two

I cycled home at dawn the next morning. I had been called to the birth last night, after all, and had chanced taking my bicycle, its clever oil lamp mounted on the front illuminating my way in the darkness. Grateful that snow hadn’t yet materialized, I yawned as I bumped slowly and carefully along the planks temporarily paving Greenwood Street. They ran parallel to the sides of the road and, if I wasn’t careful, my wheel could become trapped in the slot between planks.

The baby had emerged after only a few hours of labor. It had been my new apprentice’s first birth observation, and Annie Beaumont had done wonderfully. She possessed a quiet presence, which is essential to fostering a feeling of comfort and security in a laboring woman. The newborn and his mother were blessedly both healthy, and the father had proudly paid me my fee. With any luck I’d be able to snatch an hour or two of sleep before Friends Meeting for Worship at ten o’clock.

I was halfway down the hill and in front of a well-appointed residence when I gasped. I pulled the spoon brake lever and pushed back on the pedals to stop the cycle. A shoe stuck out from where no shoe should be. Its red color echoed the frost-burnished leaves of the lilac bush above it.

I let my bicycle fall and hurried to the shrub growing to the side of the home’s front door. Pulling back the branches, my heart athud, I let out a moan. The shoe was on the black-stockinged foot of Rowena Felch, still wearing her lovely green dress from last night. I pulled off my glove and knelt to touch her neck. Her skin was cold and yellow, and not from the chilly fall air, either. Poor Rowena.

I grieved for her even as my mind raced. How had she died? Surely it wasn’t from natural causes, not with her ending up under a bush. I ran my gaze over her body. I saw no bullet hole or stab wound. I wanted to investigate further—perhaps she had an injury on her back or her head—but I knew from my previous encounters with him that Detective Kevin Donovan of the Amesbury Police Department would need to see her in situ. I glimpsed a slip of paper tucked into her far hand. I tried to make out the words but couldn’t from this angle, although I did see that the handwriting was in an unusual upright style.

I stood. I narrowed my eyes when I spied the two arched glass panes in the door. A gaping hole split the one nearer to the latch, with sharp shards lying on the granite stoop. A sudden shiver ran through me as questions roiled in my brain. Had someone broken in? Then why were the shards on the outside? It was a fine house, not as large and elaborate as those of the carriage factory owners two blocks away on Hillside, but still a very nice abode. It certainly contained items worth stealing. A matching carriage house stood back from the street to the right. Was this property Rowena’s home? Maybe Rowena had surprised the burglar and been killed in the process.

I wanted to see if someone was inside the house. At the same time, I feared the criminal was still within. I peered through the hole in the glass, anyway. I couldn’t see any lights.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” Silence answered me. I grasped the door handle but it didn’t turn. When the door wouldn’t budge, I was relieved of the need to venture into a possibly dangerous situation.

The house was built on a slope and the front windows were too high for even my five feet eight inches to peer into. I hurried along the side of the house to a sash low enough to see that it looked into a dining room. No lamps were lit, no maid set out breakfast or cleaned the hearth. I cupped my hands on the glass to look closer and gasped again. The room had been ransacked. Drawers from the sideboard were pulled open, with one lying on the floor. A portrait on the wall hung akilter and a dining chair lay on its side. I imagined this had to be Rowena’s house, which must have been broken into and robbed. Maybe she’d tried to escape and had been killed by the thief. But where was her husband? I made my way to the back door. I pounded on it.

“Oscar Felch,” I called out, and continued to pound. “Anyone? Help, please!”

When I heard no answer, I returned to Rowena’s body and made a scan up and down the street. No one seemed to be about. It was too late for the milkman and too early for the postman. I was about to set out for one of the neighboring houses when I perked my ears. Clopping along the planks, a horse approached pulling an open buggy. I stepped into the street in front of the house, signaling the driver to stop.

“Can thee please hurry to the police station and ask for Kevin Donovan to come?” I asked in an urgent tone.

He frowned. “The police, eh? What’s happened?”

“A lady has died.”

“And why not the funeral parlor, miss?” asked the portly gentleman in a great coat and bowler. “If she’s dead, as you say.”

How much to tell him? “Please, I believe the police are needed in this case.” I clasped my hands in front of me. Despite being half his age, I used my most authoritative voice and stood tall. “Tell him Rose Carroll sent thee.”

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” He made as if to climb out of the buggy.

“No, please.” I held up my hand. “The help I need is for thee to notify the detective.”

He shrugged. “Very well.” He clucked to the dark horse and clattered away.

I returned to Rowena’s side. I knelt and closed my eyes, holding her released spirit in the Light of God. I also held my own, still very much of this world. I’m a midwife, not a detective, and am accustomed on occasion to witness the demise of one of my mothers or newborns. Those were natural deaths, though. Tragic but unavoidable despite my best efforts. Unless I was seriously mistaken, Rowena’s was not a natural end to life. Why did I keep encountering cases of violent demise?