I trudged up the wide steps to the well-appointed Bowman home on Main Street later that morning. I was grateful today I’d brought my oilskin cloak on the trip, because a chilly wind drove the rain sideways. I felt I needed to speak with Hazel again. Maybe she knew something about the father of Frannie’s baby. The man’s identity had to be part of the key to solving her murder. She and Hazel had been close friends. She surely had some knowledge of whom Frannie spent time with, if anyone, apart from Reuben. I would go in search of Currie soon. I also prayed Clarinda would recover before David even arrived
A moment later I trudged back down. A uniformed maid had told me Hazel was at work at Mrs. Boyce’s tag factory, which was situated near the train station. It would be interesting to see a thriving business owned and run by a woman, and if I could have a short conversation with Hazel, so much the better. I had only a short walk down Chappaquoit Street to the factory, a two-story building adjacent to the tracks.
I entered a busy office, with a boy loading boxes onto a handcart and a woman at a counter addressing a stack of labels. Others packed fat bundles, presumably of tied tags, into boxes. One employee secured sturdy string around full boxes, readying them for shipping. Rain dripped off my cloak as I pushed back the hood. I removed my spectacles, drying them with a clean handkerchief.
The woman at the counter glanced up. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“I’m Rose Dodge, Tilly Carroll’s niece.”
“We all miss our dear Miss Isley. Poor Miss Tilly.” She wagged her head in sorrow. “What a grievous loss she’s had. How is she coping?”
“As best she can, I thank thee. I’m here because I’d like to have a brief word with Hazel Bowman, if I may.”
“Miss Bowman is working upstairs.” She frowned. “But by rights you should ask Mrs. Boyce if she approves. That’s her office there.” She gestured to an open door with her chin.
I turned toward the office.
“The thing is, Mrs. Boyce stepped out to the post office a little bit ago,” the woman said. “What’s it in regard to, anyway, your word with Miss Bowman?”
“I’d like to talk with her for only a minute or two about Frannie’s death.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Are you a Pinkerton girl?” she whispered.
“No, not at all. But she was my aunt’s ward.” Given Tilly’s revelation, I now knew I was Frannie’s blood cousin, a first cousin once removed. This woman didn’t need to know that, though. “And I know Hazel and Frannie were friends.”
“Well, that’ll be fine, then. You go on up. Have you met Miss Bowman before?”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t need to introduce you. The stairs are around the back, but you can leave your rain garment down here first, if you like.”
I hung my cloak on the coat tree and made my way up. Two dozen women, both young and older, sat around long tables deftly threading strings through holes in the ends of thin cardboard tags in various colors and sizes. Their fingers moved like flashes of light. Another operated a metal winding machine, and yet another cut winds of cotton string. I spied Hazel using a machine that perforated a stack of tags with one press of a lever. I approached.
She started when she saw me. “Hello, there. Mrs. Dodge, isn’t it? Frannie’s relation?” She’d tied a kerchief on her light hair today, and wore an apron over a summery dress.
“Yes. Good morning, Hazel. This is quite the enterprise.”
“You could say so. Might I ask what you’re doing here? You didn’t come to the factory to study how we string tags, surely.”
I laughed. “No, but it’s quite fascinating now I see what’s involved. Do the tags come already cut?”
“Yes, except for the holes.”
“That’s an ingenious machine.” I gestured toward the winding device.
“Different-sized tags need different lengths of string,” Hazel explained. “You can change the setting so the strings will be the correct size once they’re cut.” She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess. You want to talk about Frannie.”
“I do. I’m curious about any suitors Frannie might have had. Boys or men she spent time with?”
“She never wanted for attention from the opposite sex, I can tell you. She was pretty and shapely and saucy.”
Hazel’s tone contained a touch of envy. She herself was not unattractive, but she wasn’t particularly striking. Her observation concurred with what Dru had told me about Frannie. Not the saucy part, but the beauty.
“Can thee help me with details, please, about with whom she might have been consorting?” I asked.
She twisted her mouth. “You mean like Reuben Baxter? He pretends to be a nice boy, but he can be pushy. And he’s an Indian. I don’t know what Frannie saw in him.”
“How did they meet?”
“Around town, how else?” Hazel raised a single eyebrow.
“Was there anyone else?”
“Yes.” She glanced around the room and turned her back on the bustle. “Mr. Latting was, shall we say, overly solicitous to Frannie.
Abial Latting? The Quaker businessman? This was not the suitor I’d expected her to speak of. Although Tilly had also mentioned an older gentleman.
“Thee means Abial Latting?”
“Yes. I saw the two of them together not too long ago,” she continued. “They were behind a stone wall and I’m sure they thought no one could see them. She was giggling, and he was not acting like a proper gentleman, I’ll tell you. Kissing her hand and playing with her hair and all. Disgusting, that’s what it was. He was near old enough to be her grandfather.” Her whisper was harsh.
An older woman at the table cleared her throat, looking pointedly at Hazel.
“Sorry, Mrs. Dodge,” Hazel said. “I’m here to work. I don’t want yon biddy to report me to Mrs. Boyce.”
“I thank thee for thy time, Hazel. I’ll be at my aunts’ for a few more days, at least. If thee thinks of anything else, please send me a note.”
“Very well.” She straightened the stack of tags on her machine and slammed down the perforating handle. With a thunk, a sharp rod sliced through the cards.