Delivering the Truth (8 page)

I tucked my hand through his proffered arm and we turned away.

“I'll visit you at home soon, Rose! Then we'll have a night on the town,” Ned called after us.

I pretended not to hear.

John cleared his throat. “Now, I was thinking to begin my new poem with, ‘Through thin
cloud-films
a pallid ghost looked down, the waning moon
half-faced
.'”

A shiver ran through me at the image of a pallid ghost, and I huddled in my cloak.

twelve

After John and I
finished our walk and parted ways,
I decided to stop into the police station before I went home. I needed to tell Kevin Donovan what I'd forgotten to relay about Ephraim Pickard, as well as the results of my conversation with our Meeting's most esteemed elder.

On my way, I passed by the construction for the new Armory, workers sawing and hammering with great commotion. I sneezed when the breeze blew a fine sawdust my way. I glanced up at the stately Opera House. Its red brick lined in red mortar held a dignified air, and the slate roof came down to meet fancy tile work with designs depicting the dramatic arts. I hadn't attended a single play there and secretly longed to, but I imagined the price of tickets was a bit beyond my budget, although I had never actually checked.

Reaching the station, I pulled open the heavy door and entered. A tall officer not much older than I sat at the desk. I had delivered his wife of a daughter the year before. The same wife, Nell, who had acted oddly downtown only a couple of days ago. Why had she spoken with Jotham in public and then denied knowing him? Could the two be having their own illicit dalliance?

“Guy Gilbert, isn't it?” I smiled.

He stood and began to bluster. He threw his chest out so far the buttons seemed at risk of popping off despite his thin build. “That would be Officer Gilbert to you, Miss—” He took a good look at me and caught himself. “Miss Carroll! How good to see you.” He extended a hand. “I apologize. We often have unmannerly folks comin' in, and … oh, never mind.”

I shook his hand. “How are those girls of yours, Guy, thy wife and thy daughter?” I clasped my hands in front of me.

He beamed and his dark eyes shone. “Oh, little Lizzy is quite well, Miss Carroll. She's starting to walk a bit and she says ‘Dada' to me. She's so smart. Imagine that, her first word being my name.” He bounced on his heels, his hands behind his back.

“That's splendid. But I saw Nell downtown recently and she didn't seem to be herself. Has she been ill?” Would he tell me what was wrong with her?

A shadow passed over his face. “Nell's not what I'd call well, exactly. But she loves our Lizzy.” He brightened. “Lizzy says ‘Mama' too.” He gazed into his own memories.

“What seems to be the problem with Nell?”

Gazing at me with dark shadows under his eyes, he said, “I don't know. She's indeed not herself.” He stared at the desk as if into an abyss.

“I'll pay her a visit soon.”

“I'd appreciate that, Miss Carroll.” He glanced up but still seemed lost in his thoughts.

I cleared my throat. “Is Kevin Donovan in? I have a few pieces of information for him regarding the Carriage Hill fire.”

“Oh! I'll fetch him. Won't you sit down?” He gestured at the waiting bench and then disappeared through a door behind the desk.

Kevin approached me as I stood examining a large framed photograph. Twenty men in matching dark uniforms stood in two rows, shoulders back, expressions stern, identical rounded helmets perched atop their heads. Their hands hung slack at their sides and polished buttons marched up the middle of their jackets. Who had told them all to point their toes slightly outward? Perhaps they thought it a suitable pose for a photograph. Kevin Donovan stood at one end of the group and at the other posed a taller man who I thought was the captain. I peered more closely. Guy Gilbert formed part of the back row.

“How do you like my photographic image? I'd say I'm the best looking in the entire department.”

I glanced at Kevin as he came to stand beside me. He shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded me with a single eyebrow raised into the vast expanse of his shiny forehead. His hair, of a rusty color indicating he'd been a carrot top as a child, had receded halfway back to the crown of his round ball of a head. He was clean shaven except for the mustache.

“Exceedingly handsome,” I said, not even trying to sound sincere, then faced him. “Does thee have a moment free? I'd like to share several bits of information.”

“Right this way, Miss Carroll.” He gestured toward the interior door with a little bow.

A moment later I sat opposite him on a chair that complained mightily when I descended upon it. Kevin's broad oak desk was scarred and dented.
Scrawled-on
scraps of paper, an ash receptacle, and pens in various stages of assembly littered its top. He lowered himself into his own seat behind the desk with a sigh and patted a midsection that proved he rarely missed a meal.

“So, do you have an answer for me?” He rubbed his hands together. “Did you find our firebug?”

“Thee might temper thy anticipation. I did forget to share one piece of information yesterday afternoon, however, that I feel obliged to tell thee.” I proceeded to relate my visit with Ephraim Pickard at his home. “His shirt showed a definite smudge of soot. But, of course, it could have come from his own cooking fire.” I frowned, unsure how much to speculate in front of him.

“What? You know something else.” He leaned forward. His tongue darted out to smooth the closest section of mustache, then he wiped his knuckle over that section as if to dry it.

“Faith Bailey, Isaiah Weed, rest his soul, and I spoke with Ephraim as he was leaving the factory. Almost early evening, it was. I remember because the electric lights came on not too much later. Ephraim said he was fired from his job on the afternoon of the fire.”

“Fired? For what cause?”

“He said it was because he was late once too often, and because he'd been reading on his lunch break. He said it was William Parry's son Thomas who let him go. And it was directly after that when I saw the person in the twilight of which I told thee.”

Kevin's mouth looked like he'd tasted spoiled milk. “Thomas Parry isn't well regarded in town. What is it with the
self-made
, rich owners around here? They work hard themselves but then indulge their sons until they become worthless spoiled brats of men.”

“If thee refers to Stephen Hamilton, I do believe he suffers from a mental disorder, not simply the indulgence of his father.”

“I suppose.” Kevin glanced out the window and then returned to look at me. “What else, Rose Carroll? How can we solve this mystery?”

“I discussed some ideas with John Whittier.” When I saw Kevin begin to object, I held up a hand. “He's a wise elder and he knows this town better than both thee and me put together. I wondered who would profit from destroying the Parry factory. William Parry's competitors might well want to see him put out of business.”

“That had occurred to me, too.” Kevin laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “It'd be Babcock, Clarke, Bailey, even Osgood. They all do better than Parry.”

“And something else.” I hesitated. I might be about to violate Minnie's confidence. Perhaps I wouldn't if I spoke in a vague manner. “I attended the birth of a young woman the day before the fire. She had a baby boy, and while she was able to pay my fee, she wouldn't name the father.”

Kevin narrowed his eyes.

“I also care for William Parry's wife, who will bear their first child in eight weeks. She complained her husband has not been at home much. And I observed William Parry entering that young woman's home.”

“Aha,” Kevin said. “I've heard rumors of Parry's mistress. What's this harlot's name?”

“I can't reveal that, Kevin. And she's not a harlot, only a young woman who was taken advantage of.”

He frowned at me and rapped his fingers on the desk.

“I told thee yesterday I needed to keep certain confidences. But what if this affair of William's was somehow responsible for the fire?” I asked.

“How?” he scoffed.

“I don't know. I simply feel there might be a connection.”

“Feeling doesn't enter into police work, Miss Carroll. You know, maybe his wife hired someone to burn down the factory so he might spend more time with her instead of with the business, although that doesn't make much sense, since it would cut off the money that supports her. But maybe it truly has nothing to do with a mistress.”

“I suppose,” I said. “The baby's father could be someone else entirely.”

“So we have competing factory owners, an unhappy wife, or a fired worker.” Kevin slapped the table and sat up straight. “I doubt it's the wife, and I was already working on the competitors, but I thank you for the lead on Ephraim Pickard.” He got to his feet.

I followed suit, suppressing both a yawn and my frustration that the detective dismissed my ideas. He ushered me into the hall and back into the lobby. At the desk, Guy stood in a hurry, smoothing down his uniform jacket.

“I'll be in touch,” Kevin said. “Thank you, Miss Carroll, for the tip.”

“Thee is welcome.” I glanced at Guy. “
Good-bye
, Guy. Tell thy wife I will stop by and check on Lizzy,” I said. “I like to visit my babies and mothers some months after the birth to see about their
well-being
.”

Guy cocked his head, his eyes dragging down at the edges and a sigh escaped, as if a visit might not make much difference to Nell's situation. “I'll tell her, miss.”

Kevin pushed open the outer door. I made my way down the stairs, then turned. “Let us pray this arsonist won't strike again.”

“Prayers might not be quite what we need right now,” Kevin said. “I plan to apply some good
old-fashioned
detective work instead. Although I suppose a prayer can't hurt, either.”

“Roberta,” I called out. I hadn't walked yet a block before I saw Bertie turning onto Aubin Street.

She glanced behind her with a scowl that turned to a broad smile when she caught sight of me. She set her hands on her hips and waited for me to approach.

“Thee looked well displeased at being hailed by thy given name.” I raised an eyebrow.

“You know nobody but you gets to say that name to me. I've worked long and hard to be called Bertie, and by gum, I won't let anybody change it.”

“One day thee must tell me the reason thee so hates being called Roberta.” I knew she'd had some quarrel with her mother long ago and they were estranged, despite her mother living just across the river in West Newbury. Perhaps the quarrel had played a part, since surely it was her mother who'd bestowed on her the
now-despised
name.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Where have you been, and where are you off to?” she inquired.

“I've just been to see the police with a few ideas I had concerning the fire.” I told her about the shadowy figure I'd seen right before it started.

“I'd love to help find this cursed arsonist who burned down my place of employment,” she said. “It's headache after headache trying to plan, trying to answer the concerns of the town's selectmen, trying to get the mail delivered again, I'll tell you.”

“Thee has been successful on that front. I received a letter already this morning from my mother. If thee hears any gossip around town regarding the arsonist, please tell me,” I said. “Or better yet, tell the detective.”

“I will.” She sighed. “We've had to cancel the afternoon delivery for now and people are not happy about it.”

I yawned, this time not concealing it.

“I'm so boring, am I?” She poked me with her elbow.

“Of course not,” I protested. “But last night I was at a birth until late and I have clients coming in two short hours.”

“Get yourself home for a rest, then. I'm heading for my own abode, in fact. Sophie just returned from New York.” The color rose in her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

I had heard a client refer to Bertie and Sophie as having a Boston Marriage, since the two unmarried ladies lived together without a man. Some used the term simply to describe women sharing a household. Others spoke it in a disparaging tone, indicating the relationship might be a romantic one they disapproved of. I knew Bertie and Sophie, in their own eyes, were as married as any man or woman, and it didn't bother me one whit. When love was present, who were we to judge if God had let it be so? I was simply glad I had a good friend. And Sophie traveled so much for her work as a lawyer that Bertie and I often were able to grab time together to go for a swim in Lake Gardner or attend a meeting of the Literary Society.

I said
good-bye
as I turned away, hoping I would not encounter a fire in progress on my route.

I reclined on the chaise in my parlor half an hour later. I needed sleep before my first client arrived. Sunlight streamed through the front windows making motes dance in the air. I closed my eyes but rest wouldn't come for all the thoughts dancing in my brain.

Ephraim and his anger at being let go from a job he sorely needed. Lillian, with her knowledge that her husband was stepping out on her, or worse. Minnie, who seemed secure in being supported by her baby's father. William, likely the baby's sire but also an afflicted factory owner. Not to mention all the grieving families and friends in town, including our own Zeb and the sweet Annie. And now I worried, as well, about Nell Gilbert. I feared she was experiencing the unexpected sadness some mothers feel after giving birth. I'd pay her and the baby a visit later in the day.

I wished Kevin Donovan hadn't asked for my help with the case. It was keeping my mind overly busy. I opened my eyes and let out a breath. Sleep was clearly not coming. So perhaps, since I had agreed, I could attempt to organize my thoughts. I moved to my desk and took pen to paper, inscribing all my thoughts in an orderly fashion. I drew lines for columns and rows and hoped to fill in motive and opportunity for setting a fire that had wrecked lives and businesses. But beyond Ephraim, Lillian, and perhaps a competitor to William Parry, I didn't arrive at much. To even write down Lillian's name made me feel sick.