Only in New England : the story of a gaslight crime (16 page)

"Earnest spent a lot of time home here with his mother," Ed recalled. "Him and Lionel kept their bedrooms here. Usually they'd be on hand over the weekend to have Sunday dinner with Old Abby. Don't recollect seeing Earnest at his place on the south side much."

"It sounds to me as though he married a farm instead of a woman."

"Like I told you," Ed reminded. "Appears he didn't care much for women. They say he used to campaign all out against the suffragettes."

Evidently domesticity galled the Senator. To elude his mother, he married. To elude his wife, he came back home to mother. To elude them both, he went to the State capital and voted against woman's suffrage. But his only chance to escape distaff domination lay in money? I could imagine. So long as Abby's apron strings were, in reality, purse strings, Earnest Bridewell, like Brother Lionel, was compelled to linger by the maternal fireside.

Glancing about the Victorian parlor, I perceived that the Bridewell picture had changed a little from my earlier conception. It contained more complexities than a mother and two adult sons bound in the close proximity of an uncongenial togetherness. Still, Earnest's marriage to a woman on the south side and Lionel's departure to a county in the hinterland, did not drastically alter the family portrait. Old Abby continued to rule her sons' fortunes.

Need, mistrust and greed kept them fixed in the matriarchal orbit. The Old Homestead remained an inferno.

"Five hundred, mother. Cash. I've got to have it this week!" That would be Lionel.

And Earnest: "Goddam it, mother, you know I need money. You say you're out of ready cash; what the devil did you do with the money from that livestock sale?"

The pressures must have heightened during the winter of 1910-11. Some unremitting stress or strain had forced Old Abby to sell her blue-ribbon oxen and three of her carriage horses. Mrs. Smeizer was not the only neighbor who heard unusually loud shouts of contention echo from the Bridewell parlor. Norman Purdy, delivering charcoal, walked in on a thundering row one Saturday morning. Asa Goodbody, another neighbor, heard a tempestuous quarrel one Sunday after church. Earnest was seen shaking a fist at his mother. Lionel was seen slamming out of the kitchen door. Town talk reported that the sons were going to contest their father's will.

Home sweet home.

I stared at Old Abby's rocker. There she had sat like iron with her sons beating at her hammer and tongs. An anvil in a lace cap. Grim. Holding out. But after the sons departed, she was alone in the house—now that Captain Nathan had gone to the cemetery. Monarch of all she surveyed, but with night closing in on her matriarchal realm. Earnest at her for her money. Lionel at her for her money. Other enemies in the background—fellow townsmen —relatives—perhaps a daughter-in-law—possibly a blackmailer— perhaps the father of a wronged girl. And she was a widow, solitary. Alone, there. Alone.

"Ed," I asked, "did anyone stay here in the house with Abby Bridewell? After Captain Nathan died and the sons partially moved out?"

"Well, there was the hired help."

"A man named Cudworth and an orphan boy?"

"That's right. Hobe Cudworth, he was about twenty-two. And the orphan—a kid in kneepants—Walter Jones. They slept out in back."

"Just Old Abby alone here with those two?"

"Alone here with those two."

I said without thinking, "It's a wonder somebody didn't kill her."

Ed yawned, "Somebody did."

He sighed to his feet. Stood absently clutching the poker. His gaze settled on the gramophone. He said in a drowzy tone, "Damn odd how things work out."

Then crossing to the fireplace, he carefully placed the poker in the coal scuttle. He smiled at me sleepily. "Know it's almost four A.M.?"

"My Lord!" It was like the lights coming on at the climax of a seance. "Will you give me the murder details after breakfast, Ed?"

"Noontime," he promised. "When Annette's gone to church. As I said, she don't like to hear anyone speak ill . . ."

CHAPTER 11

So Abby had it coming.

And it came for her at the end of a beautiful April day—a shining April day not unlike the one wherein I learned the details.

The air warm with the promise of spring at last fulfilled. A breeze as gentle as silk from the sea. The sky cerulian, the sunlight buttercup yellow, the good earth garbed in shades of delicate green.

One of those days when houses opened their windows for a long-needed inhale of fresh air. When you thought about taking down the shutters, but got out the hammock instead. When your wife pinned on her new hat. When the boy with the squeaky voice called to take your giggling daughter for a walk. When the kids took to the yard to knuckle "mibs."

Yes, you could almost see the garden growing. You could hear

a hum in the air like the sap rising in the trees. The first houseflies buzz around—where the devil do they come from?—and from way across lots comes the sharp bark of a dog or the grinding sound of someone cranking a car.

The mackerel fishing ought to be good this year.

Cherry blossoms will soon be out.

One of those days— Balm of Gilead to a Quahog Point coming out of hibernation after a long, hard winter.

But tricky in a way. You can't quite be sure. Better keep your coat. The sun still sets early, and late afternoon shadows can turn chill. Seventy at noon can go to forty at night.

You can't trust the weather around a place like Quahog Point. At least you couldn't on the evening of Tuesday, April 11, 1911.

On the evening of Tuesday, April 11, 1911, Cornelia Ord decided to pay a call on Abby Bridewell. Occasionally she went to her aunt's house for Sunday dinner, but a Tuesday evening call was out of the ordinary. The fact that such a visit was unique eventually brought it to the notice of the County Coroner who invited Cornelia to explain the matter at an inquest held in the basement of Town Hall.

Unfortunately the records of that inquest did not remain available for the inspection of literary antique dealers and such rum-magers into archives as myself. Upon inquiry, I was given to understand that fire and water had obliterated some fifty years of the history of Quahog Point—an obliteration which included the old Town Hall itself and the particular records in mention.

By dint of research in contemporary newspapers and local memory, and by usage of imagination, I reconstructed some of the missing data. It covers the territory explored by the Coroner's inquest, and must be taken as a simulation only. However, I assure the possible reader that the spirit is there, if not the letter.

As stated, Cornelia went to call on her aunt that Tuesday evening. She went on Tuesday because she had not felt well enough to

visit her aunt the previous Sunday. Cold in the nose. Nothing more than that, but she had feared it might be a starter.

Anyway, she had taken a good Saturday night dose of sulphur and molasses. And it had given her a touch of indigestion. At Sunday morning service she had told her aunt, Abby Bridewell, about it. To quote from the simulated record:

Q. You went to church that morning, you say?

A. Of course. I go every Sunday.

Q. You sat in your aunt's pew?

A. It was mine as much as hers.

Q. But it was your habit to sit with your aunt and the other Bridewells?

A. Or theirs to sit with me.

Q. What we're getting at, Mrs. Ord, wasn't it also your usual custom to have Sunday dinner at your aunt's house?

A. I did. When I was invited.

Q. Didn't she invite you that Sunday?

A. Yes, but I told her I wasn't feeling well.

Q. You felt well enough to go to church.

A. I didn't expect to eat a full-course dinner during church service.

Q. But you were really not very much indisposed.

A. I didn't feel up to a big dinner.

Q. Did you tell your aunt that?

A. Yes.

Q. That you were sick?

A. Not sick. If you've got to know, it was gas. I felt hiccupy. I told my aunt about the sulphur and molasses. It had made me feel voluptuous all night.

Cornelia dined at home with her cats that Sunday. A bowl of fish chowder and a cup of camomile tea. Her nose continued runny, but the "voluptuousness" subsided on Monday. By Tuesday she had perked up.

About seven o'clock she felt well enough to go over to the

Bridewells' house. She put a couple of blow handkerchiefs (sic) in her reticule, and pinned on her hat. She decided to walk. From the Coroner's record:

Q. How far was it to your aunt's house?

A. It's still the same distance—about three miles.

Q. You must have been feeling a lot better.

A. Well, my digestion had settled down.

Q. But you were too late for Tuesday supper.

A. I didn't go there for that.

Q. Why did you go?

A. I had an errand. I wanted to see my aunt.

Q. What about?

A. It was private business.

Q. Mrs. Ord, under the circumstances I think you ought to state what it was.

A. I don't know what it was.

Q. You mean to say you don't remember?

A. I didn't say that. I said I didn't know what it was.

Q. How could you go to see your aunt on private business and not know what it was?

A. She said it was private, that's how. She had told me at church she wanted to see me on a personal matter. Would I call on her as soon as convenient.

Q. She didn't tell you what the matter was?

A. One thing about my aunt—she'd never discuss business in church.

Cornelia Ord reached the Bridewell house at just a little after eight. She recalled the time, because the Center Methodist had a bell tower, and it played a hymn every evening at eight. Throw Out the Lifeline, Throw Out the Lifeline, Someone is Sinking Today. The last clong echoed into silence and "someone had sunk" just as she reached the roadbend that gave view to the Bridewell place.

Cornelia stopped at the foot of the path to adjust her hat and

tidy her nose. Then, squaring her shoulders a little, she strode up to the front door. She had a feeling something was wrong at the house—her aunt asking her to call like that.

Just as she started to go in, the front door opened. Lizzie Robinson marched out.

Q. Who is Lizzie Robinson? A. The dressmaker. Q. Your aunt's dressmaker?

A. Abby Bridewell didn't own her. She sewed for a lot of people. Q. You say she marched out? A. Yes. Good and mad. Q. Did you speak to her?

A. She to me. Something about being underpaid and sick of working her fingers to the bone for nothing.

Cornelia stated that she had made no comment to Lizzie—none of her business, come down to it. But expecting trouble, she had braced herself for an unpleasant interview. She found her aunt waiting for her in the sewing room. Her aunt looked all upset.

Q. How do you mean, all upset?

A. I mean all upset. Excited and shaky. She took me into the front parlor. Said she wanted to talk in there. I asked her what was wrong. She said she would tell me as soon as the ears were out of the house.

Q. What did she mean by that?

A. She meant the hired man and the boy. Hobart Cudworth, and the orphan Walter Jones. They were working around the kitchen. She said she'd tell me as soon as they went to the picture show.

Q. They soon left the house?

A. About a quarter after eight. Cudworth stopped on the way out, and she gave him fifty cents.

Q. Then what did your aunt tell you?

A. It seems she was frightened.

Q. She told you that?

A. Not in so many words. Her manner. I'd never seen her like that. She said a lot of things had gone wrong. That everyone was against her.

Q. Did she name anyone?

A. I gathered she meant her sons, for two. After saying everybody, she told me she'd had a hard time with Earnest and Lionel. The past Sunday they'd had an awful fight.

Q. Over what?

A. The money Captain Nathan had willed her. Her sons were trying to get it away from her. She told me she was going to leave the homestead, too. Sell out. Pack up and go away from Quahog Point.

Q. You say Abby Bridewell planned to leave her home?

A. As soon as she felt well enough to travel, she said. When she said that, she almost cried. She rolled up a sleeve and showed me a bad bruise on her arm. She showed me another on her knee. I asked her had she fallen down. She shook her head.

Q. You imply, Mrs. Ord, that these bruises were from blows?

A. She didn't say. She just showed them to me.

Q. And that was the business your aunt wanted to discuss with you?

A. I don't think so. She said she got the bruises on Sunday afternoon—after she'd seen me at church, that would have been. And she said that was when she made up her mind to go live somewhere else.

Q. Then what was the business she wanted to see you about?

A. She didn't say.

Q. Didn't say?

A. No, she didn't. She got more and more distracted. Then all at once she stiffened up. She said something to herself like, "This will never do." Then she asked me would I join her in a cup of tea and some spiced pears.

Q. Tea? Spiced pears?

A. She loved spiced pears and tea. But the thought made me hiccup. When I said no, she thanked me for stopping in, and would I now excuse her. She said she would fix herself a snack, and go do some more packing.

Q. Then you left?

A. I did. When my aunt asked you to excuse her, it was time for you to go.

Q. What time was that?

A. Minute of nine o'clock, according to the clock on the parlor mantel.

That was Cornelia Ord's story, and she stuck to it. She could not have picked a worse evening to spend an hour in unwitnessed privacy with her aunt. The only person who could have verified her story was Abby Bridewell. And at the Coroner's inquest Old Abby was not talking.

Statement of Lizzie Robinson, spinster, age twenty-one plus, to County Coroner and Jury; Special Inquest Session, Town Hall, Quahog Point, April 1911:

My name is Lizzie Zenobia Robinson. I am a dressmaker as well as a seamstress. What the French call a modest. I ain't—aren't— paid half enough for my work. Wasn't by Mrs. Bridewell or any of them. This village don't appreciate style.