Sister Rose Callahan, eldress of the Depression-era community of Believers at the Kentucky Shaker village of North Homage, knows that evil does not merely exist in the Bible. Sometimes it comes very close to home indeed.
“A complete and very charming portrait of a world, its ways, and the beliefs of its people, and an excellent mystery to draw you along.”
Anne Perry
In the next pages, Sister Rose confronts danger in the form of an old Utopian cult seeking new members among the peaceful Shakers.
by Deborah Woodworth
AT FIRST, ROSE SAW NOTHING ALARMING, ONLY ROWS OF strictly pruned apple trees, now barren of fruit and most of their leaves. The group ran through the apple trees and into the more neglected east side of the orchard, where the remains of touchier fruit trees lived out their years with little human attention. The pounding feet ahead of her stopped, and panting bodies piled behind one another, still trying to keep some semblance of separation between the brethren and the sisters.
The now-silent onlookers stared at an aged plum tree. From a sturdy branch hung the limp figure of a man, his feet dangling above the ground. His eyes were closed and his head slumped forward, almost hiding the rope that gouged into his neck. The man wore loose clothes that were neither Shaker nor of the world, and Rose sensed he was gone even before Josie reached for his wrist and shook her head.
Two brethren moved forward to cut the man down.
“Nay, don’t, not yet,” Rose said, hurrying forward.
Josie’s eyebrows shot up. “Surely you don’t think this is anything but the tragedy of a man choosing to end his own life?” She nodded past the man’s torso to a delicate chair laying on its side in the grass. It was a Shaker design, not meant for such rough treatment. Dirt scuffed the woven red-and-white tape of the seat. Scratches marred the smooth slats that formed its ladder back.
“What’s going on here? Has Mother Ann appeared and declared today a holiday from labor?” The powerful voice snapped startled heads backward, to where Elder Wilhelm emerged from the trees, stern jaw set for disapproval.
No one answered. Everyone watched Wilhelm’s ruddy face blanch as he came in view of the dead man.
“Dear God,” he whispered. “Is he . . . ?”
“Yea,” said Josie.
“Then cut him down instantly,” Wilhelm said. His voice had regained its authority, but he ran a shaking hand through his thick white hair.
Eyes turned to Rose. “I believe we should leave him for now, Wilhelm,” she said. A flush spread across Wilhelm’s cheeks, and Rose knew she was in for a public tongue thrashing, so she explained quickly. “Though all the signs point to suicide, still it is a sudden and brutal death, and I believe we should alert the Sheriff. He’ll want things left just as we found them.”
“Sheriff Brock . . .” Wilhelm said with a snort of derision. “He will relish the opportunity to find us culpable.”
“Please, for the sake of pity, cut him down.” A man stepped forward, hat in hand in the presence of death. His thinning blond hair lifted in the wind. His peculiar loose work clothes seemed too generous for his slight body. “I’m Gilbert Owen Griffiths,” he said, nodding to Rose. “And this is my compatriot, Earl Weston,” he added, indicating a broad-shouldered, dark-haired young man. “I am privileged to be guiding a little group of folks who are hoping to rekindle the flame of the great social reformer, Robert Owen. That poor unfortunate man,” he said, with a glance at the dead man, “was Hugh—Hugh Griffiths—and he was one of us. We don’t mind having the Sheriff come take a look, but we are all like a family, and it is far too painful for us to leave poor Hugh hanging.”
“It’s an outrage, leaving him there like that,” Earl said. “What if Celia should come along?”
“Celia is poor Hugh’s wife,” Gilbert explained. “I’ll have to break the news to her soon. I beg of you, cut him down and cover him before she shows up.”
Wilhelm assented with a curt nod. “I will inform the Sheriff,” he said as several brethren cut the man down and lay him on the ground. The morbid fascination had worn off, and most of the crowd was backing away.
There was nothing to do but wait. Rose gathered up the sisters and New-Owenite women who had not already made their escape. Leaving Andrew to watch over the ghastly scene until the Sheriff arrived, she sent the women on ahead to breakfast, for which she herself had no appetite. The men followed behind.
On impulse Rose glanced back to see Andrew’s tall figure hunched against a tree near the body. He watched the crowd’s departure with a forlorn expression. As she raised her arm to send him an encouraging wave, a move distracted her. She squinted through the tangle of unpruned branches behind Andrew to locate the source. Probably just a squirrel; she thought, but her eyes kept searching nonetheless. There it was again—a flash of brown almost indistinguishable from tree bark. Several rows of trees back from where Andrew stood, something was moving among the branches of an old pear tree—something much bigger than a squirrel.