Miss Jennings was descended from a distinguished Quaker family that was known for its philanthropy. And she carried on the family tradition. One of her favorite causes was helping disadvantaged youths in her neighborhood of Germantown. She founded a summer camp for teenagers and even donated some of her land for the teens to make their own vegetable gardens. Her house, a colonial stone structure built in 1766, before the Revolution, was believed to have been the temporary home of George Washington during the yellow-fever epidemic. Her ancestors had owned many acres, bought from the Indians, which had been sold piece by piece as the rural area grew into a prosperous commercial center. But in recent years the neighborhood had declined and the graceful stone house circled by sycamore trees was a shady island in a sea of boarded-up buildings, shabby storefronts, and derelict taprooms. Her friends and relatives had urged her for years to move to the suburbs or at least to a retirement home. But she stubbornly refused, insisting that this was where she had been born and where she would die. “Besides, this is where my work is,” she always added.
Like most Quakers, she lived simply. The furnishings of her house were plain, like her clothes, and she rarely bought anything new unless it was a necessity. She had a part-time housekeeper, a black woman named Henrietta, who came in three days a week to cook and clean, and occasionally do the shopping if Miss Jennings’ rheumatism was bothering her. Henrietta was a dependable and devoted employee. Miss Jennings also had a chauffeur, her “driver,” she called him, who took her on errands and visits when they were too far to walk. Mike was Irish, full of jokes, and could always make Miss Jennings laugh. But most of the time Miss Jennings prepared her own meals and shopped at the local stores, even though she was often the only white woman in them.
The neighbors were familiar with the old Quaker woman who had always lived in the big stone house, and they knew she was responsible for many of the improvements in their neighborhood. There was the summer camp, of course. But she had also helped fund a gymnasium for the local high school, turned a vacant lot into a park, and aided the poor by organizing clothing drives and starting a soup kitchen. A familiar and revered figure, she came and went without fear. When a mugger murdered her, everyone was shocked. People gathered in clusters on street corners and in doorways shaking their heads. Some even wept.
Dr. Fenimore punched Rafferty’s number. “Where did it happen?” he asked without preamble.
“On Harris, just off the Avenue.”
“When?”
“Yesterday — about six P.M. No one in their right mind walks there alone even in the daytime.”
“But everyone knew her.”
Rafferty didn’t answer.
“Was she robbed?”
“Her handbag wasn’t recovered.”
“How did he do it?”
“Came up behind her and hit her with a brick.” His friend paused. “The ferocity of the attack is what worries me. The assailant wasn’t just out to stun her. From the nature of the wounds, he had murder in mind.”
“Wounds?”
“Oh, yeah. He administered several heavy blows. Her skull was smashed.”
Fenimore gripped the telephone. After a pause, he asked, “Any witnesses?”
“In that neighborhood? The chances of anyone coming forward are zero.”
“Keep in touch,” Fenimore said.
“Right.”
Because of Miss Jennings’ philanthropic reputation, her death was front-page news. In addition to her obituary, the Philadelphia Inquirer featured her in an article with a photograph from younger days. She was not beautiful but had a plain, kindly face.
The funeral was scheduled for the following week at the Germantown meetinghouse. She had been a member her whole life, as had her parents and grandparents before her. Fenimore was going, of course. And Mrs. Doyle said she would like to attend too.
“Can I come?” Horatio asked. In answer to their surprised looks, he shrugged and said, “She was a nice old lady.”
“We’ll have to close the office,” Mrs. Doyle said.
“That’s all right,” Fenimore said. “I’ve canceled my patients for that afternoon. And if there are any drop-ins, I’ll leave a note on the door.”
So, it was settled, Dr. Fenimore and his entire office staff would attend the Jennings funeral. But Fenimore thought he should warn his two employees, both members of the Catholic faith, about the nature of a Quaker funeral service. “You’ll find this very different from the services you’re both used to. The meetinghouse is very plain, no stained glass, no decoration of any kind, no music, and no priest or minister. Complete silence is maintained until the spirit moves one of the members to rise and speak about the deceased.”
“Huh,” said Horatio.
“I’ve read about that,” said Mrs. Doyle.
“Could I speak?” asked Horatio.
The doctor cast the teenager a baleful look. “As long as it’s inspirational,” he said. “Anyone may speak if the spirit moves them.”
Horatio grinned broadly and Fenimore felt a quiver of fear.
“Well, I’d like to say a thing or two about that mugger,” announced Mrs. Doyle. “I’d like to—”
“Now let’s not get carried away,” warned Dr. Fenimore. “The prime purpose of a Quaker funeral is silent meditation on the deceased.” He stressed the word silent. “Just be here next Wednesday at one-thirty, dressed in your Sunday best.”
“What—?” Horatio looked startled.
“What did you expect to wear to the service,” asked Mrs. Doyle. “Your sweats?”
“Uh...”
“Don’t worry, Rat,” Fenimore intervened. “Just ask your mother what you should wear. She’ll know.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” The boy frowned, beginning to regret his offer to attend.
“Well, I know what I’m wearing,” said Mrs. Doyle. “My new straw hat.” Then, remembering the nature of the occasion, she added quickly, “It’s black.”
“Is that all you’re wealin’?” muttered Horatio.
Feeling it was time to end the conversation, Fenimore suggested they all get back to work.
Meanwhile, Dr. Fenimore decided to spend Wednesday, his day off, visiting Miss Jennings’ home, in hopes he might run into some family members, employees, or neighbors who could throw some light on his patient’s tragic death.
As Fenimore turned his car from the dusty, trash-filled avenue into the cool, shaded driveway, he felt as if he was entering another world. Two cars — Miss Jennings’ gray Ford Escort and a dark blue VW — were already parked in front of the house. Fenimore pulled up behind the VW.
The front door and all the front windows were open (air conditioning was a luxury Miss Jennings had never indulged in), but there was no one in sight. As Fenimore approached the house, a mop was shaken from an upstairs window and he narrowly escaped a shower of dust. Although the door was open, he used the knocker and waited on the stone stoop. Presently he heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.
A large, elderly black woman appeared, wearing an apron. “Yes, sir?” she asked.
Fenimore suddenly felt awkward. He had not prepared any excuse for coming. On an impulse, he had just come. “I’m — was — Miss Jennings’ physician, Dr. Fenimore, and...”
“Please come in, Doctor,” the woman said. “I’ll tell Miss Stokes you’re here.”