Katie Rose (14 page)

Crocker leaped to his feet and raced down the hall. Slamming the door shut, Charles returned to his desk and yanked out the Black file.

Winifred had beaten him to the punch. By noon today, most of New York would have read the paper or heard about the case, and their first reaction could well be “Poor Mrs. Black.” To find a jury that had not heard about the case would be damned near impossible—exactly as Winifred intended.

Yet admiration swept over him as well. She had learned her craft well. Mrs. Black had committed a heinous crime, and her chances of acquittal were near zero. But by using the press to her advantage, Winifred could send a message to the jury.

It was damnably clever, but he intended to put a stop to it. This was the law, not a suffragette march, and a murder had been attempted. Mrs. Black deserved to be punished, no matter what her husband had done to her beforehand.

Still, that last thought nagged at him. Perhaps her trial would not be fair. Did Mrs. Black really have an equal chance? Did she have the same power as her husband in the relationship, or before the court? Quickly Charles dismissed such thoughts. Winifred was beginning to affect him!

As Marton and the other attorneys piled into his office, Charles indicated the paper.

“Gentlemen, the opposition has scored once already, and effectively. We are going to have to get this case off the ground as soon as possible. Let us begin our review.”

The attorneys nodded, but Jared Marton gave Charles an odd little smile.

•  •  •

V
ERY LATE
in the day, Winifred heard a knock on the door of the law library.

“Miss Appleton?” a male voice questioned. “I came to see if you needed any assistance.”

Winifred was astonished to see Jared Marton standing outside the door. “Mr. Marton,” she said in confusion. “Why on earth would you come here?”

Jared grinned, then offered her a chair. She hesitated, then took the seat, eyeing him intently all the while. Jared dropped into a chair across from her. His manner was charming, and he employed it to his best degree.

“I just wanted to offer my services, in case they were needed.” His voice was rich with meaning, and Winifred wondered frantically if Charles had disclosed their tryst to him. But surely not—Charles was a gentleman, and as such, he would never reveal such a thing, especially to a coworker.

“Mr. Marton—” Winifred began, but he interrupted her.

“Jared.” He smiled. “Call me Jared.”

“Mr. Marton,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “it is very improper for you to be here. I am now working for the defense in the Black case, as you must know. There is no reason for us to converse.”

“I just wanted to let you know I was available if you needed anything—research materials, books from the library, legal assistance. Now that you are no longer at our office, I am at your beck and call.”

His grin deepened, and Winifred understood his meaning. He saw her now as available, a woman he could flirt with and court, to add to his collection. But although he was handsome and charming, she was not
at all attracted to him. He was too much of a ladies’ man for her taste.

“Thank you for the kind offer, Mr. Marton, but I am in good hands here. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

Instead of being put off, Jared chuckled good-naturedly. “All right, Miss Appleton. I had to try. I must tell you, though, you are truly missed around the office. Whitcomb and McAlister have been dour ever since you left, particularly since they now have to do their own work, and Charles has become a slave driver. And I find the office a whole lot less appealing.”

“Charles—I mean, Mr. Howe—is all well with him?” Winifred asked, picking up her papers as if she were only casually interested.

She did not see his grin deepen. “Why, yes, he is just fine—except for the fact that he growls all the time like an old bear with a thorn in his paw. He does not seem very lonely, though. Yesterday a Miss Billings came to call on him. They had a little closed-door session. Quite interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

For a moment, Winifred found it difficult to take a breath. Charles and Elizabeth Billings … closing her eyes, she wondered why it bothered her. Charles was certainly free to see any woman he wanted. She had made it clear that she did not intend to continue their relationship, so she could hardly blame him for looking for comfort elsewhere. Why then was the idea so wretched?

Jared watched the play of emotions on her face and then rose with a satisfied grin. “I just thought you might need a friend. If I can ever help you, please call on me. By the way, do you have an escort to the Governor’s Ball? I know it is not for two weeks, but I would be very happy to take you.”

“No—I mean, yes. I mean …” Winifred tried
to get her emotions under control. “I would love to go with you,” she breathed.

“Good. I will come for you at seven. Good day, Miss Appleton. I very much look forward to that dance.”

Whistling, he put on his derby and walked out the door.

A
S SOON AS
J
ARED
closed the door, Winifred put down her papers. Good Lord, she had to get herself under control. The idea of Charles courting Miss Billings was far too upsetting.

Elizabeth was the perfect woman. She came from a good family, had all the right connections, and would make a perfect political wife. She was pretty, demure, and vapid—exactly the kind of girl most men adored. Everyone expected Charles and Elizabeth to marry eventually, and both families would be overjoyed at their union. Winifred should be happy for him. Yet all she could feel was an odd kind of sickness.

But what did she want from him? Charles had to marry someone. He would want his own family, stability, children—these were all things that would greatly appeal to someone like him. And he would make a wonderful father, for he was intelligent, honest, and firm, but understanding.… All the qualities that any woman would want in a man.

Winifred squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the suspicious tightness in her throat. She startled when the door flung open and Horace Shane burst in.

“Working late again, I see, Miss Appleton. I saw the light outside. Who was that?” he gestured to the stairs.

“Mr. Marton. He is from the prosecutor’s office. He offered to help,” Winifred said thoughtfully.

“I see. Damned generous, seeing as he is on the other side.” Horace’s voice was rich with inflection.

Winifred smiled. “Don’t worry, I declined. I made it quite clear that I had all the help I needed.”

“If only that were true,” Horace said slowly. When she looked questioningly at him, he continued softly. “Miss Appleton, while I admire your dedication, I think you ought to know what you have gotten yourself into. Cases like this one never run smoothly. People do not like to think of women as murderers. That can either work for us or against us.”

“And you are afraid in this case it will work against us,” she hazarded.

“Yes.” Horace tugged on his long white beard in an age-old habit. “You see, I do not think Mrs. Black can win. The prosecution has a pretty tight case. I am going to do a little investigating, see if I can find anything to help her, but frankly I do not hold much hope. Best we can do is probably to raise some issues, garner some attention for her, and maybe arouse some sympathy with the jury. But even that is a long shot.”

“Why?” Winifred asked, perplexed.

“Public opinion can be ugly,” Horace said. “The mentality can quickly revert to that of the Salem witch trials. Conventional thinking finds something repugnant about a female, who is supposed to give life and nurture, doing anything that goes against her nature or the fabric of society.”

“But that is so unfair!” she protested. “That puts women on a pedestal, but it also makes them less than human! Such nonsense assumes that Monica Black does not feel the same pain, confusion, or desperation that a man would feel in her place!”

“Exactly.” Horace nodded in agreement. “I am not saying the judgment is right or wrong. I’m just telling you what to expect. The publicity will be awful. For
helping this woman, you will be talked about in every drawing room, and you will be ostracized from society. I want you to be prepared for that.”

Winifred looked at him solemnly. “It will mean much the same for you, too, will it not?”

Horace laughed benignly. “My dear, I do not give a tinker’s damn what they say about me. I am long past all that—I have certainly been called everything from radical to fanatical. I have gotten quite used to being snubbed. I am actually looking forward to the ruckus this case will cause. But I am also not a beautiful young woman, just embarking on life. The price I pay will be far different.”

“I understand.” Winifred smiled softly. Charles’s warnings had been much in the same vein. “Thank you for your concern. I have given the matter a good deal of thought, and I have known ever since I was a child that this would be the role I would fulfill. So to answer your question, a little gossip is not about to stop me, either.”

“Good.” Horace patted her shoulder. “I knew you were made of stern stuff, but you deserve a warning. Now get out of here. It’s getting late.”

“Yes, sir.” Winifred beamed at him, proud to have earned his respect.

M
rs. Costello?” Charles stood on the doorstep of the fashionable brownstone. A woman had just cracked the door, and he peered inside the half-inch opening.

“Yes, that’s me.” The strident voice nearly shattered his eardrums. “You aren’t one of those door-to-door salesmen, are you? Ever since Harry bought me this new house, they’ve been pestering me every day!”

“My sympathies,” Charles said, suppressing his impatience. “No, I am not a salesman. I am from the state’s attorney’s office. I came to ask some questions about Mrs. Black, your neighbor.”

The door immediately opened, and a woman dressed in rich brown taffeta smiled prettily. “Mrs. Black! Why yes, I do know her, though I don’t think I’ll be of much help. We weren’t exactly friends, you know.”

Something in her tone told Charles that the woman hated Mrs. Black and that she would be a veritable font of information. “May I come in?” he asked.

“Please.” She led him into the parlor, then
shouted for the maid to bring tea. “The help these days,” she grumbled, then lowered herself into a tiny curved sofa. “Those are opera singers on the armrests,” she confided, indicating the carved heads on the arms of the loveseat and chairs. “I forget her name, but it is considered very classy.”

“I see,” Charles said, fighting down amusement—the furniture was ghastly. “Mrs. Costello, I will try not to take up much of your time, but I need to ask a few questions. You did hear about what happened across the street?”

“Oh, yes!” The woman leaned closer to him, her brown eyes wide with excitement. “It’s the talk of my ladies’ club! Imagine, poisoning your own husband!” She gave a delicate little shudder. “Not that he didn’t deserve it, the brute!”

“What do you mean by that?” Charles took out a notebook and began scribbling.

“It’s well known that he spent more time at the tavern than he ever did at home,” she confided. “Not that that excuses anything. My Harry, he takes a drink now and then, but not every night.”

“So Mr. Black drank heavily?” Charles made a notation.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” the woman simpered. “But yes, that is correct. He even—no, I can’t tell.”

“What?” Charles smiled encouragingly. “I won’t use your name. I just want to get a feel for what their marriage was like.”

“Well, then.” Mrs. Costello shrugged as if coerced into speaking. “One time at a Christmas party, he was so … intoxicated that he … you know …”

“No,” Charles said. “Know what?”

“Relieved himself in the fireplace!” The woman’s eyes sparkled as if relating the best possible gossip. “I
wasn’t there, but I heard about it later. Terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Charles was beginning to feel a lot less self-righteous. Although the man’s behavior didn’t justify an attempt at murder, he couldn’t imagine being tethered for life to the kind of person Mrs. Costello described.

Suddenly, he could see Winifred Appleton standing over his shoulder like an angel, with “I told you so” written all over her face. Quickly, he put the ridiculous vision from his mind.

“Mrs. Costello, what else can you tell me about them? Were there ever any other problems? Visitors?”

Turning away demurely, she nodded to the maid, who set the tray down before her. “There was a visitor,” she answered softly after the maid left, pouring two cups. “As I mentioned, Mr. Black was away a lot. A man came to see Mrs. Black upon occasion. I don’t know his name, but he dressed very handsomely. He was fond of striped trousers, if I remember correctly.”

Charles’s pencil stopped. “How often did he visit?”

The woman blushed, then sipped her tea delicately. “I’m not implying anything,” she said carefully. “And you didn’t hear it from me, but at least once a week. They would sit on her front porch, talking for hours. One time he came at night. Harry and I were scared half to death that Mr. Black would come home, but he must have been out of town. In any case, the parlor lights were on very late.”