“She treated me just like family. Mike too. She spoke to us with ‘thees’ and ‘thys,’ you know how the Quakers do.” She looked at Ms. Stokes, who nodded in return. “In the old days, they talked like that to everybody, but nowadays they only use it with family. Right, Miss Stokes?”
Again, she nodded. “But Miss Jennings always talked that way to Mike and me.”
“I see.” Fenimore rose and took her hand. “You’ve been a great help. I sympathize with your loss.”
“Thank you, sir.” She swallowed hard and went back to the kitchen.
“Do you still think my aunt’s murder was an inside job, Doctor?” Ms. Stokes gave him a wry look.
Fenimore met her gaze. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Next I suppose you’ll be asking for our alibis?”
“Actually—”
“I was playing tennis at the Cricket Club with Jean Cummings,” she snapped.
“And her phone number?”
She shook her head in disbelief, but gave it to him.
“And what about Mike? It would help if you could tell me where he was and I won’t have to track him down.”
“He always stops by Farley’s Tavern in Mount Airy for a few before going home. He’s a regular there and I’m sure the bartender can vouch for him.”
“Thank you. That’s a big help.”
Ms. Stokes looked as if she was sorry she had been a help. He made a note to stop by Farley’s on his way home. “Do you know where Henrietta was at the time?”
“You can ask her yourself.” She went into the hall and called the housekeeper.
When she appeared, Fenimore said, “Could you tell me where you were when Miss Jennings was murdered?”
The woman wrung her hands. “Right here, in this house. She went to the deli to get some milk. I wanted to go for her, but she said, ‘No, Hen, thee’s worked hard all day and I need the exercise.’ And... and that’s the last I saw of her.”
“Did you wait for her?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes, and I was still here when the police came, and...” Her lip quivered.
“That’s enough,” Ms. Stokes interrupted. “I’m sure Dr. Fenimore can get all these details from the police.” She turned on him. “The police seemed satisfied that my aunt was the victim of a random mugging, Doctor. They haven’t paid us any visits since their initial one.”
“That’s true. So you have nothing to worry about, Ms. Stokes. I’ve taken far too much of your time. Thank you for putting up with me.” He left her in the gloomy parlor and headed for the front door.
As soon as he was in the car he drew out his cell phone and called Jean Cummings. The line was busy. A coincidence? Perhaps.
Farley’s was empty except for one man seated at the bar nursing a beer. The bartender was polishing glasses while making desultory talk with his single customer. His face brightened when he saw Fenimore. Another customer? Fenimore introduced himself and was about to ask him if he remembered Mike being here on the night of the murder and, to his horror, realized he didn’t know the driver’s last name. Haltingly, he described him.
“Oh, yeah. Mike was here. He never misses a night. I can set my watch by him. Always comes in at a quarter to six.” He smiled. “The day Mike don’t show up, I’ll know the world’s ended.”
“And when does he leave?”
“Now that’s another story. I don’t keep tabs on my customers. Well, I do, as far as their bill’s concerned.” He laughed. “But I don’t watch them every minute. They come and go, sometimes just to the men’s.”
“That’d be a job!” The single customer laughed.
Fenimore looked at him. “Do you know Mike?”
“Oh, sure. Everybody knows Mike.”
“Do you remember him here last Wednesday night?”
“He must have been. I’d have remembered if he wasn’t here. Like Joe says, that would be a world-shaking event.” He grinned.
“Uh, may I use your facility?” Fenimore asked.
“Be my guest.” The bartender nodded toward the back.
The men’s room was surprisingly clean and smelled strongly of disinfectant. Fenimore looked around for another exit. There was only one door, the one he had entered by, but there was a window. He grabbed the sash and pushed it up easily. There was plenty of room for a man to climb out into the alley that led to the street. Thoughtfully, he closed the window.
The day of the funeral was bright and warm. Mrs. Doyle arrived at the office looking very stylish in her new black straw hat. Horatio, thanks to his mother, was wearing a shirt and tie.
“Lord almighty!” Mrs. Doyle pressed her hand to her heart. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Horatio sent her his most evil look.
The doctor was the last to arrive. He came trotting down the stairs (he lived above the office) in his best navy-blue suit, white shirt, and regimental striped tie. “Ready?” He politely avoided commenting on the dress of either of his employees, and they set off in the suffocating heat.
The meetinghouse, with its thick stone walls, was surprisingly cool despite the lack of air conditioning. And the dark green blinds that covered the upper half of the windows reduced the brazen sun to a mellow glow. The large room was completely unadorned, as the doctor had warned. The only furnishings were the rows of plain wooden benches, many of which were already filled.
Mrs. Doyle settled in on one side of the doctor and Horatio sat on the other. The latter looked around in astonishment at the room. No stained glass, no candles, no crosses. The place where the altar should have been was filled by three tiers of benches.
“That’s where the elders sit,” Fenimore whispered.
“The what?”
“The people who have been members of the meeting the longest,” he explained.
“Oh.”
Just then, Ms. Stokes, Henrietta, and Mike entered, and took their places in the front row. When they were seated, a young man rose and quietly closed the doors. All whispering and rustling instantly ceased and a complete silence fell upon the gathering.
Mrs. Doyle felt ill at ease with the silence at first, but soon, out of habit, began to say her rosary softly to herself. Rat tapped his foot on the bar of the bench in front of him, until Fenimore placed a restraining hand on his knee. Fenimore closed his eyes and thought about Miss Jennings and her good deeds. But gradually his thoughts strayed to Ms. Stokes, Henrietta, and Mike, wondering if they were physically capable of smashing in someone’s skull. Mike was a sturdy fellow who looked in good shape, despite his sixty-some years; Henrietta was large, with a heavy build, and muscles well toned from years of housework; and Ms. Stokes, although small in stature, looked very fit. She probably played tennis and worked out several times a week.
Minutes passed, when suddenly a man’s voice rose at the back of the room. He spoke about Miss Jennings’ good works, and told some anecdotes about her childhood that made even the sternest elder on the facing bench smile. He ended with the thought that we should all be grateful to have known such a rare person.
More silence descended.
At intervals, others rose and said a few words, usually relating an experience they had shared with the deceased — some serious, others evoking gentle laughter. At one point, a tall black woman rose and in a clear, rich voice said, “I just want to say I’ve seen in the paper that the police think Miss Jennings was killed by someone in the neighborhood—” There was a general intake of breath throughout the room. “And I want to say, I don’t believe it. We loved Miss Jennings. She was a good woman.” And she sat down. Some people were so startled by this statement, they turned in their seats to see who had spoken — a curiosity Quakers rarely indulged.