The Last Hanging: A Will Haviland-Abigail Carhart Mystery

by M. G. Meaney

  "Reverend, what's the news of you and Mrs. Carhart? Word is you two are out to solve the murder like a pair of detectives."

  "Er, well, I'm looking into it. Mrs. Carhart has been interested but she is leaving the inquiring to me," Haviland stammered.

  "Oh, but she's on about it herself too, a regular lady detective," Molly corrected.

  "Really? I'm not aware that …"

  "Her shop is like a police station, with her interrogating all who come in is what I hear. Ladies can't but look at a bonnet without her pouncing on them about where were they that day, and did they see the peddler, and what was he like, and was anyone after him, and all. She's out to solve the case before you, I'd say, Reverend."

  "She should not … well, this is surprising …" he blurted.

  "Oh, but you must team up. Won't that be cozy for the two of you. You look very well together, you the handsome minister and she the stylish fancy lady."

  "It's not, er, that way. ..."

  "Mrs. Carhart. She's a lively one. Many a man's taken a liking to her over the years."

  "Really?" Haviland encouraged.

  "Oh, yes. A man arriving at a dance with Abigail on his arm was sure to be the center of attention. Well, Abigail was the center but her fellow, he was envied. How could he not when he'd Abigail on his arm. She tall and slender in her red or pink or yellow dress and dashing wide-brimmed hat with that twinkle in her eyes and smile ready to dazzle you. She danced like a dream, too. And she'd hold court, joking how she'd leave mysterious romantic messages when she had the telephone installed, or call Paris to beat her competition to the latest fashions.

  "But it was rugged for her dates, though. She'd throw a judge-and-jury eye at all they wore. The brown tie was 'fashion fortitude' with the blue suit if he really believed they went together, she'd tell the fellow when he appeared. A wrinkle noted here, a too generous pat of pomade on the hair, a droop of mustache there and the fellow was ready to flee before even presenting her with roses for their outing. It had to be roses."

  "Hmm," was all Haviland could manage.

  Then Molly moved in closer and whispered: "Word is Abigail even rated their kisses. 'Like mint was lowest, then 'like butterscotch,' and the top kisser rated a 'cherry in chocolate.' I hope I'm not speaking too much out of school, like," she said.

  "Er …" Haviland mumbled, appalled but fascinated.

  "But she's not been out so much in the last couple of years. Older, you see. And maybe she's scared off all the would-be suitors," Molly joked. "But Reverend, maybe you're the man to win her. Good luck to ye."

  "Ahh…thank you so much for the information – on Jenks," Haviland said, rising to leave. "If you think of anything else, please let me know."

  "I will, so. You or Abigail."

  CHAPTER 10

  To Haviland the vast factory floor of the Disbrow " Purdy Nut and Bolt Works seemed inhabited by an angry giant centipede. Iron legs huffed on three dozen machines twisting, pausing, clanking, then twisting again in two rows that stretched as far as the minister could see until they were swallowed in the dusty haze of sunlight from the great narrow shafts of windows. The workers in their brown or blue serge pants, white button shirts, suspenders and black bowlers hovered like servants attending to the mammoth beast, feeding it long round bars of iron and rolling away the nuts and bolts it spat out.

  The men — and some boys — did not seem to notice the noise, the heat, the dusty film in the sunlight. Shoosh. Clang. Shoosh. Clang.

  "And this is my cold-cut nut caster, exclusive to Disbrow " Purdy," Thaddeus Acker was proudly informing Haviland above the din. "Just two years ago I made it, though I had the idea since I made the cold-header for bolts 20 years ago. Now, no more forging the iron for nuts or bolts. You can shape them with the iron cold, except for the finish — the bolt and nut must look clean and shiny or the public will not buy it, even though it is the perfect fit and stronger than other companies.'" He shrugged.

  Haviland nodded, befuddled but admiring of the enterprise Acker's ingenuity had wrought, with its great new three-story, red-brick building along the harbor, its smokestacks dwarfing Main Street like candles on a giant cake, its copper bell tower sounding a wakeup at 5 a.m. for the 7 a.m. start of the workday, at 6 p.m. for the end of the day — 4 p.m. on Saturdays — and at 9 p.m. for Acker's recommended bedtime for workers.

  It was the fourth machine at which Acker had paused to expound on the workings or his "modifications" to make it more productive. Bolt headers, die grippers, swages, tread cutters, machines that could turn out both stove and tire bolts, he had improved them all, he related, his full bass rumbling over the machinery. The stocky, muscular, bespectacled industrialist stood even now smoothing his great black beard with his rough, massive right hand, the proud father considering what he might have omitted about his child's accomplishments. Unlike his workers, he was dressed with extreme formality and taste in a dark blue striped suit with a light blue vest, green silk bow-tie — his trademark, adopted with reverence by some of his admiring workers — gold shirt studs and a pocket watch with gold fob. His black leather shoes showed not a scuff mark despite the accumulated metal shavings, dirt and soot on the wooden floor.

  "I think I have covered the matter of the nut caster," Acker pronounced at last.

  A machine squealed at the far end of the factory. "Pszczoły i trzmiele," Acker, suddenly angry, muttered in Polish — ShTOLeh ee shmee-ELL-ah. "Bees and bumblebees."

  He pulled aside a boy of about 12 edging past with some boxes. "John," he said, fixing the skittish lad in place with a raised right eyebrow and a glare from his large brown eyes. "Tell Ellwood tire bolt finisher number 3 needs oil, now. That's a lad." He winked and patted him on the back.

  "Yes, Mr. Acker. Right away, Mr. Acker," the boy stammered and scampered off. Acker, called Tad or Thad by a few familiars and Amelia Theall and Mr. Acker by everyone else, was Paulding's benevolent dictator, a man of fatherly demeanor and iron will, a mix he made palatable through his brilliance. It was his inventions that had turned a foundering local enterprise into one of the country's largest and most productive nut and bolt factories. He was Paulding's own great tycoon, succeeding by his wits and sharing his prosperity with his village. He had built a library hall off the factory, with 2,000 books, for workers' self-improvement. And he paid 14 cents an hour, a penny more than the standard rate elsewhere. Some of those extra pennies found their way onto Haviland's collection plate on Sundays, for many workers and Acker himself attended St. Paul's.

  Now they were in the machine shop. Machines sat partly disassembled like broken toys. One looked like a rocking horse with head missing, another like a doll flailing her handless arms, a third like a music box with the springs spilling out.

  "This is where I work," Acker explained, the pronunciation of work — wooock — a remnant of his Polish origins, which otherwise he ignored.

  "I take the machine apart, then think what can I do to make it run faster, better? I put two machines together, try this, try that, make something bigger, or smaller. This is how I devise improvements. It takes time, but it is worth it in the end, as you can see." He motioned toward the factory floor.

  "Of course. I see," Haviland said, his mind preoccupied now with the real reason for his visit. "You have done wonderful things here. It is all so vast. To think, nuts and bolts made here go all the way to Baltimore and Boston."

  "And Richmond, even to Charleston. How great is the U.S. of A! All will know they are ours, too. Each is imprinted with D"B. Disbrow and Purdy. I would put Paulding on them too, but they are too small."

  "Yes, I see that," Haviland said. "I thank you for showing me about. While I am here, I would like to have a word with you about Zife Jenks."

  Acker stopped tinkering with a knob. His right eyebrow arched, intrigued, then relaxed. He looked at Haviland with mild interest across the machine.

  "The peddler who died?"

  "Yes."

&n
bsp; "And you are conducting your own ... investigation, since the order book turned up." He smiled indulgently, as if at a harebrained scheme.

  "You were there, in church. You must agree that it should be looked into?" Haviland said, feeling as if he were seeking approval from Acker rather than questioning him.

  "Surely the constable ..." Acker said, extending his right hand to suggest that the unseemly matter should be left to the authorities.

  "The constable is looking into it," Haviland lied, again defensively. "I saw the peddler's children the other day, and Thomas Hopfner asked me to find the killer, to fully clear his son. I promised them I would do whatever I could."

  "I completely understand," Acker said. The brown eyes crinkled. The head tilted slightly. The shovel-shaped black beard dropped. The indulgent smile again.

  Haviland looked away a moment. Was he being foolish? He felt so in the imposing presence of this important man, a man whose decisions and skills provided work for hundreds, a man revered — and feared — for his penetrating intelligence and rumbling pronouncements. Should a man who one could argue provided no tangible service to anyone save an hour's diversion and uplift on Sunday take up the time of such a man on such a mission? Were the fates of a peddler and a ne'er-do-well young man worth the attention of busy citizens such as these?

  Then again, did the murderer of Thomas Jenks' father deserve to walk free while the boy searched forever in vain for his "Tatus" to return?

  "Mr. Acker, did you see Zife Jenks the day he died?"

  The indulgent smile fell away, replaced by incredulity. Acker raised his shoulders, extended his hands and opened his mouth as if to plead again, but he stopped. The right hand meandered into his vest pocket, the left returned to his side. He thought a moment.

  "I may have seen him. I have some trouble remembering."

  Haviland gazed steadily at him.

  Acker pondered, then returned the rector's gaze. "He passed my house. It was not long before he died, about 12:15 it would have been. I had come home for lunch, as is my custom."

  "Did you speak to him? Did he try to sell you anything?"

  "Oh, Reverend, he would have been wasting his time, I assure you." He spread his hands to emphasize the quality of his clothing. "He may have said a word or two. Let me think? Yes, he did knock at my door. I answered it — my housekeeper was occupied upstairs. He was there, covered with snow. What he was doing out on such a day I do not understand."

  "He had a wife and four children."

  "Oh, of course."

  "What did he say?"

  "Oh, the usual. Did I want to look at any of his wares, something to that effect."

  "What was his state of mind? Was there anything unusual about him? Did he seem disturbed about anything?"

  Acker scrutinized the rector, as if to discern the answer wanted, or to glimpse some hidden meaning behind the question.

  "He was covered with snow. It was the snow I noticed. He was there only a few moments before I sent him off. He may have been disturbed, perhaps a bit. I really did not take notice. Should I have?"

  Haviland debated whether to tell him about Amelia Theall's observations, but decided not to.

  "What happened then?"

  "I closed the door, finished my coffee and returned to the factory."

  "Did you see Zife Jenks again as you were leaving?"

  "No. It was snowing quite heavily. I had all I could do to control Bolter."

  "Did you see a group of young men around the corner? Or hear them?"

  "No. No one. Why? Was there such a group?"

  "So it seems."

  "And do you think they killed the peddler?"

  "I do not think anything, yet. Did you leave your office anytime that afternoon?"

  Acker smiled.

  "Ah, so you think I killed this peddler, then?"

  "No, not at all," Haviland stammered, looking down. "I am simply being thorough. So, you did not leave?"

  Acker said through the smile, "No." He moved around the machine and put his arm around Haviland.

  "Come into my office."

  The room was small, but filled with large pieces of furniture: a monstrous, neatly organized, mahogany desk, three brown leather armchairs, a mahogany sideboard stocked with liquor bottles and crystal glassware. The walls were paneled low, the dull green of his bow-tie in the middle with a frieze of red with gold leaves. A window and one door looked into the woods from which Haviland had emerged the previous day. The other window — behind the desk — looked out across the harbor. Another door led to the reception area. Acker looked at a painting of the village and the factory on one wall, then sat at the great desk and pushed forward a model of the factory as Haviland sat opposite him.

  "Reverend Haviland, do you build?"

  "Build? In what sense?"

  "Make something, something that takes on a life of its own, that does good for people." Acker, a concrete presence in his black, white and green, looked at the model.

  Haviland, less definite in his light gray with white collar, thought of his sermons, his chats, his words, ideas, questions, derisions and principles that issued forth upon the air. Perhaps some took root in a listener's spirit and generated good in the worshiper or community. Perhaps they vanished uselessly into the breeze. Less concrete than the factory model before him.

  Acker did not wait for a reply. He had made his point.

  "One can build," he rumbled, "or destroy. One can add to the life of the village by inventing things, growing things, producing things, helping to preserve and extend the civilized spirit. Or one can tear down, criticizing, casting doubt, interfering for no useful purpose, weakening the village by raising questions and possibilities better left resting in peace. I think it is far better to build. Don't you, Reverend?"

  The question hung in the air. Acker smoothed his beard and tilted his head in a characteristic way that meant there was only one answer — Acker's answer.

  Haviland stood abruptly. Acker's right eyebrow shot up in surprise.

  "Zife Jenks was a builder, Mr. Acker. He was building a life in a new country for his family and for those who made the clothes he sold. Someone destroyed him, then watched as I and the authorities destroyed Theodore Hopfner. Who is to represent Elena Jenks and Thomas Jenks and Thomas Hopfner and Hannah Hopfner? Who is to protect all of us if we let the destroyer of Zife Jenks and Theodore Hopfner go free?"

  Acker shrugged.

  "Tragedies both, which sadden us all," he said. "But justice has been done, Reverend, and this quite understandable attempt to soothe your conscience is not at all necessary. You did the right thing in turning in Hopfner. There is some explanation for the order book that wise heads will learn in due time. Why upset the village in the meantime?" He said the last words to the closing door.

  * * *

  Haviland noticed a crowd in Liberty Square three blocks away, at the opposite end of Main Street. He strolled there as he calmed down after the unexpected confrontation with Acker. He exchanged pleasantries with a shopper here, a shopkeeper there. He bent over to greet a bashful child farther along. He glanced across the street into Abigail Carhart's shop, but she was not inside. In the midst of the crowd, no doubt. By the time he reached the square he was himself again, enjoying the sunny, 65-degree noontime weather.

  The crowd was gathered around the white wooden gazebo in the midst of the square, where Westchester Avenue swung down to meet Main Street. The gazebo hosted brass band concerts in the summer and political speeches for village elections in the spring and general elections in the fall.

  Today, Samuel Merritt, the harness shop owner, had squeezed himself into his blue Civil War uniform, a long dark blue, round-collared coat with gold buttons, dark blue pants, and kepi cap with "NY" embroidered inside a gold wreath on front. He he had been a sergeant with Company B of the 17th Infantry, known as the Westchester Chasseurs, and later with the 146th New York Infantry. He was wearing th
e Chasseurs uniform, more manly and local, he thought, than the zouave red trousers and cap of the 146th. And he was speaking.

  "I wore this uniform — there was a bit less of me back then — to preserve the freedom and security that my great-grandfather Hebediah came from England for. And he with the great-grandfathers of many a one here," he declaimed in a voice hoarse from smoking. "Hebediah was a harness-maker, and his son after him, and his son after him, and me after him, and my Edward after me. The Merritts, the Purdys, the Adees, the Van Amringes, the Thealls, the Pauldings themselves," he said, counting off the families on his fingers, legs set apart, his barrel chest stuck out, "we took useless forest, cleared away the trees, paid off the Indians — with a few trinkets, that's how clever we were. We built houses, farms, shops, laid out the roads, all that you see about you today."

  He looked about, his pocked mustachioed face ruddier than usual, his long thick brown sideburns extending from beneath his Army cap. His hands folded into fists as he unintentionally assumed a boxer's stance.

  "I'm getting to the point," he chided as murmurs rose from his hearers, who already knew this. "Where was I? Oh, yes. And the men of our own generation went off to war to preserve this country. Some gave more than our aching backs and the blisters on our feet." He took off his blue cap, held it up and ran a finger through a hole. "But you didn't hear us complain." Laughter from several in the crowd. "Well, I didn't mean it. I'd go off again in a moment, we all would." The thought rendered the restless crowd solemn.

  "Now, here's my point. There are some who would make fools of us all, who would come in here, take over everything we've built and move us — the Dusenberrrys, the Hylands, the Carpenters, all of us — off, away like so many Indians herded west to a reservation. Themselves, they've done nothing to build the country. They've done nothing but carry a couple of satchels and a dozen scrawny children down the gangplank of some ragged ship or other that found its way here. But they think they've a right to take your job from beneath you, your wallet from your pocket and the very flag off your porch, just like they'd gotten off the Mayflower. You know who I mean, Ed? Elizabeth Purdy, I see you shaking your head. You know, too. Am I right?