A Simple Shaker Murder (2 page)

Now just a few steps from the sisters' entrance to the dwelling house, Rose reached up to untie her heavy palm bonnet. The door flew open and several flustered women burst through. One of them knocked Rose's elbow, and her bonnet fell back on her shoulders, pulling her thin white indoor cap with it. Without thinking, Rose adjusted the cap to cover her unruly red curls. The sisters hadn't bothered to grab their cloaks. As the cool air hit them, they crossed their arms tightly against their bodies to pull their white kerchiefs closer.

Without turning her head, Rose knew the brethren's door had also opened, and several men were running across the grass toward the southeast end of the village. She nearly toppled
over as a large, soft body careened into her.

“Rose, dear, so sorry. Must run.” Sister Josie patted the air near Rose's shoulder and bounced past.

“Wait, Josie; what is happening?”

Josie twirled a half circle and kept moving, a remarkable feat for a plump eighty-year-old. “There's been an accident. I'm needed,” she called, as she completed her turn and picked up speed.

“Where?”

“In the orchard,” Sister Teresa said as she, too, rushed past. Rose picked up her long skirts and joined the race across the unpaved path through the village center, between the Meetinghouse and the Ministry House, and into the orchard.

At first, Rose saw nothing alarming, only rows of strictly pruned apple trees, now barren of fruit and most of their leaves. The group ran through the apple trees and into the more neglected east side of the orchard, where the remains of touchier fruit trees lived out their years with little human attention. The pounding feet ahead of her stopped, and panting bodies piled behind one another, still trying to keep some semblance of separation between the brethren and the sisters.

The now-silent onlookers stared at an aged plum tree. From a sturdy branch hung the limp figure of a man, his feet dangling above the ground. His eyes were closed and his head slumped forward, almost hiding the rope that gouged into his neck. The man wore loose clothes that were neither Shaker nor of the world, and Rose sensed he was gone even before Josie reached for his wrist and shook her head.

Two brethren moved forward to cut the man down.

“Nay, don't, not yet,” Rose said, hurrying forward.

Josie's eyebrows shot up. “Surely you don't think this is anything but the tragedy of a man choosing to end his own life?” She nodded past the man's torso to a delicate chair lying on its side in the grass. It was a Shaker design, not meant for such rough treatment. Dirt scuffed the woven red-and-white tape of the seat. Scratches marred the smooth slats that formed its ladder back.

“What's going on here? Has Mother Ann appeared and declared today a holiday from labor?” The powerful voice snapped startled heads backwards, to where Elder Wilhelm emerged from the trees, stern jaw set for disapproval.

No one answered. Everyone watched Wilhelm's ruddy face blanch as he came in view of the dead man.

“Dear God,” he whispered. “Is he . . . ?”

“Yea,” said Josie.

“Then cut him down instantly,” Wilhelm said. His voice had regained its authority, but he ran a shaking hand through his thick white hair.

Eyes turned to Rose. “I believe we should leave him for now, Wilhelm,” she said. A flush spread across Wilhelm's cheeks, and Rose knew she was in for a public tongue lashing, so she explained quickly. “Though all the signs point to suicide, still it is a sudden and brutal death, and I believe we should alert the sheriff. He'll want things left just as we found them.”

“Sheriff Brock . . .” Wilhelm said with a snort of derision. “He will relish the opportunity to find us culpable.”

“Please, for the sake of pity, cut him down.” A man stepped forward, hat in hand in the presence of death. His thinning blond hair lifted in the wind. His peculiar loose work clothes seemed too generous for his slight body. “I'm Gilbert Owen Griffiths,” he said, nodding to Rose. “And this is my compatriot, Earl Weston,” he added, indicating a broad-shouldered dark-haired young man. “I am privileged to be guiding a little group of folks who are hoping to rekindle the flame of the great social reformer Robert Owen. That poor unfortunate man,” he said, with a glance at the dead man, “was Hugh—Hugh Griffiths—and he was one of us. We don't mind having the Sheriff come take a look, but we are all like a family, and it is far too painful for us to leave poor Hugh hanging.”

“It's an outrage, leaving him there like that,” Earl said. “What if Celia should come along?”

“Celia is poor Hugh's wife,” Gilbert explained. “I'll have
to break the news to her soon. I beg of you, cut him down and cover him before she shows up.”

Wilhelm assented with a curt nod. “I will inform the sheriff,” he said, as several brethren cut the man down and lay him on the ground. The morbid fascination had worn off, and most of the crowd was backing away.

There was nothing to do but wait. Rose gathered up the sisters and New-Owenite women who had not already made their escape. Leaving Andrew to watch over the ghastly scene until the sheriff arrived, she sent the women on ahead to breakfast, for which she herself had no appetite. The men followed behind.

On impulse Rose glanced back to see Andrew's tall figure hunched against a tree near the body. He watched the crowd's departure with a forlorn expression. As she raised her arm to send him an encouraging wave, a move distracted her. She squinted through the tangle of unpruned branches behind Andrew to locate the source.
Probably just a squirrel
, she thought, but her eyes kept searching nonetheless. There it was again—a flash of brown almost indistinguishable from tree bark. Several rows of trees back from where Andrew stood, something was moving among the branches of an old pear tree—something much bigger than a squirrel.

R
OSE WALKED AT A CASUAL PACE BACK TOWARD
A
NDREW, PRETENDING
nothing was amiss. She kept her head straight but watched the pear tree through her lashes. The movement stopped, then started again, slow and smooth. As she approached, Andrew straightened. His smile of pleasure turned to puzzlement as she passed him by, telling him with a slight hand gesture to stay where he was.

The movement stopped as Rose picked up her skirts and ran toward it. She was glad to be wearing her tough winter shoes. Her thin-soled summer shoes would never have protected her feet from the dead branches and sticks lying in wait under a camouflage of fallen leaves.

By the time she was a few yards from the pear tree, she knew what she was seeing. She just couldn't believe it. It was a person, a very small person, perhaps a child. Not a Shaker child; the clothes weren't right. A child of the world?

Rose stopped at the tree's trunk and stared up through the branches at the figure. Masses of pale brown hair fluffed around an impassive face, much as Rose's curly red hair would if she freed it from her white cap and cut it short. The girl's body appeared tiny, about the size of a six-year-old, but her face looked older. Her skin was a warm honey brown, a few shades lighter than her loose brown pantaloons. She looked as if she'd stepped in from another era or another land. Rose peered into eyes of a rich green flecked with copper. Those
eyes held no fear, but depths of vigilance. The girl neither moved nor cried out. She simply watched.

Rose slowly lifted her arm and extended her hand, palm up. “It is time for breakfast,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and warm. “Come on down, and we'll get you something to eat”

The child glanced at Rose's hand but made no move to climb down. She shifted her head slightly so that she looked into the distance, toward Andrew. Rose followed her gaze, and her arm dropped as she realized the girl could see the plum tree from which Hugh Griffiths had been hanging. She might easily have witnessed what happened. Even if she did not see the act, she might be in shock after seeing its consequences.

Rose turned back to find the child watching her again. Still she exhibited no fear. Her eyes had dulled, as if the spirit behind them had fled. It occurred to Rose that the girl might not be quite right. She certainly appeared older than her size; perhaps her mind was stunted, as well.

“My name is Rose. What's yours?”

Rose held up her hand once more, but the girl only blinked at the invitation. Climbing the tree after her was out of the question, and sending Andrew up might have the girl scurrying in terror onto weaker branches.

“I know you're frightened,” Rose continued softly, “but I promise I want to help you. Do you have family nearby? If you'll tell me where they are, I'll get them for you.”

The girl's gaze shifted toward the Shaker village, and her small body seemed to shrink against the tree limb. Still she said nothing.

Perhaps she can't even speak
, Rose thought. Well, she couldn't just leave the girl to fend for herself.

“All right, then, little one. You can stay right there, if you wish.” Rose filled her voice with all the soothing cheerfulness she could muster, and hoped she did not sound like a bad actress. “I'm going to be gone for just a minute, and then I'll come back to chat with you.”

She edged away as fast as possible without alarming the
girl. Andrew watched her approach with undisguised curiosity.

“Could you see who I was talking to?” Rose asked, as she came into earshot.

“Nay, but I'll admit I indulged the fantasy that an angel had come down to tell you what happened here.” Andrew avoided looking at the dead man on the ground.

“That would make it so much easier,” Rose said. “But I'm afraid it is a terrified child, who may have witnessed the incident but won't tell me so much as her first name. I need Charlotte's help with this. Would you run and get her from breakfast? I'll watch everything until you return.” Rose described the child, then walked back toward her as Andrew took long, loping steps in the direction of the Center Family Dwelling House.

The girl had settled in the crook of two branches. She still said nothing, but she seemed to relax slightly as she watched Rose return. Perhaps even being with a stranger was more comfortable than being alone.

Rose decided to try once more. “I'd really like to know your name,” she said. The beautiful eyes regarded her with mute distrust.

“It's just that I'm a little nervous around people when I don't know their names, and I'd feel so much more at ease if you'd tell me yours.”

The girl's small chest expanded, as if she were inhaling to speak. But the silence dragged on until, ready to give up, Rose sighed and leaned against the tree trunk to keep an eye on the death scene in the distance.

“Mairin.”

At first Rose thought it was a trick of the wind she'd heard, not a soft voice. She peered up into the serious light brown face.

“Did you say your name is Mary?” Rose asked.

“No.” The girl's voice held a hint of irritation. “Mair-in,” she pronounced.

“What a lovely name. It's Irish, isn't it? For ‘Mary'? My full name is Rose Callahan; I'm part Irish, too.” From the
girl's coloring, Rose guessed she must be of mixed race. All the more reason to bring her back to the Shaker village; a mixed-race child could not have an easy life, especially in this part of the country and during such difficult times. It had been more man seventy-five years since North Homage had bought slaves in order to free them, so Rose, only in her late thirties, was too young to remember. But the Shakers had retained their firm belief in the basic humanity of all people.

The girl said nothing.

“My mother's family was part Irish, but she grew up around here,” Rose continued brightly, as if chatting to someone in a tree, with a dead man in the distance, was the most natural thing to do before breakfast “My father was from Ireland. I don't remember them, not really. My mother died when I was born, and my father died when I was three. That's when I came to live here. How old are you?”

Mairin opened her small mouth, closed it then opened it again. “Eleven,” she said.

For a moment, words failed Rose. The girl looked far too tiny to be eleven years old, yet she did have an air of self-sufficiency. “Eleven? Truly?”

Mairin nodded, without smiling. ‘Twelve come spring.”

“Oh? When is your birthday?”

The girl shrugged one slight shoulder. “Don't know. Spring is all they told me.”

“Mairin, do you think we could be friends now? Would you come down here and talk with me?” Rose once again raised her hand.

Mairin rolled on her stomach and lowered herself to the next branch, just above Rose. She slid to the ground so quickly that Rose barely had time to step aside. She moved with the agility and assurance of one who spent much of her time hiding in trees.

Brushing off her pantaloons, Mairin straightened and gazed up at Rose, who was taller than average and must have seemed a thin giant to the girl who didn't even come up to her waist Rose lowered herself to the ground, smoothing her cloak over
the blanket of dried leaves, so that her eyes and Mairin's would be equal.