A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell (pdf ebook reader .txt) 📗

rest. I held Kevin and his team in God’s Light. I held Zeb’s troubles, too, and the released soul of Justice Harrington. And I held myself and our baby, that peace would return to our town and let me not encounter danger—whether real or imagined—ever again.

I resumed my meal, glancing idly at the newspaper David had left on the table. A story about Alice Sanger caught my eye. In First Month, she became the first woman to be employed in the White House, working for Benjamin Harrison as his presidential secretary. Good for her. Maybe she would blaze the trail for ladies to take other roles in government. I knew my suffragist mother would approve.

Another story announced that intrepid reporter Nellie Bly would be making a New England tour, lecturing about her world travels, with a stop in neighboring Newburyport. I made a note to take Faith. Perhaps John Whittier or someone else could introduce my niece to Nellie.

I turned the page to local news and groaned. Here came the murder right back into my day. A headline screamed, “Carriage Killer Still At Large!” with a subhead of, “Amesbury police lack clues in horrific case.” Kevin wasn’t going to like this. I certainly didn’t.

After popping the last bite of pickle into my mouth, I drained my milk. I should pass along a few bits of information to him, in case he hadn’t uncovered them yet. I had no intention of visiting in person, and a telephone call wasn’t sufficiently private. But if I wrote a note, I could usually find a boy around on the street who would deliver a missive for payment of a coin, or I could catch the postman on his afternoon rounds.

I moved to the desk in my office, pulling out paper and my cherished Wirt fountain pen. After an initial salutation and an explanation about my recent conversations with several people, I began.

Zeb Weed says he walked his drunken mother home at about ten that night. The Harringtons were still in the opera house. Zeb thought he heard someone in the alley coughing as if ill with TB. When he returned, he heard someone running. He did not see the body. He also reports W Parry’s company has serious financial woes.

Jonathan Sherwood of Lowell’s Boat Shop said he saw Ned Bailey, Justice H, and a third man in deep conversation, looking friendly and possibly excited. Check if the third one is a green-eyed Brazilian, possibly named George Amado. Jonathan also witnessed Luthera and Parry discussing a merger of the two companies.

Luthera Harrington offered me a ride home this morning. She said she wants the killer behind bars before she takes her husband’s body home, but I expect she has let thee know, as well. She suggested possibly Ned Bailey was the culprit. She would not acknowledge any plans for a merger with Parry and said she doesn’t think he is completely upright, whatever that means.

 

Did I have anything else? I didn’t think so. I ended with a few questions.

What did Ned say about the gun?

Will thee speak with J Sherwood and Zeb?

Does thee suspect Luthera herself?

 

I couldn’t think of any others.

I am off to Orpha Perkins’ funeral at Main Street Congregational this afternoon, followed by a reception at her granddaughter’s house on Orchard Street. I would be happy to speak with thee further if thee wishes.

 

I ended with greetings to his family and my very best wishes. That was all I could do, for now.

Chapter Thirty-two

Alma’s husband escorted David and me to our seats in the Main Street Congregational Church, insisting we sit near the front with Orpha’s family. Each tall window was rounded into an arch at the top, with an additional arch over each pair. A simple cross hung at the front. Unlike St. Paul’s across the street, where I had attended the funeral of a homicide victim last year, this was not an ornate decor. The sixty-year-old building shared an aspect of light and simplicity with my own beloved Friends Meetinghouse. And differently from St. James, where I’d attended a newborn’s funeral mass, the air was not scented with incense, although two fat candles burned in wall sconces at the front.

As the organ played somber music, Faith slid in to sit next to me in the second row. I was glad she’d made it. Orpha had delivered Faith nearly twenty years earlier. Alma, who was seated in front of us next to a couple—likely her parents—twisted in her seat to clasp my hand for a moment. I squeezed and nodded without speaking. Her daughters sat next to their grandmother, the older girl’s gaze fixed on the white-covered coffin at the front.

“New dress?” Faith whispered after Alma turned back. “I like it.”

I’d changed into my new gray dress. I pointed discreetly to Alma. “She made me two. I am much relieved.” I pulled out a handkerchief, expecting I might need it once things got underway. On my other side, David’s presence was a solid comfort. After he laid his hand on my knee, I covered it with mine. At a touch on my shoulder from behind, I turned to see Mary Chatigny.

“I’m glad to see thee,” I whispered.

She bobbed her head.

A black-robed minister walked down the aisle and climbed the steps to the pulpit to begin the service. I closed my eyes in Quaker prayer, letting the words and responsive readings wash over me. This busyness, this pastor leading the flock, was not my kind of church. I was again grateful I’d been raised as a Friend, a faith in which we each had our own direct connection to God, with no one telling us how to manage it. Each alone decided how to pray, as well as which words to use and when to use them. I knew services like these were a comfort to many. I didn’t begrudge them their comfort.

Right now, I wanted only to remember Orpha. All the times she had gently showed me the best technique to help