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

The sun was sinking below the trees as David and I strolled toward home, my hand comfortably tucked through his arm. Today had augured spring more than recent ones, with a moderate temperature and only a slight breeze.

“I would have thought the ground would be soft enough by now for a burial,” I said.

“Perhaps it is. What he said could have been an excuse to hold a private burial tomorrow or one day soon.”

“So a Congregational minister would lie for the convenience of the family?” I glanced up at him.

“Maybe.” He laughed softly. “He’s quite the interesting man. We had ourselves an architectural conversation while you ladies were plotting who knows what. Did you know the church building was constructed for the Unitarian Congregational Society in 1829 and was acquired by the current denomination only three years later?”

“I didn’t.” We’d turned from Greenleaf onto Whittier Street when a high-stepping gelding pulling a Stanhope gig at a fast clip passed us. Had I seen Ned Bailey driving it?

David pulled me closer but winced at the sudden movement.

“What’s wrong, my love?” I asked him.

“It’s one of my headaches.”

I stroked his arm. “We’ll be home in a minute. Thee has kept me company all afternoon, and I’m grateful. But thee works hard and needs to rest more.”

The driver pulled to a halt ahead of us. Ned Bailey leaned out. “What ho, Dodges!” He held the reins as he doffed his hat. “I was on my way to have a word with Mrs. Dodge. You know, with her investigative prowess and such.” His voice shook slightly. From exertion or with nerves?

David and I exchanged a glance. He raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged.

“We’re only yards from home,” I said to Ned. “Please meet us there.”

Ned drove on, crossing Sparhawk and pulling up in front of our lovely home. He climbed down, keeping the reins in his hand.

“I’ll speak with him outside,” I murmured to David as we walked. “Thee should go in and lie down.”

“I shall.” He squeezed my hand.

When we arrived and David had gone into the house, I said to Ned, “What can I help thee with? I have only a few minutes.” I wanted to go inside to minister to my husband, to make sure he was comfortable and had a cold compress at hand.

“Well, then. You see.” He cleared his throat. “Your detective seems to be rather interested in, ah, the matter of my motorcar ideas. You remember what I mentioned to you at the Board of Trade meeting?”

I nodded and waited for more. I expected—or rather, hoped—Kevin was also interested in the matter of the weapon. But would Ned mention the pistol?

“I had given my proposal to Mr. Justice Harrington,” he continued. “He was quite excited to work together on such a forward-thinking idea.”

“Thee gave him the plans for the motorcar?”

“Yes. But only as a loan, you see. So he could get a sense of the scope. He was to return them the next day.”

“Thee must have made a copy first.”

“Alas, I did not. Now Donovan seems to think Harrington absconded with the plans against my will. He hinted I shot the Canadian for his troubles.”

I eyed him. “Did thee?”

“Mrs. Dodge!” He gave his head a quick shake. “No. I did not.”

If Ned had killed Justice, he wouldn’t tell me, anyway.

“Were the plans recovered?” I asked.

He gave me a baleful look. “They were not, more’s the pity.”

“I wonder what happened to the papers,” I mused, more to myself than to him. Kevin could be right. Ned could be dissembling about all this to hide the fact he shot Justice and took his plans back. Or, if someone else was the killer, that person could have simply tossed them into the rushing Powow River, and they would never been seen again. I again wondered why the murderer had left the weapon and not thrown it in the river.

“Ned, I hear thee kept the gun for safekeeping. The murder weapon.”

“Gun?” Tiny pearls of sweat broke out on his forehead. “Where did you . . . I mean, I don’t know about a gun.”

“If thee has a gun thee found the night of the murder, thee needs to tell the police.” Except surely Kevin had asked him about it. And possibly searched the house and confiscated the weapon. “Thee must do the right thing.”

He lifted his chin. “I’m getting along to the evening event, if that’s what you mean.” An odd expression came over his face.

Dark was falling. For all I knew, Ned had shot Justice himself. And he was acting strangely. I’d better get myself inside, and fast.

“I wish thee luck rewriting thy ideas, Ned. I must take my leave and let thee get along to thy event.” I smiled.

“Wait.” He clasped my forearm. “You have to help me!”

With what? “Excuse me.” I pulled up to my full height and stared at his hand until he dropped it. “It’s not my job to find a murderer nor to assist thee. I wish thee luck sorting out the facts.”

He scowled at me but finally climbed back into the carriage, muttering to himself.

I waited, hands clasped in front of me, until he clucked to the horse and drove off. Ned had always seemed something of a buffoon, and I’d never felt threatened by him before. Right now the lamplight spilling from the front window of my home extended its comfort in the most reassuring of ways.

Chapter Thirty-five

After David and I supped on a bowl of soup an hour later, he said he was going to bed. I sat in the lamplight letting out the side seams of an older dress of mine. I’d remembered the seamstress telling me she always made fat double seams in dresses for ladies of my age, expecting a pregnancy to come along before the dress had outlived its purpose. I wanted something comfortable to wear while cooking and doing chores so my new garments didn’t get stained. This dress would be perfect for