An undeserved fate, thought Ike of Randolph’s. Ike had witnessed such before, had himself been the perpetrator in one. It was he who had put the spear into the wolf nanny. Ike shuddered at the memory, then turned his thoughts again to Randolph, trying to make sense of him. Even in ancient times, in his own village, there was odd behaviour between the sexes. Though he hadn’t seen quite the like of Randolph’s. Maybe that was only because in Ike’s community there was not much noticeable difference in men and women’s clothing. Was it the city influence? No, Ike concluded. In his centuries of observation, cities were basically the same as villages, but with far too many people.
Ike had thought Randolph so un-wolf-like. But then European wolves did have a different image. Ike didn’t care to mix with them, but he knew their legends. Wolves there were known for their ferocity. There were a couple of stories of wolves raising human babies, one of whom went on to found the city of Rome. But the story children grew up on, was of a wolf who would eat children and grannies, even dressed as a woman to do so. Must have been that European influence in Randolph, Ike conjectured. Who really knew? I do know, Ike concluded, that wolves have odd ones too. But as long as they obey the order of the pack, they are tolerated. Otherwise, they are killed or driven away. Ike worried about what would happen to Meg now. She was a lead female without the protection of a mate. The pack she was in could bring her down.
MEG LEARNED THAT RANDOLPH had willed the house and business, everything he owned, to her. People regarded her as a rich young widow. And I am, thought Meg as she sat in the library, at what was now her desk, going over the accounts as she had done, for nearly a decade. Twenty-four is young, as widows go. Though had I not married, I’d be regarded as an old spinster now. Eighteen is considered a mature bride. And I would have a lot of money if I sold the house, horses and carriage, the broom business, and my “pet vet” business, as Randolph affectionately called it. She smiled thinking about the delightful spin he put on things.
She missed his conversation. Missed him in bed, at the table, in their library, at work, going about town. And yet his presence, his company, was so much with her in the time after his death. Everyday she could remember what they were doing on that day, when he was still alive. The first year, every day is going to be a poignant anniversary, she warned herself. And she worried it could become a devouring quagmire of self-pitying nostalgia. A sinking backwards into sourness.
Not for me, she resolved. Every day is a new day. And there is a tomorrow. Randolph has enriched me in every way… except children. She twisted the pen in her hand. I do want to have children, she thought, determined not to dwell on the hard part of their marriage, but not wanting to endure that again. So many nights being left alone, being not desired. And was it normal to feel, after making love, so … un-spent? Not for the first time, Meg wondered what it would be like to make love with a man who was simply a man and had no qualms about having children with her. “That’s what I want to find in my tomorrow,” she said, pointing her pen into space, “along with some adventure.”
But this is today, she reminded herself. And when all the bills and salaries are paid, I have very little to play with. No, I cannot afford to take off on any adventure now, much as I want to, would love to travel across this country by train, see the West Coast, make my way up north to see the sled dogs that look like wolves. Ike and Piji’s working wolves; she smiled at the image of them in her mind. “And I will, as soon as I can,” she spoke out in resolve as she stood up from the desk.
She put on her plus-fours and set out for a cycle in the fresh spring air. She decided to wear trousers whenever she felt like it. And carry a big stick. Always travel in the company of one of her Humane Society dogs. She would make Jacques general manager and give him as much of a raise as she could afford. Yes! she thought, in fact, why not drop in on Alice, please her with the news, have a comforting chat with my sister.
It took a few moments for Alice to answer the door. “Oh it’s just you! I needn’t have grabbed a clean apron. I was in the midst of baking.” She shifted Herbie onto her other hip and brushed strands of hair off her forehead. “What are you doing in that outfit?’
“Hi Herbie.” Meg kissed him and followed Alice inside. “Just cycling around.”
“Must be nice. I guess you can afford to, now that you own everything.”
Oh, oh, thought Meg. Guess I’m in for it. “I’m busier than ever, actually. Up at 6 a.m. Couldn’t sleep. Going over everything. It’s suddenly a lot of responsibility.”
“If you had kids you’d know what sleepless nights really are. And let me tell you, I’d take every penny of your ‘responsibility’ any day.”
Meg sank down onto the kitchen chair. George and Victoria started to clamber over her. “Auntie Meg, you look funny in those trousers,” said George gleefully.
“Auntie Meg is funny!’ Victoria hugged her and tried to hang between her knees.
“You really should get rid of those plus-fours,” said Alice. “They don’t suit a rich widow. Do you want some tea? It’s all I have.”
“I’d love some tea. And cookies! Look at all those cookies. Aren’t you the lucky kids to have a mommy who makes all these good cookies! Can we have some, Mommy?” She got up to take Herbie while Alice made tea.
“You’re not sad any more?” said George. “Are you the merry widow now?”
Meg felt stabbed. Bowed her head.
“George!” Alice shouted. and stomped her foot. “Kids come out with the darnedest things. I don’t know where he got that.”
“Auntie Meg! Don’t cry!” Victoria looked frightened and grabbed a cookie. “Here, have one.”
“See what you’ve done, George,” said Alice severely. “Apologize. Apologize to Aunt Meg. I don’t know why you would say such things.”
“Auntie Meg!” George began to cry. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I hate you sad. Everybody sad. Or mad. All the time.” He began to cry miserably.
“Here! Here!” Meg swooped up the children. “I’m the one who has to apologize. I wasn’t crying. Just got tearful for a second. I miss Uncle Randolph. You do too, don’t you?”
They nodded. Alice busied herself at the stove.
“It’s all right: it’s right, to be sad at times. But we don’t stay that way, do we? We remember how Uncle Randolph loved to make us laugh and play. So that’s what we should do.” Meg heard Alice click her tongue and saw the slight toss of her head as she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Come on, kids, let’s go out and play while the kettle boils.”
Meg didn’t look at Alice. Didn’t want to see her again. Ever. When Alice brought out tea and cookies on a tray, she drank up and departed as quickly as she could.
“What’s the sudden rush?” said Alice at the door.
“I just … can’t talk …” to you, Meg thought, but said, “yet.”
“Don’t you think you’re laying it on a bit thick?” Meg cycled away from her sister.
Jacques looked pleased and relieved when Meg told him she would like him to be general manager. “But I’m afraid I can’t give you a very big pay hike,” she said. “We have to tighten up the business. I’m having a hard time balancing the books.”
“I can understand that, Meg,” he said. “There’s a general recession. It’s hitting all the businesses.”
“I know,” said Meg. “I hear the talk. And I read the papers. But I don’t like to bandy that word around. It can have a snowball effect. People start putting their cash under their mattresses. It’s bad for the economy, that gloom-and-doom talk.”
“Right hard on the soul too.”
Meg eyed Jacques. “How are things with you? Alice and the kids? I dropped in yesterday but couldn’t stay long.”
“Yes, I know.” He looked uncomfortable. “Alice should be happy to hear about my promotion.”
Next morning, Meg observed that Jacques made effort to be good humoured and brisk about his work but, unguarded, he looked hang dog, if not hung over. Meg wondered what really went on in their household. What basis was there in Alice’s complaint about Jacques’s drinking? George’s little outburst about people sad or mad all the time? Maybe she, Meg, was the unsympathetic, unhelpful sister. At the end of the day, Meg asked Jacques if they would like to come over for a meal on Sunday.
“It’s good of you, Meg. The kids love going to your place. But it shouldn’t always be you entertaining us …”
“Oh who cares about that! Come for lunch. After church. I feel a need for church. We’ll roast a chicken. Let the kids play in the tub.” She stopped, thinking of the phone call, the previous time the kids were in the tub.
“Are you sure? Maybe it’s too soon,” said Jacques empathetically.
“You are family, Jacques. It will be fine. I’m not attempting to entertain strangers.” She smiled. “And if the phone rings, we’ll refuse to answer.”
Alice was tense when she arrived. But that was not unusual. Meg was determined to have a pleasant time, if not a jolly one, for the kids. They had sherry on the verandah while the kids played in the leaves piled up under the trees. Then Jacques lit a fire in the library where Alice sat feeding Herbie while Meg bathed George and Victoria. They decided to eat round the kitchen table because it was easier to maintain the kids there. Herbie slept in a big drawer brought from the dresser and laid upon the floor.
“You and Jacques can sit at each end,” said Meg. “I’ll sit in the middle here, with one cute kid on either side of me. George? Vicky?” She patted the spots on the bench where they were to sit.
“Yaaaay!” they shouted.
“Mind your manners,” said Alice.
Meg set a pitcher of ale on the table.
“What’s this?’ said Alice. “No wine? Part of the tightening up?”
Jacques looked at her in alarm and dismay.
“Partly,” said Meg. “But it’s early in the day and I thought you said a glass of ale was better for nursing.” She raised her glass. “Well, cheers! Here’s to the future.”
“Jacques says you don’t believe in the recession.”
“Alice!” Jacques put his glass down hard. “That’s not what I said.”
“All very easy not to believe in the recession when it doesn’t affect your business. People always need brooms. They can do without bicycles. Did you know we’re closing up the shop? For good.”
“Alice! Not in front of the children!” Jacques clenched his fist on the table. “That is not a fit subject for this occasion.”
“Let’s pass the vegetables around, shall we?” Meg gave George and Vicky a squeeze. “What did you think of the sermon today, Jacques?”
“Go on, Jacques,” said Alice. “Give us your opinion of the sermon. I don’t have one. Since I was home feeding Herbie.”
Jacques proceeded to give a very strained opinion. He finished his meal as quickly as the children finished theirs. “Why don’t I take the kids out to play?” He reached to finish off his mug of ale.
“Might as well take a mug with you,” said Alice sarcastically.
“Why not?” said Meg. “Go ahead, Jacques. I think Alice and I are going to have a talk.”
Jacques took the children out into the yard.
“You always have to act like the queen bee, don’t you!” Alice stood up and shoved her chair into the table as Meg started to clear up.
“Alice that is completely unfair. I try to help …”
“What help is that meagre raise you gave to Jacques!”
“It wasn’t meagre! And it was the best I could do in the circumstances.”
“Your circumstances! What could be better? You have no one to look after but yourself. You’re rich. You’ll probably marry someone richer. And look at us. We’re bankrupt.”
“You’re not!”
“We are. And Jacques is too damn proud to tell you.”
“Alice! You never swear.” Meg half-smiled.
“Oh shut up! I’m sorry I told you. I knew you wouldn’t understand. You have no idea what it means.”
“Of course I do. I run a business. I know what bankruptcy is. But is it true? Look Alice, I’m sorry. You’ve taken me totally by surprise. Come on.” Meg put her hands on Alice’s shoulders. “Let’s make some coffee and talk this over. How bankrupt are you?”
“We have to sell the business. Which no one is likely to buy. Not if they see our winter sales. No one has any use for bicycles in winter. They’re completely impractical and a stupid idea for this hilly city. And we can’t make a living off sleds and skates. Everyone already has them or can’t afford to buy them. Not now in a recession. The Sports Shop is a lemon. A white elephant. Who but a dreamer would want it. And Jacques took a huge loan on the house to invest in the store and stock. We can’t possibly pay it back now. So we’ll lose the house. And what does Jacques do about this? Cry in his beer. I had no idea he was such a weakling.”
“Jacques is not a weakling!” Meg stopped in her tracks. “And you’re not actually bankrupt.”
Herbie began to cry. Meg went to pick him up.
“Oh sure. Spoil him. Pick him up the moment he cries. Then hand him over to me. Must be nice to be an aunt.”
“Alice, you have to stop this. This horrible … what is it? It feels like hatred. You hate everything I do.”
“You know I don’t hate you. I just hate my life compared to yours. And I hate most of all having to be the begging sister.”
“It’s not a question of begging …” Meg turned to Herbie who was howling.
“Oh, for heaven sake, pick him up, if you want. I’ll wash the damn dishes. And then feed him.”
“I’ll help you, Alice, as best I can, with the debts, and the damn dishes.”
Alice washed the dishes while Meg carried and calmed Herbie.
“Don’t you get lonely in this big house alone?”
“Sure,” said Meg. “But I’ll get used to it.”
Alice was feeding Herbie and Meg was drying the dishes when they heard Jacques come up onto the verandah with the kids.
“There is an obvious solution,” said Alice. “Not Jacques’s idea. Mine.”
“What is that?”
“Rent out our house. And move in with you. Just long enough to pay off the debt. It shouldn’t take long. You like the kids so much. I’ll look after the house and meals. Keep the kids out of your hair when you want peace and quiet. You really shouldn’t be in this house all alone. Just think about it.”
“Auntie, Auntie Meg. We have beautiful red tulips for you.” They banged eagerly on the screen door.
It wasn’t long before Alice moved her family into Meg’s house. Meg had fought it mightily in her mind. The only person she could discuss it with was Jean Atkins.
“Alice is my sister and I have a deep natural feeling for her,” Meg moaned to Jean. “But right now, she’s not the sort of person I would choose to sit beside at a dinner table, let alone live with. She’s in some awful state of looking upon others with jealousy and envy rather than genuine interest. She sees only what they have and she lacks. It makes her miserable. She can’t enjoy any of the good she has. Particularly husband and children.”
“That must be very hard for you to see,” said Jean. “Though I’ve seen it myself. Alice and you have never been very alike. But you’re her big sister and she admires you tremendously. Maybe she admires everyone too much. Thinks the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. But I think she is in a trying stage of life, with three young ones born so quickly. I know it’s against popular belief, but I don’t think every woman is well-suited to motherhood. The early years can be very hard. Alice may be much happier when the children are at school and she can get involved in more adult activities, charitable works, and such. Look how we women enjoy working with all your new veterinary ideas. You’re like the alpha female you talk about in wolf packs. And you do run ahead of the times. Alice is more of a follower. But she certainly has her strengths.”
Jean looked discerningly at Meg’s troubled brow and concluded. “You won’t refuse her request for help, will you?”
“No, I won’t. Refusing would be against every good moral principle.”
Meg gave over the upper bedrooms to Alice and family and moved herself back into her old single bed in the room near the kitchen.
“Oh, thank you,” said Alice. Actually gave Meg a kiss. “This master bedroom with small bedroom attached … it’s perfect! The only sure way for me with Jacques. Separate beds. There’s no ‘safe time’ for me. They say you’re not likely to get caught while still nursing. And look what happened to me! But now I won’t have to send him downstairs to the sofa. And to have this big bathroom with flush toilet, right next door. Oh Meg, remember how far it was to the outhouse on the farm? This house is bliss!”
Meg drew the line at being drawn into Alice’s sense of social life. She retreated to the library when Alice held afternoon teas. Alice begrudgingly accepted that big dinner parties were unaffordable. Her mood changed to high excitement when Meg got tickets for them to attend a performance of Pauline Johnson reciting her poetry at the theatre.
Pauline was a poet born on the Six Nations Reserve near Toronto, the daughter of a Mohawk chief and his English wife. She was the most famous of the new Canadian poets and managed to make her living touring across Canada and in England, giving dramatic recitations of her poems, lively narratives and lyrics reflecting her closeness with nature, the heroics of her people, and her own champion canoeing skills. Meg read her poems as soon as they came out in magazines. Randolph had liked to recite them at parties. Meg was at the front of the line when tickets for her performance went on sale.
“Wouldn’t mind seeing her myself,” Jacques had said, “but I’ll tend the kids, Alice, so you can go.”
“Such good seats!” said Alice at the theatre, done up in her best dress, looking round at all the people behind her.
“I can’t wait to see her!” said Meg. “And I’m dying to hear her do ‘The Song My Paddle Sings.’ Wouldn’t you love to paddle a canoe!”
During the first half of her performance, Pauline Johnson appeared in an elegant white silk and lace gown. She recited her more lyric poems, dramatizing with graceful gestures, great poise and eloquence. Alice was enthralled. “Isn’t she beautiful! Such a perfect lady. You’d never know she’s part Indian. She makes stage acting look perfectly acceptable. I’d love to be able to do that. What a life, travelling the country, having people clap and admire you where ever you go. Wouldn’t you love that!”
“I’d like to be able to write poetry the way she does,” said Meg. “And to recite. She’s very talented. And beautiful. It’s a wonder she isn’t married.”
“You can’t be married and have a life like that!” Alice whispered harshly. “Husband and kids following you around the country? Not likely! I’ll bet she’s happy, with a hundred suitors in every city. And when she settles down, she can choose amongst them.”
The curtain was raised for the second half. Pauline appeared with her hair let down, wearing a doeskin dress with colourful beaded wampum belts hanging at the waist, a bear claw necklace, feathered and fringed decorations on her sleeves. Meg burst into applause and others quickly joined in. Alice looked around uncertainly. Pauline Johnson gave a dignified smile and slight bow. Then she launched into recitations of her more narrative and dramatic poems. She moved and gestured like a powerful actor, speaking with rising crescendos, fiery peaks and lulling, sad ebbs and flows. Meg leapt to her feet in applause, calling for encores as did the whole house, though other women didn’t yell and whistle like Meg and the men. Alice clapped properly and frowned at Meg.
“Isn’t she fabulous!” said Meg. “Absolutely bewitching!”
“I preferred the first act,” said Alice.
Meg was invited to a reception afterwards for Pauline Johnson. She took Alice with her, missing Randolph, who would have thoroughly enjoyed Pauline’s performance and had charming things to say to her. Pauline had changed into a grand red velvet dress for the reception.
“I think you are truly great,” Meg found herself saying, meaning every word but knowing it sounded dull-witted. “I liked every thing about your performance. And I find your poems wonderful to read aloud and think about. But you must be exhausted, travelling all the way from Montreal today and giving such a performance tonight.”
“Why thank you!” Pauline smiled warmly. “This kind of life is exhausting but I’m never too tired to hear a word of praise. Have you written poems?”
“Oh no. I have absolutely no talent for that. I’m a veterinarian. Better known as the dog doctor.”
Pauline laughed and clapped her hands in the air. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. You must tell me more.”
“There are a lot of people here who want to talk to you,” said Meg, feeling Alice’s impatience at her side. “This is my sister, Alice Benoit.”
“Hello Miss Benoit …”
“Mrs.,” said Alice. “I also admired your performance. Such a beautiful dress you had in the first act! Of course, the second was very interesting. And this striking red velvet …” Pauline’s brow furrowed.
“Excuse me,” Alice continued, “I didn’t mean to talk only of your dress. But you are truly glamorous. What I really wanted to ask is how you become a famous poetess.”
“How does one become a poet? And famous? Is that what you’re asking?”
“Yes.”
“By spending a lot of time alone, writing. And re-writing poems. And writing to publishers. Travelling in uncomfortable coaches. Staying in hotel rooms that are not nice, or too expensive. And performing on stage whether you feel like it or not. I’m sorry, that’s not what you wanted to hear, is it? Are you thinking of becoming a poetess?”
“Not now, I’m not,” said Alice, thinking nor will I tell you I keep a lowly journal about ordinary life.
“It isn’t the life you think it is.” Pauline smiled and looked round the room full of people wanting to meet her. “But it is a wonderful life. And I’m honoured to be a voice for my people. It’s nice to meet you.” She turned to Meg. “May I give you my postal address? I would like to learn more about dog doctoring.”
Meg laughed. “I would like to learn how to paddle a canoe.”
“I don’t think I like her at all,” Alice whispered to Meg when Pauline was taken up by other people. “But I love this party. Come on, introduce me to all these theatre people. Jacques and I never get out to things like this.”
“Thank you,” said Alice when they got home from the party. She gave Meg a quick hug. “Thanks for everything. You’re my favourite sister.”
The Sports Shop remained on the market through summer and winter. When it finally sold in March, it was a fire sale, selling for less than Jacques had paid for it. The merchandise went for less than half price. Jacques kept five bicycles and stored them in the driving shed.
“One for each of the kids, when they’re big enough,” said Jacques. “And one for me and you, Alice.”
“I hate bicycles,” said Alice. “Keep them out of my sight.”
The broom business and the pet vet business were just treading water in terms of profit, but that was good considering the economic climate.
“This is a recession,” Meg conceded. “But it can’t last forever.”
“With my luck, it will.” said Alice.
“Your luck?!” Meg laughed. “Alice, this is everyone’s bad luck.”
“You could kick us out, now that the shop has sold,” she said. “And we could kick out our tenants, move back into that little house with the mud patch for a yard. As long as you can keep paying Jacques’ salary, we can live on that. Just. But we could get ahead maybe, if we could stay here longer. Through the summer. You know how the kids love your big yard, the swing and all. Would you mind?”
Yes, I would, thought Meg, I mind very much. I can’t bear your complaining nature and the way you treat Jacques, making him miserable when he walks in the door happy to see his kids. No wonder he’s depressed and takes as many swigs as he can before he gets home. “Of course you can stay through the summer,” is what she answered. “And don’t worry. Jacques earns his salary. He’s managing Sweepers very well.”
“I bet I could learn to do the books,” said Alice, “if I had time.”
It was shortly after the anniversary of Randolph’s death that Meg received a letter from Mick O’Mara, Deputy Chief of Police, Boston, USA.
Dear Mrs. Oliphant,
I’m not sure if you are at this address or how else your circumstances may have changed. Perhaps you are engaged, even remarried. Mine have changed only in that I was made Deputy Chief of Police, in charge of the case which so unfortunately involved your late husband. I have hesitated to write this letter, being awkward as I am with the written word, but it is my duty to convey to you the news that the Boston Stabber has been found. I should say, in fact, found out, although he was deceased. There was no trial and conviction since the person in question was deceased but the circumstantial evidence was proof positive.
This is what transpired after your return to Halifax. Given the peculiar circumstances of your husband’s unfortunate death, I began to think of a different way in which the forces of peace and order might track down or indeed trap, the Boston Stabber. My men were exceedingly reluctant to assume the disguise of, you understand the expression, “ladies of the night.” There was also the practical problem of the men on my force being too tall and broad of shoulder to be taken for women. But I was convinced that that was how we would catch the Stabber.
Therefore I recruited four civilian men last summer to work in pairs for this special patrol. They were acquainted with your husband from his visits to a certain Boston club and glad to aid in the capture of his murderer. However, the Stabber did not strike again, not until after New Year’s, which further substantiated my view that he had been surprised and averted by his discovery of the identity of Mr. Oliphant. But strike again, he did. The victim was another most unfortunate young woman, mother of a young child, plying her trade near Boston Common.
I recalled our special recruits. They worked the night shift in pairs, pretending to operate from a house of ill repute. They would leave the house in the small hours of the morning, escorting each other across the Common, then separate near the entrance of two boarding houses. After one month and three days of this routine, one of them was approached from behind by a man wielding a knife. My recruit reacted quickly with the gun in his purse. The Stabber was fatally wounded but he did not die before my recruits managed to extract from him a full confession to seven murders, including that of your husband. The true identity of the Boston Stabber is that of Jerome Hebb, aged 26, expelled from medical school for disrespect to cadavers. In his rooming house quarters were found torn and stained ladies’ undergarments, including a pair identified as being from his latest victim.
My dear Mrs. Oliphant, or Meg, if I may, I am sorry to evoke painful memories by the contents of this letter. My hope is that it will also bring you some consolation in that the murderer was brought to justice.
I wish to add that I was moved by your case and impressed by your person. This is an uncommon kind of letter for me to compose. I never married. The nature of my work is so indelicate that I did not think a normal lady could ever understand my dedication to it. But I think perhaps you could. If you are not committed to another and would like to meet again with serious purpose in mind, if you would be willing to move to Boston … please let me know, in your own good time.
In any case, I wish you well and will always think of you as a lady of great composure and understanding.
Yours sincerely,
Mick O’Mara
Meg read and re-read the letter. Kept it locked in her desk drawer and running free in her mind. Did not want to answer it immediately because that would give conclusion to it. It was a peculiar kind of company for her. Mick O’Mara was the only person she knew who shared her memory of Randolph’s secret life and sordid death. He was someone she could open up to. And he had opened up to her in such an unusual but natural manner, leaving himself vulnerable, like a wolf making its presence known in the night forest by its lonesome howl. Meg felt the dead weight in her heart begin to lighten. The loneliness alleviate.
She wanted to simply run to him, embrace him, nuzzle into his broad shoulders and neck. She recalled how good looking he was in his officer’s uniform. Much taller than her but not much older. Serious blue eyes and reddish hair. Ears a bit big but good bone structure face. Altogether a good anatomy, she smiled, in studying him in retrospect, from the outside. Ah, but behind the uniform … what secret habits? I must be cautious. And yet, how open and frank he seems. How altogether unusual, this letter and this man, she concluded, and how very, very nice! I must think carefully and answer with the same openness of heart.
Dear Deputy Chief O’Mara, … Mick, if I may,
How very kind of you to send the, let us be frank … ugly information … to me. And yet, as you say, it also brings a sense of justice, which has given me a peculiar satisfaction. When I think about it, the satisfaction comes more from knowing that no more loved ones will be murdered by that man. I do not derive much, if any satisfaction at all, out of vengeance. I keep thinking of the other victim’s young daughter growing up without her mother and with the knowledge of how she was killed. But perhaps she will not be informed of the worst. Not if you are handling it. For I remember how deeply considerate you were with me, prepared to spare me information that might have shocked and disturbed me.
I want to say I find it a surprising comfort and relief to know that you share the secret I’m bound to keep about my late husband, Randolph. It is a secret I promised him I would keep. It created a peculiar loneliness in my life and I feel burdened by it at times. There is so much I don’t know or understand about the behaviour of men, or perhaps I should say, of human beings. It would be enlightening to talk to you. I regret that I was in such a state when I met you that I could not converse with you and I am grateful to be able to correspond with you now. More than grateful.
But first I must say, I think you are not just clever, but original, in your pursuit of justice. Randolph said there were “clubs.” I remain ignorant of that side of his life. He wanted to keep it completely separate from the normal life we shared. I would like you to convey to your “recruits” my admiration for their courage and resourcefulness in capturing the murderer. Though, the resourcefulness was more yours.
You are an unusual and most admirable man whom I would like to know better and better … fully, to be honest. Your seriousness of purpose in regard to me is a great compliment and has stirred my heart and mind. I would indeed like to meet again and have proper, intimate correspondence. But, as for my willingness to move to Boston … that is a more complex and difficult question. I have thought very seriously about it.
I’ll admit I am not always happy in my own home since I have, of necessity, given it over to my sister and her little family, whom I love, but there are tensions which sadden me deeply. I do, however, get great satisfaction from my veterinary work. It is something I cannot abandon. I think I must not.
As for Boston … I am somewhat afraid of the city itself. To put it dramatically, it lured my husband to his death. On the other hand, it is a city of great intellectual and cultural reputation and history. And you are the Deputy Chief of Police. You should know that I am not generally regarded as a “normal lady” since I run a business and have a habit of cycling around town in breeches because they are more practical for that purpose than a skirt. Not fit material for a wife of the Deputy Chief of Police … IF … seriousness of purpose led to that! I’m sure all Boston would agree. And I’m afraid I can’t change my habit, or give up my love of being a dog doctor. If I did not change my habit, or give up my vet practice, I would be an unsuitable wife and if I did, I would be an unhappy one. I have seen that an unhappy wife can make a husband miserable. I wouldn’t want to do that to you.
Yet I already feel deeply unhappy in having to say this, the honest truth, to you now.
I thank you for your letter, your good work and the great compliment of your proposal to meet again, with seriousness of purpose. Can we please continue to correspond?
Yours most sincerely,
Meg