Free Delivering the Truth by Edith Maxwell Page B

affection, for that matter. I tried to silently answer myself that indeed, I did deserve goodness and love. It was an ongoing battle.
    â€œHow was your day, Rosie?” David glanced at me as we traveled up the Elm Street hill. “Was it as lovely as you?”
    â€œOh, no.” I uttered a laugh without any humor behind it. “It was quite momentous, as it turned out. I discovered young Stephen Hamilton setting fire to the Meetinghouse during worship. I sent up a cry of alarm—I had to break a window to do it—and Friends managed to both capture him and put out the fire.”
    David took in a sharp breath. “You could have been hurt!”
    â€œBut I wasn’t. It was just that I realized during Meeting the scars I had seen on Stephen’s hands were from match sparks. I went out and found him with a pile of leaves aflame that had spread to the back wall.” I shuddered. “He simply stood there and laughed. He’s an ill man, David.”
    â€œI should say. So he must have been the firebug who set Carriage Hill on fire, as well. I hope he’s in police custody now. Perhaps more rightly he should be in the prison asylum.”
    I nodded. “He’s in jail, all right. But that’s the thing. Kevin Donovan, the detective on the case, stopped by this afternoon. He said Stephen has a clear alibi for the hours prior to when the fire started. Many men saw him at McFarley’s Pub. He’s certainly under arrest for trying to burn down the Meetinghouse, though.”
    â€œThe real arsonist is still at large, then.” David frowned.
    â€œIt’s a fearful thought. Do arsonists strike twice?”
    â€œI’m not sure. I suppose some do, and some don’t. It would depend on the motive. If the carriage factory fire was started to settle a grudge, that might be the end of it.”
    â€œWe can only hope.” I gazed at the water as we clattered over the new Essex-Merrimack Drawbridge leading to Deer Island, which sat just two miles from the center of Amesbury, and then over the chain-supported suspension bridge to the busy shipping port of Newburyport. A white-headed eagle streaked feet first into the river and came up with a wriggling fish in its talons. A few strong beats of its wide wings brought it to a tree overhanging the water. A chilly breeze came off the Merrimack and I was glad for my woolen cloak and the blanket.
    â€œBut why did Donovan come to the house to tell you about Stephen Hamilton?” David asked.
    â€œI suppose because it was I who stopped Stephen in his evil task. But then he asked me to keep a watch out for him and report anything I might learn around town.”
    â€œHe wants you to become a detective?” David frowned again as the mare took us up the hill to High Street.
    â€œNo, silly.” I laughed. “But I do go places he can’t and hear things he would not. As does thee. A detective would never hear a laboring mother cry out about a man who beat her or a pregnant woman confess her husband was seeing what she called a strumpet.”
    â€œI hope you will be careful. Very careful.”
    â€œOf course. I’ll just be going about my life. And if I glean any information, I’ll inform the detective. Don’t worry thy head.”
    We continued to talk as we drove the additional two miles to David’s house. He made me laugh with a tale of The Henrietta , a humorous play he’d seen about the shenanigans of Wall Street, and I told him about Matthew and Mark’s aspirations to become police officers.
    â€œI’ll have to give them some gentle eldering about treating all equally. They addressed Kevin as Detective and Sir over and over.” I smiled. “But they’re young yet.”
    â€œHere we are,” he said as we finally turned onto Olive Street and pulled up at the first house, which sat on the corner with High. A large home with elegant proportions perched there, with