I was going because I had failed Mr. Bickley. He’d asked me to find his son. If I had begun the search immediately, I might have located the young man before he’d come to grief.
Bickley hadn’t been too worried about his absence, I remembered, believing his son had gone off to visit friends after the meeting that Sunday. He also wasn’t a youth—Miss Farrow had said Joshua was twenty, well old enough to take care of himself. Perhaps these reasons were why I hadn’t rushed to search for him, and I’d also been distracted by my own bizarre situation.
I could only atone now by being the one to break the news, and resolve to find Josh’s killer.
The Meeting House wasn’t far. I did not know whether Mr. Bickley would be there, but perhaps someone there could tell me where he lived. I halted numbly when I reached the house, studying the tranquil garden behind the gate.
The garden, as I’d observed before, contained rows of greens—vegetables and herbs enough for a feast. Blossoms clung to the green and yellow squash waiting to be harvested and brightened a trumpet vine that climbed the cottage wall.
The house’s door opened almost instantly, and Miss Farrow emerged. “Gabriel?” She arrived at the gate unhurriedly and unlatched it. “We have heard the terrible news. Wilt thou come in?”
“You have heard?” I repeated in surprise. I’d left the shore only ten minutes ago.
Miss Farrow regarded me with bleak eyes. “A lad ran here and told us. He recognized Joshua at once.”
She opened the gate and ushered me into the garden. Brewster hung back, but she continued to hold it, as though expecting him to join us. Brewster shrugged and followed me in.
Miss Farrow closed the gate and led us into the Meeting House.
I removed my hat as Miss Farrow led us inside the Meeting House, and was struck by how blank the interior was. There was not a single picture anywhere, not even a cross. The walls were whitewashed, the floors dark boards. High windows let in light but no view, not even that of the pleasant garden.
The house reminded me of cloisters in Spain, barren but elegant in their simplicity. Yet even those had displayed crucifixes, or frescoes, if subdued ones, images of saints or the Virgin.
Miss Farrow took us through a large room empty except for wooden benches, into a smaller chamber in the back of the house. This too had white walls and empty benches, and I heard a clattering of dishes in a nearby kitchen.
Brewster stood gazing about at the white interior, as fascinated by it as I was, while Miss Farrow regarded us sadly.
“Now, Gabriel, please tell me what happened.”
“Is Mr. Bickley about?” I asked her.
“Clive is at home. I will break the news to him.”
I would have preferred to speak to him directly, but Miss Farrow pinned me with her stare, willing me to pour forth what I knew. I launched into the full tale, speaking quietly and gently, describing how Peter and I had found the overturned boat.
“I have also come to apologize,” I said when I’d finished. “I had not yet begun the task to find Master Bickley. My lingering might have caused his death.”
Miss Farrow’s brows rose. “How canst thou presume to know the Lord’s heart? Or even what a coroner knows? Perhaps Joshua was dead before we asked thee to search for him.”
I blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, I admit.”
“Do not take the Lord’s will upon thyself. It is not becoming, Gabriel.”
“Forgive me.” I gave her a bow.
“And do not bow to me. I am no better, or worse, than thou art, friend Gabriel. We must put our sorrows aside and discover what befell Joshua.”
“I agree,” I said. “For that, I might have to intrude upon privacy and find out all I can about him. Was he fond of boating? Is that what he’d disappeared to do?”
“I doubt it,” Miss Farrow said with certainty. “Joshua disliked boats. Would not go near one. If he was found inside a boat, he did not go into it on his own.”
That fact coupled with the marks on his neck pointed straight to murder.
“You said he left on Sunday without a word,” I went on. “Had he done such a thing before?”
“A few times. Josh had many friends and would often visit them. He is a good lad.” Miss Farrow looked sad. “Wasa good lad. Did his duty by his father, attended every meeting. A cheerful fellow.”
“These friends he would meet ...” I hesitated. “Was one a young lady, perhaps?”
