Read Online Delivering the Truth by Edith Maxwell - Free Book Online Page A

handyman until the literate and intelligent Kofi found his way to employment at the town clerk’s office.
    I struggled, as often happened, to tame my thoughts as I sat. The rustling of skirts and adjusting of coats soon quieted until all I heard was the echo of a hundred Friends silently seeking God. I knew I needed to quiet my mind so I could listen for the Light instead of to my own brain. Instead the silence amplified my turmoil.
    Agitated, I stared at my hands as I examined who might have set the fire. Truly, I had seen neither trousers nor skirts on the figure in the shadows. Could a woman with a grudge against William Parry have lit the match? If so, I couldn’t imagine who. Maybe it was crazy Stephen Hamilton who did the deed. Although I had not heard of him being violent before, who knew what thoughts arose in his disturbed mind? I hoped angry Ephraim Pickard wasn’t the culprit, with those spirited children and hard-working wife, yet the soot on his shirt could have come from the factory fire.
    Suddenly I knew who the firebug was. I had to tell Detective Donovan. I risked approbation by leaving Meeting early, but censure was worth it. I rose and made my way to the door. John Whittier opened his eyes and frowned at me but I continued, wincing as I broke the silence by catching my boot toe on the leg of a bench and nearly tripping.
    When I closed the outer door behind me, I took a deep breath. I sniffed. It wasn’t the smoke of coal and wood with which every resident in town cooked and heated. The smell brought to mind autumn and crisp apples, but this was springtime. Puzzled, I set off for the street. As I passed the front corner of the building, I bumped into Stephen Hamilton. I looked at him with alarm.
    â€œWhat is thee—” I began.
    He spun, running to the back of the Meetinghouse, where he must have been coming from. But why? He kept close to the building. I picked up my skirts and followed at a trot, thankful for once that I walked so much in my occupation and was fit because of it. He disappeared around the back of the building. When I turned the corner,
I halted.
    Fire flared up from a pile of burning leaves. It licked at the back wall of the building. Stephen stood watching it with an intense stare, rubbing his hands.
    I rushed to the pile. I stamped at it, but it had already begun to eat at the wood above.
    â€œFire!” I yelled. “Help me, Stephen.”
    He cackled as the flames crept higher.
    I grabbed the Bible from his hand and threw it hard at the high window above us, but it bounced off. It fell on the flames and began to burn. Stephen didn’t move.
    Desperate, I leaned down and grabbed a stone. This time I aimed at the bottom pane and used all my strength. It shattered the pane.
    â€œFire! Get out!” I screamed. “Fire! Bring buckets!”
    I heard a shriek from within.
    Stephen turned toward me. “I saw how you looked at me, asking me about the fire.” He waved his hands, which were covered with phosphorus burns from the matches he must have been lighting every chance he got. This was what I had realized during worship.
    Coughing now from the smoke, I threw my cloak onto the burning leaves but the fire was too great to smother. “Thee set the factory aflame.” I beat at the burning wall with my hands. I wouldn’t let my beloved Meetinghouse fall victim to Stephen’s warped mind.
    â€œNot I, although I wish I had.” He threw his head back and laughed again. “Thomas Parry looked at me the same way. I hate him.”
    S uddenly we were surrounded by Friends. Stephen tried to slip away in the confusion, but Zeb and another young man wrestled him to the ground. Others filled buckets full of water from the pond down the slope and threw them on the wall. Frederick, John Whittier, and another elder spread coats on top of the burning leaves, finally extinguishing the flames. Someone hailed a passing police officer, who cuffed