ROSE AWAKENED WITH A START. SHE LAY STILL, STARING into pitch darkness, listening. If a noise had roused her, it was gone now. And so was her urge to sleep. She tried the light beside her bed, but to no avail. She had no idea what time it was, or how long she had slept. So far, Fannie’s prayers had not returned the village to normal. Rose sat up in bed, pulling her blanket up to her neck.
More than likely, it was a dream that had awakened her. She had the foggy impression that, once she was deeply asleep, the dried-apple Shaker doll had returned to plague her mind. Perhaps it was trying to bring her a message. She believed, as did other Believers, that long-dead Shakers often spoke during trances or dreams. Though such experiences seemed to elude her, she tried to be open to their appearance. She closed her eyes, conjured up the visual memory of the strange doll, and invited her dream messenger to speak again.
At first, nothing happened. She stared at the doll, revolted by the shriveled face and the hint of horns still visible under the hat. Then the image began to change. The red horns bled slowly down the brother’s Sabbathday surcoat and pooled at his feet. Repulsed, Rose opened her eyes and chased the image away. But it returned. This time, she forced herself to pay attention.
Why was her vision only the Shaker brother, not the sister? She hadn’t even seen the brother doll. Was it only because she had watched the men file out of the dining room some hours earlier? Or was there some deeper message? She thought back over the faces that had preceded the doll in her half-dreaming imagination. And then she knew. Aldon, Johnny, Theodore, Otis—Sewell had not been among them. Sewell had not come to evening meal.
What if those dolls represented, in some horrible way, intended or potential victims? All along she had thought of Julia and Dulcie as the victims, so she hadn’t seen how the dolls might connect with the killer. But if Dulcie had actually tried to kill herself, that left only one female victim. A male doll might then indicate a second victim, this time a man.
Or was her vision telling her that Sewell was indeed the killer she sought? She had pressured him to confess to her. Perhaps he had already escaped from the village, rather than admit how much blood was on his hands.
She tossed aside her blanket and slid off her bed. Her curtains were closed, but a faint square of light hinted at moonlight outside. She stumbled across the room toward the window and pulled the curtains open. Perhaps Fannie had some influence after all—the snow had stopped, and the moon, though weak, was making an effort to shine. At least it outlined the shapes in her retiring room. She located her only set of dry clothing and pulled it on right over her nightgown. Might as well be as warm as possible.
As she reached her retiring room door, her foot kicked something light. She could barely see a small object on the floor. She bent to pick it up. It felt like a wad of fabric. She must have caught the hem of her long dress on something and ripped it. She’d have to darn it back together later. She stuffed the fabric in her apron pocket and left.
A large window at the end of the hallway allowed some moonlight to penetrate, so Rose did not light her lamp. She might need the oil later. She wasn’t ready to rouse anyone else. In fact, she wasn’t sure whom she could trust. She lifted the phone in the hallway and jiggled the cradle gently. Still dead.
As quietly as possible, she hurried to the side of the dwelling house where the male novitiates lived. If this had been North Homage, Elder Wilhelm would have threatened to have her removed as eldress for such behavior, but this wasn’t North Homage, and lives were at stake.
Rose paused and counted doors. Some, she knew, hid empty rooms. Following worldly desires, the men had spread out so they would not have immediate neighbors to snore and disturb their sleep. Sewell should be in the fourth room on the right. She blessed whatever instinct had made her ask, when she had first arrived, who lived in which retiring room.
She tiptoed to Sewell’s door and listened for a few moments. She heard no sounds from within. Rather than take the risk of knocking, she eased the door open and peered inside. The curtains had not been drawn, thank goodness, and she could see the tightly made bed. A quick glance along the wall revealed that Sewell’s outdoor coat was missing.
The stars had reappeared in the now-clear sky. Rose sent her most fervent thanks to the Holy Father, Holy Mother Wisdom, and especially to Mother Ann. She would have preferred not having to slog through knee-deep snow in the middle of the night, but she left this detail out of her prayers.
Instinct alone sent Rose in the direction of the abandoned Meetinghouse. It was where Sewell always seemed to be. He loved the building, wanted desperately to save it. Her heart told her he might be inside, but whether dead or alive, she couldn’t say. She knew only that she must hurry.
She didn’t need to light her lamp. The moon, finally and gloriously bright, glimmered on the snow and bathed the village in blue-white light. As she crossed the road, Rose easily made out jumbled tracks in the deep snow, which convinced her she was heading in the right direction. She stepped in the tracks as best she could, noting that some seemed farther apart than her long legs could reach. It was a safe guess that at least one set was made by a man. Moreover, they were clear and sharp. Since there was no wind, she concluded the tracks had been made since the snow ended—not long ago, she suspected. Whoever made those tracks might still be inside the Meetinghouse.
As she approached the brethren’s entrance to the Meetinghouse, she noted that the footprints in the snow led inward only. There were other entrances, of course. She stepped to the west side of the building. Keeping close to the wall, she worked her way to a window that was still intact.
With so many windows boarded up, it was difficult to see inside the dark Meetinghouse. Yet there was no mistaking what lay no more than a few yards in front of her, illuminated by moonlight. A man lay on his back, deadly still, his arms stretched straight out from his sides as if nailed to a cross. Something long and slender stuck up from his chest.
Rose groaned and pulled away from the window. All her prayers had done no good. She was too late. She forced herself to look again through the window and around the Meetinghouse. She saw no evidence of another person lurking inside. The fiend had surely left as soon as the deed was done—and had probably left the village as well.
Rose slogged around to the nearest entrance and pushed open the door, not caring if she made noise. She ran to Sewell’s still body. Without much hope, she reached for his wrist. There was no pulse. His skin was cool to the touch.
She lit her lamp and examined Sewell more closely. She recognized the handle of a screwdriver—perhaps the very one he had held when she questioned him earlier. It protruded from the left side of his chest. A dark circle stained the area around the wound. A clean, precise blow by someone who knew where to aim. Someone able to catch Sewell off guard. Someone he trusted enough to meet in the middle of the night.
She sat back on her heels and looked around. She could see her own damp footprints leading to Sewell’s body. The other footprints looked too large to belong to a woman, though she couldn’t be sure. The floor was a mess.
Might the unsuspecting Sewell have brought along the weapon that would kill him? It seemed unlikely, since the killing gave the appearance of precise planning. Rose crawled all the way around Sewell’s body, looking for anything that might help. She had checked the pulse in his left wrist, and now she saw that his right hand was tightened into a fist. The police might be furious with her, but she carefully pried open his fingers. Inside was a small piece of stiff fabric, badly crumpled. She pulled it back into shape. It was a tiny blue wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat, just big enough for a doll’s head.
As soon as she returned to the Brick Dwelling House, Rose tried the phone again, still with no success. She couldn’t expect help from the police anytime soon. It was time to gather a few trusted folks to support her. Gennie wouldn’t like it, but the first room Rose visited was Helen Butterfield’s. She knocked softly. When no one responded, she opened the door. Helen was not in her room. Her bed hadn’t been slept in, and her heavy wool coat was nowhere to be seen. Helen’s absence surprised and disturbed Rose. Could she have been wrong about Helen’s role?
She gazed out Helen’s window at the empty village, desperately trying to think. Absently, she put her hands in her apron pocket and felt the wad of fabric she’d found on the floor of her retiring room. She thought she could feel something hard inside. Rose lit her lamp and sat at Helen’s desk. The cloth was bunched up tightly, so it felt smaller than it was. She spread it open. Inside, wrapped around one corner of the cloth, was a small, inexpensive ring with a fake ruby. Dulcie’s promise ring, given to her by Theodore. This was probably what Helen had found in the hay under Dulcie’s unconscious body. And now she’d left it for Rose to decipher.
What did the ring mean? Why would it have come off? Nay, it probably hadn’t come off. Dulcie had surely removed it herself. Rose had a sudden image of Dulcie holding the ring to her heart as she jumped. Was Helen trying to tell her that Dulcie had, indeed, attempted to kill herself and her baby? If so, it followed that the folks who’d had alibis for the time of Dulcie’s fall were still suspects for the murders of Julia and Sewell.
Rose turned over the piece of cloth. It was calico with red-and-blue checks. The corner that had been pulled through the promise ring was stained with oil. Was Helen also telling her that this was the bit of calico Dulcie had taken from under the hem of Julia’s skirt? Did the oil stain implicate Theodore, who used such rags to clean farm implements? Was he, after all, the father of Dulcie’s child?
Rose shook her head to clear her jumbled thoughts. Nay, something was wrong with all this. Certainly it made sense that Dulcie had taken the calico to protect Theodore from suspicion, but Helen had not found it in the barn with the ring; Rose would have seen her do so. Helen must have searched Dulcie’s room and found the rag there.
How confused and desperate Dulcie must have been. She thought she was protecting her future husband by hiding the oil-stained cloth, and then he cruelly rejected her and her unborn child. No wonder she tried to take her own life.
To preserve oil, Rose extinguished her lamp and sat in the dark, thinking. If Theodore had indeed murdered Julia, wouldn’t he have either married Dulcie or killed her to keep her silent? Surely he wouldn’t have sent her away. She might have gone straight to the police, or at least to Rose. Theodore could not be the killer.
Rose smoothed the calico over her lap. It was faded, frayed, and looked just like the rags Rose had seen Theodore and Otis using in the barn. Otis? Nay, none of her searching had uncovered a reason why he might kill Julia, and he showed no anxiety about what Dulcie might say when she regained consciousness. The entire village had access to such rags. Rose could only conclude that the oil-stained rag had been placed under Julia’s dress on purpose, to implicate Theodore—and perhaps to destroy Dulcie.
Surely only a lover could entice Julia to dress in a dancing gown and meet at night in the Summerhouse. Perhaps he promised her a gift if she would do so. He thought he had covered his tracks, so no one would suspect their relationship. He would have thrown guilt onto others. No doubt he chose the Summerhouse because Julia’s body would chill quickly, making it difficult for anyone to establish an alibi. He wanted to create as much confusion as possible.
And then, he prepared the dolls. The horns suggested a spiritual motive, such as the need to cleanse two souls of evil. Yet that implication might be a ruse, too. Rose rubbed her aching forehead and willed herself to think clearly. The killer must have brought the brother doll to his meeting with Sewell and not noticed that the dying man was clutching its tiny hat. So the “gift” that Julia was reaching for was probably the sister doll, which the killer then returned to its hiding place. The dolls must have been messages to his victims. The killer had not meant for them to be seen by anyone else. Rose stood so suddenly the calico rag fell to the floor. She grabbed it up and stuffed it back in her pocket, along with Dulcie’s ring. There was no time to lose. She went directly to Gennie’s room and entered without knocking.
“Gennie? Wake up, it’s Rose.”
“Rose? What . . . ? Has something happened?”
“I’m afraid so.” She held Gennie by the shoulders. “It’s Sewell. He’s dead.”
“Oh no! Do you mean murdered? Sewell? But then he can’t be the killer.”
“That’s right. Come on, get dressed. I need your help.”
With the resilience of youth, Gennie leaped out of bed and shivered into her clothes. “What do you want me to do, track the killer?”
“I want you to stand guard at the front doors.”
“Is that all?”
“Gennie, it could be dangerous. I want you to be very alert and careful—and stay out of sight. If anyone goes in or out, come and get me right away, but don’t try to stop them. Is that understood? And even more important, I want you to test the phones frequently. If they start working again, call the Pittsfield police at once.”
“All right, you can count on me.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Helen Butterfield isn’t in her room, and her bed hasn’t been slept in—”
“She’s the killer, isn’t she? I knew it. I never trusted that woman.”
“Gennie, you and I will have a long talk when this is over, but for now—nay, Helen is not the killer. I believe she is a private detective who has been investigating right along with us. If she comes in while you’re watching, she’s the one person you can show yourself to, and be sure to ask her to find me right away.”
“But where will you be?”
“I’m not sure. Just tell her to look everywhere, and the same goes for you. Don’t be afraid to call out to me. Something tells me everyone will soon be up and about, anyway.”
“Rose? You know who the killer is, don’t you?”
“I think so. But I must be certain. Run along now. And keep out of sight.”
Rose next visited Honora Stearn’s room. She entered without knocking. The bedclothes were tangled, and her pillow had slid off the bed, as if she had left in a hurry. A dress hung from a peg. Since Honora had been forced by the snowstorm to stay in Hancock, she probably had no change of clothing. One of the sisters would have lent her a nightgown, but there was no sign of it anywhere. Honora could have gone to the washroom, of course, but Rose doubted it.
On her way toward the staircase, Rose tried the phone again. No luck. She went down to the hired men’s wing and directly to Theodore’s door. Pausing only for a deep breath and a quick prayer, she knocked lightly. She heard movement inside and stepped back, preparing herself for the shock she would see on Theodore’s face when he opened the door.
“Be very quiet,” she said quickly, as Theodore started to speak. “Something terrible has happened, and I need your help at once.”
Theodore shook his head as if he was convinced this was a dream. Then he glanced down at his nightshirt—from which Rose had averted her gaze—and closed the door in her face. She’d give him a minute, she decided, before bursting in on him. To her relief, a fully dressed Theodore opened the door again in short order. Without a word, he followed her down the hallway, carrying his unlit lantern. She next roused a surprised Otis and ordered him to throw on some pants. She led him to the novitiates’ floor, where she urged quiet.
“Be prepared,” she whispered. “We may be confronting a killer. You two stay back out of sight. Is that understood? Do not interfere unless I am attacked.”
“You should let us handle this,” Theodore said. “This is a job for a man.”
“Do as I say, and don’t argue.”
“Hush,” Otis whispered hoarsely. “I hear something. Upstairs, I think.”
Rose silenced the men with a hand gesture. There it was—a faint scraping, interspersed with a low rumbling that might have been a voice. Rose ran toward the stairs, and the men followed. They reached the hired workers’ floor without encountering any reason for the noises, so they climbed to the fourth-floor attic. The sounds had become louder. They were just above Rose, who was now halfway to the fifth-floor attic.
She stopped and gestured to Otis and Theodore to stay behind. Theodore scowled his disapproval, but Otis put a restraining hand on his arm. Rose tiptoed up the stairs until she could just see over the landing. One light shone from the alcove to the left of the stairs, where she’d found the mysterious desk and chair. Aldon was bent over the desk with a paintbrush in his hand. The mingled odors of paint and kerosene assailed her nostrils.
“You can see why this is for the best, can’t you?” he was saying. “You must understand that you are not like the others, not truly evil. I’ll make that clear to God, so you may enter His kingdom without a stain. That’s what I’m doing right now.” Aldon straightened a bit as if to view his handiwork. “The Father will understand when he sees this. It’s you as an angel—a true angel, not the cruel appearance of one. I’ve always known your soul was pure. That’s why your mind could not accept the evil I was tempted into.”
Aldon was so engrossed in his task that he never looked up. Rose took a chance and eased up one step so she could look around the attic better. As she expected, she saw Honora to her left, tied to a chair against the side of the stairwell. Her head lolled to the side. Whether she was dead or just unconscious, Rose couldn’t tell.
Rose edged up yet another step. Now she had a full view of Aldon’s secret corner. Next to his desk was a large pile of rags. She prayed to God she was wrong, but she suspected Aldon meant to burn down the entire dwelling house.
A quick glance back at Aldon assured Rose he was still lost in his project, which looked like a doll. With all the strength she could muster, she charged up the steps. Aldon’s head jerked up. He jumped up from his seat and grabbed his lantern.
“You can’t stop me. You can’t stand in the way of God’s will,” he said. His voice rang with the power of one who believed he was anointed by God.
“Murder is never God’s will,” Rose said, matching his power with her own.
“You don’t know. You can’t understand.”
“Perhaps I understand more than you think,” Rose said. “You believe that God wants you to destroy evil.”
“God has given me the ability to draw evil to me, so that I can identify it and destroy it. That is why He made me as I am.”
Rose took two steps toward Aldon. He stretched out his right arm so the lantern swung just over the pile of rags. Rose stepped back.
“Julia was evil, wasn’t she?” Rose asked softly.
“Julia was a Jezebel, a Delilah. She threw herself at me and at other men. She couldn’t stop, so I had to stop her. But I am not without mercy. I gave her a chance to save her soul. I tried to show her how evil she was, so she could repent with her last breath and be saved.”
“You showed her a doll—a Shaker sister, dressed for worship, but painted with horns.”
“Yes! I wanted her to understand. It was to save her soul.”
“What about Dulcie’s soul? And the soul of her unborn child?” She knew she might be goading him into dangerous actions, but she hoped to keep him talking, explaining himself, so she might catch him off guard.
“Dulcie’s soul is weak, and she knew it. I didn’t have to punish her; she punished herself and kept her bastard from defiling the world.”
“Her child was your child. Weren’t you angry that she killed it?”
“I was tricked. Julia tricked me. She used to dress Dulcie in pretty clothes and flaunt her in church, all to trap me.”
“Julia threatened to tell everyone that you had seduced Dulcie, didn’t she? So you killed her.”
“Don’t you see? It was Julia. She drew on the strength of Satan. She had to be destroyed.” As Aldon closed his eyes, frantic to find the words to excuse his behavior, Rose completed her step up and moved closer to him.
“And Sewell? How was he evil?”
Rose caught her breath as Aldon’s lantern shook violently over the pile of rags.
“I never wanted to punish Sewell, but he forced me to.”
“You loved Sewell, didn’t you?” Rose asked, in a gentle voice.
“Yea.” Aldon spoke in a whisper.
“Your love was both pure and carnal, and the more you fought the carnal side of it, the stronger it became.”
Aldon’s face twisted in anguish, and the hand holding the lantern spasmed. Rose heard quiet footsteps behind her and knew that Otis and Theodore were creeping up the stairs. She stretched out her arm behind her back to warn them to keep out of sight.
“Sewell was a gentle soul,” Rose said. “He did not deserve to die.”
“He fooled you, too. He was more evil than Julia. Julia tempted with her body, but Sewell—he tempted with his heart and his soul. How can a mere mortal fight such powerful evil?”
“Surely you tried with all your might? You are a Shaker novitiate. You knew you must be celibate, and yet you sinned right here in the village, didn’t you.”
“Satan worked through Sewell to tempt me into horrible evil,” Aldon said. “And now the entire village must be purified by fire and by sacrifice.”
“Wait,” Rose cried, desperate to stop him. “You’ve already taken care of Julia and of Sewell. Why destroy the entire village? What have they done to deserve such a fate?”
“They are tainted. We are all tainted by the evil we allow to live among us. It is God’s will that we all die.”
“That is a lie. It was you alone. Did God tell you to try to throw suspicion onto Theodore and Johnny and the others? I think not.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew she had pushed too hard. Aldon roared like a wounded lion. “You do not know the mind of God,” he cried. “We must all die.” Just then, Honora groaned and lifted her head, distracting Aldon for a split second. Rose leaped up the last two steps and dove for his arm. She was too late. He dropped the lantern. Rose fell on the pile of rags, and the lantern landed inches from her face. Oil leaked from the lantern onto the pile of rags, cutting a trail of fire. Rose rolled away and struggled to her feet. Aldon seemed mesmerized by the growing flames, but Rose knew there wasn’t much time.
“Warn the others,” she cried. “Get everyone out.” As Rose turned to go to Honora, Theodore rushed past her, toward Aldon. He pulled Aldon away from the flames. Aldon swung at Theodore’s head and missed. Theodore countered with a blow to Aldon’s stomach. The struggle took the men away from the alcove and to the side of the stairwell across from Honora and Rose.
Honora was conscious now, and shrieking. “It’s all right,” Rose shouted. “Stop wiggling so I can untie you and get you out of here. Honora, you’ve got to keep still and help me.”
Honora tried to quiet her trembling. Rose could barely control her own fingers. The rope slipped out of her grasp. The rags had burst into a ball of flames that blocked the entrance to the stairwell. Honora writhed in panic, and her chair tilted sideways. Rose threw her body against it to stop it from falling toward the fire.
After precious moments, Rose was able to steady the chair and slip the ropes over Honora’s head and under her feet. The delay had been costly. Flames had turned the pile of rags to ashes and leaped to the dry wood of the desk and chair. Rose looked over the banister. It protected three sides of the stairwell. At the landing, the banister twisted into two hairpin curves that slanted downward to form the railings for the stairs. There was a space between the upper and lower sections of railing through which Rose could see to the floor below. The opening was just big enough for a person to slip through and fall. Rose could easily jump over both banisters to land on the stairs, but Honora was so panicked she might not make it.
In the seconds it took to assess her situation, Rose was vaguely aware that Otis was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he had gone to warn the residents to flee the dwelling house. At least, she hoped he hadn’t simply fled in terror.
The flames were gaining power. It was now or never. Honora was a big woman, but Rose found the strength to drag her to the railing and lift one of her legs over it.
“Honora, I want you to do exactly what I do. We are going to jump for those stairs just below. They aren’t far away, can you see them?”
“I can’t do it.”
“You must. Watch what I do.” She swung her leg over the banister, then lifted the other over, so she was sitting precariously on the thin length of wood. “You’re already partly there. Now lift your other leg, like I did. Come on.”
Honora was whimpering with terror. Holding tightly to the railing with one hand, Rose reached over to coax her.
“Rose, get out of the way. Now!”
It was Theodore’s voice. She looked across to the other side of the stairwell. Aldon had one leg over the banister and was leaning forward. Theodore held his other ankle. Aldon struggled wildly and slid farther over the railing, pulling Theodore behind him.
There was no time even for prayer. In one desperate move, Rose shoved Honora back and away from the railing, while she pushed herself forward. She felt her heels hit something thin and hard, and then she crashed against the stairs. The force of her fall rolled her sideways. The opposite railing stopped her from tumbling down an entire flight of stairs.
As she came to a halt, she heard a piercing scream, and then a crash. She looked up to find Aldon hanging from the upper railing, one ankle still in Theodore’s grip. Aldon was wriggling to free himself.
“Don’t move,” said a nearby voice. She obeyed. Otis jumped over her and ran up the stairs two at a time. She pulled herself up so she could see what was happening. Otis held something in front of him that momentarily hid the growing fire—a blanket or a cloak. With a leap, he threw himself on the desk and chair. All three crashed to the floor. Otis crawled and stomped with his hands, shouting a few choice curses.
“Rose, I can’t—” Theodore cried.
Rose looked up and saw Aldon falling right toward her. She rolled out of the way just as Aldon crashed on the stairs and crumpled into a ball.
Theodore leaped over the railing and landed a few steps above Rose and Aldon. He bent over Aldon. “He’ll be all right, just knocked out. Maybe a broken arm.” He sounded disappointed.
Rose limped to the top of the stairs, where Otis wilted against the railing near the quenched fire.
“Sorry to ruin the furniture,” Otis said, with a feeble grin.
Honora went to Aldon, knelt over him, and took his head in her lap. She stroked his forehead and murmured endearments between her sobs. “Let me take him,” she begged. “I can make him well again.”
Rose sat on the step above her and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. It would be cruel to say what was in her mind, so she did not. Aldon had taken human lives, and he would have taken many more. Honora could no longer help him.