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

John inclined his head. “We are sorry thee had to be here during a week when one of thy peers was murdered.”

“Yes,” Jorge said. “It was shocking to hear of Mr. Harrington’s death. I had quite an interesting conversation with him the evening of the banquet. In fact, it was only a few hours after I first set my gaze on this lovely lady in front of us.”

I ignored the flash of his smile. “I understand thee discussed Ned Bailey’s revolutionary new plans.”

John shifted his gaze to me, looking surprised.

Jorge’s slick demeanor wobbled for a split second. He gazed over my shoulder. “Yes, and it was a remarkable idea. I understand the plans have sadly been lost.”

“Did Ned tell thee so?” I asked.

“No.” He brought the green focus back to my face. “It was someone else in the town. I can’t recall at this moment.”

I watched him. I smelled a lie, but I wasn’t sure if it was about the plans or about who told him they were gone. As far as I knew, the loss of the papers had not been in the news.

John cleared his throat. “This kind gentleman has agreed to walk me home. Vamos, Jorge?” A little smile played at John’s lips. “I convinced him to teach me a few words of Portuguese,” he whispered loudly to me.

“Vamos. A pleasure to speak with you, Mrs. Dodge.” He also stressed the Mrs., his manner again as smooth as new cream.

“And I thee” I said.

They made their way slowly down the walk and turned onto Friend Street. Rather than answering my questions, this encounter had only added to them. Oh, well. I was accustomed to inquiries leading to more questions. I took a step toward the gate onto Greenleaf Street and my own route homeward.

“Rose,” a woman called out from behind me.

I turned to see Prudence with her hand raised. Where had she been hiding? I waited until she reached me.

“Hello, Prudence.” I peered at her face, but she didn’t seem to be under the influence of spirits at this moment. Good.

“I understand I missed Orpha’s funeral,” she began. “I am exceedingly sorry.”

“Yes, it was yesterday. And a lovely service, too.”

“I was, ah, indisposed.”

I could guess at how. “I didn’t realize thee knew her.”

“Certainly I did. She delivered my babies, and I taught her granddaughter music. Back when I was teaching.”

Of course Alma had mentioned that. And the reason Prudence had stopped teaching, too.

“Is Alma . . . doing well?” she asked.

“Very well, yes, and she did an admirable job caring for Orpha in the end. Alma has a successful business as a dressmaker, too.”

“I’m glad.” She stared at her clasped hands, then up into my face. “Zebulon tells me thee is looking into the awful killing.”

“I only assist the police with ideas. They are investigating, not I.”

“But suppose . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Once again I waited. Not patiently this time. I wanted to get home and avail myself of the water closet.

“What if someone saw something but didn’t want to go to the authorities with the information?”

Someone. Like her? “That would be the right thing to do. The police don’t bite.”

She wrinkled her nose. “No, but they are rather too well acquainted with . . . with this person.”

“This person could tell me. Or this person could possibly write an anonymous note and have it delivered to the proper person.”

She nodded slowly as if neither of those options were acceptable.

I touched her arm. “Prudence, is this person thee?” I kept my voice gentle. “Thee must tell me what thee saw.”

She let out a shuddering breath and glanced around. We were the only two left in front of the forty-year-old building. The mist turned back to rain and began to patter on my hood.

“It’s this way. I slipped out again after Zeb took me home that night. I’m an ill woman, Rose. I seek out my poison even when I know I should not. The tavern keeper slips me a pint out the back door from time to time.”

She must be ill, if she was wandering the streets alone late at night in search of more alcohol. I was surprised she was still alive.

“And,” she continued, “I saw the poor man’s dead body. Someone was pilfering it.”

“What does thee mean?”

Her eyes wide, she said, “A man removed a sheaf of papers from the corpse’s coat.”

The plans. “Did thee see who it was?”

“I did,” she whispered. “It was that gentleman who sat near Friend John during worship.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

David and I sat in our dining room at one o’clock, holding hands across the corner of the table in a moment of silent grace. I did my best to quash thoughts of Prudence’s shocking piece of information, although that was all I’d been able to think of as I’d strolled home.

I now opened my eyes, squeezed his hand, and surveyed the feast on the table. He’d roasted a fat chicken and added potatoes and rosemary to the pan in the last hour. The aromatic potatoes glistened with the roasting fats on the serving platter next to the carved chicken. A dish of stewed squash and apples sat next to it, with a cold salad of sliced beets sprinkled with fresh parsley on the side.

I’d been nurturing several pots of fresh herbs all winter in a sunny kitchen window. At this time of year, green food to eat was in short supply at the market, or fresh anything, truly. Today’s beets, apples, squash, and potatoes had all come out of the root cellar.

We talked about all and sundry as we ate.

“This morning I read about a new medical device being developed, Rose,” David said. “It’s designed to used electrical signals to amplify weak sounds into stronger ones.”

“For the deaf and hard of hearing?”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s quite promising, although not quite at the point of being manufactured.”

“It will be soon, I have no doubt. And I met my first Brazilian.”

“Here for the Spring Opening?”

“Yes. His name is Jorge Amado, and he accompanied John