Nineteen
I set off for Williamstown on a blustery morning with clouds that promised the chance of rain. We passed green fields and apple trees in blossom. We stopped in Hartford and then I had to change trains in Springfield. From now on the terrain became hilly and I found my enjoyment in being in the leafy green of the countryside turning to nostalgia. These sweeping green hills and racing brooks reminded me of home. When an April shower peppered the train window the picture was complete. Then I told myself that I really didn’t want to go home again, even if I could. My life was here and there was nothing much wrong with it.
I alighted in Williamstown and stood on the platform taking in the crisp air. I was so used to the sooty, city air of New York that it was delightful just to breathe here. The town was surrounded by green hills. During my hours in the train I had tried to formulate a plan. I hadn’t expected the town to be quite so large. I had rather pictured it like Westport at home in Ireland—a little country town set amid green fields. This looked to be quite a large, bustling metropolis, and, as I soon discovered, it was a college town to boot. Students walked past me, deep in earnest discussion. Others rode past on bicycles. I had decided to start at the church with the baptismal records. Surely a woman who married such an important man as Horace Lynch would have been from a prominent family in the area. But then I saw the mill, with the tall chimneys rising against the hills. And then of course I remembered Emily saying that her Uncle Horace owned mills in Massachusetts. Was it possible that he owned this very mill? I made my way there through back streets and went in the front entrance to a central courtyard. Around me was the clank and groan of heavy machinery. Mill girls hurried past, chattering away, their shawls around their shoulders against the chill wind as they crossed the courtyard and disappeared into a building at the rear. I found an office and asked my question. No, I was told. This mill belonged to a Mr. Greeley, but the mill in North Adams was owned by Mr. Lynch.
This was an annoying discovery as I had just come through North Adams on the train. It had been the stop before Williamstown, some six miles away. So it was back to the station and another train ride. I’m sure those who do not make their living as detectives have no appreciation for the amount of time we take coming and going. The job turns out to be hours of travel, hours of nothing happening, coupled with the odd minute of excitement every now and then.
North Adams was less prosperous-looking, and terraces rose up the slopes of an impressive mountain. The mill itself dominated the town, a square red brick building, with white-framed windows and tall chimneys. I made for it and was shown into the office of the mill manager.
He was a large, florid man with a perpetually worried expression but he greeted me cordially enough.
“Now, what can I do for you, miss?” he asked.
I told him I was sorry to trouble him but I’d been asked to track down any surviving relatives of Lydia Lynch, née Johnson. I understood that Mr. Lynch owned the mill.
“He does,” the man said, “but he doesn’t come near the place often these days. Leaves all the running of the business to me.”
“So have you been here long enough to remember Mrs. Lynch?” I asked.
“Aye, I’ve been here twenty-two years, man and boy,” he said, staring out past me with a wistful look. “I started here as an apprentice and I’ve worked my way up. Haven’t done at all badly for myself, have I?”
“I’d say you’ve done very well.” I gave him an encouraging smile. “So what can you tell me about Mrs. Lynch? Did the family come from around here?”
He nodded. “From Williamstown,” he said. I tried not to let my annoyance show. As usual my impetuous nature had driven me to leave that town before I’d asked the right questions. I probably could have saved myself a journey.
“Williamstown. I see. I don’t suppose any Johnson relatives are still living in these parts?”
“No relatives that I know of,” he said. “There was only her parents, and I believe they’d come over from Scotland when her father was a young man. He made quite a fortune for himself with this mill—”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “He owned this mill?”
“He did. He and his missus were killed in a buggy wreck when Miss Lydia was a young woman. She married Horace Lynch soon after. He took over the mill and they moved into the old Johnson mansion.”