Tragedy's Twin: A Carrie Lisbon Mystery

By Chris Keefer

A death at the county poorhouse is unremarkable in 1900. Unless the corpse presents as a drowning victim and there is no water on the property.  

Widowed undertaker Carrie Lisbon has traveled to Duncan, the county seat, to attend the An

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best - Historia
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685124663

Chris Keefer

Chris Keefer was a newspaper columnist for twenty years, has numerous magazine articles to her credit, and currently writes creative non-fiction essays, local history articles, and the Carrie Lisbon historical mystery series. She lives in upstate New York, and enjoys birding, gardening, metal detecting, cycling, town historian duties, and two grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter One

I thought we weren’t going to do this again, Mr. Morgan, Carrie Lisbon said, glancing up from the body between her and the Sheriff of Duncan County.

Delphius Morgan flicked his eyes away from hers, concentrating on the yellowing face of the dead woman who lay on a table. Our agreement dictates we restrict ourselves to our professional endeavors, he said, barely moving his jaw. You to undertaking, and me to sheriffing. To underscore his point, he nodded downward, effectively avoiding their other relationship.

I was called this morning when she was found, Morgan went on. Death is frequent at the poorhouse, but I summoned Doc Bellinger anyway. His idea about her death may be different than the administrator’s.

What did the administrator say? Carrie asked. She followed Morgan’s lead. Assuming the role of undertaker, and not his one-time lover, was much safer ground, although in such close proximity to him, memories of the event stirred coals she’d been trying to smother.

She fell out of the second-story window.

Why do you think Dr. Bellinger might have a different opinion about her death?

Well, for one thing, the windows don’t open that wide. Most of the people who live here are addled, or elderly, or irresponsible. The windows have baffles on them so they can’t be raised more than eight inches. So, they can’t harm themselves.

And you summoned me because I can tell a broken neck from a broken neck? she teased, referencing their previous cadaver in common. Dr. Bellinger should be able to do the same. She glanced up at Morgan again, but he deliberately stepped away from the table.

They were alone in the stone block cellar of the county poorhouse. Morgan’s features were warmed by the lamplight. His trimmed, pebble-colored hair matched the vest he wore over his white shirt. He always wore his shirtsleeves rolled up, and no stiff celluloid collar trapped the heat a working man’s body produced on a hot August day. Instead, warmth pushed from his body, carrying the scent of warm tobacco across the space between them.

I know that, he said without looking at her. Carrie noticed he said each word stiffly, the way he did when he was disquieted. Whether because he, too, was remembering their affair or because, unlike her, he tended to be hesitant in the proximity of the dead, Carrie couldn’t tell.

Your experience as an undertaker is what I’m after, Morgan said, taking another small step away, because I don’t think she fell to her death.

His careful distancing disappointed her. They’d agreed to forget about their one night together. It had been impulsive and wrong: he was married. She was a widow not done yet with her first year of mourning. She should have expected to feel awkward when they met again. Very well, she decided, I’ve been summoned for my expertise. Let’s get started.

She adjusted the wick to increase the lamplight and walked around to the head of the body, her attention shifting from the strain of being close to Morgan to a detailed perusal of the woman on the table. Carrie wasn’t a coroner, but she’d laid out enough bodies in her career that determining the cause of death was second nature. She lifted the dead woman’s arm from beneath a thin blanket, turned it, and peered closely. Blotches of purple stained the hand. Deep scratches scored the wrist and palm. The scent of advanced decay rose heavily from the loose skin.

It looks like she’s been picking blackberries. But these scratches are massive.

Morgan murmured, And that’s why I brought you here, Mrs. Lisbon.

She let loose a bit of wry humor. My eyes aren’t any better than yours, Sheriff. Anyone could have seen this and deduced the same.

Morgan cleared his throat. His face took on its habitual neutrality. Can you tell if the scratches are fresh?

Nothing about this body is fresh, Carrie murmured, now fully caught up in the examination. She folded the blanket down from the dead woman’s chin to her waist.

She looked old, worn out from a life of hardship and want. She was dressed in the dull-colored garments provided to every female who lived at the county poorhouse. A simple cotton blouse and a faded gray skirt. Hand-me-downs surely; boiled repeatedly to exterminate lice and disease. Adequate and cheap. Her jaw gaped, revealing a dreadfully dry tongue and discolored, broken teeth. Her graying hair resembled a brittle haystack, the image enhanced with bits of chaff entangled in the strands. Carrie pushed back the sleeve of the opposite arm, revealing the same jagged lines of torn flesh.

Usually, people wear long sleeves to pick berries, don’t they? Carrie asked. Look at these scratches in her palms. It looks like she was pulling up canes with her bare hands. Would she have been so hungry? Don’t they provide decent meals here?

We provide three meals daily to all the residents at Charlowe House, and I believe Abbey pestered our cook besides.

An assured and honeyed voice hailed from the doorway. Carrie turned to see a tall man stepping off the last stone step. His neat gray trousers matched his jacket and vest and set off his pristine shirt. A clean, stiff collar and tie linked precisely around his neck. Not perspiring, Carrie observed. Not a working man.

Ward Elwin, the man said, walking directly toward Carrie. I serve Charlowe House as its administrator. He took her hand, beaming like a salesman. This close, she could see the age lines around his eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. We also provide separate beds in several quarters, medicines, and clean clothing. Abbey did not go hungry. I haven’t the pleasure, miss…?

This is Mrs. Lisbon, Morgan said before Carrie could respond. I’ve asked her to observe Dr. Bellinger’s examination.

Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Lisbon. Elwin’s gray eyes enlarged and warped behind the curve of his glasses. His wide smile and neatly combed hair, with a face shaved clean of whiskers, gave him a schoolboy’s appearance. Carrie’s immediate impression, however, was that his greeting and friendly bearing didn’t match the calculation in his eyes. He hadn’t let go of her hand.

Elwin spoke to Morgan, but continued to look steadily at Carrie. Why wasn’t our matron tasked with that purpose, Sheriff?

"Mrs. Lisbon is an undertaker. She’s better qualified to observe. Adelaide Cutler may be a good matron, but I prefer to have someone here who’s used to examining the dead."

Carrie pulled out of Elwin’s grip, and resisted the urge to brush her hand on her skirts. Pleased to meet you as well, Mr. Elwin. Can you tell me the woman’s name? Morgan, she noticed, showed not the least bit of friendliness toward the administrator. Nor had Elwin offered his fishy hand to Morgan.

"This is Abbey Taylor. Forty-one years old. Indigent. Last residence: Middlefort Almshouse. Resident here since April 1899. Classification: weak-minded. Possibility of rehabilitation: poor to nil." He recited as if reading the woman’s registration card and ‘tsked’ dismissively over the regrettable traits of the destitute. He flashed another wide smile, which failed to assure Carrie.

When did she go off picking berries? Morgan asked.

Last week, perhaps? Yesterday? Elwin said. His brow wrinkled into a caricature of strained recollection. She tended to need watching. Matron had a devil of a time keeping an eye on her. Most of our residents are old; they dodder off themselves.

She’s badly scratched, Carrie said. She may have needed her hands treated.

Hm? Let me see. Elwin used a finger to tip Abbey’s wrist toward him. He tutted this time and resumed his salesman’s smile. I didn’t see these when she was brought to my attention this morning.

You didn’t notice those scratches on her arms? Morgan said sharply. In her palms? It’s an unusual place to have such injuries, isn’t it? A child could see she’d been badly hurt. How does that happen while she’s falling out the window?

Elwin stiffened. The shine from his spectacles masked his eyes for an instant. He lifted his chin and spoke coldly. Don’t presume to understand the function of an administrator, Sheriff. I’m attempting to be courteous with regard to your presence. Your request for the coroner’s opinion, as opposed to mine, is irregular. The indigent die here all the time.

Sure, they do, Morgan said, his voice low and even. "But an accidental death at the county poorhouse requires Doc Bellinger’s report. He’s the coroner. That’s one of the Superintendent’s recent mandates. Don’t presume to tell me how to investigate a death."

Carrie was not blind to the antagonism between the two men. She didn’t like Elwin’s prolonged grasp on her hand, the mismatch between his smile and his eyes, or his quick bid for the upper hand with Morgan. But what was Morgan’s problem with the man? She watched their terse exchange carefully.

What happened when she was found? Morgan asked.

I was summoned to the base of the building this morning, Elwin sniffed. I found no pulse when I pressed my fingers to her neck. I had her wrapped in a blanket and carried to this room. It’s where we put all the dead until Mr. Shortle can collect them. Beyond that, her physical condition is now the concern of the undertaker. Elwin waved a magnanimous hand at Carrie.

She’ll be buried in a pauper’s lot tomorrow or the next day, Elwin continued. Another one of our esteemed Superintendent’s mandates. I’ve summoned Mr. Shortle. He has the contract for disposing of the poorhouse dead.

Carrie winced at the word ‘disposing.’ It was so callous, as if bodies were trash. The proper term was ‘interred.’ She wondered if this Mr. Shortle would be offended at Elwin’s words; every undertaker who took his profession seriously would be.

With no response from either the Sheriff or Carrie, Elwin’s nostrils flared as he drew a self-controlling breath. I’ll send Matron Cutler down to you for questioning, sir. She’s the one who found her, he said, and, I presume, the one who phoned you? Before they could respond, Elwin spun on his heel and left.

Carrie and Morgan turned to each other. Morgan flicked his chin upward, inviting her to go first. Carrie huffed a small laugh. They hadn’t seen each other in over three months, but the telepathy they’d developed back in the spring was still there.

I don’t know how she died, not just yet, she said, eyeing him sidelong. What do you think?

There are no blackberry bushes on the property, Morgan said quietly.

And she didn’t die last night. This body is at least two days old.

* * *

Doc Bellinger, a robust man with short, grizzled hair and a thick mustache, arrived with a younger man whom he introduced as Henry Worth, his nephew, and a medical school student, interning for the summer. Both men carried battered leather bags. Del Morgan made Carrie’s introduction.

I’m here to assist with the examination of the body, Carrie said. Would you like me to prepare her, Doctor?

Bellinger nodded assent and turned to confer with Morgan. Carrie asked young Henry to hold the blanket up to shield Abbey’s undressing from the men. He blushed furiously, but remained stolid while Carrie got to work. She was unconcerned with the young man’s discomfort. Squeamishness and embarrassment had no place in the realms of medicine or undertaking.

Abbey wore only a thin, knee-length shift beneath her worn blouse and threadbare skirt. Mismatched buttons illustrated the woman’s poverty and the poorhouse’s attempt to keep the indigent decently clothed while they pinched pennies with cast-offs. Her shoes had been repaired many times, and her socks, puddled around her ankles, were flecked with the same dry chaff as her hair. Unfastening and pulling, Carrie disrobed the body within a few moments and folded the clothing neatly on the stone floor.

Naked, Abbey Taylor’s body was even more pathetic. Her hipbones poked up sharply from a hollow stomach. Her breasts draped down her ribs, like discarded gloves over the back of a chair. Knobby knees. Skinny legs. The deep red scratches on her arms and hands blurred into the loose, yellowish skin. Pity flooded Carrie. Only twelve years older than me and she looks ancient.

She directed Worth to place the blanket over the torso, abdomen, and legs, leaving Abbey’s head with its awful grimace and witchy hair exposed, along with the scratched-up arms. As Worth rummaged in his leather carry-all for a clipboard and pencil, the rubber loops of a stethoscope popped up. Carrie hadn’t seen this new-fangled medical device up close, but had wondered if the instrument could help with the examination of a decedent before its preparation for burial. If she were honest, she’d like to know what the profound stillness inside a dead person might sound like. Maybe someday, if I revive my career, she thought. No need for it today, however. Evidence of death and decay could not be denied.

We’re ready, she said. I’d like to direct your attention to her injuries, Dr. Bellinger. She’s been badly scratched by thorns on her palms and wrists. While I was undressing her, I noticed bruising on her back, possibly a settling of blood, post mortem.

Bellinger moved around the table, tilting his head and bending to peer more closely at the dead woman.

She doesn’t look to have died last night, Morgan, Bellinger said. The sheriff glanced at Carrie. She returned an arched brow. Told you.

Morgan’s stubbled face relaxed, but he stopped short of smiling. That was Mrs. Lisbon’s assessment as well, he said. Can you tell me how she died? She couldn’t have fallen from the second story if the windows don’t open that wide.

Bellinger probed the dead woman’s neck with big hands. The corpse’s head wobbled bonelessly under his manipulations. Rigor’s come and gone, he murmured. He felt the collar bones and pressed on the sternum. He turned to Henry Worth. Son, tell me what you think of this woman’s injuries.

The young doctor emulated his mentor’s palpations. Blushing again and now frowning, he repeated the process. Morgan shifted impatiently. Finally, Worth turned quizzically to Bellinger. I don’t detect anything broken. The hyoid, vertebrae, sternum; they’re all intact. I find no evidence of fracture on either collarbone; no damage to her skull.

Bellinger dipped his chin, approving the young man’s assessment. Very good. What can you surmise from this?

This woman doesn’t have any fractures on her upper torso or neck. How could she have died from falling, then?

Excellent, Bellinger said and picked up one of Abbey’s hands. He shook his head. My God, it looks like she grasped the canes and pulled on them. Look here. She’s got some thorns embedded in her hands. Henry, help me turn her. I’d like to get a look at the discoloration Mrs. Lisbon mentioned.

As the men maneuvered the cadaver onto her stomach, Carrie drew in a breath through her nostrils. The bony shoulder blades and wizened buttocks showed wide purple patches, as if Abbey was piebald. Worth stared at the mottling, completely absorbed. Bellinger shook his head briskly. Morgan leaned in. What is it?

This is livor mortis, Bellinger said, gesturing. She lay on her back after death. For quite some time, apparently. I’d estimate at least two or three days.

It means conclusively she didn’t die last night under the second-floor window where she was found, Carrie said. She was laid out after she died—Oh! Look! She pointed at the drizzle of water spilling from Abbey’s mouth and dripping onto the floor.

The men crowded around the woman’s head. Morgan and Worth wrinkled their noses at the odor of decay accompanying the discharge. Carrie put her hand on the woman’s back and pressed, causing another soft gush.

She’s filled with water, she said. She was drowned.

Chapter Two

The matron of Charlowe House descended the cellar stairs like royalty making a grand entrance. Her graying hair was pinned back tightly. She wore an expensive, light blue silk blouse buttoned up to her throat, and tucked into a black skirt that buttoned down to her shoes. Carrie thought ungraciously the woman must get up quite early to contain herself in such an outfit. Unlike poor Abbey’s misfit collection, Matron Cutler’s matching buttons glittered.

But preceding the woman’s blouse and buttons and royal expression was an outlandish nose. Carrie had never seen such a thing. Pointy as an arrow and just as thin, its alarming length drooped almost to Matron’s upper lip. Unlike her uncle Sav Machin’s prominent beak, Matron’s nose was not flattering. Carrie found Sav’s nose endearing, complimenting his lanky height, horse teeth, and bumbling penchant for all things scholarly. He quipped about his membership in the Cyrano Club, which, to Carrie’s astonishment, actually existed.

Matron ignored Carrie and Morgan and, in a voice like bricks being clapped together, asked the two doctors if they could look in on Mrs. Jessup’s rash since they were here anyway. Carrie thought young Henry might salute the command. Doc Bellinger concluded his business with nods to Carrie and Morgan and left the cellar. The Matron of Duncan County’s poorhouse advanced on Carrie and raised her nose higher, trying to look down the bridge of it.

Taller than most women, Carrie recognized the uncomfortable tilt of the older woman’s head and the comic attempt to appear disdainful. By habit, she met Matron’s condescension with confidence. She offered her hand and began her introduction. The older woman acknowledged her with the briefest of handclasps, then turned and barked at Morgan.

How may I be of service to you, Mr. Morgan? I have a busy schedule to maintain. The invalids are already upset about all this commotion. Matron’s bosom heaved with indignation. She slid a finger under her nose, glancing down at the body. Even the chill of the stone room couldn’t stave off the rising odor of decay.

Morgan, whose height and width surpassed that of most people, showed no inclination to be intimidated by Matron’s impatience. He regarded her silently, letting an uncomfortable moment go by before beginning his interview. With Abbey Taylor’s near naked remains laid out in front of him, he motioned to the body. I understand you found Mrs. Taylor this morning, Mrs. Cutler. Tell me how that occurred.

I was in the kitchen seeing to the preparation of breakfast. Matron turned her face away from Abbey. I saw her lying in the yard. It was too early for her to be up and about. There are, for the most part, lazy people housed here, unaccustomed all their lives to rising early for an honest day’s work. The austere nose lifted again. I thought she had fallen and injured herself.

I’ll get to her character in a moment, if you please, Morgan said. His chilly response reduced the tilt of Matron’s nose. What did she look like, out there on the ground?

Like she had fallen from the window, Matron snorted. That’s what I told Mr. Elwin when I summoned him. ‘Looks like she fell from the window,’ I said.

You’ve been matron here for quite some time. You must realize the windows only open eight inches. How could Abbey manage to get herself out and fall to her death?

It was I who suggested the baffles be installed several years back. But it’s not foolproof. I never gave it a thought.

Morgan gave Matron a full minute of silence to think about her response. Carrie could hear the muffled sounds of people going about their business in the rooms above them. Morgan resumed. Was she all crumpled up in a heap?

Goodness! Matron huffed. What a crude question, Mr. Morgan!

But Morgan asked the question again, sharply this time, reining in Matron’s umbrage. She hesitated. She was just lying there.

Face up or face down?

Matron Cutler glanced at Carrie. For help? For reassurance? Answer the man, Carrie willed her, lifting a brow. You’ll get no help from me.

She was on her back. In the grass.

Were her arms at her side or flung out?

Matron spread a hand across her blouse. The expensive silk whispered as her bosom heaved again. Her hands were at her side.

How could you tell she was dead? Carrie asked. She had a role here; she’d exploit it. Matron turned to Carrie and resumed her flinty expression.

I saw she wasn’t breathing. I sent a summons straightaway for Mr. Elwin.

Where was Elwin? Morgan followed up with the question Carrie was about to ask.

This is how it started last spring. We read from the same page. Despite their initial dislike for each other, she and Del Morgan followed the same lines of thought. They had practically finished each other’s sentences.

He has a room in town, Matron said.

Did you fetch him yourself? Carrie asked.

Of course not. I sent Marta, the chambermaid.

And when Mr. Elwin arrived, what happened? Morgan asked.

He took one look at her and had Stephen carry her down here. Stephen had a fit. For a brute, he’s perfectly squeamish, Matron Cutler scoffed. All that wailing! He should be ashamed of himself.

Carrie felt her own expression harden. Did Mr. Elwin examine Abbey while she was outside on the grass?

He picked up her hand. I believe he took her pulse.

Morgan and Carrie glanced at each other. He heard the inconsistency, too. Elwin said he put a finger to Abbey’s neck to take her pulse. If he took up her hand, he must have seen the scratches.

Did you notice anything about Abbey’s arms and hands, Mrs. Cutler? Morgan asked.

She had scratches on her arms. I can’t imagine how that happened. Like she’d been playing rough with a tomcat!

They’re injuries from blackberry canes, Morgan said. When she ran away, where did she go?

She went invariably to the Lutheran cemetery.

Invariably?

Her daughter is buried there. She runs away all the time. I have to send a maid to fetch her back.

Which maid?

Marta. She’s the most reliable, even if she is Irish, Matron said. The nose sniffed as if encountering something as disagreeable as the body in their midst. Carrie had never seen such elongated nostrils.

When was she gone last? Morgan said.

I don’t keep track! It’s bad enough I have to have one of the girls set aside her duties and waste time retrieving her!

Was everyone—the patients and the staff—accounted for last night? Morgan asked.

"Of course! The maids and some of the capable indigents are all engaged with seeing the elderly to their beds and cleaning up after supper. After that, they are expected to retire themselves. The maids are under strict orders to remain on premises, in case the need arises for their assistance during