A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell (feel good books to read txt) 📕

“Would you? I’m not sure I can convince Pierrot to pay that visit on his own. My brother goes by Pete. Because people mangle the French, he took on an American nickname.”

“Pete Beaumont. I’ve got it. Thank thee for telling me, Annie.”

The door clicked shut behind her. I sank onto a chair, closed my eyes, and held Zeb in God’s Light, praying a door hadn’t clicked shut on his future.

Chapter Thirteen

I telephoned the police station and left a message for Kevin that he might want to speak further with night watchman Pete Beaumont about what he saw the night of the murder. I explained where the family lived and left it at that. I had other calls to make, but those I wanted to do in person, and Orpha was on my list to visit, too.

I parked my bicycle in front of John Greenleaf Whittier’s home on Friend Street as the town’s bells chimed ten. It was a brisk morning, but I was warmed by my ride, and at least the bright skies didn’t portend snow. Two years ago, we’d had a blizzard in late March, and once I’d seen snow on peach blossoms and daffodils in April. Anything could happen with New England weather at this time of year.

Friend John wasn’t quite as old as my midwifery mentor, but he was increasingly frail and had been spending most of his time with his cousins in Danvers. He’d been a calm, wise voice in my life ever since I moved to Amesbury. I’d heard he was in town and wanted to share my happy news with him. He would likely surprise me with some tidbit of information about the investigation, too.

Mrs. Cate, his housekeeper, pulled open the door. “Oh, Mrs. Dodge, I’m glad you’ve come. Mr. Whittier is ailing something fierce. Perhaps you can lift his spirits.”

Ailing? “I’m glad I came. In what way is he not well?”

She glanced behind her, then back at me, lowering her voice. “I think it’s the melancholy more than anything. Claims he can’t find the words anymore. You can go on into the study. He always enjoys your visits.”

John sat in his rocking chair near the coal stove. He had a wool stocking cap atop his head, a blue wool shawl wrapped around his neck and shoulders, and a thick red plaid throw over his lap and legs, despite the warmth of the room.

“Rose, dear. Thee is a lovely sight for old, tired eyes. Do come in and sit with me.” He folded the issue of the Boston Globe he’d been reading and laid it down.

“Hello, John. I am happy, as always, to see thee.” I gently squeezed his bony hand before I sat, surprised at how cold his thin skin felt. “But thee looks chilled.”

“It is true. I am never able to quite achieve a comfortable temperature in the colder months. But that’s neither here nor there.” He batted away his personal concerns. “What news does thee bring me from the outside world?”

Mrs. Cate popped her head in. “Can I get you both some hot tea?”

“Thank thee, Mrs. Cate,” John said. “Rose?”

“I would love some.” After the housekeeper left, I continued, “I have a bit of personal good tidings to share. With God’s grace, David and I will be holding our first baby in about four months’ time.” I smiled.

“Why, that is splendid news, indeed.” He bestowed a rare wide smile, stroking his snowy white chinstrap beard. “I am glad to hear it, and I have every confidence thee will make an excellent mother and thy husband a fine father. I am quite fond of children, as thee knows, despite never having sired any of my own.”

“I do know.” I remembered how he’d often winked at my young niece Betsy, even when we’d entered Meeting for Worship, even after John was already apparently in prayer on the facing bench reserved for elders.

“Why, just this week I penned a little poem for a woman who, as a girl, had always longed for my autograph but her father would not allow her to ask me,” John said. “She’s now a married woman and a neighbor of the Cartlands, with whom I reside in Danvers. Would thee like to hear the ending?”

“I would.”

He gazed at the ceiling and recited,

I trace a name, then little known,

Which since on many winds has blown,

Glad to make good, however late,

Her loss at such an early date,

For which even now I almost pity her,

By the best wish of,

John G. Whittier

“It’s not much, but apparently my little ditty has made her very happy.”

“It’s a thoughtful gesture, John,” I said.

“Such a short, silly piece is about all I can muster these days.” He tented his fingers. “Now, I expect thee has come to seek counsel about the dastardly turn of events this week.”

“I confess that is one of my purposes. Very little is known to date on who might have killed Justice Harrington, and why.”

“Is that not the height of irony, that a man named Justice should have the ultimate unjust act committed upon him?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. But it happened, nonetheless.”

“Thy able detective has enlisted thy keen mind and insights, am I correct?”

“After a fashion,” I said. “He’s now the acting chief of police.”

“Ah. I had not heard. He’s up to the job, I’d say.”

I only nodded. I’d been mistaken thinking John would have any useful information. He’d barely been in town.

“Shall we hold this situation in God’s Light?” he asked.

I answered by folding my hands and closing my eyes. Praying with John never failed to be a deepening experience, no matter how long it lasted. I included Zeb in my circle of Light, that he be free from the taint of suspicion.

After only a couple of minutes, John cleared his throat. I opened my eyes to see him regarding me.

“Ned Bailey came to see me.”

“About his motorcar scheme?” I asked.

“Yes. I’m an old man, Rose, and I can barely conceive of a motor-powered