A Changing Light

by Edith Maxwell

  I hung my cloak on a peg in the front hall and slid into a pew at a few minutes before ten. Faith and Zeb hurried in and sat next to me. I folded my hands and closed my eyes, ready to let the outer world slip away and leave God alone, as John Whittier had written in his poem about this very Meetinghouse. I held Kevin in the Light for solving the case. I held my dear David, that his headaches might cease recurring. And I held in God’s Light our growing child, who, now that I was quiet, made tiny flips within me.

  After the rustling of latecomers stilled, I opened my eyes and glanced around. On the opposite side of the room was Prudence next to her husband. Sober, I hoped. John sat erect on the facing bench with the other elders, as he always did. My eyes flew wide open when my gaze fell on a pew near where John sat. The man I saw was Amado, the Brazilian, and he was staring straight at me. I closed my eyes, not acknowledging him. Was he a Friend? Were there Quakers in Brazil? Or . . . did he even live in Brazil? Perhaps he’d immigrated to our commonwealth and lived in a nearby city or even in Boston.

  I’d only once been more surprised by someone’s presence at worship. It had been when a disturbed man had tried to set the Meetinghouse on fire two years ago. For now, I attempted to slow my breathing. I wouldn’t find the peace I sought—nay, desperately needed—by letting my brain dwell on unanswered questions.

  And thus the worship passed in silence. This week no one was moved to stand and share a message from God, for which I was grateful. I always felt blessedly restored from a full hour of silence. As the church bells in town started to toll eleven, an elder stood and began the handshake of fellowship. After some moments of greetings, I filed out with Faith and Zeb.

  “Zeb,” I murmured. “Did thee see the Brazilian thee mentioned? Amado?”

  “I did. I don’t know what he’s doing here.”

  “Neither do I.” But I waited to the side of the front steps. The rain had dwindled to a mist.

  When nearly everyone had emerged, John walked out on the arm of the dashing Amado.

  “Ah, Rose dear,” John said. “Has thee met our visitor?”

  “Not to speak with. I am Rose Dodge.” I extended my gloved hand.

  Instead of shaking it, the Brazilian lifted it toward his face. I opened my mouth to object, but it was too late. He pressed my hand to his lips, then relinquished it.

  “Mrs. Rose Dodge.” I stressed my title, something I usually avoided. I wanted to be sure this flirtatious man knew I was married.

  “I am Jorge Amado.” He pronounced his Christian name Zhor-zhee, as Zeb had. “I am honored to make the acquaintance of this famous man’s friend.” He gave a little bow, but as he straightened, he winked at me. He spoke with quite a strong accent, as Zeb had mentioned, but his words were perfect English. “I have sought out the great poet because I, too, dabble in the art.”

  “He’s written some very nice pieces,” John said. “Alas, I can only read them in translation.”

  “And I am very curious about your faith.” Jorge gestured to the Meetinghouse behind him. “I have never met a Quaker in my native Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Thee is welcome to worship with us at any time,” I said. “And John is indeed a great poet.” I smiled at my elderly friend. Looking back at Jorge, I said, “How is thee finding our fair city? It’s quite different from Brazil, I should imagine.”

  He laughed heartily. “Yes it is, in many ways. The food, the sea, the ladies, and of course, the weather. But alas, I now live in Boston.”

  “And thee works in the carriage industry?” I asked.

  “I have a position of some responsibility in the design department of the Kimball Brothers Carriage Company.”

  An esteemed Boston producer of carriages. Which could make him very interested in Ned’s plans.

  John inclined his head. “We are sorry thee had to be here during a week when one of thy peers was murdered.”

  “Yes,” Jorge said. “It was shocking to hear of Mr. Harrington’s death. I had quite an interesting conversation with him the evening of the banquet. In fact, it was only a few hours after I first set my gaze on this lovely lady in front of us.”

  I ignored the flash of his smile. “I understand thee discussed Ned Bailey’s revolutionary new plans.”

  John shifted his gaze to me, looking surprised.

  Jorge’s slick demeanor wobbled for a split second. He gazed over my shoulder. “Yes, and it was a remarkable idea. I understand the plans have sadly been lost.”

  “Did Ned tell thee so?” I asked.

  “No.” He brought the green focus back to my face. “It was someone else in the town. I can’t recall at this moment.”

  I watched him. I smelled a lie, but I wasn’t sure if it was about the plans or about who told him they were gone. As far as I knew, the loss of the papers had not been in the news.

  John cleared his throat. “This kind gentleman has agreed to walk me home. Vamos, Jorge?” A little smile played at John’s lips. “I convinced him to teach me a few words of Portuguese,” he whispered loudly to me.

  “Vamos. A pleasure to speak with you, Mrs. Dodge.” He also stressed the Mrs., his manner again as smooth as new cream.

  “And I thee” I said.

  They made their way slowly down the walk and turned onto Friend Street. Rather than answering my questions, this encounter had only added to them. Oh, well. I was accustomed to inquiries leading to more questions. I took a step toward the gate onto Greenleaf Street and my own route homeward.

  “Rose,” a woman called out from behind me.

  I turned to see Prudence with her hand raised. Where had she been hiding? I waited until she reached me.

  “Hello, Prudence.” I peered at her face, but she didn’t seem to be under the influence of spirits at this moment. Good.

  “I understand I missed Orpha’s funeral,” she began. “I am exceedingly sorry.”

  “Yes, it was yesterday. And a lovely service, too.”

  “I was, ah, indisposed.”

  I could guess at how. “I didn’t realize thee knew her.”

  “Certainly I did. She delivered my babies, and I taught her granddaughter music. Back when I was teaching.”

  Of course Alma had mentioned that. And the reason Prudence had stopped teaching, too.

  “Is Alma . . . doing well?” she asked.

  “Very well, yes, and she did an admirable job caring for Orpha in the end. Alma has a successful business as a dressmaker, too.”

  “I’m glad.” She stared at her clasped hands, then up into my face. “Zebulon tells me thee is looking into the awful killing.”

  “I only assist the police with ideas. They are investigating, not I.”

  “But suppose . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Once again I waited. Not patiently this time. I wanted to get home and avail myself of the water closet.

  “What if someone saw something but didn’t want to go to the authorities with the information?”

  Someone. Like her? “That would be the right thing to do. The police don’t bite.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, but they are rather too well acquainted with . . . with this person.”

  “This person could tell me. Or this person could possibly write an anonymous note and have it delivered to the proper person.”

  She nodded slowly as if neither of those options were acceptable.

  I touched her arm. “Prudence, is this person thee?” I kept my voice gentle. “Thee must tell me what thee saw.”

  She let out a shuddering breath and glanced around. We were the only two left in front of the forty-year-old building. The mist turned back to rain and began to patter on my hood.

  “It’s this way. I slipped out again after Zeb took me home that night. I’m an ill woman, Rose. I seek out my poison even when I know I should not. The tavern keeper slips me a pint out the back door from time to time.”

  She must be ill, if she was wandering the streets alone late at night in search of more alcohol. I was surpris
ed she was still alive.

  “And,” she continued, “I saw the poor man’s dead body. Someone was pilfering it.”

  “What does thee mean?”

  Her eyes wide, she said, “A man removed a sheaf of papers from the corpse’s coat.”

  The plans. “Did thee see who it was?”

  “I did,” she whispered. “It was that gentleman who sat near Friend John during worship.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  David and I sat in our dining room at one o’clock, holding hands across the corner of the table in a moment of silent grace. I did my best to quash thoughts of Prudence’s shocking piece of information, although that was all I’d been able to think of as I’d strolled home.

  I now opened my eyes, squeezed his hand, and surveyed the feast on the table. He’d roasted a fat chicken and added potatoes and rosemary to the pan in the last hour. The aromatic potatoes glistened with the roasting fats on the serving platter next to the carved chicken. A dish of stewed squash and apples sat next to it, with a cold salad of sliced beets sprinkled with fresh parsley on the side.

  I’d been nurturing several pots of fresh herbs all winter in a sunny kitchen window. At this time of year, green food to eat was in short supply at the market, or fresh anything, truly. Today’s beets, apples, squash, and potatoes had all come out of the root cellar.

  We talked about all and sundry as we ate.

  “This morning I read about a new medical device being developed, Rose,” David said. “It’s designed to used electrical signals to amplify weak sounds into stronger ones.”

  “For the deaf and hard of hearing?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s quite promising, although not quite at the point of being manufactured.”

  “It will be soon, I have no doubt. And I met my first Brazilian.”

  “Here for the Spring Opening?”

  “Yes. His name is Jorge Amado, and he accompanied John Whittier to Meeting for Worship.”

  “It’s remarkable someone would come all the way from the Southern Hemisphere to buy carriages.”

  I swallowed a bite of tender, juicy chicken. “He said he lives in Boston now. It wasn’t quite as long a trip. Some visitors here this week are from as far away as Australia, truly the other side of the world.” I stared at my plate, frowning, thinking about Jorge absconding with Ned’s plans.

  David reached out to cover my hand. “What is it, dear Rose?”

  “Nothing I should bother thee with.”

  “Dear wife, there is nothing you should not bother me with. And I sense it is not the excellence of the meal you frown about.”

  I met his gaze. “This is a delicious, beautiful, superlative dinner, dear husband, and I thank thee. And thee knows me too well. This Jorge said something about the night of the murder which is picking at my brain.”

  “Your picking is my picking. Please share if you feel so inclined. It might help to talk it all through.” He patted my hand and returned to his chicken.

  “I feel as if a puzzle piece has fallen into place, and I appreciate thy offer. But I truly don’t want to sully our meal together with talk of homicide. I’ll try to find Kevin later, or at least write him a note, to share my thoughts.” I smiled, hoping I had not hurt David’s feelings.

  When he gave me an understanding nod, I counted my blessings in husband yet once again.

  “I heard that a new musical performance is coming to the opera house next month,” I said brightly. “Perhaps we can obtain tickets and have a night out.”

  “While you still can. I like your idea, Rose. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw The Mikado in Portsmouth?”

  And so we passed the rest of the meal. But by two o’clock, thoughts of last week’s crime again filled my brain. It was First Day, the day of rest. I should be sitting with my husband in quiet companionship, knitting and reading, chatting and writing. Instead, after I cleaned up the kitchen, I put through a call to the police station.

  “The chief is at home, Mrs. Dodge,” the officer told me. “It’s Sunday, you know.”

  “I do know. I thank thee.” I hung the receiver on its hook, considering my options. I rather urgently wanted Kevin to know how Jorge had reacted to my questions and what Prudence had said about seeing him steal the papers from Justice Harrington’s dead body. Perhaps the Brazilian had killed the Canadian to obtain the innovative plans. If they’d tussled in the alley, Jorge could have pulled out a pistol and shot him in the heat of the moment. South Americans were supposed to be passionate, weren’t they?

  Either way, I had to tell Kevin. Should I place a call to him at home? Write a letter? Pay him a visit? I knew Emmaline would welcome me. But I shouldn’t disturb his day of rest with his family. And it could all wait until tomorrow. Couldn’t it?

  I gazed out the front window. The rain beat in from the west, wind tapping it on the glass. Behind me David snored lightly in his chair. I again prayed his headaches weren’t the sign of some other malady. They plagued him with some regularity, and the next day he was always exhausted.

  The facts of this murder were currently plaguing me. They weren’t exhausting so much as frustrating. The rain made me disinclined to go out again, whether alone or with David. This news was far too important to risk Gertrude listening in to a telephone call. Pen and paper would again have to suffice.

  I sat at the desk in my office and began to write. I could solve the problem of how to get my letter to the detective when I was done. I’d penned only the opening salutation when a sharp rap came at the side door.

  “Faith,” I exclaimed at the sight of her under a huge black umbrella now dripping rain on the covered veranda. “Come in.”

  She left the umbrella outside and hurried inside. “Rose, you wouldn’t believe what I just learned.” She flipped back her bonnet and swiped rain off her forehead. Her eyes were wide, and her hair was escaping its pins.

  “Please tell me.” Was this about the Spring Opening murder?

  “Well, I went into the Daily News office, even though it’s First Day. I needed to hand in my story about last night’s Board of Trade gala.”

  “Was it the final gathering of the week?” I asked.

  “No. There’s one more closing ceremony at the end of the day today. Too bad about the rain.” She wrinkled her nose. “The ceremony was to have been outside with a parade of carriages.”

  “That is a pity.” I waited, but Faith only gazed out the window. I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry I interrupted thee, Faith. Please go on.”

  She started, then laughed. “I almost forgot I came here with news. So, I went into the office, and the man who covers the police was furiously typing. We were the only two in there. I asked him what had happened. Rose, thee won’t believe it.”

  Instead of strangling her, I raised my eyebrows. “Tell me.”

  “They’ve brought in that handsome Brazilian under suspicion of committing homicide! The case is solved, Rose.”

  Maybe. “Jorge Amado.” I narrowed my eyes. “Did this police reporter say what the evidence was?”

  “A witness saw him with the victim’s body in the alley the night of the murder.”

  “Who was the witness?”

  “He didn’t have a name,” Faith said. “But I knew you would want to know right away.”

  I folded my arms, thinking. Either Prudence had overcome her worries about going to the police or someone else had seen Jorge with dead Justice.

  “I thank thee for telling me. But this witness didn’t see the killing, correct?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Ah. And was Kevin’s name bandied about?”

  She shook her head. “The reporter didn’t mention it.”

  Kevin might not even know about it. Unless his day of rest had been rudely interrupted by someone else.

  “Did anything of interest happen last night?” I asked. “Wait. I should clarify my question. Did thee overhear any interactions with Luthera Harrington, Ned Bailey, or William P
arry that sparked thy interest? Or which might have sparked mine?” Kevin’s interest, to put it more accurately.

  She blinked. “Hmm. Let me think.”

  The telephone jangled and I grabbed for it before it awoke David.

  “Miss Rose, this is Kevin. Can you come down to the station? We might have a development.”

  “I certainly can. I will see thee shortly.” I hung up the receiver as David padded in on stocking feet, still looking sleepy. So much for not awakening him.

  “Who will you see shortly?” he asked. “Oh, hello, Faith.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Kevin wants to see me at the station,” I said. “He might have had a breakthrough.” But did he have the right person in custody?

  “I’ll drive you.” David instantly looked more alert. Responding to a sudden request for services was a skill doctors had in equal measure with midwives.

  “David.” Faith held up her hand. “I have a hansom cab waiting. Rose can go into town with me.”

  “Yes, let me do that.” I stood. “Thee must keep relaxing, my dear.”

  “Call me if you want me to bring you home,” David said. “It’s raining buckets out there.”

  He smoothed my hair, a gesture that made me want to stay home and possibly take him directly upstairs to our bed. Pregnancy hadn’t diminished my carnal desires in the slightest. If anything, they’d increased. But duty called.

  “Give me two minutes to get ready,” I told Faith. I kissed David’s cheek and pointed myself toward the all-important water closet. The last thing I wanted was to be in need of facilities while I was in the police station. One could only imagine the hygienic state of whatever an all-male department used for their needs.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Faith and I bumped along in the backseat of the hansom, a carriage that had seen better days. The side flaps were down but rain still found its way in. We huddled together in the middle, trying to avoid getting even wetter.