Charity's Burden Read online

  “Yes, but …” She wrung her hands.

  “No buts. I know thee is anxious, and anxiety never helped a thing. Thee and Zebulon will have a lovely worshipful welcome to your new life together and that’s that. Now, help me roll out these top crusts and tell me about the latest story thee is writing for the newspaper.”

  By five o’clock the bread was cooling and the pies had just gone into the oven. I was in my parlor jotting down everything I knew about Charity’s death when Kevin knocked at the front door. I let him in.

  He stepped into the hall but stayed standing. “I can’t stay long, Miss Rose. I sent a man over earlier to check on Swift, but he must have already gone. What did Swift say to you?”

  “He didn’t actually say it to me. He shouted at the house that he needed to talk with me. I’d be happy to do so, but it was the way he approached the house. Banging on the door in anger, yelling for me. Thee can ask the neighbor next door. She stuck her head out and told him to quiet down, that her children were napping. The way he acted felt quite threatening.”

  “We’ll see if we can run him down for you.” A little smile crept over his face. “Heard you met the missus and my boy.”

  “I adored both of them. Sean was very polite and helpful. You both are doing a good job raising him. And I think I convinced Emmaline to come and see me about her pregnancy.”

  “I appreciate that. I’ve been telling her to for some time now. I’m grateful for your help, Miss Rose.” Kevin’s grateful expression echoed his words. “You had information about the case for me, did you?”

  “Yes, quite a bit. But first, has there been any progress in discovering the killer? Does thee have a suspect in custody?”

  He gave a little shake of his head. “Indeed we don’t, and the lack of forward movement is more than frustrating. For me and my chief, too, as you can imagine.”

  “Thee hasn’t learned anything?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that. We’re checking the husband’s alibi. And if Joseph Swift the younger is bothering you, we’ll add him to the list.”

  “I think thee should.”

  “Very well. Now, your news?”

  “Where do I start?” I thought of all I’d learned.

  He tapped his foot.

  “Thee is in a hurry. I’ll go fast.” I grabbed the sheet of paper from my desk and read from it. “A woman going by the name of Madame Savoire Restante deals in contraceptive solutions. Her office is on Clark Street, but she lives on Haverhill Road and her actual name is Sally Davies. I think Madame either was involved with Charity’s death, perhaps being the incompetent abortionist, or she knows something. A client of mine confessed that a Madame helped her end a pregnancy. This Savoire lives with her adult daughter, Delia Davies, who works at Lowell’s Boat Shop. I believe Ransom Skells has been stepping out with Delia. Or stepping into her house when the mother was absent, according to the neighbor, Mrs. Sheila Burke.” I took a breath and looked up.

  Kevin gaped at me. He shut his mouth, then opened it again to say, “I am not even going to ask how you learned all this.”

  “Good.” I returned to the list but spoke softly in case one of the children ventured near. “Joe Swift—who goes by Joey—is the recently late Joseph Swift’s son. The father made a fortune in rum. Charity is the elder Swift’s niece. Charity’s mother, Virtue, says Joey is a drunk and a gambler. Virtue and her husband also do not care for Ransom in the least. I have a number of ideas about the web of these people, and who might have killed Charity, but these are some facts I unearthed.” I handed him the paper. “Tonight I’m dining with Bertie Winslow and Sophie Ribeiro. Sophie has apparently been working on a complicated estate for Joseph Swift involving trusts. Bertie wants her to tell me about it. Perhaps he is Charity’s uncle. I’ll let Emmaline know tomorrow what I learn, shall I?”

  “Please. This matter of the Madame concerns me greatly. Isn’t she aware her kind of work is against the law?”

  “Of course she is. Kevin, thee knows as well as I that some women simply aren’t in a position to bear children, or to bear more. What are they to do? There are reasonably safe herbal preparations that can help them.”

  The detective was pressing his lips together, an expression I’d seen before when he strongly disapproved of my words or actions.

  “I know thee thinks it’s against not only the law but God’s sacraments. But doesn’t thy God want women to be healthy and have good lives, instead of bearing ten children they can’t afford in as many years or having to give birth to a baby created by a violent act? Shouldn’t we able to help them?” I suspected part of his opposition was also due to Kevin and his wife living with the opposite problem, not being able to have as many children as they wished.

  “We disagree on this matter, as you well know.”

  “Auntie Rose,” Betsy called from the front. “I need help with my ’rithmatic.”

  “Just a minute, my sweet,” I called back. I continued with Kevin. “I would never recommend a mechanical abortion. It’s far too dangerous, as Charity’s demise shows.”

  “Unless her perforations were deliberate.” His expression was grim, and now not directed at me.

  “Unless it was homicide. Yes, unless that.”

  But why? Who stood to benefit from Charity’s death?

  twenty-five

  Sophie, Bertie, and I sat sated at their round dining table. Two ivory-colored tapers were halfway burned down, and remnants of a lamb dish decorated the edges of our plates. They’d said the dish was a Moroccan recipe.

  “Morocco, I love you. Let me count the ways,” Bertie declared.

  “Has thee been there?” I asked.

  “No, but the lovely Sophie has.” She smiled tenderly at her partner.

  Sophie nodded, her messy knot of dark hair bobbing atop her head. “My Portuguese father took me all over the world when I was a child.” Her dark almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones gave her face an exotic look.

  “Who stayed home from work today to prepare this dinner?” I asked.

  Bertie laughed. “Neither of us. We hire a cook for special occasions like today. Sophie gives her the recipe and she makes it and leaves it hot on the stove for us. It’s quite splendid.”

  “That’s a worthwhile service. I am not sure I can even move, I ate so much.” I shifted in my chair. “I’ve never consumed such a divine mix of flavors.”

  “Come sit somewhere more comfortable and I’ll tell you a story.” Sophie divided the rest of the bottle of wine between her own and Bertie’s glasses. I followed them into their luxuriously comfortable sitting room, with bright lamps illuminating colorful paintings on the walls—which were all painted by women, Bertie had told me previously.

  I picked a chair into which I knew I wouldn’t sink down a foot, unlike some of them in the room. The coal stove provided a comforting warmth, and the vibrant colors in the room glowed. “I’m all ears.”

  Sophie sat at one end of an upholstered lounge sofa. “Be aware what I’m about to tell you is confidential for the moment, but it will become part of the public record within a week, or maybe sooner.”

  She sat straight and I could imagine her in a court of law, holding her ground, not allowing anyone to treat her as lesser because of her status as a female. Sophie had a sharp intellect and no doubt had memorized tomes of legal precedents.

  “If any of these facts pertain to the case Bert has told me you’re working on, I suppose you may share them with your police friend,” Sophie added.

  “I thank thee. He has been welcoming the bits of information I give him of late.” I pushed up my spectacles. I hoped the information would be pertinent and help us solve the conundrum of who killed Charity Skells.

  “Joseph Swift was a rich man when he died a month ago,” Sophie began. “Of natural causes, as far as anyone can tell, although he did have several enemies.
Believe me, the family brought in an independent medical examiner to be sure someone didn’t bump him off. Mr. Swift was married, but his wife died eight years ago. They had two daughters. The youngest child was a son, Joseph the third. The daughters are both married and have children, at least two apiece.”

  I sat, hands in my lap, eager to hear what she had to say about the belligerent Joey. Bertie lay on the same couch as Sophie with her eyes closed and her small stockinged feet in Sophie’s lap.

  Sophie continued. “When the younger Joseph, whom the family has always called Joey, reached the age of consent, it became clear he had acquired not only an insatiable thirst for drink but an incurable addiction to gambling. He spent through his allowance every month in the first week and was given to begging anyone and everyone for more funds with which to support his dual habits.”

  “His aunt Virtue hinted at that to me,” I said.

  “Yes. Virtue is a stalwart Friend, as you must know, but rather a judgmental one, unlike you, Rose.” Sophie smiled at me. “Her husband converted to the faith before their marriage, but has never been very keen on it, as I understand.”

  “Virtue told me the late Joseph Swift was not a fellow Quaker. Dealing in rum would be an odd enterprise if he were.”

  “Exactly. Now, for the meat of the story.”

  “Spiced Moroccan meat?” Bertie piped up in a lazy voice, eyes still shut, lips playing with a smile.

  “Hush, my darling, and sleep.” Sophie stroked Bertie’s foot. “Mr. Swift came to me to write his will last year. He knew he was ailing. He wanted to leave his considerable fortune in trust for his grandchildren and to his great-nieces and -nephews—Charity’s children and those of her sister. But he decided he didn’t want Joey squandering one more cent of his money, and asked me to draw up a revised will. I am to be the trustee and administrator of the money for the children, not their parents.”

  “Because Joseph didn’t trust Charity’s husband, Ransom?” I asked.

  “Yes, that was one consideration. And Mr. Swift the elder also questioned the motives of one of his sons-in-law.”

  “Does Joey know the terms of the will?”

  “We tried to keep the entire agreement confidential until it was finalized, but somehow the news of the youngest generation being the inheritors slipped out.” Sophie sipped her wine. “Not, however, the fact that I am to administer the funds.”

  Bertie murmured, “The butler did it.”

  I snorted but then grew sober. “And the news no doubt got around the family. Both Joey and Ransom must think the children’s parents would have access to the money.”

  “I think that is an accurate assessment,” Sophie agreed. “For Mrs. Skells and the Swift daughters, this wouldn’t have presented a problem. None of them would have abused their power, but would have used the money as Mr. Swift intended, for good food, decent housing, schooling, clothing, and the like.”

  “Things Charity desperately needed.”

  Sophie nodded.

  “So Joey could have killed his cousin, thinking he could share the funds with Charity’s husband,” I said.

  Bertie sat up in one smooth move, not asleep at all. “But why would Skells share the money?”

  “I learned today of Ransom’s indiscretions,” I said. “He’s been visiting Delia Davies, the young secretary from Lowell’s Boat shop at her home out on Haverhill Road, but only when her mother wasn’t at home.”

  “Blackmail.” Bertie put on a deep dramatic voice. “Joey would threaten to make the affair public if Ransom didn’t split the pot.”

  “It’s possible,” Sophie said. “Or Mr. Skells killed his wife himself, thinking he’d get all the inheritance. He could marry the sweet young thing—”

  “I called her a chippy two days ago and he took a bit too much offense.”

  “The chippy, then.” Bertie grinned. “He could marry Delia and … wait a minute. Where do all the children fit in? Is the chippy going to want to be become an instant mother to another woman’s passel of tykes?”

  “I couldn’t say. Ransom acted quite loving toward his young son earlier this week,” I said. “Their grandmother, Virtue, seemed willing to take them all in. Delia might be counting on that. Or maybe she’s only seeing Ransom because he told her he’d be coming into some sizeable funds.

  Sophie nodded. “Many a young woman has entangled herself with an older married gentleman purely for the financial gain.”

  “But the sticking point I think is the actual death,” I said. “Maybe Joey or Ransom hired an abortionist, but I can’t see either of them doing the deed themselves.”

  “So who did?” Sophie asked, looking intently at me.

  twenty-six

  I yawned as I steered the buggy lazily down Whittier Street toward home at nine o’clock. The evening with Bertie and Sophie had been delicious, luxurious, and full of information, but I’d already had a long day and was ready for my bed. I let Peaches lead us—she knew the way. Clouds covered the waning moon. After we turned right onto Sparhawk Street, the night was especially dark. The road was a new one in town. When I’d first moved to Amesbury, the area was just a pasture. The town had constructed the road a few years ago and named it for Thomas Sparhawk. He had lived at the other end of the way, the same Sparhawk who had been John Whittier’s friend and physician until the doctor’s death fifteen years earlier.

  Ahead of me was a quarter mile with nary a house on either side. To my left lay fields and a row of trees lining the way, to my right more of the same. The road was built up over a small stream that ran down to the Locke & Jewell factory and to Pattens Pond beyond. The stream was frozen and snow-covered at this time of year, of course. The night air was crisp, smelling of chimney smoke and warm horse.

  I might have dozed as we clopped slowly over the stones. I jerked upright when a clatter rose up behind me. What was it? Was a horse out of control? It grew louder and my heart slammed against my ribs. One summer night last year as I walked, a criminal had nearly run me down. Maybe it was happening again. Maybe my sleuthing around town, asking questions wherever I went, had raised Charity’s assailant’s ire. Maybe the killer had followed me to Bertie’s, had waited patiently, and was determined to put an end to me.

  Peaches was not known for speed. We could never outrun an attacker, even though the big Catholic church was not far away. I pulled the gelding as far to the right as I could, though the road was not a wide one. “Whoa up, Peaches. That’s a good boy.” We stopped. My palms sweated inside my gloves and my hands shook so I could barely hold the reins. The horse tossed his head, snorting in worry passed down along the reins from my nervous hands.

  The hoofbeats grew louder, closer. I leaned toward the middle of the road. Would I be able to see who was driving in such a reckless manner, and if they aimed at us or were simply in an enormous hurry? A closed black wagon, pulled by an equally dark galloping horse, charged toward us at full speed. I screeched and pulled back into the safety of my buggy.

  I had no time to act. I heard a thud and a crunch, felt a powerful bump. The jolt knocked the reins out of my grasp. It threw me out of the buggy. Peaches trumpeted shrilly. The vehicle sped past as I crashed down the snowy embankment. My hands found nothing to grasp and I slid down on my side, half upside down. When I was almost to the bottom, my hip hit a rock concealed by snow, which did nothing to cushion the blow. I choked back a cry of pain, not wanting to give away my location. I prayed Peaches was not harmed.

  Stunned, I lay for a moment where I landed. That wagon had come at me with fierce purpose but had kept going. At least … I thought I’d heard it speed past. Had Peaches, with no one holding his reins, followed in pursuit? Or was the horse waiting for me up on the road? I didn’t dare call out to him in case my assailant was waiting to see if I was conscious or not.

  The snow melting beneath my body heat was dampening my cloak, my skirt, my stoc
kings. Snow had been forced into my gloves. I had to extricate myself from my plight before I froze to death. My fingers were already losing sensation. I hoisted myself up to my knees and then to standing, wincing at the pain in my right hip. I crawled up the embankment, digging in my toes for a foothold on the rocks under the snow. When my head reached the level of the street, I peered cautiously over the snowy berm, my pulse racing.

  My heart sank when no familiar shape loomed above. No buggy, and no Peaches waiting patiently to take me home. What a blessing he hadn’t been knocked over the embankment, though. He wasn’t a fast horse, but he was sure of foot. I blew out a breath. A dark wagon wasn’t in sight, either. Unless a second person had jumped off to follow up the attack on foot, I was safe. Cold, aching, and fearful, but safe—for now—I began my trudge the remaining distance home.

  As I walked, I began to doubt everything I was undertaking. Not my calling to care for pregnant women and help them birth healthy babies safely. Never that. Nor my future with my beloved David. But my delving into the mystery of who killed Charity must be the cause of tonight’s attack. I was lucky I hadn’t broken a leg in my fall, or cracked my head on that rock instead of my hip. I wouldn’t be alive at dawn if that had happened, stranded on the dark, snowy slope where I’d been tossed.

  It wasn’t the first time my sleuthing had gotten me into trouble, either. I’d been tricked into being a hostage, and I’d been threatened with a gun. I’d been hit on the head and left to die in a freezing carriage house. Kevin had been warning me about getting into dangerous situations. Who would have thought driving home from a friend’s house in a buggy with the top up would be dangerous? Anything I did, anyplace I went could be treacherous if a criminal was feeling trapped, or about to be discovered, and thought I was the reason. And I didn’t want to die. I had mothers to care for, nieces and nephews to help raise, and a life to build with David.

  My walking raised thoughts of who could want me dead or injured, of who drove that wagon or hired it to do the deed. Joey Swift? Savoire or Delia? Ransom? My thoughts were a jumble as I reached St. Joseph’s. The enormous brick church was dark, and the convent and rectory windows behind were, as well. My steady, rhythmic plodding, or maybe it was the presence of another faith’s sanctuary nearby, reminded me to hold my problem in the Light of God. I needed to prayerfully discern whether I would continue my investigation or would cease my efforts and return to following only my primary occupation.