The Last Hanging: A Will Haviland-Abigail Carhart Mystery

by M. G. Meaney

  They settled into rockers on the porch. Haviland accepted tea and muffins from a solicitous Mrs. Carpenter. After some small talk, Haviland asked if they had seen anyone riding or walking past the afternoon of Zife Jenks' murder.

  "What a question, Reverend!" Mrs. Carpenter exclaimed. "You sound like a policeman. Hasn't this all been solved? They hanged that young man last week."

  Haviland explained about the diary and his suspicions.

  "Someone from the village? Someone who passed by here?" Mr. Carpenter asked. "I think you're off the point there. We've never had anything like that the 40 years Mary and I have lived here. We were shocked, yes, about that peddler, but of course it was an outsider killed him."

  Haviland persisted, gently, and got them to admit that, yes, they'd seen a gentleman in a black cutter-type sleigh pulled by a black and white horse glide by during the height of the snowstorm. He was bundled up in a long gray coat, black derby and brown gloves.

  In fact, they had seen himself, minutes before he discovered Jenks' body and captured Theodore Hopfner.

  No, they had not seen anyone else. though of course it was snowing fiercely and the visibility was poor. But they probably would have remembered someone else if they had remembered him.

  He had been returning from a visit to a church member's ailing 8-year-old daughter, who later died of diphtheria.

  The response was the same at Sherwood's — no one seen but the man in the sleigh.

  Haviland continued following the road north for another quarter-mile, where a wooden bridge took it over Peningo Brook. Haviland left the road here and prodded his horse onto the north bank of the brook and headed southeast, toward the village. Pulpit trotted along behind. Haviland found the going easy as the maple, oak, chestnut and white pine formed a natural pathway a short distance in from the brook. His route took him near the hollow tree where the Leatherman had found the order book, about a mile along the path but a bit off it. It was a chestnut tree. The opening was 5 feet high, but the hollow formed a shelf inside about a foot and a half high, so someone could reach things within. Haviland found a few crumpled leaves, a spider web and accumulated dust, but nothing else. He noticed nothing in particular around the tree — some mushrooms sprouting from cavities in the tree roots, dried pine needles, a couple of pine cones.

  Haviland rode on. In another half-mile he emerged downtown. The brook veered left into Paulding Harbor and then out into Long Island Sound. In front of him lay one end of the Disbrow " Purdy Nut and Bolt Works stretching along the water behind the Main Street shops, except for this end which jutted into Main Street just before the woods began. So, aside from the 30-foot-high factory wall, the only thing Haviland faced was a small hitching post squeezed in behind the factory. In fact, it had room only for four horses. It served Samuel Merritt, whose harness shop was the last at this end of the street, and Thaddeus Acker, the current owner of the nut and bolt works. His private office entrance was at this end. Their two horses, Burnside and Bolter, were hitched there now.

  Haviland sat on Preacher looking out at Main Street. Carriages came and went. People entered and left the shops, in two-story wooden buildings with apartments or other businesses upstairs, or strolled along the wooden sidewalks.

  Some one of them could have killed Zife Jenks.

  It was perfectly possible. The killer could have ridden past the harness shop and Acker's office, climbed this hillock and disappeared into the thicket. Then, he could have followed that tree-framed path after crossing the brook, which was shallow here. After a mile and a half through the trees, he would have emerged at Indian Hill Road, but more important, would have been hidden by thickets first on the east side of the road, then on the west. Meanwhile, Jenks was trudging north from Westchester Avenue, apparently undeterred by a little snowstorm from selling clothes to support his wife and four children.

  A mile in from Westchester Avenue the killer confronts Jenks. He hacks at the peddler with the ax, stolen from Dusenberry's shed, perhaps by Jenks himself. The peddler raises his hands to ward off the slicing blows. Desperate, he turns and runs off the road, toward the wall. He never makes it. He has run south, which would indicate the killer came from the north. The killer probably returns the way he came. The thicket does not run all the way south, so he would have been noticed on Westchester Avenue. Besides, the order book was found north. So, he returns through the thickets and along the riverbank, stopping to go through Jenks' order book – to make sure his name is not in it. It is, apparently. So, he rips out a couple of pages then tosses it into the tree trunk. He continues back, reappears downtown and is far away when I come along and discover the body – and Hopfner.

  The rector looked again over the prosperous little village before him.

  Why would anyone here want to kill a peddler?

  CHAPTER 8

  Ann Derivan, sturdily built, black-haired 30-ish baker's shop clerk with ruddy features and cheerful look, stood in her white cotton chemise and silk drawers as Abigail Carhart took in the bodice of a red dress Ann was considering.

  They were in the curtained-off back of the shop, and Abigail, in a light blue dress, worked at a long table embossed with a measurement grid for laying out and precisely cutting fabrics.

  Her head down and black ringlets curtaining off her face, Abigail slid pins into the dress and asked casually, "Ann, how did the peddler seem to you on the day he was killed?"

  Ann's expression clouded. "Abigail, I, I … how would I know what the peddler? …"

  "He wrote you down in his order book that day – gloves, those gloves you're wearing today, if I had to guess, based on their, er, quality."

  Ann crossed her arms in front of her as if to ward off Abigail, then took the offensive.

  "But Abigail, why are you interested in this peddler? Reverend Haviland, I know, appears to think he caught the wrong man, but surely that's his concern."

  "Ann, the reverend is new to the village. You and I could learn more in an afternoon about the peddler's last hours, don't you think? So, I'm detecting to help the reverend's efforts."

  "Well, that's very generous of you, Abby," Ann said, now in possession of a choice bit of gossip. "Is there something more between you and the very handsome reverend?"

  "No, no," Abigail said briskly with a wave of a hand. "I'm trying my hand as a lady detective is all."

  "Hmm," said Ann, skeptical. "The scar and the limp from the war give him character, wouldn't you say?"

  Abigail raised her head from the work table, and six straight pins protruded from her mouth, as if a sea monster with seaweed ringlets.

  Ann, started, took a step back in her undergarments.

  Abigail slid the pins from her mouth and into the dress bodice.

  "Now, the peddler. How did you come to encounter him that day?" she asked Ann.

  "Oh, well, he turned up at my door," Ann sputtered, "and the gloves, they looked nice, for the price.

  You're right that they're nothing to the quality of yours, of course, Abigail. But he was there, and they'll serve for everyday." Nervously, she added, "How much of the order book have you seen?"

  Abigail, head bent over the potential purchase, ignored the question – clearly Ann had patronized the peddler other times. "It's that last day that interests me, Ann. You're up Westchester Avenue after the square. How was Jenks by the time he reached your door?"

  "How was he?" Ann pondered while wondering how long Abigail would leave her exposed in the back of the shop. "He was, I suppose, distracted, like. Not as cheerful as … as you might expect from a salesman."

  Or as he had been on his previous sales to Ann, Abigail concluded.

  "In what way distracted, Ann?" Abigail asked, glancing up but producing more pins from the cache she always stored in her dress pocket along with scissors and continuing to hold Ann's dress hostage.

  "He, his eyes, they darted back and forth, here and there. He glanced away as he showed the gloves, as if h
e had something on his mind, or as if he was looking for someone."

  "Did you see anyone he might have been watching for? Was anyone in the road?"

  "Abby, people were passing and driving by, but no one he seemed to fasten on." She heard the shop door open with a ting of bell. Clip-clop and chatter from the street gusted in and stirred the air in the shop, which brushed her bare skin with the fragrance of lavender and street smell of horse. Was that a man's voice in the shop? She shivered, scanned the curtain and crouched where she was exposed. No. The voice came from the street. "How is the dress looking?" she inquired tentatively.

  Abigail, still bent to the work, slid in another pin. "Almost there," she said offhandedly. "So, Jenks was distracted, you say, Ann. Distracted, thinking, remembering something, maybe something he forgot or something he needed to do or planned to do? Or was he maybe ill and distracted by that? Or anxious, fearful of something or someone?"

  "Oh, Abby, how can you tell with people like that, what they're thinking or feeling? All I remember is he said, 'These gloves great for you,' something like that, then looked out to the road, then, 'Size, color go good with all,' then back to the road. His face, he did seem to be trying to think of something. He seemed to be looking past me and tense, like he was struggling to remember something."

  "But he did concentrate enough to make the sale?" Abigail inquired archly, pulling out a couple of the pins and repinning as Ann anxiously stepped from foot to foot wondering if she would have to leave the shop in her undergarments.

  "Yes, he sold me the gloves," Ann admitted, but added quickly, "But he almost forgot to give me my change. I had to demand it."

  "Well done," Abigail commended. "You have to stay alert when dealing with such characters." Relenting, Abigail gathered up the dress and spread it over Ann's head, pulled it into place and drew back to inspect it.

  "There, I think it suits you well, Ann," Abigail said to the relieved customer.

  Ann strode to a mirror, twirled, and smiled. "I love it, Abigail. You have such nice things," she enthused, with more passion than usual.

  "Now, will you take the dress? Not up to the peddler's standards, but quite nice on you, I think," Abigail said, returning to business.

  "Why, it's beautiful. I will take it."

  "Grand. And I'm here for anything you ever need," Abigail reminded her. Abigail produced a bowl. "Would you like a mint?"

  "Ah, yes, I would," Ann said, though she would have preferred a butterscotch or chocolate from the bowls Abigail had not offered.

  Later in the day, another order book customer, Sarah Tompkins, stopped by the shop to look for a blouse. She and Abigail were looking through a rack of possibilities in white, red, sage green, yellow and blue beneath displays of green and gold ball gowns. The peddler had stopped by Sarah's Hillside Avenue home early in his rounds that fatal day, before heading through the downtown square and up Westchester Avenue.

  "Abby, the peddler was positively buoyant when I saw him," Sarah piped in her high voice. "Imagine, I was among the last to see him alive. How interesting!" The thin mother of five spread her hands and added, "See, I'm wearing the very sweater I bought that day." The thought that she might offend Abigail never occurred to her. Her five children kept her busy and happy, and nuance played little role in her life.

  "Yes, I see. The color accents your hair," Abigail observed.

  "That's what I thought when he showed it to me," Sarah said, passing a hand through her tousled thick brown hair. "He must have shown me a half-dozen sweaters – how much merchandise he carries in that pack and how hard it was for him to pull out each one! But he was so attentive and patient. He even gave the children candies when they crowded round and a ball to go away and play with. And this color struck me at last."

  "How about this yellow blouse? It could go with your, er, new sweater," Abigail said, displaying it.

  "I like those frills at the wrists. I'll keep it in mind," Sarah said and continued to browse.

  "So, the peddler was in good spirits when you saw him, Sarah?"

  "Oh, so much so, Abby. He was smiling and asking about my children's sizes and colors they liked. 'Like my children own,' he said."

  "He wasn't worried, or looking around, anything like that?"

  "Not at all, Abby. He was just like the two other times I'd bought from him. A very happy young man."

  "Hmm," Abigail grumbled. "Well, now he's gone I can help you with any clothes you need."

  "A shame he was, you know. And Reverend Haviland apparently caught that poor German lad by mistake, you know. I can see why the reverend wants to find the one who did, you know, to the peddler, though it won't bring back that German boy to his poor mother."

  "A lot of people got it wrong," Abigail corrected tensely. "The reverend is working to right a wrong and make the village safe again."

  "Of course, Abby. A terrible wrong, a tragic wrong, for that boy and his mother. Say, is that why you're asking after the peddler? Are you helping Reverend Haviland?"

  "Sarah, I suppose I am. Or perhaps he will be helping me. Now, how about this green? It would go with the dress you bought last month."

  At that moment, three girls and two boys tumbled laughing and screeching into the shop, repeatedly tinging the door's bell. They were followed by Sarah's sister, Mary, who smiled with relief upon handing off the children to Sarah. The children ran about the shop, filing through clothes, the 3-, 5- and 7-year-old girls pulling dresses off racks and tables to try them on and the boys whirling hats across the shop.

  Abigail, frantic, strode about trying to corral them as Sarah chatted, oblivious, with her sister.

  Then, to Abigail's dismay, the children spied three bowls on a counter.

  "Sweets!" several yelled.

  The children ransacked the chocolates, butterscotch and mints – into their mouths, pockets or sticky hands all went. And the children, snot-nosed, chocolate-handed, sticky, resumed their noisy assault, posing in white cotton chemises, pink velvet gowns, stiff corsets and elaborate feathered hats.

  After an errant broad-brimmed hat struck Sarah in the back of the head, the mother finally announced, "Children, time to go." And to Abigail, "Abby, I'll be back another time when things are not so hectic here."

  "Yes, do go," Abigail agreed as she coaxed a maroon silk gown from the 3-year-old's sticky hands.

  CHAPTER 9

  "I must tell you, Reverend, in all my 75 years I was never so frightened as I was that day," Amelia Theall was recounting as she and Haviland took tea in her parlor. "Here came Henry Wheatley's mare — Violet was her name; dead now, poor dear, went lame in a trench for one of those new water lines — she was bearing down on me in a fury, carriage careening behind her, no rider in sight. The boy hoisting the awning at McCarty's dry goods had frightened her, it seemed. The awning let out another squeal, or some such, and the mare fled, right down Main Street. Will Downing's buggy was sent clear across the road. I had just bought a corset — I can afford not to be prudish at my age, Reverend — at Mrs. Carhart's shop and stepped outside. I heard Henry yelling at Violet. Then I saw her."

  "What happened, then, Mrs. Theall?" Haviland coaxed, he hoped, avidly, though he and everyone else in Paulding knew the outcome. The incident had happened three years earlier, but it was Mrs. Theall's favorite story and she never tired of retelling it.

  "I stopped dead," she continued, dramatically setting her teacup on the mahogany coffee table between their upholstered wing chairs. "I said a quick prayer." The prayer was not part of the story usually, but she had added it for this listener. She leaned closer. "Violet came on, nostrils blaring. She was as far away as the fireplace is from us. I raised my arm to shield my face for the expected blow. Something thudded directly in front of me, then there were several crashes. She had run up against the hitching post, entangled the buggy in it and broken free of the harness. The buggy lay overturned two doors up. They say they found me thrown to the ground by the force of i
t. It is hazy from then on. I was sorely bruised, Reverend, but thank the Lord I escaped with my life."

  "And Violet?" Haviland asked, as he must.

  "A most high-spirited animal, Reverend. She continued up Main Street, right past Sam Merritt's harness shop — he repaired the broken buggy on the spot — and past Tad Acker's office and on into the woods. They found her hours later at Dan White's place, alongside his cows, grazing. I'll never forget that day, Reverend, if I live to be a hundred."

  For emphasis, she poured more tea from the silver pot into the white china cup imprinted with a pink rose, echoing the strong fragrance of her perfume. She patted her silver hair back into its bun, as if it had come undone from the rigors of the ordeal. She lay her pallid, bony hands in the lap of her maroon dress, which stood out in the sea green, dark greens and golds in the walls and draperies. The 75-year-old widow — her husband had been a prominent banker in the village — sat straight in the apricot yellow chair and her thin but elegant face and bluish-gray eyes took on a look of satisfaction and determination from a harrowing experience survived and a story well-told.

  "It must have been frightful," Haviland exclaimed, playing his role. "How fortunate you were not more seriously injured. I am sure you slept ill for more than a few nights after."

  "You may believe it."

  "And after this to see you take the reins of your carriage today, people cannot comprehend how courageous you must be," he continued, seeing she expected more affirmation.

  "I drove myself the very next day, thank you, Reverend. More tea?"

  "Yes, please. It is very fine." He had come on a pastoral afternoon visit, but with another motive. Amelia Theall had been one of the last people to see Zife Jenks alive. Her house was at the corner of Westchester Avenue and Indian Hill Road. Jenks had stopped there before making the fateful turn up Indian Hill. She was also one of the village's biggest gossips. Ordinarily, he frowned on gossip and discouraged it, but his inquiry made gossip a valuable commodity. So, he was content to listen to her stories in hopes of hearing something that might prove useful.