I glanced around and could not help but notice some of the attendees had their ears tilted in our direction as if straining to overhear Emily and Isadora’s conversation.

  I couldn’t tell whether Emily didn’t notice this or didn’t care. I thought either scenario was possible when it came to my mistress. At times, she could notice the minute details of a butterfly’s wings. Other times, I had to yank her back from the road so she wasn’t run over by a passing wagon.

  “We will get through it,” Emily said.

  “Did the police arrest that yardman?” Isadora asked.

  I tripped over my own two feet when I heard her say this, and grabbed on to the arm of an elderly woman in a fur coat.

  “Pardon me!” the woman cried, and pulled her arm away from me like I was a hot stove that had burned her.

  Why she was wearing fur in the warmest part of summer, I didn’t know, but at least it had been soft to land on.

  Emily and Isadora turned to look at me just as I righted myself and apologized to the woman.

  “You brought your maid?” Isadora asked, as if she could not think of a more absurd guest to bring to a literary lecture.

  “Yes, Willa is quite a reader. I think she’s read through half of the books in our family library. Haven’t you, Willa?”

  I cleared my throat and willed my skin not to turn red. Although I thought it was a little too late, if the searing heat on my cheeks was any indication. “I don’t know if it’s half the library, but at least a third.”

  “See,” Emily said to her friend, as if my comment proved her right.

  Isadora shook her head. “You have always made your own rules, Emily. I remember you were like that in school too. I always thought you left Mount Holyoke for that reason. You couldn’t abide the rigid structure. While for me, places with rules and structure are where I do best. I have many more challenges outside of academics than I did within it.”

  Emily took her seat and shook her head. “No, that is not why I left.” She turned her attention to the podium in front of us and didn’t say another word.

  Isadora settled in the seat next to her old friend with a pinched expression on her face, as if she realized she had said something wrong but wasn’t certain what.

  I didn’t know either. It seemed to me that Emily often retreated into herself much more now than when I had first met her. I tried not to worry about it too much.

  “Is this seat taken?” a man’s voice said behind me.

  An older man answered, “No.” He stood and let the first speaker into the row. I looked over my shoulder at the familiar voice and locked eyes with Matthew. As if I had been stung, I snapped my head back around to face the podium just as Matthew took the seat directly behind me.

  Throughout the first lecture given by a literature professor at the college, I felt Matthew’s eyes boring into the back of my neck, but every time I happened to look over my shoulder, he was staring straight ahead at the person speaking. I was acutely aware of Matthew sitting there. I reminded myself he wasn’t there for me. He was working. I knew the police investigation into Luther Howard’s death had to be the reason for his presence. I also noted he was out of uniform. I did not know if he did so to blend in while on the job, or because he had come to the lecture of his own volition. The last time I had known Matthew to investigate a crime in civilian clothes, the former of those two options had been true.

  Finally, the professor’s lecture ended, and I almost felt the collective sigh of relief. The next speaker was Mr. Emerson, and it was no secret to anyone that hearing him speak was the reason why there were so many people in the audience.

  I had overhead Miss Susan say that typically the literary society symposium had twenty to thirty members who came to listen to poetry, essays, and lectures by learned men. The lecture hall could hold two hundred souls, and from what I could see, every seat was filled.

  After he was introduced, Mr. Emerson stood at the podium and opened his leather-bound folder. “I am very happy to be with you on this second day of the symposium. You in the town of Amherst are some of the lucky ones due to the college and its generosity of including the community in its activities. You are able to have a high-quality, lifelong education. I applaud how you and the college work together. I also want to thank the literary society, which believes everyone should have a chance to write and express themselves with the pen.”

  As he spoke, I watched Emily out of the corner of my eye. She leaned forward in her seat and was taking in every word.

  “Before I continue my lectures on English Traits, I wanted to address what I have a feeling is the main topic of conversation on this day.” He paused. “Yes, it is true that my young secretary, Mr. Luther Howard, died suddenly last night during dinner. No, I will not go into the details of his death, but I will say that he is greatly missed.”

  Greatly missed? I didn’t believe for a second that Mr. Howard was to be missed by Mr. Emerson.

  I realized that I had yet to tell anyone about the last conversation I had overheard between Mr. Howard and Mr. Emerson. The conversation in which Mr. Emerson had fired the younger man and yet promised that he could stay this last week of lectures within hours of Mr. Howard being found dead. And then there was what I knew about Cody.

  Mr. Emerson and Mr. Howard’s argument might have been the last direct conversation the secretary had with anyone. How awful to argue with a person just before they died. When that happened, you didn’t have an opportunity to apologize or make it right. I wondered if that was how Mr. Emerson felt at the moment. I doubted it by the way he stood tall and regal at the front of the lecture hall.

  “Luther was my secretary, but he was also a gifted writer himself. I have discovered many of his writings in his things, and I have to say I was moved by the emotion and thought he poured into each and every piece. It has inspired me to ask my publisher to publish Luther’s work posthumously. I know it was what he most wanted, and his talent deserves to be shared, even after his death. I cannot think of a better way to honor my secretary and friend.”

  Isadora leaned over and whispered something into Emily’s ear that I couldn’t hear, and Emily shifted uncomfortably back and forth in her seat like there was a pin in her skirts.

  “Now, let us continue with my observations from my trips to England.”

  An hour later, the audience clapped as Mr. Emerson gave a half bow and stepped back from the podium.

  The boring literature professor returned to the podium. “We will take a short break before our next lecture.”

  As a collective, the audience stood. Isadora took Emily’s arm and led her out a side door. Not knowing what else to do, I followed them.

  “That must have been so difficult to hear Mr. Emerson speak of Mr. Howard’s death when you know everyone will be looking at your family,” Isadora said.

  Emily removed her arm from Isadora’s. “I don’t see why. It was very sad, but clearly Mr. Howard wasn’t well. I don’t know why anyone would be looking poorly at our family because of that.”

  Isadora stepped back and covered her mouth. “You don’t know.”

  Emily’s dark eyes bore into her. “Know what?” she asked harshly.

  If Emily looked or spoke to me in that way, I would have withdrawn into myself, but Isadora didn’t seem to mind. She appeared to be too intent on sharing her news. “I cannot believe you haven’t been told.”

  “Told what?” Emily asked through gritted teeth.

  “Mr. Luther Howard didn’t die of an illness. He was murdered.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I gasped, and Isadora’s neck snapped in my direction. It was clear to me she had forgotten I was even there, which is a rather common thing to happen to servants.

  Emily remained calm. “How do you know this?”

  “Detective Durben came to the Thayers’ home this morning to interview us about last evening. When he was there, I overheard him tell Ruben, Mr. Thayer, that the coroner found evidence Mr. Howard had been killed. There was a chemical burn on his right forearm and residue of some sort of powder on his sleeve. The coroner knew what it was right away.” She paused as if she enjoyed holding us in suspense.

  “Please continue,” Emily said a little less harshly. “What was the powder?”

  “Pyrethrin, the detective said. It is used to rid gardens of pests. It affects those who are prone to hay fever, to the point they cannot breathe. It appears Mr. Howard was one of those people.”

  “I know this about pests,” Emily said. “I have used it in the garden to remove aphids and beetles from roses.”

  “So you have some on your property.”

  “Everyone with a garden is likely to have some of that powder in their shed or barn,” Emily said.

  “Where is it kept? Perhaps the killer got it from your family.” She tapped her cheek. “But then, the police might look at your family even more closely. Lavinia was distraught over the news of Mr. Howard’s death. The police might take that into consideration.”

  Emily smoothed the sleeves of her dress. The irritation she seemed to have felt just a moment ago appeared to have gone away. She was back in control of her emotions.

  “This is unfortunate news, but I doubt the police will be looking at our family so closely. We have an impeccable reputation in Amherst. Half of the improvements to this town are to the credit of my father. There would not even be a train station in Amherst without him. I believe the detective will think twice before causing any trouble for our family.”

  “I don’t know,” Isadora said. “Based on the timing of Mr. Howard’s death, and the incriminating substance, the detective might want to take a harder look at everyone.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Howard got it on his arm when he was walking through the garden,” I suggested. “None of us know where he went when he left the table. He could have very well been wandering about and rubbed up against a plant with the powder on it.”

  Isadora glanced at me. “Maybe your maid has a better idea. She did leave the dining room right after Mr. Howard.”

  My eyes went wide. Was Isadora implying I might know something about Mr. Howard’s death?

  “I asked her to go look for him, and she did as I bade. She found him. Unfortunately, he was already dead when she did,” Emily said as if I weren’t standing just a few feet away. “Besides,” Emily went on, “if Mr. Howard was killed with this substance, how did the killer know he would have such a bad reaction to it? Only someone who knew him well could have possessed the knowledge that he might become ill or even die.”

  Someone like Mr. Emerson, I realized.

  “Furthermore, if Mr. Howard had such terrible hay fever, then why would he choose to go into the garden?” Emily asked.

  “Perhaps it wasn’t his choice.” Isadora looked back at the hall. “I should go inside; Cate Lynn will wonder what has become of me. She and I had planned to return home after Mr. Emerson’s lecture. We aren’t staying for the rest of the speeches today. I think we all need a little rest after the evening before.”

  “Indeed,” Emily said.

  Isadora smiled at her and held her thin shawl over her shoulders. “Do not worry, Emily. This will all blow over. I’ll be sure to tell everyone who might ask me that your family could not have had anything to do with this.” She paused. “It would probably help if Lavinia came out into society within the day. If she stays home, it may give the wrong impression.”

  Emily arched her brow. “And what impression is that?”

  “Oh, you know.” Isadora waved her hand. “People talk.”

  She went back into the lecture hall, and Emily walked in the opposite direction. Unsure what else to do, I followed my mistress.

  Emily strode across the college green toward Main Street. Without even stopping to look right or left for a passing carriage, she marched across the street. Her chin was held high, and her arms hung loosely at her sides.

  She did not go into the family home like I expected her to. Instead, she stepped around it and walked with purpose to the garden shed. The doors to the shed stood wide because I could see Horace a few yards away digging up a rose of Sharon bush that Emily wanted moved closer to the house so she could enjoy its blooms from the first floor.

  August was not a good time for such work, and Horace would be the first one to say so. The weather was hot and humid, and the stress of being uprooted and moved under those conditions was hard on a plant, even a hardy rose of Sharon. Horace would have to water it well for the next week until it recovered from being pulled from the earth. I noted that he already had the new hole dug, so the shrub would not have to be out of the ground for very long, assuming he could get it out of the ground in the first place.

  Emily stepped into the shed and stared at the crowded shelves at the back of the building.

  She pointed up. “There. Can you get it down, Willa?”

  She had been so set in her mission to reach the gardener’s shed quickly; I hadn’t even realized she knew I had been following her all this time.

  I easily reached the box she pointed out. I pulled it down. A skull and crossbones was emblazoned across the middle of the box, and below that, the words “Pyrethrin Toxic” were stamped.

  Emily took the box from my hand and walked over to the corner of the shed with a worktable. She opened the box, and we were hit with the scent of chrysanthemum. I sneezed.

  “Do you have hay fever too?” Emily asked, holding the box away from me.

  “No, not usually. I think the smell just tickled my nose.”

  “Good. Because you could not be around this if you did. I believe that it killed Mr. Howard due to his hay fever. Do you not remember how he rejected my flowers when he and Mr. Emerson first arrived, because he said they would make him sneeze and cough? If those flowers would make him uncomfortable, inhaling pyrethrin would make it almost impossible for him to breathe.”

  “Then maybe it was an accident. Maybe he inhaled the pyrethrin by mistake,” I suggested.

  Emily shook her head. “Unlikely. Mr. Howard knew that he would become ill from the scent of plants. He would have avoided the exposure. He would be aware if there was something that would cause him discomfort nearby.”

  “If that is true, why did he go into the garden in the first place? That seems like the worst place for him to be.”

  Emily seemed to consider this. “Could it be that someone lured him out into the garden, then?”

  “You mean like a trap?” I asked.

  “Precisely,” she said.

  “Then we have to rule out the members of the dinner party,” I said.

  “Why’s that?” Emily cocked her head and closed the box.

  “Because you were all at the table when Mr. Howard was killed. No one at the party lured him out into the garden,” I said.

  “We can’t rule out all the guests completely. No one can be ruled out at this point.”

  No one can be ruled out. The peddler who arrived at the lectures the day before. He seemed to have a turbulent history with Mr. Howard, but I didn’t know what that history might be. However, what stood out to me the most was what he said when he first arrived. “Ladies, do you love your garden, but are devastated when your flowers are ravaged by pests? Are beetles after your roses, and aphids on your dahlias? I have the cure!”

  Emily handed the box back to me. “If it was someone at the dinner party who killed Mr. Howard, the person must have had help.”

  “Emily,” I said, ready to tell her what I remembered of the peddler and the argument between Mr. Emerson and Mr. Howard, but before I could even start, there was a knock at the shed door.

  “Miss Dickinson,” Cody said. “There are policemen here. They want to speak to Mr. Dickinson or Mr. Austin, but I told them they are both away. Should I fetch Mrs. Dickinson?”

  “No,” Emily said a bit too sharply, and marched to the house. “I will speak to them.”

  I followed her with the box of pyrethrin still in my hand. That was my first mistake of the day.

  I blinked in the bright sunlight and found Matthew and Detective Durben standing on the edge of the rose garden. There were just a few blossoms left at the end of summer. The roses reached their height of brilliance at the end of June. This time of year, beetles ate tiny holes into their leaves, and it was a constant battle to keep them healthy until the next year. Cody shook the rosebushes every morning to knock any beetles off them, and at times he sprinkled the leaves with the chemical in my hand.

  My heart constricted. Could I have been wrong about Cody all this time?

  “Miss Dickinson, I am so sorry to disturb you,” the detective said. “But we’re here to speak to your father. I am disappointed to learn that he is away.”

  “He’s not far away. He is at the symposium for Mr. Emerson at the college.”

  “And I assume that is where the young Mr. Dickinson is too.”

  “Quite right.” Emily nodded.

  “We won’t keep you.” He turned to go. “We’ll talk to your father at the end of the symposium.”

  “What do you wish to talk to him about?” Emily asked.

  The detective turned back around to face her. “I don’t think I’m at liberty to share that with you. It’s something your father should hear first.”

  Emily cocked her eyebrow. “If that is the case, why did you already tell the Thayers? Shouldn’t my father have heard your news before they did since it affects his family the most?”

  “I’m unsure what you mean.” Sweat gathered on Detective Durben’s upper lip.

  “What I mean is you told the Thayers that Luther Howard was murdered in our garden, and now, it is afternoon and you are just getting around to telling my father. What was the reason for your delay?”