“Yes.” Her porcelain skin and flaxen hair were a contrast to the darker good looks of her husband. “It’s my father’s company, Montgomery Carriages, in which Mr. Harrington is taking an active role. We make the best carriages in all Canada.” It was a good thing her maroon velvet toque was well secured on the side of her head. The way she lifted her chin the lace-trimmed topper might otherwise have slid off.
Ned clapped his hands. “Very good, very good. Well, we’re off to call on my uncle before tonight’s dinner.” He beamed.
“I’m happy to have met thee, Luthera, and thee, Justice,” I said. “I hope the week is satisfactory and enjoyable.”
Luthera only nodded, her gloved hands clasped in front of her wool coat, which was cut in smooth lines with a diagonal overlap. The color matched her velvet hat.
Justice smiled. “We’re thrilled to have a chance to meet Mr. Bailey, senior. Everyone in the industry admires the company’s vehicles. Good day, Mrs. Dodge.” He tipped his black stiff-fur hat and let Ned sweep them away.
They were an odd couple. Luthera seemed downright icy, while her husband was genial and projected an excitement about life itself. Well, one never knew what went on within a marriage. One’s differences might feed the other’s needs.
A drop-front phaeton passed by, followed by a runabout, a Bailey whalebone road wagon, and a fringed surrey filled with gaily clad young ladies. I reversed direction and headed for home. I’d seen enough of the happenings for today. The visitors and carriages would be around all week. I looked forward to nothing more than a quiet evening with my David.
Chapter Three
I was fixing coffee early the next morning when I heard the clatter of the milk wagon. I pulled my dressing gown closer around me and stepped onto the side porch.
“’Morning, Mrs. Dodge.” The milkman, the son of a local dairy farmer, set down the wire carrier holding two bottles and a pound of butter. He handed me the newspaper and picked up the empties. We’d prevailed on him to obtain the Amesbury Daily News for us as he passed through town every morning.
“Thank you, Sven.”
“There’s news about town.” He shook his head, looking worried. “Not sure if it made the paper. A man was murdered in the night. One of them visitors.”
No. “Murdered?” I brought my hand to my mouth. To my knowledge, Amesbury hadn’t seen a murder since last summer, when a matron had been killed in her bed. My friend Bertie had been suspected in the crime, and I’d worked hard to untangle the facts and clear her name.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Does thee know the victim’s name?”
“No, ma’am. I heard he was from up Canada way, though.” He touched his white cap. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Only milk?”
“Yes, thank thee.” With the household being solely David and me for the time being, we didn’t need more than thrice weekly deliveries. I brought the carrier and the paper inside.
David came downstairs a few minutes later, dressed except for his tie, and kissed my forehead as I perused the paper at the table. His hair was damp, and he smelled of soap. He’d made sure all the most modern conveniences were incorporated into our home, including indoor plumbing and a gas stove.
“Is this for the coffee?” He pointed to the pot of water on the stove, from which steam rose.
“Oh, dear! I forgot about it.” I stood. “I’m sorry, darling. The milkman brought the most dreadful news.” I hurried over to the pretty enameled double pot, white painted with pale blue flowers, which we’d received as a wedding gift from David’s father. He’d said it was imported from France and was the best way to brew coffee.
“I’ll make the brew.” David took the pot of water from me. “You sit down and tell me what transpired. Did a cow die?”
I plopped back in the chair and held up the paper. “Much worse. A Canadian man, here for the Spring Opening, was murdered sometime in the night. David, he’s a gentleman Ned Bailey introduced me to only yesterday.”
“You don’t say.” He dumped the coffee from the grinder’s drawer into the top of the biggin, then slowly poured the boiled water over it.
“It’s true.” The paper didn’t have much. A headline screamed, “Murder Taints Opening!” and a paragraph said only that Justice Harrington of Ottawa never returned to his rooms, according to his wife. A night watchman found his body in the alley behind the opera house, with gunshot wounds in his back. It said that, at the time the paper went to press, Acting Police Chief Kevin Donovan had no more information to offer.
“Goodness,” I said. “This says our Kevin is acting chief of police. I wonder when his promotion happened.”
“Didn’t Chief Talbot come down with tuberculosis?” David asked. “I think I heard about his illness somewhere.” He sat across from me. The coffee drip-dripped through its two filters.
“I don’t know. If so, perhaps he went off to Saranac for the cure. There’s a new sanitarium there. Or maybe he even traveled out to Colorado.” I sniffed the rich aroma of the brew. Whoever discovered coffee was due an enormous medal in heaven. “I met a lady doctor yesterday who specializes in treating consumption.”
“Dr. Chatigny? She’s a fine physician. Where did you meet her?”
“She’s caring for Orpha. I told thee she’s failing. And Mary’s mother made her promise to care for her old friend.”
“Your mentor is in good hands, then. And the police department will similarly be in good hands with Detective Donovan, I daresay.” David brought us each a cup of coffee.
I splashed milk into mine. “I would agree.”
“Tell me more about this unfortunate Canadian.”
Right. Last evening I hadn’t mentioned my encounter with the Harringtons and Ned. I relayed to David how I’d met them on the street.
“Luthera and Justice are interesting names, are they not?” he asked.
“Indeed. And Ned was full of pride, being their escort about town. They were off
