Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 141, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 858 & 859, March/April 2013

Does Thee Murder? by Robin Hathaway

Robin Hathaway’s first novel, The Doctor Digs a Grave, which featured Dr. Fenimore, the protagonist of this story, won the St. Martins Malice Domestic prize, and later an Agatha Award. The author now has two series featuring doctor sleuths. In 2003’s Scarecrow she introduced a young woman doctor who provides healthcare to motel residents and makes her motel calls on a motorcycle Sleight of Hand, the most recent hook in that series, won the 2009 David Award.

“How terrible!” Mrs. Doyle frowned into the phone.

Horatio, the teenaged office clerk, looked up from his filing. Maybe the day wouldn’t be such a drag after all.

“Where did it happen?” Mrs. Doyle’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, my — she was warned not to walk there alone.”

Horatio grimaced. “Blame the neighborhood,” he muttered.

“Of course, I’ll tell the doctor. He’ll be very upset.” As she replaced the receiver, her gaze met Horatio’s. “Miss Jennings — murdered by a mugger,” she said. There was a catch in her voice.

Horatio grunted. He knew Miss Jennings. She was one of the few patients who noticed him. Didn’t treat him like a piece of furniture. She once asked him about his career as if she were really interested.

The front door squeaked open. A patient or the doctor? Mrs. Doyle went to see.

“Inspector Rafferty called with some bad news,” Horatio heard the nurse say.

“Oh?”

“Miss Jennings was murdered.”

Horatio couldn’t hear the doctor’s reaction, but when he appeared in the doorway his face was gray and his mouth was set in a grim line. He nodded at Horatio and disappeared into his office, shutting the door behind him.

Martha Jennings was a Philadelphia institution. A wealthy Quaker, she was always involved in worthy causes. In the Quaker tradition, she believed in accumulating wealth, but not displaying it. If you met her on the street, you might mistake her for a homeless person. There was a story that she went into a bank one day wearing a coat held together with a large safety pin. A new young employee rose quickly with the intention of ushering her out. But he was intercepted by the bank manager, who hurried to greet the woman and escorted her into his office as if she were the Queen of England.

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.”

“Miss Stokes?”

“Miss Jennings’ niece. She’s upstairs, going through the books.” The woman was already starting up the stairs.

Fenimore looked around the hall. Like most colonial houses, there was a central hall and staircase, with rooms branching out on either side. He peeked in the room on the left, the parlor, he guessed, and saw furniture shrouded in white sheets. All except the piano, which stood naked to one side.

“Doctor?”

He started and turned. A small, wiry woman, about fifty, in jeans, a sweat shirt, and sneakers held out her hand. Because of the sneakers, he had not heard her coming down the stairs.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he apologized. “I was in the neighborhood [lie number one] and thought I’d stop by and offer my condolences.”

“How kind.” Her smile was forced. “Come sit down.” She led him into the parlor. As she drew open the curtains and slid the sheet cover from the sofa, she explained, “We’re in the throes of clearing out Aunt Martha’s house. She lived here her entire life and although she wasn’t a saver, she still accumulated an amazing number of things. Please sit down.” She indicated the sofa — a stiff Victorian piece covered in worn rose velvet.

When they were seated, Fenimore said, “Your aunt was my patient for many years and my father’s before me. Her violent end was a great shock to me.”

“To us all.” Ms. Stokes caressed the sofa, eyes downcast. “But...” She looked up, “everyone warned her about walking these streets alone.”

“But she was so well known here.”

“True, but after dusk — and that’s when the attack occurred — she was just any elderly person — easy prey for someone looking for quick cash.” She frowned.

Apparently Ms. Stokes did not share her aunt’s fondness for the neighborhood, Fenimore thought.

“I know you have a sideline to your profession, Doctor,” Ms. Stokes said and stared at him. “I can’t help wondering if this call doesn’t have something to do with your other occupation?”

Slightly taken aback, Fenimore said, “Well... I can’t say that I wouldn’t like to see your aunt’s murderer brought to justice.”

Her eyes sparkled dangerously. “So would I. How can I help you?”

Fenimore was about to tell her when a ruddy-faced, gray-haired man in jeans and a T-shirt interrupted them. “Excuse me, Ms. Stokes, but I have those things you sent me for. Shall I put them in the kitchen?”

“Yes, Mike. This is Dr. Fenimore, Aunt Martha’s physician.”

“How do you do. I’ve sat in your waiting room many times,” he said with a smile.

“I recognize you. Miss Jennings’ driver.” Fenimore held out his hand. “I’m so sorry—”

“Yes.” He nodded. “A terrible thing.” Shifting his packages, he left the room quickly.

When they were alone again, Fenimore asked, “Did your aunt have any enemies?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Aunt Martha wasn’t the type to make enemies.”

Fenimore hesitated before his next question, then decided to risk it. “This is a personal question and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to...”

Her eyebrows rose slightly but she said nothing.

“Could you tell me who will profit from your aunt’s death?”

She blinked and said coldly, “That will be common knowledge as soon as the estate is settled.”

“I realize that, but you see, time is of the essence.” He waited.

“Then...” her words came slowly, “you don’t think my aunt’s death was a random mugging?”

“It’s important to look into every possibility.”

“Like on TV?” she said mirthlessly.

“Well...” He smiled.

Unexpectedly, she laughed. “I can tell you that she left me this house and the land around it. And her two employees, Henrietta and Mike, will never have to work again in their lives. So now you have three suspects.” She went back to caressing the sofa. “The bulk of the estate will go to my aunt’s favorite charities.”

Fenimore could detect no bitterness in her tone. “Do you plan to live here?”

“God no!” She gave a harsh laugh. “Fortunately this house is a historic landmark and the city has offered me a handsome sum for it. It will be restored to its former glory and opened to the public as a Heritage Site.”

At this point Mike reappeared in the doorway. “Will you be wanting me for anything else today, Ms. Stokes?”

“No, Mike. But tomorrow morning I could use your help with the books. I can pack them but I need you to carry them downstairs. And of course, you’ll be driving us to the funeral next week?”

“Oh yes, ma’am.” He was about to leave, when Fenimore stopped him.

“Mr.—?”

He turned back. “Mike.”

“Mike — do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Miss Jennings?”

The driver’s eyes widened. “I thought they were after her pocketbook.”

“So you believe it was a random mugging?”

“Sure. What else? We told her over and over not to walk in this neighborhood by herself, but — if you’ll excuse me, ma’am,” he said with a glance at Ms. Stokes, “when it came to some things, your aunt was a very stubborn lady.”

“Yes, Mike, I know,” she said sadly.

“We all loved her,” Mike went on, “but she had a will of her own.” He looked again at Ms. Stokes for confirmation.

Ms. Stokes smiled slightly and nodded. “Mike is right. My aunt did not listen to advice when it didn’t suit her.”

“I’ll be going then,” Mike said. “Nice to meet you, Doctor.”

As soon as he left, Fenimore asked, “How long has Mike been in your aunt’s employ?”

“Oh, goodness. Forever. I think he was in his twenties when he came to work for her.”

“And Henrietta?”

“She’s been with my aunt for as long as I can remember.”

“Two trusted family servants.”

“Absolutely.”

“Did they know about your aunt’s bequests?”

“I’m sure they expected her to leave them something, but I doubt if they knew the exact amount. Even I didn’t know that, and I was quite surprised by her generosity.”

For the first time Fenimore detected a slight note of disapproval. “Could I have a word with Henrietta before I leave?”

“Certainly.” She went into the hall and called the housekeeper.

The woman came from the kitchen, drying her hands. Her face showed traces of weeping.

“Are you all right, Henrietta?” Ms. Stokes looked concerned.

“Yes, ma’am.” She sniffed. “I just came on that teapot Miss Jennings was so fond of and...”

Ms. Stokes put her arm around the black woman. “I know this sorting out of her belongings is very hard on all of us. Dr. Fenimore would like to speak to you, if you feel up to it.”

She wiped her eyes and managed a smile.

“I won’t keep you. I just wondered if you knew if Miss Jennings had any enemies?”

Her mouth fell open.

“I know she wasn’t the type of person to have enemies, but she was active in the neighborhood, helping the high school, sponsoring a park, and creating a summer camp. There are always objections to major renovations of this kind. She must have stepped on a few toes.”

“If she did, I never heard of it,” Henrietta said defiantly. “That woman did nothing but good from the day she was born. You ask anybody around here and they’ll tell you the same.”

“That’s quite an epitaph.”

“Pardon me?”

“Many people would like to have such words said about them,” he explained.

“Well, it’s the truth.” Henrietta showed signs of starting to weep again.

Ms. Stokes patted her arm. “There, there.”

“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.

Fenimore was just recovering from the shock of this unusual declaration, when he felt a stirring on his left. To his horror, Horatio was getting to his feet. The doctor resisted an impulse to pull him down and held his breath.

After a prolonged clearing of his throat, Horatio’s young voice rang out. “I just want to say that Miss Jennings was a nice woman. She really cared about people. She even cared about me! And I’m sorry she got offed... er... that she’s gone.” He sat down.

A few people looked his way and several women smiled. An elderly man stood up and in a wavering voice said, “I think this young man has put it very well. Martha Jennings did care about other people — and she showed her caring through her good works. She will be sorely missed.”

A short silence followed this speech, then the people on the facing bench leaned toward one another and shook hands, the signal that the meeting was over.

Someone announced that the burial would take place in the adjoining cemetery immediately after the meeting and anyone who wished to attend was welcome.

Fenimore told his companions to wait for him at the car and sought out the black woman who had spoken. He spied her standing alone on the brick walkway surrounding the meetinghouse. She was staring at the graveyard with its plain white headstones. He hurried over to her. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m an old friend of Miss Jennings and I was interested in what you had to say in there.”

Almost a head taller than the doctor, the woman looked down at him. Statuesque, Fenimore would have described her. “What makes you think Miss Jennings wasn’t the victim of a random mugging?”

She frowned and bit her lip.

“Andrew Fenimore.” He offered his hand. “I was Miss Jennings’ physician.”

Her face relaxed slightly. Other people had come outside and were gathered on the path, talking in low tones. “Rose Walker,” she said, accepting his hand. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Could we go somewhere more private?”

He led her to a wrought-iron bench under a tree, away from the crowd. When they were seated, she said in a low tone, “I was a witness.”

Fenimore sat up. “But you didn’t come forward!”

She drew back, her eyes narrowing. “I have a family.”

Fenimore nodded. Reprisals in the form of beatings and even death were not uncommon in her neighborhood.

“But I couldn’t stand all those wh—” she caught herself, “people thinking one of us had hurt Miss Jennings.” She raised her chin and her mouth was set.

“What did you see?” Fenimore asked gently.

“It’s not what I saw, it’s what I heard.”

“Go on.”

She glanced around, making sure no one was within hearing, before she spoke. “The mugger’s face was hidden by a scarf. I couldn’t even tell if they were a man or woman. But after the first blow Miss Jennings turned and seemed to recognize them, because she said, very clear, in a surprised voice, ‘Does thee murder?’ ”

Fenimore drew a deep breath. “Are you sure she said ‘thee’?”

“Oh yes, because it struck me as strange.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“I don’t know, because I ran to get help.” She gave a deep sigh. “But by the time I got back, it was too late.”

“Can you describe the mugger in more detail? Size? Clothes...?”

“No. It was getting dark. And they were bent over when they struck her... no, I couldn’t judge their size.”

“What about the voice? Male or female?”

“They didn’t speak. Wait a minute...” She stared at Fenimore. “I saw their watch. As they raised their hand, their sleeve slid back and the watch was caught in the light of the street lamp...”

“Yes?”

“It was a man’s watch.”

Fenimore closed his eyes. When he opened them, Rose was walking away.

He looked across the drive at the graveyard. A mountain of earth stood at some distance from the hole and a small circle of people had gathered. Fenimore tried to make them out. Ms. Stokes, her head bowed, Henrietta, wearing a broad-brimmed black hat — and Mike.

Fenimore waited until the simple ceremony had been performed and the small group broke up. One by one the mourners turned and came across the grass, stepping carefully between the headstones. Mike was in the lead. Slowly Fenimore moved forward to greet him.

He offered his condolences, and they said how nice it was for him to come.

“And who was that delightful young man who spoke so beautifully?” asked Ms. Stokes.

Fenimore told her. His office assistant. Then he said, “I must be off. Still have my hospital rounds. By the way, what time is it?”

Eager to help, all three looked at their watches. Mike pulled out a large pocket watch on a silver chain. “Belonged to my dad, and his dad before him,” he said. Henrietta glanced at the delicate watch on her sturdy wrist. And Ms. Stokes let the sleeve of her jacket fall back so she could see her watch — a masculine variety with a wide elastic band and broad face. Catching Fenimore’s expression, she laughed and said, “I lost my watch about a year ago. My husband lent me his and I liked it so much I kept it.”

Over her shoulder, Fenimore saw Horatio and Mrs. Doyle waving from the car. They were getting restless. A pity, because it was going to be a long afternoon.