twelve

I walked into town with Annie after we finished talking, and after the bread had finished baking, as well. We parted ways at busy Market Square. I joined the back of the line at the post office, newly rebuilt since the terrible fire of last Fourth Month. Bertie and the young woman who acted as her assistant were busy selling stamps, fetching packages, and answering questions. Bertie waved at me when she saw me and pointed to a door at the side of the room. I nodded and headed into her small office.

“Eva can handle the counter by herself for a while,” she said. “What brings you here, my friend?” Bertie wore a neat striped shirtwaist with a dark skirt today. A jaunty bow in her blond curls picked up the bright blue stripes in the shirt’s fabric, and the tailoring of the shirtwaist was in the very latest style, full in the shoulders and close-fitting forearms leading to the wrists. Bertie was an avid follower of the latest fashions.

“First I wanted to thank thee so very much for the party last night.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it? Sophie and I both thought it was quite the success.”

“Exceedingly so. And please thank Sophie for me, too. What a brilliant woman Elizabeth is. And so inspiring.”

“You’ve got that right, Rose. Mrs. Stanton is a national treasure. It’s truly an honor she’s bestowed on Amesbury, traveling here to support us in the cause.”

I nodded. “My errand today is not quite a tea party. I feel moved to call on Zula and see if I can learn more about her and Rowena, and somehow discern if Zula could be our murderer.”

Bertie stared at me. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “If she felt spurned, perhaps her anger rose up and she hit Rowena on the head. She’s tall enough to do it, and she looks strong.”

“She is. She’s always talking about doing her calisthenic exercises to stay healthy.”

I’d heard about this new craze, where women donned loose-fitting garments and ran through a prescribed set of movements to increase their physical well-being. It seemed better suited to the idle upper classes than to working women like Faith and myself. We received plentiful exercise of our muscles and joints by the mere tasks of living: cooking and cleaning, not to mention her work on four textile mills at a time, and mine, cycling here and there and assuming all kinds of awkward positions to catch babies.

“I sensed Zula was in love with Rowena and was crushed when her offer to share living quarters was rebuffed,” I said.

Bertie tapped her cheek. “I think you’re right.”

“Does thee know where she lives?”

“Yes. But if she’s a killer, it’s crazy to go see her alone.” Bertie folded her arms and eyed me. “You don’t want to get bashed in the head, too, do you?”

“No,” I said slowly. “But—”

She held up her hand. “Come back at five when I close the post office and we’ll go together. How’s that for a plan?”

“You always come up with the best ideas. That’s a very good plan,” I said. “My mother is coming in on the train tonight, but not until seven o’clock.”

“Then it’s firm.”

“Thank thee, my friend. I wondered what excuse I’d have to make up to visit Zula. Now we’ll just be two friends paying a call.” I stood.

“And we can talk about the plans for tomorrow,” Bertie added. “Now I’d better get back to work.”

I said good-bye and let myself out. I stood on the street for a moment, my bonnet flapping in the wind, as I determined what my story would be at Bixby & Batchelder. I certainly couldn’t pretend to talk about a woman suffrage demonstration with those lawyers. Or … maybe I could. Rowena, a leader of the suffrage movement, had worked for the firm, after all. Or I could ask them what their plans for a memorial gift might be, and see if I could learn more about Elbridge Osgood’s firing while I was there.

I headed back up Water Street to the square and then made my way along Main Street to the attorneys’ offices.

“Yes, miss?” A middle-aged lady at a desk facing the door looked up over her glasses. “How may I help you?”

“My name is Rose Carroll. I’d like to speak with George Batchelder if he has a minute, please.”

“Mr. Batchelder is a very busy man, Miss Carroll, I’m afraid.” She glanced at an open appointment book and then back at me, removing her spectacles. “You don’t have an appointment. What would this be in regard to?”

“It’s about Rowena Felch.”

The woman’s face fell. “Poor Mrs. Felch. What a terrible tragedy.”

“It is.” I cleared my throat. “I’m afraid I was the one who found her body.”

The woman’s mouth fell open. She recovered herself and pointed to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit yourself right down there and tell me all about it.”

I sat and gave her the barest of details of my discovery.

“Mrs. Felch was a fine, fine attorney, despite being a lady,” the woman said. “This firm suffered a great loss with her death. It will be hard to replace her.”

“I heard Elbridge Osgood recently left his position here. Can’t the lead lawyers convince him to return?”

She snorted. “He didn’t leave voluntarily. Mr. Batchelder asked him to go. Mr. Osgood threw such a scene when they promoted Mrs. Felch. Why, it was like a young lad stomping around because someone stole his toy truck. He couldn’t believe they’d promoted a lady over him. No, they won’t be asking Mr. Osgood back. And he wasn’t promoted because, frankly”—she leaned in and lowered her voice—“he’s not all that bright. Took forever to write up a brief and he was always making mistakes.”

“A pity.” Lyda hadn’t exactly given me the true story. But why would she? She was married to him.

“Anyway.” The woman straightened. “What was it about Mrs. Felch? The reason you came?”

“I’ve come about a memorial to her, from the Woman Suffrage Association. I thought perhaps her employers here would like to contribute.” I cringed inwardly about misleading her, definitely not how a Friend was supposed to act. But I could certainly suggest such a memorial to one of the association leaders at the demonstration tomorrow.

“I think this an excellent proposal. I’ll bring it to the attention of the Misters Bixby and Batchelder.”

“I thank thee.” I stood.

“You’re a Quaker, then.”

“Yes.”

“Good for you. I always did admire you all for living the clean life. There’s far too much drinking and gambling in the world today, but not from your sort. And you know, I’ve been meaning to join the Woman Suffrage Association, myself. Maybe I shall one of these days.”

“I hope thee will.” I said good-bye and made my way out. Elbridge was definitely still on the list of suspects. How could I find out where he’d been Saturday night?

Zula opened the door to her flat with a look of astonishment. “Miss Winslow, Miss Carroll. Please come in.” She backed away and ushered us into a spacious room with large windows and electric wall sconces. The flat was the second floor of a large, elegant house on Highland Street. We’d been let in the front door by a uniformed maid and then made our way up a graceful staircase. This room was furnished with chairs, a settee, and a chaise. A gleaming black grand piano stood in the far corner. A tall plant was positioned in front of a window, and one wall featured built-in bookcases. Considerable resources had paid for this residence

“Please sit down.” She gestured toward the sitting area.

Bertie and I sat in two chairs upholstered in a maroon chintz across from the settee, where Zula perched. Her hair fell in a long braid down her back and she wore a green-and-pink dotted day dress, giving her a softer look than when I’d seen her in public.

“We just thought we’d pay you a call,” Bertie began, “to express our condolences on Rowena’s death.” Bertie folded her hands primly in her lap, looking like a proper lady making a proper call.

I had to choke back a giggle, since that was the last thing she was.

Zula regarded her own lap for a moment, letting out a shuddering sigh. Her gaze rose again. “I thank you both, and I appreciate the visit. Let me ring for tea, unless you’d like something stronger. I have some excellent Spanish sherry.”

“I don’t mind if I do,” Bertie said.

Zula went to a cabinet and brought back two small glasses full of an amber liquid and handed one to Bertie. “Miss Carroll?”

“Nothing for me, but I thank thee.”

“Rose is a Quaker,” Bertie said with a grin. “She never touches the hard stuff.”

“So that’s why you speak in your odd fashion.” Zula sat with the other glass.

I smiled. “That’s why, yes.”

“We also wanted to ask if there’s anything we can help with for the demonstration tomorrow, other than showing up,” Bertie went on.

This was the additional ruse we’d come up with for our visit, since Zula was one of the organizers, although there was nothing wrong with a simple condolence call, of course.

Zula blinked a couple of times. “You’re very kind.” She got up, fetched a piece of paper from a small writing desk in the corner, and brought it back. I glimpsed a list of items jotted down. “No, everything is in order, but thank you. Just be there by eight.” She laid the paper on the end table between her seat and mine.

I casually picked it up. “You have quite a list of tasks,” I said, but really I was comparing the handwriting with my memory of the one on the note Rowena had held. Zula’s writing was also unusual, with upright and almost backward-leaning letters. Was it the same as on the note requesting a rendezvous? I couldn’t tell.

“Organizing a large group of people isn’t a simple matter,” Zula said. “But we have worked diligently on our plans for the demonstration, and I believe it will be a successful gathering. And highly visible to the citizens of the town, which is important.”

“Will Mrs. Stanton be joining us at the polls?” Bertie asked.

“She said she would. You were given sashes the other night?” Zula asked.

“Yes,” I said. “We both were.” I gazed at Zula. “After the meeting on Seventh Day evening, I saw you walking away with Rowena. Were you having an argument?”

She stared at me, and then sighed. “The same old argument. I wanted her to move in. She didn’t want to. I couldn’t seem to make her change her mind. Look at this place. There’s plenty of room for two. She’d have had her own bedroom.”

There was indeed far too much space here for only one person. Why had Zula’s family set her up here in such a large, independent apartment?

Zula shook her head. “But Rowena refused, said she needed to strike out on her own. And now she never will.” She sniffed.

“Did you walk her all the way home?” Bertie asked with an innocent look on her face.

Zula cleared her throat. “Why, no. I continued on Highland when she turned onto her street.” She lifted her chin as her eyes filled. “I wish I had. I might have been able to protect her against the brute who killed her.”

Was she a good actress or was she telling the truth? If she had left the note, then it was a ruse, because why ask Rowena to meet her if she was already with her? Perhaps we were only adding to her hurt by asking her overly painful questions.