thirty-one
I spent the rest of the morning working at home in the quiet, since the children and Frederick were at school until one in the afternoon. I brought all my records up to date. I made note of who was due next and wrote a few case notes, then began to clean. As I flicked the duster over my grandmother’s clock, my thoughts kept returning to all the unsolved questions.
Kevin would soon question Nell’s mother-in-law, and Guy, too, on Nell’s whereabouts. I so much hoped she’d been securely at home on Fifth Day afternoon and evening, even though I knew she had been out the night of Thomas’s death. Nell herself would be in for an interrogation, as well. Kevin was unlikely to glean any useful information from her. If she began to speak of the Devil, he wasn’t going to get a straight answer about anything. She might even be committed to the insane asylum.
I thought back on exactly what I’d heard. Nell had said she’d brought death, that she didn’t want to, that the Devil made her do it. And something about the Devil telling her people would pretend not to understand, and that they couldn’t understand. I hated the thought of one of my clients having the capacity to deliver a violent death, even though I knew women were as capable of terrible deeds as were men. The Friends’ belief in equality held true for good and bad alike.
I rolled up the braided rug in the center of the room, then fetched the corn broom and swept out the entire space, reaching under the chaise and behind the desk. Suppose these thoughts of the Devil didn’t come from Nell’s addled brain? Suppose this “Devil” was a real person? Even if Nell was convinced to do the deed, the person who had directed her to kill was the true murderer. I knew it wasn’t Ephraim. Then who?
After I emptied the dustpan, I carried the rug out the back door and draped it over the fence as the noon whistle sounded. The skies had cleared, finally, and while the air was still cool, at least it was sunny. A brisk breeze danced with the branches of the young white oak in the yard. I beat the dust out of the rug, asking myself who the Devil incarnate could be. Jotham didn’t care for William Parry and was angry about him impregnating Minnie. He might have put Nell up to stabbing Thomas late at night. For that matter, any of the disgruntled workers Thomas had managed might have been angry enough to do away with him. But then they wouldn’t have had a connection with Nell, unless it was one I had no knowledge of. Lillian hadn’t seemed to like Thomas much, and hadn’t been visibly upset by his death, either. Could she have ordered him killed?
I whacked the rug. What about Minnie’s death? I was certain Jotham wouldn’t have ordered his own sister killed, at least not Minnie, although he and Ida didn’t seem to get along at all. Their past could be simply a matter of two siblings not liking each other, or something more serious might have happened where one couldn’t forgive the other. Humans were a complicated lot, and for some reason forgiveness was one of the most elusive actions for many. I considered Lillian’s opinion of Minnie—she’d called her a strumpet and was aware of William’s dalliance. Perhaps Lillian was involved in Minnie’s death. She was fairly tall for a woman. But no—her advanced state of pregnancy was unmistakable. Therese would surely have noticed her protruding midsection.
I sneezed but continued swinging the rug beater, smacking the oval green-and-rose-colored rug. And then there was Ned’s idea of the arson being carried out, or at least ordered by, William himself, to collect the fire insurance money. It was a horrible thought. Kevin said the official investigation was aware of the possibility. But they clearly didn’t have an answer yet, because he’d added, “When it’s complete.” Because of my recent dealings with both Parrys, I felt I might be able to make some headway where the officials could not if only I could organize my thoughts correctly.
But my thoughts were a pot of beans at a fast boil. They popped up and dove down, vying with each other for importance and position. I wanted to put a lid on them and shove them to the back of the stove. Instead I turned the rug and kept beating the poor thing, as if I could force answers out with the dust.
An hour later, after I’d finished my cleaning and ridden over, the house maid opened the front door of the Parry mansion. This time the maid’s cap was in place and her apron, too.
“Good afternoon.” I smiled at her. “I didn’t catch thy name earlier in the week.”
“Della, miss. Della Majowska.” She curtsied.
“Is Lillian in?” I glanced into the foyer, where a grandfather clock marked one thirty with a single chime.
“No, miss. She went shopping with her sister for baby things. And Mr. Parry is out with a friend.”
I hadn’t noticed her accent before but now it was more pronounced. “I see. Are they expected home soon?”
Her brow furrowed. “I’m not sure, miss. They only left at noon. Mr. Parry’s friend lives on the other side of Merrimack.”
“Ah, the former West Parish of Amesbury.”
“And Mrs. Parry went into Newburyport,” Della added.
“Perhaps I can come in to await Lillian? I wanted to, uh, check on her health,” I lied. “What with the death this week and all.” Surely young Della here would have noticed any funny goings on. I’d simply have to figure out how to elicit information from her without her realizing what I was doing.
Della crossed herself. “It’s been a terrible thing. Terrible.” She shook her head, then stood back and gestured for me to enter. “You can wait for them. Come into the parlor.”
She held out her arms for my cloak and bonnet, which I handed her. After she hung up my things, Della led me to the front room, which I had last seen on Fifth Day, full of mourners, both the sad and the curious types. A day that now seemed a week ago instead of only two days in the past.
“You can sit,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’d love some, thanks.” I stayed on my feet.
As Della turned toward the hall, I followed her. She glanced back at me.
“Oh, miss, you sit in the parlor.” She waved her hand toward the front of the house.
“I’ll just come along and keep thee company in the kitchen. I don’t mind.” I laughed to soften her shock, and waved her on ahead of me. I hadn’t yet set foot in the back area of the house, and I had no intention of wasting my afternoon sitting alone in an over-decorated rich person’s parlor, especially when I had a household insider to question.
The expansive blue-and-white tiled kitchen was decked out with the latest gadgets. An enormous stove, wide enough to hold a half dozen full-sized pots on the top, featured three ovens below. A large icebox sat in the corner, and glass-doored cabinets on the walls held all manner of fancy goblets and fine china, with cookware hanging from hooks near the stove. On the far wall sat two deep sinks and a drainboard. Electric lights dotted the walls.
I sank into a chair at the enormous work table in the middle of the room. “This is quite the kitchen,” I said.
“It’s pretty, yes? Cook likes having such a modern place to make food.”
“She won’t mind my intrusion, I hope?” I knew some cooks in homes like this were highly proprietary of their realms.
“No, she’s not like that. Anyway, she takes her afternoon rest now. Mr. Locke and his friends come for dinner tonight, and they like the fancy foods. Lots of foods, and never mind the mess they leave.”
“So she’ll need all her strength, is that what thee is saying?”
Della set the kettle on a burner and lit it, then turned back, smiling. “That’s right, miss.”
“Alexander Locke. I saw him yesterday. He seemed a bit giddy.”
“Yes, he is.” She bit the corner of her mouth. “He’s like that some of the time, I tell you.”
“Oh? It must be hard for him to hold down a job while acting like that.”
She sat in a chair across a corner of the table from me. A sigh escaped her lips.
“Thee works hard for this household.” I smiled.
“I’m lucky to have the job. I don’t mind hard work.”
“Neither do I.”
She leaned toward me. “Mr. Locke, he does not work at all.”
“No?”
“His papa pays his way. He goes to the gambling parlor and loses it. His papa gives him more.”
“I had heard that.” It was certainly wrong for Della to be gossiping like this, and probably wrong of me to encourage her, but I rationalized that if the information helped in the investigation of the town’s crimes, it was worth our moral transgressions.
“After he loses, he gets very angry.” She shuddered, rubbing one arm with the other hand. “And he takes, you know, the drugs.”
“Have you seen him do that?”
“He left syringes in the guest suite. Needles in them.” She nodded soberly. “Then, after he takes the drugs, he acts silly.” She looked around quickly and leaned toward me. “He borrows my mistress’s dresses, even. I’ve seen him sneak out wearing one more than once. Where could he possibly be going dressed up like a woman?”
I stared at her with a deep, cold sensation spreading through me. I knew one place he might have gone. Alexander was taller than the average woman. Blond. A drug addict. He needed money. What had Lillian convinced him to do? More to the point, how could I prove it to Kevin? And then I had another thought: If Alexander had killed Minnie, he could have killed Thomas, too. It had been the same means of death for both.
“Did Alexander and Thomas get along well?” I asked.
“No, not well. Thomas didn’t like hardly nobody, though. But he especially looked down at Alexander because he didn’t work and he spent so much money. They argued more than once.”
I thought back to the afternoon of the funeral. Alexander had been at the service and at the cemetery, but I hadn’t seen him here at the reception.
“Della, thee must have had thy hands full with Alexander acting silly at the funeral reception.”
“Oh, no. He didn’t even attend the reception. Mr. Parry, he wasn’t happy about that.”
“Thee is sure? Why didn’t Alexander come here after the burial?”
The kettle sang out and Della jumped up. She switched off the burner and busied herself spooning tea into a china teapot she drew out of a cupboard.
“I’m sure. He came back only for a moment.” She faced me. “He ran upstairs and then left through the kitchen here. Cook wasn’t happy about that. Mr. Locke carried a parcel and said he had no interest in a crowd of mourners.”
“I suppose he didn’t say where he was going.” I tapped a spoon on the table.