A Changing Light

by Edith Maxwell

  “Rose, thee asked about seeing Ned Bailey last night,” Faith said softly, even though the driver was outside our compartment. “He was there, and he seemed to be avoiding Luthera Harrington. He seemed, I don’t know, uncomfortable.”

  Interesting. The night of the murder, he’d apparently been in intense conversation with her husband.

  “Was Luthera responding in kind?”

  “She kept casting him glances. I saw her go over to engage him in conversation once, but he turned his back and stepped away. It was blatantly rude of him.”

  “It is. He usually comes across as eager to please.” I thought. “What about William Parry?”

  “Him.” She tossed her head. “He was the eager one. He was fluttering about near Luthera. But once he began coughing. she nearly pushed him away.”

  “I don’t blame her. He shouldn’t even be out.”

  The driver pulled up to the police station.

  “Is thee off to home, Faith?” I asked.

  “No, I’m going to the closing ceremony. They’re holding it indoors at the opera house.”

  “I thank thee for the transport.” I kissed her cheek, pulled up my hood, and climbed down. A couple of minutes later I faced Kevin across his desk, having exchanged greetings. “Do share the development of which thee spoke.”

  He sat back and folded his arms, wearing a satisfied smile. “Thanks to you, I expect, Mrs. Weed the elder came in and told us she’d witnessed Mr. George Amado take papers off the corpse. He’s in a cell in the back right now.”

  “Good. Was Prudence sober?”

  “Yes. By some miracle, she was.”

  “What does Jorge say about the papers?” I asked.

  He gaped. “Zhor-zhee? What now, Miss Rose?”

  “That’s how his name is properly said. It’s the Portuguese version of George.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway, were the papers Ned’s plans?” I asked.

  “The man has shut his mouth tighter than a vise. Claims he needs to speak to the Brazilian consulate,” Kevin growled. “We have entirely too many uncooperative foreigners around here this week.”

  I didn’t envy him his job. “Prudence told me she didn’t witness the murder, only the theft. Does thee think Jorge killed Justice?”

  The satisfied look slid off the detective’s face. “I’d like to think so, but the fact of the matter is, I have no evidence to that effect.”

  “Nor an eyewitness,” I pointed out.

  “Not that, either. Confound it, Miss Rose.” He pulled his light brows together.

  “What about William Parry? Has thee had additional talks with him?”

  “No. But I did receive an interesting communication from the senior Bailey household. Mrs. Bailey wished me to know her husband is unfortunately as mad as a March hare.”

  “He suffers from the dementia of old age,” I said. The poor man. What a blessing my dear Orpha had not been afflicted with that kind of decline in mental acuity.

  “Yes. He apparently never had plans for a new design. My mother would have said he’s gone completely seafóid.” Kevin pointed to his head. “You know, he’s not the full shilling.”

  I smiled at the image. “And therefore his plans weren’t stolen,” I mused. “That clears up one question, at least.”

  “Yes. He imagined the whole thing.”

  “Sir?” A young patrolman popped his head into the doorway. “A Mr. Ned Bailey is here asking to speak with you. He says it concerns the homicide.”

  Kevin’s eyebrows ascended nearly to his hairline. “Show him in forthwith, by all means.”

  “This could prove important,” I said. “Does thee want me to absent myself?”

  “Not at all,” he scoffed. “You stay right there, Miss Rose.”

  After Ned was ushered in, Kevin barked at the young officer to fetch another chair. Ned perched on the edge of it, kneading his bowler in his hands. And not speaking.

  “Well, Mr. Bailey? What do you have to tell us?” Kevin asked.

  Ned stared at his hat, rolling its edge in his fingers so hard I thought a piece of the rim might detach. He gazed up at me instead of at his questioner.

  “It’s like this. Yesterday Mrs. Dodge counseled me to do the right thing. And I went to church this morning at St. James and prayed.” He swallowed. Again the pearls of sweat dotted his brow. “I have a confession I would like to make.”

  A confession of murder? This could be exactly what we needed, although I would be surprised if Ned had intentional homicide in him. An accident resulting in death was more likely. I waited.

  Kevin drummed his fingers on the desk. He shot me a glance. I lifted a shoulder and dropped it. I wasn’t about to take over the interrogation from him. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds on its way to half past three. A door slammed somewhere. Rain rapped like an impatient lover at the window. Ned worried his hat.

  “Out with it, man.” Kevin blew out a breath. “We don’t have all day here. Did you kill Justice Harrington?”

  Ned’s head jerked up. “No! I wouldn’t do something like that. But I saw who did.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “I stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and a cigar Monday night.” Ned’s voice shook as he went on.

  I wanted to ask at exactly what time. I kept my mouth shut and let him talk.

  “Folks don’t take kindly to the smell of cigars indoors,” Ned continued. “But I heard voices. A gentleman’s and a lady’s. They weren’t shouting, but it sounded like an argument.” Ned swiped at his forehead with a folded handkerchief. “I peered around the corner into the alley to see Mr. and Mrs. Harrington facing each other, arguing.”

  “What were they saying?” Kevin leaned his forearms onto the desk.

  “I couldn’t hear. I never knew one could fight while whispering, but fighting was what they were doing.”

  I had heard whispered arguments before. What a shame Ned hadn’t been able to make out the content of this one.

  “Mr. Harrington turned his back on her and began to walk in my direction. That is, back to the opera house,” Ned continued. “I didn’t want him to see me, and I pulled my head in around the corner. Mrs. Harrington yelled, ‘Justice, come back. You have to!’ I looked again, and he still walked toward me. She raised a gun in both hands and—” His voice broke. He buried his face in his hands.

  Kevin looked at me. I held a finger to my lips. We needed to wait until he was composed. A full minute ticked by. Ned still didn’t speak.

  “Ned,” I said softly. “What did thee see?”

  He raised his head. “She shot him in the back. Three times. I saw her murder her own husband.” Twisting his hands, he searched my face, then Kevin’s. The skin bunched around his haunted eyes. “How does someone do that?”

  Was Ned telling the truth? I’d never known him to dissemble nor to be experienced in theatrical arts. He certainly appeared devastated by what he’d seen. But why hadn’t he come forward immediately? Was he putting on an act deserving of the stage?

  “Humans are capable of the worst, Mr. Bailey.” Kevin glowered. “Let’s start with you sitting on this eyewitness account for a full week without coming forward. How do you explain such inaction? And absconding with the gun to hide it at your home instead of bringing the weapon here as any responsible citizen would have done?”

  “I was wrong to hide the gun and in error for not coming forth.” Ned pulled down the corners of his mouth, and his shoulders sank over his chest. “I had such high hopes for my new venture, and Mr. Harrington had received my proposal with enthusiasm. I’d hoped to convince Mrs. Harrington she would also want to work with me.”

  “Let me guess, Bailey,” Kevin said. “You didn’t convince her. She shunned you. It was you who killed Justice Harrington. You, who then hid the gun and made up these stories against a respectable lady foreigner because she rejected your entreaties.” He stood, fists on hips, nostrils flared. “You’re only here now
with your fabrications because your plans are gone, you don’t have a business partner, and you are without hope for a future.”

  “No!” Ned said. “That’s not it at all. None of it. You have to believe me. Mrs. Dodge does.” He looked at me. “Don’t you, Rose?”

  I waited a moment before speaking. “I am not sure what I believe. Kevin, thee might want to take thy seat again.” It looked to me as if Kevin was about to make a possibly premature arrest. And a probably false one. “I have a few more questions for Ned.”

  Kevin cocked his head, regarding me, then nodded as if to himself. He lowered himself into his chair with a mighty creak.

  “What happened after Luthera fired the shots?” I asked Ned.

  “I quickly stubbed out my cigar and melted back into a corner of darkness as Mrs. Harrington ran past toward the opera house.”

  “She ran?” Kevin asked.

  “Yes.” Ned bobbed his head. “As soon as I couldn’t see her any longer, I dashed to Mr. Harrington’s side. I prayed maybe he’d only been wounded. But he was already gone. Dead.” He swallowed hard. “As I said, I hoped to continue my vision for the future with Luthera Harrington. I picked up the gun and stowed it in my overcoat pocket. I wanted to regain my plans, but I heard footsteps and hightailed it back to the opera house.”

  “And the next morning thee hid the gun,” I said.

  “I did.”

  “Think carefully now,” I said. “Did thee see or hear anything else while thee was outside that night?”

  He knit his brows. “Someone coughing. A man, I think.”

  Coughing. “What time is the closing event today?” I asked Ned.

  He looked at the clock. “It starts in ten minutes.”

  I focused my gaze on Kevin. He returned it. He clasped one wrist with his other hand, then mirrored the action, eyebrows raised, mimicking the act of handcuffing.

  I gave a quick shake of my head. “Not yet, I think. You and I need to get over to the event with all due speed. Someone must keep an eye on Ned here for the time being.”

  “But I need to—” Ned started to rise.

  Kevin stood. “No, Mr. Bailey, you don’t. What you need to do is sit right there while we confirm a couple of facts.” He glared until Ned plopped back down.

  Chapter Forty

  Kevin directed an officer to guard Ned. On our way out, the detective shouted at a young officer to accompany us and directed another to bring the wagon around to the opera house with great haste and wait for us. We then rushed around the corner, as it was quicker to walk than wait for a police vehicle and horse to be readied.

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, Miss Rose,” Kevin said as we hurried. “I’d queried a police contact up in Ottawa. I got a return telegraph today, saying Mrs. Harrington is some kind of markswoman. A sharpshooter. Canada’s own Annie Oakley.”

  My breath rushed in. “So she’s good with a gun.”

  “Very. She’s won prizes.”

  The diminutive Oakley was famed the world over for her prowess with a rifle and for teaching other women to shoot. I’d read she had married Frank Butler in Windsor, Ontario. Had they also journeyed to Ottawa? Perhaps Luthera had been taught by the best shooter on the continent, lady or otherwise. I wished I’d had this information earlier.

  Breathing heavily and reeling from all the sudden news, I followed Kevin into the opera house. Ned had most surely done the right thing by showing up at the station and reporting to Kevin. Doing it sooner would have been better, but thus it was. Thus all of it was. Now we had to find Luthera.

  Inside, we both halted. The large foyer was packed with people. The double doors to the theater were closed, but a number of people seemed to be moving up the staircases on both ends of the building. A huge ballroom occupied the third floor, one often converted to a meeting space for purposes precisely like this one. I scanned the light-haired heads I saw, at least the female ones, and the black dresses. I didn’t spy Luthera. I did see Georgia Clarke, who gave me an enthusiastic wave from across the foyer.

  “I don’t see the lady,” Kevin muttered. “Do you?”

  “No. Shall we go up?”

  Kevin nodded. “Don’t leave this door, hear?” he told the young policeman.

  “No, sir. I won’t, sir.”

  “If you spot Mrs. Harrington, detain her,” Kevin added to the wide-eyed fellow. “She doesn’t leave, and she doesn’t go farther in. She might be a murderess.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I don’t know what the suspect looks like.”

  I hurried to describe her and how she was likely dressed.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young fellow nodded so hard I thought his neck might hurt later.

  “Shall we, Miss Rose?” Kevin gestured to the right toward the less crowded of the two sets of stairs.

  I considered suggesting we split up but thought the better of it. I began to follow him, weaving through locals and visitors talking in small groups. I overheard snippets of conversation. “Weather is such a pity,” and “Murderer still at large,” were among them.

  I halted. William Parry stood with arms akimbo in a corner next to the stairwell. He scanned the crowd. I grabbed Kevin’s elbow. He whirled.

  I pointed and whispered, “Come with me.” I wove through the crowd until I stood in front of William.

  “Good afternoon, William.”

  He blinked, then looked sharply left and right as if for an escape route. Kevin and I closed in.

  “A witness puts you on the scene the night of Justice Harrington’s murder.” Kevin scowled. “Why did you conceal what you knew?”

  I whipped my head to look at the detective. This was not the approach I would have taken. Still, it was his case, not mine.

  “Naturally I was there.” William’s voice rose. “What nonsense is this?”

  “Was thee in the alley?” I asked more gently.

  “No. Pardon me.” He turned his head and coughed into a handkerchief. “As you both can tell, I am not well. I was seized by a paroxysm that evening and absented myself to take some fresh air. I stepped into the passageway next to the building.”

  Kevin opened his mouth for further bluster. I held up a hand to him. The passageway led to the alley.

  “Truthfully now,” I said. “Did thee witness a cry, a shot, anyone fleeing? Thee must help us.”

  William searched my face. He swallowed. “I heard steps running. Light heels, like a lady’s, in the alley behind the opera house. When I was about to go back in, I saw Mrs. Harrington. She was breathing hard as she shut the door behind her.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police with your information?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think it was important.”

  Or he didn’t want her implicated in a crime, because he desperately needed an influx of money to save his company?

  “We have to find her,” Kevin murmured next to my ear.

  I pointed upward. Kevin pushed through the crowd toward the stairs. William stared after him.

  “Excuse me,” I said to him and made to follow the detective.

  “Mrs. Dodge, wait.” William touched my arm.

  I faced him. “Make it quick.”

  “Do you think she killed her husband?” He didn’t speak softly and drew stares from others nearby.

  When I stared back, they averted their eyes and hurried on upstairs. “That’s entirely possible,” I said to William.

  “There goes that plan,” he mumbled. His plan to rescue his business.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find Luthera.”

  “But, Rose, you won’t,” Georgia said, suddenly at my elbow.

  “Why ever not, Georgia?” I asked. “She’s been here all week despite her mourning.”

  “Because she packed up all her things this morning, and she’s headed back to Canada.”

  My heart sank. “What train did she catch?”

  “She hasn’t yet, quite. It’s the four thirty.”

  I sucked in a breath, spyi
ng the back of Kevin’s blue coat halfway up.

  “Kevin!” I shouted, not giving a care for what people thought. I pointed to the door. “Depot.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Kevin and I climbed out of the police wagon, which had driven us the few blocks to the train depot with bells clanging. The young officer had come along, too. Kevin asked the man driving to stay and be at the ready.

  This wasn’t a large station, as Amesbury was the end of the line. The building, with its wide cantilevered overhang on all sides, had only recently been moved here to the corner of Elm and Water. The engine of a Boston & Maine passenger train sat huffing and ready on the tracks.

  Kevin again ordered the young officer to post himself at the door and watch for any well-dressed light-haired ladies hurrying out. We pushed through the crowd inside to the platform. A conductor stood checking tickets and helping women up the two steps into the first car.

  “Police,” Kevin said to him. “Did a lady with a through ticket to Canada already board?”

  I stepped forward. “She might have been dressed in widow’s black.” Or perhaps not. She’d be traveling among people who didn’t know of her husband’s death, and she obviously wasn’t actually mourning. Luthera could have dressed in the garments she’d brought.

  “Let me think, now.” The conductor rubbed his forehead. “Why, yes, that lady. She’s checked through to Montreal.”

  “Out with it, my man,” Kevin said. “Which car is she on?”

  “They’re all the same. No first class on this train. Not until she transfers in Portland. She could be in any of the five.”

  Kevin rolled his eyes. “Come on, Miss Rose. You start here, and I’ll run down to the other end and meet you. If you find her first, detain her until I get there.”

  “Now, hold on a minute,” the conductor protested. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Train’s due to leave in two minutes.”

  Kevin glowered. “Until Mrs. Dodge and I have descended with a known murderer in custody, train doesn’t leave Amesbury.”

  The gent’s eyes widened. “With all due respect, sir, that’s not possible. We have connecting schedules to keep up. One late train and the entire network goes all to . . .” He glanced at me. “To heck.”