A Deadly Affection (9 page)

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

He lunged forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. “What was he doing in the tree?” he asked again, shaking me, staring at me with wild eyes.

“I…I…” I pulled back, trying to break free of his grasp.

Suddenly, his fingers went slack on my shoulders. His arms dropped to his sides as he turned and walked back to the silent form on the ground.

I couldn't move for several long moments. Then, as if they had detached themselves from my spinning brain, my feet started forward, one stiffly following the other, slowly gaining speed until I was running full out across the lawn, over the terrace, and into the dim house. I raced down the hall and up the stairs to the second-floor landing. There I stopped, unsure where to go. Everything looked different, somehow; the carved bench on the landing, the pattern in the carpet, the paintings along the wall were all oddly unfamiliar, as if I'd run into the wrong house by mistake. Filled with a terror unlike any I'd ever known, I spun around and raced back down the steps, around the newel post and into the coat closet under the staircase. I pulled the door shut and groped forward in the dark, pushing through the hedge of cedar-scented coats, burrowing deeper and deeper until I struck the wall and could go no farther.

My father didn't come looking for me. Not then, or anytime that night. But the memory of his eyes stayed with me in the darkness. I couldn't forget—had never forgotten—those eyes. They were the eyes of a stranger, looking at the person who had killed his son.

“Guilty.”

I returned to the present with a start, half expecting to see my father standing before me, pointing an accusing finger. But the declaration had come from a lad some twelve or thirteen years of age who was now standing before the magistrate, flanked by two smaller boys.

“What about you?” the magistrate asked one of the young confederates.

“Guilty, yer honor.”

“Me too,” piped up the third.

The magistrate turned to the first boy. “Tell me, Mr. Smeallie, how many times have you been in here for shooting craps?”

“Once or twice, I guess,” the boy answered, hanging his head and twisting his cap in his hands.

“And how many times have I let you go?”

The boy's head dropped lower still, until it was nearly level with those of his mates.

The magistrate drummed his fingers on the papers in front of him. He glanced toward a table in the boxed-off area where assorted lawyers and policemen and court officials had been coming and going all morning. “You want 'em?” he asked.

The man he addressed was seated at one end of the table with his chair pushed back and his legs stretched out in front of him. This was not the first time the two had communicated; on several previous occasions, I'd noticed the magistrate glance in his direction and seen the man nod or shake his head in response. Now, for the first time, the seated man spoke.

“I hear they're shorthanded at Fleischmann's bakery,” he told the magistrate. “I think I can persuade Raoul to take them on.”

The voice had a faintly Irish lilt that sounded familiar. I leaned to the side to get a better look, but the man's back was almost directly to me. Although his clothes were well cut, he had the broad shoulders and sturdy neck of a laborer, or an athlete perhaps, with thick, dark hair that spilled over the back of his collar.

“That all right with you, Mike?” the magistrate asked the arresting officer.

“Why sure,” the officer said, “if it's all right with Mr. Shaw.”

My breath stopped in my throat.

“All right, boys,” the magistrate said. “I'm giving you one last chance. Mr. Shaw here is going to take you to the bakery and see that they keep you busy. You're to do exactly as you're told and keep your noses clean. Do you understand?”

Three heads bobbed in the affirmative.

“They're all yours,” the magistrate said.

The dark-haired man got to his feet. Walking over to the boys, he turned two of them by their shoulders and shepherded them all toward the gate.

I nearly gasped out loud. It was him—broader now in the shoulders and chest, and with his hair trained back from his face—but unquestionably our old stable hand, Simon Shaw. As he passed through the gate, he said something to the roundsman that prompted a low guffaw, making his own lips twitch in return. I knew I should have felt anger and disgust at the sight of him, or at least managed a cool indifference. Instead, I could only stare and marvel at what he had become. Of course, he'd always been good-looking in a sharp-boned, disheveled sort of way—a city-streets version of the proud, young Indian in Cooper's
The Last of the Mohicans
, I used to imagine in my more besotted moments. But maturity had filled out his face and hardened his body, even as it veiled the intensity of his eyes, creating an impression of strength and self-possession that, for a moment at least, made me forget the malignant core I knew lay inside.

As the foursome came through the gate, he glanced across the front bench. I thought he paused, but with the boys bumping along just ahead of him it was hard to tell. When he continued down the aisle without a second look, I realized I'd been mistaken. He hadn't recognized me at all. My cheeks burned at the thought.

I had no opportunity to indulge this humiliation, however, because Eliza had just stepped up to the magistrate's bench.

“Is this the defendant Elizabeth Miner?” the magistrate asked, scanning the information sheet.

“It is,” the arresting officer confirmed.

“Officer Callahan, do you swear that the statements contained herein are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

The magistrate eyed Eliza over the sheet of paper. “I see you plead not guilty. Do you wish to have counsel represent you?”

She stared dumbly up at him.

“Do you want a lawyer?” Callahan prompted.

“I…I don't know,” she replied in hardly more than a whisper.

“You're charged with a very serious crime,” the magistrate said. “I strongly suggest that you obtain the services of counsel before we proceed. I can send an officer to fetch someone, if you'll give me a name.”

“I don't know any lawyers.”

One of the moth-eaten attorneys who'd been lounging behind the rail since I arrived sprang to life at these words, approaching Eliza with his card outstretched. He leaned toward her and whispered urgently into her ear. She shook her head once, twice, and then nodded, looking dazed.

The lawyer turned toward the magistrate. “I represent the accused, your honor.”

“So noted,” the magistrate said as the clerk entered this in the record. “Officer Callahan, will you recount the facts of the case in your own words for the court?”

Callahan proceeded to describe the scene at Dr. Hauptfuhrer's in a matter-of-fact tone that, to my ears, made it sound even more gruesome than it had been, if that was possible. I saw with dismay that the four reporters at the other end of the bench, who'd appeared to be dozing since their return from the magistrate's chamber, were now fully awake and snapping back the pages of their writing tablets in their zeal to record every detail.

“Do you have the murder weapon?” the magistrate asked Callahan.

“Yes, sir.” He opened a bag at his feet and lifted out the doctor's sword with a flourish. There was a collective gasp from the courtroom as he held it aloft for all to see.

I stared at it in horrified fascination. It was some two feet in length, with an exotic, single-edged blade that curved up and broadened toward the tip. The hilt was actually rather lovely, set with red and yellow stones and wrapped with a golden cord. It was the blade that seized my attention, however, for it was encrusted with dark, dried blood.

As Callahan carried the sword to the magistrate the reporters rose en masse and charged the rail, clamoring for a closer look and pitching questions at Eliza. To my annoyance, Eliza's new lawyer seemed as mesmerized by the sword as the rest of them, staring at the weapon in frank amazement and doing nothing at all to protect his client from the verbal barrage.

“Order in the court,” the magistrate growled.

When this didn't produce results, the roundsman strode to the rail and dragged his club along the top of it, clipping any slow-moving fingers or elbows. The reporters reluctantly backed up and took their seats.

The magistrate turned back to Eliza. “Mrs. Miner, you've heard the charges against you. What, if anything, do you have to say to them?”

“They're not true,” she said, only slightly louder than before.

“Do you disagree with the facts as they're set forth in the complaint?”

“Well, no…but I didn't kill him. It wasn't me who did it.”

He studied her a moment, lips pursed. “What about finger impressions?” he asked Callahan, glancing at the information. “Did you find any on the weapon?”

“We got a couple, but they're probably not hers. She was wearing gloves when we found her, with blood all over 'em. We figure the prints belong to the doctor or his maid. We ought to know more by tomorrow.”

This was astonishing news. Detective Maloney hadn't mentioned to me that Eliza was wearing gloves. In fact, he'd made it sound as though her conviction was just a fingerprint match away.

“Mrs. Miner,” the magistrate asked, frowning down at her, “can you tell me why there was blood on your gloves?”

“I—I don't know,” she said.

“Isn't that the sort of thing a lady would notice? Getting blood on her gloves?”

“It must have happened when I went over to see if I could help…” She trailed off, glancing over her shoulder into the gallery as she did so. I supposed she was seeking reassurance from her mother or me, but the gesture had the unfortunate effect of making her look furtive.

One of the reporters shouted from his seat, “What did you have against Dr. Hauptfuhrer?”

“Were you and the doctor lovers?” called out another.

“Did he say anything before he died?” yelled a third.

“All right, boys,” the magistrate warned. “Keep it down, or I'll have to throw you out.” He scanned the information again. “What's this about a ‘mental problem'?” he asked Callahan.

“Detective Maloney called the station house just before we left to say he'd uncovered evidence suggesting the prisoner ain't right in the head. He told me to add it to the report.”

I bolted upright on the bench. The detective must have been referring to his conversation with
me.
He was taking what I'd told him out of context, calling it evidence, and using it to incriminate Eliza!

“What kind of mental problem?” the magistrate asked.

Callahan shrugged. “The kind that would make someone take a swing at someone else with a sword, I guess,” he answered with a smirk.

“Could you be any more specific?”

“That's all I know. You want me to find out more?”

“No, that won't be necessary,” the magistrate said, sitting back. “This isn't a trial. The issue of mental status can wait for later.” He laid down the information sheet. “Based on the evidence presented, I'm holding the prisoner over for examination. Mrs. Miner, because you are charged with a crime punishable by death, you will be held without bail until the grand jury hears your case. Your attorney will instruct you on how to proceed.”

“But I didn't do it!” Eliza cried, clutching Officer Callahan's sleeve.

“All we've established today is that there are reasonable grounds to believe you committed the crime,” the magistrate explained. “The grand jury will decide whether or not to indict.”

Eliza's lawyer pulled what appeared to be a contract for services out of his pocket and pressed it into her hand as the roundsman took her other arm and half led, half dragged her toward the door to the jail, followed by Callahan. The reporters pursued them along the opposite side of the rail, pelting Eliza with questions.

I stood and hurried after them, digging Detective Maloney's note out of my bag. “Officer Callahan!” I shouted. “Wait!”

Eliza stopped and turned at the sound of my voice, forcing the roundsman and Callahan to pause as well.

“I have a message from Detective Maloney,” I said, handing Callahan the note. To the roundsman, I explained, “I'm the prisoner's physician. Detective Maloney has asked me to speak with her concerning a confidential matter. He feels it could be important to the case.”

The roundsman and Callahan looked at each other. Callahan shrugged.

“All right, you can talk to her in the detaining cell,” the roundsman said, “while she's waiting for the wagon to the Tombs. Stay here, and I'll arrange it with the matron.”

The three of them continued out the side door. I started back toward the bench to wait but was intercepted by the reporters, who now turned their sights on me. I put up my hands and shook my head, looking desperately for a way through. As I did so, I caught sight of Eliza's mother exiting from the other side of the courtroom. I broke away from the reporters and bolted after her, catching up at the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Braun!”

She turned, stiffening at the sight of me.

“You have to get Eliza a better lawyer,” I said breathlessly. “She's going to need someone really first rate.”

“How am I supposed to afford someone like that?” she snapped. “We barely have enough to pay our bills as it is.”

“I could help. I have a little money put away.”

She took a halting step toward me. “Can a lawyer turn back the clock?” she asked, leaning on her walking stick with both hands. “Can he put Eliza back safe and sound in the shop with me instead of alone in that office with the doctor?” She grimaced, shaking her head. “Save your charity, Doctor. You've done enough to ‘help' already.” She turned and started down the stairs.

I stood rooted in place, hearing her earlier words to me with each strike of her stick on the terrazzo steps: “…all your fault…everything that happened…all your fault…” I reached blindly for the wall as a wave of panic washed over me. I couldn't be responsible, not again. I knew, deep down, it would be the end of me.

I forced myself to take a deep breath. Only Eliza knew the truth. Not Detective Maloney, not Professor Mayhew, not even Mrs. Braun. I lifted my head and wiped my damp palms on my skirt. I had to speak with Eliza before I could draw any reliable conclusions—about her guilt, or my own.

• • •

When I returned to the courtroom, the roundsman was back in front of the rail, where another arraignment was in progress. He gestured to me to come through the gate, then led me through a side door into the hallway. “Matron Gilbert will take you down,” he said, pointing to a stout woman by a steel-barred door halfway down the hall.

I followed the matron out the door, down a staircase, and through another, plated door into the jail. Several twists and turns later, we arrived at a chain-link gate, where Officer Callahan was having a smoke with the man on guard. After the matron had searched my bag and pockets, the guard opened the gate to let us through.

I hesitated, looking at Officer Callahan.

“I'll be right here if you need me,” he said with a wave of his cigar.

I followed the matron onto the ground floor of the jail. Five cell doors were recessed into a thick brick wall on my left, facing a narrow courtyard. Looking up, I saw several more tiers of cells cantilevered out above me. Each had a security post in one corner, separated from the cells by more chain-link fencing.