The Last Hanging: A Will Haviland-Abigail Carhart Mystery

by M. G. Meaney

  "I think I shall not sign up for a telephone," she was saying in her reedy but emphatic voice. "The tell us they will open an exchange in Paulding by next year. They have one already in White Plains and Tarrytown, but I see no need for it. I can speak with anyone I want by simply stepping outside my door or driving my buggy down to Main Street. We had the Strawberry Festival last week, and I spoke with everyone I knew. It was lovely, don't you think, Reverend? The Japanese lanterns and the bushels of flowers, all so exotic. I thought I was in another world. But to charge a person $3 a month for a device that lets you speak to people you already can talk to, it seems entirely useless, a scheme to defraud, almost.

  "This is not to say that I oppose anything new, Reverend, you will understand. I allow my girl Molly to buy boxed and canned foods for everyday cooking, though not for company. And I shall sign up for water service. At my age, pumping water can be an effort some days, though of course Molly does most of it."

  "You hope that the inventions and devices that are worthwhile will last, while those that lead to mischief or waste will fall by the wayside," the rector observed.

  "Quite so, my dear Reverend Haviland, but people so often grasp for the latest just because it is new," she said.

  "Mrs. Theall, you may have heard that I am taking an interest in the death of the peddler Zife Jenks."

  "I had heard so, indeed. Only natural since you caused that mischievous but harmless Hopfner boy to be sent to the gallows. Everyone says they knew all along the poor boy was innocent." She said it matter-of-factly with no thought of its impact on the hearer.

  Haviland was taken aback, but he recalled how all of these same suddenly perspicacious villagers had turned out last week to root on the hangman.

  "Would that we were all so wise as we are today, Mrs. Theall. But an injustice has been done, two in fact, and I am hoping to undo them by finding the real killer. I hope that, perhaps, you can help me. You saw him not long before he was killed. Could you think back to that day and tell me what you remember?"

  "Oh, Reverend, I shudder at calling to mind the disturbing events, which, I must say, affected me most deeply. Poor Mr. Jenkins and his family ..." A pout interjected itself among the creases of her face.

  "Mr. Jenks," Haviland corrected.

  "Of course. Mr. Jenks and his eight children...

  "He had four children."

  "Oh, how forgetful. Well, you must see how it disturbed me. I could hardly close an eye for a full week after. It was two weeks before I could wear the sweater he had delivered me that day. I was his last customer," she announced proudly. She drew herself up in the armchair, as if to summon her strength. Then, she began.

  "It was about 12:15. I know because I had just finished my lunch — vegetable soup, brown bread and a custard, as I have every Thursday. I was having tea when someone knocked on the door. Molly opened up," she said of her Irish maid, "and it was he, the peddler. I went to the hallway where she had him wait. We never let him into the house — one never knows — but it was snowing heavily and quite cold outside and Molly thought, rightly, that I would catch a chill if I dealt with him in the doorway.

  "I don't usually deal with their type, but the first time Jenkins stopped here he complimented my necklace, said he had never seen one look so good on a lady. Well, here, I thought, is a man with good taste. Then he said he had a blouse that would go perfectly with the necklace. Of course, I had to see it, and I ordered it and another as well.

  "He was a runty sort of a man, but crisply dressed, well, for an immigrant, and clean. A check suit with a vest, and a sailor's cap. And smiley and eager and even humorous: He confided to me that he'd dealt with a lady in Rye who ordered clothes two sizes too large – so she could eat amply and not worry about fitting into them. A funny story that – and in passable English."

  Haviland put in, "And that day of the storm?"

  "I had ordered a turquoise wool sweater, and he had come to deliver it and be paid, naturally. He had been out of my size that earlier visit but had a larger one that I admired. He agreed to bring one in my size the next time. He understood money quite well, as you might imagine. On this visit he produced the sweater. I took it out of the wrapping and inspected it. You can't be too careful, you know. I tried it on, and I must say that it fit perfectly. I kept it on and paid him — $3.50."

  "Did he write down the payment in any kind of book?" the rector asked, fervently hoping he had so he could pressure the police again.

  "No," Amelia Theall replied definitely. "He stuffed the money into his pants pocket, somewhat distractedly, then put his pack on and left."

  "You say he was distracted?"

  "More than that, now I recall. He seemed as if he had seen a ghost. His eyes were wild. He seemed not to know exactly where he was. He did not even admire me in the sweater, if you can imagine, Reverend. He kept looking behind him, out the door, as if he were expecting someone, or were being followed. Perhaps he foresaw his death?"

  "Did he say anything, anything at all? Did you get any sense of what he was disturbed about?"

  "As I said, his command of the language is — was – just passable. He took out the sweater and said, "Yours, Madam, just as you order.' Then he presented me with it. He looked behind him constantly while I tried it on. like a man bothered by a fly. You get the buzzing in your ears and whirl about to try to find the source. So seemed the peddler, except frightened or nervous, not annoyed, as you would be with a pesky fly."

  "What else did he say?"

  "He muttered something as he took the money, something like, Thank you,' or words along those lines. He didn't offer to show me anything else, although I might have been interested. He was anxious to pack up and be gone. Distracted, as I said before. Not smiley or attentive."

  "Then what happened?"

  "A most curious thing. When he left, I returned to the parlor here. As you can see, it looks out on both Westchester Avenue and around the corner to Indian Hill Road. That is one of the finest things about it, the sweeping view, I think. Don't you agree? I settled back in front of the fire, but I caught sight of him. A group of young men had come upon him at the corner and they were teasing him. I went to the window — to make sure no harm came to him."

  Haviland suspected her interest in gossip was the overriding motivation, but today he was happy for it.

  "What did you see?" he asked.

  "There were four boys — Johnny Van Amringe, the mayor's son, young Tom Wetmore, Edward Adee and Jordan Denham. They were — I hate to say it in these enlightened days, Reverend — they were calling him the most terrible names."

  "Can you remember any of them? It may be important, Mrs. Theall."

  "Oh, it pains me so. Ragman was one. 'Go back to Poland, they told him. And, 'Go to the devil.'"

  "What did Mr. Jenks do?"

  "He looked at them at first, as if he thought they might be saying something civil, or asking to look at some clothes. As soon as he realized their game, he turned away, hoisted the pack onto his back and started up Indian Hill Road."

  "And where were the boys during this?"

  "They had come up from the village apparently, so they were in the road, behind him. He was on the walk in front of the house here and went to the corner. Then he turned right and up

  Indian Hill."

  "Then what happened?"

  "As he walked away from them, they followed and — I'm ashamed to say it — started pelting him with snowballs. Johnny threw the first one. Always the leader, as his father was at his age. I thought to send Molly out to say something to them, but they all disappeared from my view up the road, and I returned to my chair before the fire to warm up."

  "You're sure those were the boys involved? Could you be mistaken?"

  "I don't think so, Reverend. I've lived in the village my entire life. Why do you ask?"

  "Could one of them have been Theodore Hopfner?"

  Her eyebrows rose. She spoke in a hus
hed, conspiratorial tone.

  "My dear Reverend, do you know what you are suggesting? The sons of the mayor, the fire chief, the Baptist minister and of one of our most respected merchants?"

  Then, she lectured: "It is all well and good for you to make inquiries since you did have that Hopfner lad hanged wrongly, but you must be careful whom you accuse. The good citizens of Paulding will not tolerate calumnious accusations tossed about like 'Mornin'' or 'Afternoon, nice day, isn't it?'"

  Realizing he must retreat — he had done enough of it in his early Civil War service under McClellan — Haviland reassured her: "I fear you misunderstand my intention, my dear Mrs. Theall. If you had seen Theodore Hopfner there, it might just as easily mean that he had not killed Jenks." He hoped she would accept that, untrue as it was.

  She listened to his reassuring tone. "Of, of course. I am so relieved. It is such a disturbing subject, murder." She took a healthy bite of one of the small cakes Molly had brought out and sat chewing contently.

  The reverend worked his way back to the subject.

  "Did you see anyone else about at that time?"

  "Let me think? Yes, now that you mention it. Tad Acker rode from his house a couple of doors down as the boys were teasing poor Jenkins. I remember worrying about his riding in such weather."

  "Was he riding in his cutter?"

  "No, on horseback, on Bolter."

  "He was riding toward the village?"

  "Oh, yes. He was riding away from the peddler and the boys. If he had been heading the other way, surely he would have chastised those boys about the peddler. But he barely glanced their way, and the snow of course made it difficult to see. Bolter was certainly high-stepping through it, doing her best. Of course, Tad always is one to get the finest, whether in a horse, or in clothes — he has a tailor in Manhattan — or at home.

  "He socializes with a select few — he has had me to dinner a number of times — and I must say his is the finest house in the village. He even has a massive invention workshop with all kinds of devices in it that he's tinkering with. Isn't it a wonderful age that rewards the creative? I know little about nuts and bolts, but Tad Acker is held to have advanced the industry single handedly with the machines he has invented. He has thrived so in this country and he has embraced it. So patriotic, he is, always saying how much he loves 'the U.S. of A.' Yet, there is something very European about him still, though he is here 15 years, from Warsaw, which must be quite sophisticated. He is so elegant a man. That would explain ..."

  The difference between him and Zife Jenks and more recent immigrants, Haviland said to himself, completing her thought.

  "Had Mr. Jenks been at Mr. Acker's house before coming here, or Dan and Lucy Higgins next door?" Haviland asked.

  "Lucy told me they had been down in the village at the time, so they missed him. As for Tad Acker, what would a man like him want with a poor peddler? Of course, I use the peddler because his women's items, some of them, are superior to those he sells for men. And he recognizes what looks good on a lady."

  "Of course," the rector acknowledged.

  "But did you see where he came from? Do you know whose house he visited just before coming here? His agitated state may have something to do with an occurrence at his previous stop."

  "My dear Reverend, surely you do not suppose I spend my days at the window watching the progress of a peddler up the hill from the village?"

  "My dear Mrs. Theall, I was not suggesting that in the least ..."

  "It was far too snowy to see more than three houses down, anyway, and it was quite drafty by the big old windows here. No, I stayed close to the fire. Where the peddler called last I do not know. I know only that this was his last call." She smiled at the play on words, temporarily forgetting the tragedy behind them, as many were prone to do as regards peddlers.

  "Did Molly perhaps..."

  "Impossible, Reverend. She was in the kitchen at the back of the house for the hour before the peddler arrived."

  "Had Mr. Acker ever mentioned the peddler?"

  "The subject never came up. So many other things going on in the village to talk about."

  Which Haviland took to mean she had received little more than a tip of the hat from her neighbor since the murder.

  "Just last week at the Strawberry Festival, for instance, I noticed Tad preening before Lavinia Husted Gray. Her husband was run over by the 7:02 train for Grand Central about a month before your arrival. Poor man. Something frightened his mare as she was crossing the tracks south of the station. She stood stock still, would not move for anything, she and the buggy on the tracks and the train bearing down on them. He yelled, snapped the reins, kicked at her, even cursed. Nothing. He jumped down, took hold of her and tugged, a great tug of war with the balking horse. Seems he had wound the reins around his hand. The train hit the mare and buggy and George Gray was dragged along and thrown into a stone wall 50 feet up the line. The mare, of course, was killed as well.

  "But everyone at the festival was remarking on the attentions being paid by Tad. He never married, but we all thought it a mere matter of time before he fell to the charms of one of the village ladies. Maybe now. Oh, and I must confide, Reverend, that there also was some talk about you yourself."

  "Oh, and what was the talk?" he asked lightly.

  "That you and Mrs. Carhart make an attractive couple. She was such a lovely young girl — not that she is not a fine woman now. But something happened to her after her husband was killed. It took something out of her ..." She paused and took stock of the curly-haired rector's expression — inquisitive, but more serious than moments ago.

  "But, of course, I mean ... How do you feel about dear Abigail?"

  Haviland framed his response carefully, knowing that some distorted version of it would make the rounds.

  "I have great respect for Mrs. Carhart, just as I do for all my congregation."

  Mrs. Theall smiled and began pondering what she would wear to their wedding.

  After a few moments, she remarked: "Reverend, your Abigail might be considered a, what is the term, prime suspect in the killing of the peddler. Did he not spit on her window?" — she withheld her thought "disgusting vagrant behavior" out of respect for the rector's seemingly sincere, if not quite understandable, interest in finding the peddler's killer — "just the day before he was killed? Surely, enough motive."

  "She is not my Abigail," the rector corrected, "and I am sure she had nothing ..."

  "Or Sam Merritt? What about hothead Sam? Hates foreigners ever since he served with some Irish in the Great War. And that German fellow accidentally burned down his house while repairing the roof a few years after the war. It would be unfair now to blame that Polish fellow for that tragedy with his dear wife, though Sam does. Of course, if the fellow had been driving slower he might not have pitched poor Mildred into the harbor that Christmas Eve. I shiver when I think of it. Caught pneumonia after, she did. It was the end of her. And the month after didn't that Bronk fellow, and he Polish too, just off the boat, didn't he open up a harness shop closer to the center of the village. Keeps whips, brushes, horse blankets, liniments and powders too, and he makes his own mountings as well. Sam still won't look at the place when he walks past. Oh, he doesn't like foreigners, Sam doesn't. He's starting a campaign to keep them out, but you probably know about that."

  "Yes, I'd heard," said Haviland, bemused at Amelia Theall's interest in suspecting all villagers after warning him not to publish suspicions of any.

  "And what about old Ellwood Dusenberry? He's been complaining to one and all about someone stealing from his toolshed. He lives right up around there. Oh, Reverend, you have me a bit frightened now. That one of our own villagers could have done this ..." She sipped her tea for strength.

  Haviland started to gather himself, wondering if this were the signal for him to depart. As he stood, a thought came to her. Her wrinkled face grew determined. She put down the rose-patterned cup. She look
ed over at him and smiled.

  "Now, Reverend, you got me worried so over nothing. If that Hopfner boy did not kill the peddler, it must have been the Leatherman. It is quite obvious to me now. You must mention that savage fellow to Constable Stillwell."

  "But why the Leatherman?" He was poised to review the case and the crucial question about why the Leatherman would have come forward with evidence that would have sent him to the gallows, but Amelia Theall had all the evidence she needed.

  "Reverend, he is a most uncouth individual, not an ounce civilized. And he is not one of us."

  * * *

  "Molly, you were here the day the peddler was killed. What do you remember?" Haviland sat in the kitchen as Molly polished silverware.

  "Oh, the snow was fierce," the chubby, round-faced 18-year-old redheaded Irish maid said. The Jinks fellow, he seemed in a burning hurry to be on his way, though Mrs. Theall kept talking to him. She would have bought something else, I'm sure, and other times he was happy enough to gab. But that day, no."

  "How did he seem?" Haviland asked.

  "Worried I would say, preoccupied."

  "Do you know why? Did he say anything?"

  "No. It was the look about him. He seemed almost scared, like," Molly said.

  "And the boys outside. What did they do?"

  "Oh, those fellows. It seemed in good fun is all – teasing, just, from what I could see from the kitchen window."

  "Ragman? Go back to Poland? Go to the devil? That was teasing?" Haviland asked.

  "Oh, they were just playing. I know those lads well. They wouldn't hurt anyone. They're just looking to put a bit o' life in this village. Dull it can be sometimes for the young folk."

  Then, Molly turned the conversation to Haviland – and Abigail.