Quaker Midwife 07 A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell

Author:Edith Maxwell [Maxwell, Edith]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
Publisher: Beyond the Page
Published: 2021-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-three

I didn’t get to the police station until half past one. Making a telephone call to Kevin about Ned’s gun would be a very bad idea. This was a talk we needed to have in person. And we hadn’t spoken about the murder since Third Day, the day after it happened.

A dazzling sun shone on the snow, which was melting fast, and the air smelled fresh and clean. After I popped in to check on Esther and baby—both blessedly thriving—I walked into town rather than cycling through the slush. A robin hopped on a bare-limbed oak. A squirrel leaping onto a branch in an elm overhead plopped a clump of wet snow squarely on my bonnet. The wheel of a wide dray pulled by a tired-looking gray mare dipped through a puddle and splashed me. My shoes and hems were soaked through by the time I arrived at the station. The fresh-faced young man usually behind the counter had been replaced by a florid older officer with what looked like a permanent scowl etched onto his face.

I greeted him with a smile, anyway. “I’d like to speak with Kevin Donovan, if thee pleases.”

“Not here.”

“When does thee expect him back?”

“Don’t know.” He nearly barked the words.

I erased the smile from my face and stood up to my full height. “Please inform him Mrs. Rose Dodge needs to speak with him at his earliest convenience.”

He gave one slow nod and didn’t write down my name. I suppressed a sigh at this unhelpful man’s lack of response. Weren’t police officers public servants with an obligation to help the citizens of our fair town? This one must have forgotten the service part of his training. Was it that he disrespected my faith, which was always revealed by my speech and bonnet? Or maybe this was how he treated all females. Perhaps he thought my gender had no place inquiring into police business.

I turned toward the door but stepped out of the way when it opened. A young officer tugged on a middle-aged woman, holding her upper arm in a tight grip.

“Come along now, Mrs. Weed,” he said. “You know I’ve got to charge you.”

My jaw dropped as I took a second look. This was indeed Prudence Weed, Zeb’s mother. She wasn’t wearing a bonnet over curly graying hair escaping its hairpins. Her round face was flushed, her eyes bright and bloodshot, and her coat flapped open. I brought my hand to my mouth.

“Another drunk and disorderly for her?” asked the cross-tempered man behind the counter.

“Yes, sir,” the younger fellow said. “Found her on a bench singing at the top of her lungs.”

“It’s not a crime to sing in public,” Prudence protested with slurred diction.

“It is when you’re tippling out of a bottle of hooch at the same time.” Her escort pulled a pint bottle out of his pocket. Only half an inch of an amber liquor remained in the bottom. “And when proper ladies are giving you a wide berth as they pass.”

The older officer cocked his thumb toward the door to the back.

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