I glanced up at him.

  “Maybe.” He laughed softly. “He’s quite the interesting man. We had ourselves an architectural conversation while you ladies were plotting who knows what. Did you know the church building was constructed for the Unitarian Congregational Society in 1829 and was acquired by the current denomination only three years later?”

  “I didn’t.” We’d turned from Greenleaf onto Whittier Street when a high-stepping gelding pulling a Stanhope gig at a fast clip passed us. Had I seen Ned Bailey driving it?

  David pulled me closer but winced at the sudden movement.

  “What’s wrong, my love?” I asked him.

  “It’s one of my headaches.”

  I stroked his arm. “We’ll be home in a minute. Thee has kept me company all afternoon, and I’m grateful. But thee works hard and needs to rest more.”

  The driver pulled to a halt ahead of us. Ned Bailey leaned out. “What ho, Dodges!” He held the reins as he doffed his hat. “I was on my way to have a word with Mrs. Dodge. You know, with her investigative prowess and such.” His voice shook slightly. From exertion or with nerves?

  David and I exchanged a glance. He raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged.

  “We’re only yards from home,” I said to Ned. “Please meet us there.”

  Ned drove on, crossing Sparhawk and pulling up in front of our lovely home. He climbed down, keeping the reins in his hand.

  “I’ll speak with him outside,” I murmured to David as we walked. “Thee should go in and lie down.”

  “I shall.” He squeezed my hand.

  When we arrived and David had gone into the house, I said to Ned, “What can I help thee with? I have only a few minutes.” I wanted to go inside to minister to my husband, to make sure he was comfortable and had a cold compress at hand.

  “Well, then. You see.” He cleared his throat. “Your detective seems to be rather interested in, ah, the matter of my motorcar ideas. You remember what I mentioned to you at the Board of Trade meeting?”

  I nodded and waited for more. I expected—or rather, hoped—Kevin was also interested in the matter of the weapon. But would Ned mention the pistol?

  “I had given my proposal to Mr. Justice Harrington,” he continued. “He was quite excited to work together on such a forward-thinking idea.”

  “Thee gave him the plans for the motorcar?”

  “Yes. But only as a loan, you see. So he could get a sense of the scope. He was to return them the next day.”

  “Thee must have made a copy first.”

  “Alas, I did not. Now Donovan seems to think Harrington absconded with the plans against my will. He hinted I shot the Canadian for his troubles.”

  I eyed him. “Did thee?”

  “Mrs. Dodge!” He gave his head a quick s
hake. “No. I did not.”

  If Ned had killed Justice, he wouldn’t tell me, anyway.

  “Were the plans recovered?” I asked.

  He gave me a baleful look. “They were not, more’s the pity.”

  “I wonder what happened to the papers,” I mused, more to myself than to him. Kevin could be right. Ned could be dissembling about all this to hide the fact he shot Justice and took his plans back. Or, if someone else was the killer, that person could have simply tossed them into the rushing Powow River, and they would never been seen again. I again wondered why the murderer had left the weapon and not thrown it in the river.

  “Ned, I hear thee kept the gun for safekeeping. The murder weapon.”

  “Gun?” Tiny pearls of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Where did you . . . I mean, I don’t know about a gun.”

  “If thee has a gun thee found the night of the murder, thee needs to tell the police.” Except surely Kevin had asked him about it. And possibly searched the house and confiscated the weapon. “Thee must do the right thing.”

  He lifted his chin. “I’m getting along to the evening event, if that’s what you mean.” An odd expression came over his face.

  Dark was falling. For all I knew, Ned had shot Justice himself. And he was acting strangely. I’d better get myself inside, and fast.

  “I wish thee luck rewriting thy ideas, Ned. I must take my leave and let thee get along to thy event.” I smiled.

  “Wait.” He clasped my forearm. “You have to help me!”

  With what? “Excuse me.” I pulled up to my full height and stared at his hand until he dropped it. “It’s not my job to find a murderer nor to assist thee. I wish thee luck sorting out the facts.”

  He scowled at me but finally climbed back into the carriage, muttering to himself.

  I waited, hands clasped in front of me, until he clucked to the horse and drove off. Ned had always seemed something of a buffoon, and I’d never felt threatened by him before. Right now the lamplight spilling from the front window of my home extended its comfort in the most reassuring of ways.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  After David and I supped on a bowl of soup an hour later, he said he was going to bed. I sat in the lamplight letting out the side seams of an older dress of mine. I’d remembered the seamstress telling me she always made fat double seams in dresses for ladies of my age, expecting a pregnancy to come along before the dress had outlived its purpose. I wanted something comfortable to wear while cooking and doing chores so my new garments didn’t get stained. This dress would be perfect for that. I made a note to check the dark rose-colored dress Alma had made last fall for my marriage. It might have the same feature.

  I was worried about David’s headaches. I prayed they didn’t signal a deeper health problem. What if he had some kind of tumor on the brain? He was a medical doctor, but he still might be ignoring the severity or significance of his pains. I loved him deeply and didn’t want him to suffer so. Also, our future as a happy family would be at risk if he were stricken. I resolved I would urge him to seek treatment, to find a specialist without delay.

  When the telephone rang, I hurried to answer it before it awoke David. It was Kevin on the line, asking if he might come over to talk through the case. I glanced at the clock. It was only seven o’clock.

  “Please do,” I told him. “I have a bit of new information.”

  “Excellent. I’ll be along within the half hour. Thank you, Miss Rose.”

  He arrived fifteen minutes later. After I cautioned him to keep his voice down so we didn’t wake David upstairs, we sat in the sitting room. I picked up my sewing project while he pulled out a slip of paper. I recognized it as my letter to him from this morning.

  “I thank you for this missive, Miss Rose.” He chuckled. “I suppose I should have been calling you Mrs. Rose for the last six months, but I’m not a young man and am afraid I’m rather set in my ways.”

  “Thee is not a spring chicken, but thee is not old, Kevin. Anyway, I don’t have a problem with thee using Miss Rose.”

  He tapped a finger on the letter. “You asked me a few questions here. I’ll see if I’m able to address them, and then perhaps we can discuss a few other matters.”

  “Very well.”

  “I have heard about the Parry outfit being mismanaged. I haven’t been able to track down Ned Bailey today, nor Mr. Sherwood.”

  “But did thee talk with Ned yesterday about the gun?”

  He made an exasperated sound. “The man says he merely found it and didn’t want anyone to be hurt.”

  “So he secreted it in his underthings? Hiding a weapon not his own doesn’t make sense.”

  Kevin’s cheeks reddened at hearing the location of the gun. “No, it does not. He rightly should have found the nearest patrolman and turned it in.”

  “Was it the size of the gun Justice was shot with?”

  “As you’re aware, we have no way of knowing exactly, but it appears it could have been, from the caliber of the weapon and the size of Harrington’s wounds.”

  “Thee no longer is interested in Zeb Weed, I hope.”

  “Haven’t ruled him out completely, but he’s farther down my list at this point.” Kevin peered at the letter. “This business of hearing coughing, now.”

  “William Parry has tuberculosis. His doctor has confirmed it.”

  “Oh? What’s his name, this doctor?”

  “Mary Chatigny.” I stifled a snort as I watched his jaw drop at hearing her first name. “Her consulting office is on the corner of Elm and Marston.”

  “You ladies are making quite the strides, aren’t you? What will be next? The vote?”

  “I certainly hope so.” I smiled. “But about William Parry, I spoke with him after Orpha’s funeral. He protested rather too strongly that he has no plans to merge with the Montgomery enterprise. I think a possible business deal bears looking into further.”

  “Duly noted.” In fact, he drew a pencil out of his pocket and scribbled on the paper.

  “Now, what about Luthera?” I asked. “Has thee had additional conversations with her?”

  “The wife. Who seems to regard herself rather highly.”

  “She does.”

  “I attempted to engage her in a round of questions this very afternoon. She was not receptive to the idea, saying she had important business to conduct.” He raised his eyebrows and tossed his head when he said “business.”

  “But you’re the police. The chief of police.”

  “You’d think that might have held some sway, but no. She claimed a kind of exemption because she’s from Canada.” He clapped his hands on the tops of his legs. “This is a thorny case, Miss Rose, and it’s more frustrating than a bachelor with . . .” He let his voice trail off as his face reddened anew. “It’s frustrating. I’ll leave it at that.”

  Which was a blessing. Kevin Donovan was a man of his times. I suspected his language was much saltier when he was in the company of his male colleagues. I picked out another few stitches.

  “Ned Bailey stopped by here at dusk,” I said. “He told me he wanted my help, or some such thing.”

  “Did he now?”

  I nodded. “He said he had lent Justice Harrington his plans for his new motorcar. He said Justice was excited about them. And now the plans have disappeared, and Ned hadn’t made a copy. No one found any papers with the body?”

  “No.” Kevin stretched out the word. “If Parry killed Harrington, he could have absconded with the plans thinking it would help rescue his company.”

  “That would be a tenuous plan, at best. Surely it would require capital to make such a vehicle, not to mention much wooing of customers to win them over to the idea of a carriage driving under its own power.”

  “Yes, but Parry might be feeling desperate about his prospects.”

  “Or Luthera could have been angry Justice was taking the company on a path she didn’t approve of,” I mused. “She might have killed her husband and tossed
the plans in the river.”

  “Do you think Bailey was dissembling with the entire story, trying to hide what he’d done?”

  “I wondered the same, but I truly don’t know.”

  “Perhaps we’re both on the wrong track,” Kevin said. “It could have been the work of some lunatic unrelated to any of this carriage business.”

  I tilted my head. “How often do crazy people commit murder?”

  Kevin grunted. “Not very often. We fortunately have a low population of lunatics in Amesbury at present. Perhaps our culprit is another one of these foreigners swarming our town this week. You can’t trust them, you know. All manner of swarthy types are about. Greeks and Brazilians, even two Arabs from Egypt, of all places. And I spied a gent with skin as black as night. Well dressed and comported, to be sure.”

  “Kevin, watch thy prejudices. Simply because the visitors don’t look like thee doesn’t mean they are criminals.”

  “I know. You’re always schooling me about my judgments. You yourself mentioned this Amado character was talking with Harrington and Bailey, though. He could have done in Harrington and made off with the plans.”

  “He could have, and maybe he did, but not because he hails from Brazil.”

  The tall case clock in the front hall chimed eight soft tones.

  Kevin jumped up. “My sainted Emmaline is waiting supper at home for me. And I’m late.”

  I started to stand, mending and all.

  “Don’t yeh be after thinking of getting up, Miss Rose.” His Irish brogue always increased when he was feeling pressure or was in a hurry. “I’ll be lettin’ myself out.”

  “Good night, Kevin,” I called after him. He was a smart man and a good detective. But why wasn’t a killer behind bars instead of somewhere on Amesbury’s streets? And, because at large was exactly where the murderer was, I did get up after the door closed. I clicked the lock firmly shut and drew tight against the night the last two open curtains.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  A light rain fell as I walked the ten minutes to the Friends Meetinghouse the next morning wearing my oiled cloak. David had offered to drive me in the buggy, but I’d said I wanted the time to clear my head. His headache was blessedly gone, but he’d chosen to stay quietly at home and catch up on his medical journals. He’d also hinted he might be concocting a delicious midday meal for us, which had gained him an extra kiss. I decided to postpone my conversation with him about seeking a headache consultation until later today.