Katie Rose (15 page)

“And did he stay over?” Charles asked, his voice rising.

“Oh, how naughty!” Mrs. Costello slapped his wrist flirtatiously. “No, I don’t think he did. At least his carriage was gone when Maggie, my maid,
dumped the slops in the morning. I was sure to ask her. Now it seems it’s a good thing I did.”

She gave him a coy look, and Charles felt his collar getting tight. Evidently the women on Third Avenue did not have enough to do all day. “Mrs. Costello, is there anything else you can tell me that might help my case?”

“Well …” She gazed thoughtfully into her teacup. “Mrs. Black did ask me once how I killed the rats in my basement. Devilish things.” She shuddered, her little finger extended from her cup. “I told her I bought arsenic from the local druggist. It did the trick.”

Charles stared at her in amazement. “You told her that! When?”

“About a month before the arrest.” Mrs. Costello gazed at Charles as if suddenly realizing what she just said. “Oh my, I couldn’t be considered an—accessible, can I?”

She looked terrified. Charles hastened to reassure her, “No, you would not be an
accessory
. You had no idea what Mrs. Black would do with that information. Who is the druggist?”

The woman mentioned the shop, then gazed at Charles as if he were a truffle. He forced a smile. “Is there anyone else I should talk to?”

“You might want to see Bridget, her maid. The woman is devoted to Mrs. Black. I’m certain she was there the night of the poisoning.”

“Alleged poisoning,” Charles said, hearing Winifred’s remonstrance in his head. “We have not proven anything yet, and Mrs. Black is innocent until proven guilty.”

“Oh, yes, that’s in the Constitution, right?” Mrs. Costello preened, pleased with herself.

Charles rose and handed her a card. “If you think
of anything else, Please contact my office. You have been a great help already.”

“I have! Well, that’s grand, but remember—”

“I know,” Charles recited. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

The woman looked startled, then broke into laughter. He could still hear her when he reached the street.

S
O
M
RS
. B
LACK
may have had a lover. Charles gazed across the road at the Blacks’ house. Mrs. Costello certainly had a good vantage point. But who could the lover have been?

Charles walked back to his carriage, shaking his head. Adultery was not always a motivation to murder, he reminded himself. But it now seemed that Mrs. Black may have had more than one reason to wish her husband dead.

Charles was about to get into his carriage when a hansom cab pulled up. As Horace Shane disembarked, he recognized the white-haired figure instantly.

“Morning, Charles.” Horace extended his hand. “Fine weather we’re having.”

Charles chuckled, taking the huge paw in his own. It was impossible not to like Horace. Even now, with the additional provocation of Winifred working with him, he still had to smile.

“Yes, it is fine weather. But it is suddenly turning cloudy, with what the newspapers report.”

“I see.” Shane pulled a pipe out of his vest and lit the fragrant tobacco. “Care to save me an hour?”

“Certainly. Mrs. Costello told Mrs. Black how to kill rats. Evidently, she took the advice to heart.” Briefly, Charles related the arsenic story. “It also seems
that Mrs. Black may not have been the lonely housewife she pretends to be.”

“Another bird in the nest?” Horace guessed.

Charles nodded. “No name, just that he wears striped trousers. William Black is not much liked, either. Apparently, the man is known for drinking and urinating into fireplaces on Christmas.”

“Charming,” Horace said again, drawing on his pipe. “Anything else?”

“No, but I think I was lucky to get out alive. Mrs. Costello obviously saw me as a way to relieve her own boredom.”

Horace snorted. “You will be finding arsenic in your own tea if you start that. Married women are nothing but trouble.”

Something in his tone, almost a warning, gave Charles pause. Still, Horace appeared to be his usual jovial self. “How is Miss Appleton?” Charles asked quietly.

“Very well. Hell of a worker. We are glad to have her.” He gave Charles a penetrating look. “Why don’t you come by and see for yourself?”

Charles shrugged. “Wouldn’t that be a little awkward, seeing as we are on opposite sides of the case?”

“That does not seem to stop one of your coworkers,” Horace said, his voice thick with amusement. “Nice-looking chap. Dashing, I would even call him.”

Charles could not stop his look of shock. “Jared Marton! He came to see Winnie—I mean, Miss Appleton?”

“I thought it a little odd myself.” Horace shrugged. “The man seems to genuinely care about her. Offered her help …”

Charles swore under his breath, and Horace shook his head in sympathy. “Can’t trust anyone these days,
can you? Even what this Mrs. Costello says is circumspect.” He turned and started toward the woman’s stairs.

“You don’t have to interview her,” Charles said. “I told you everything she knows.”

“I think I will anyway,” Horace said thoughtfully. At Charles’s puzzled look, he grinned. “I have not been propositioned in a long time. It will do my heart good.”

“C
OME IN
, Miss Stone. How happy I am that you could come!”

Winifred beamed, as the carriages lined up outside her aunt’s mansion the following evening, and one by one, the women strode up the porch. Egbert grumbled, shaking his head as one stormy visage after another passed through the wrought-iron gate. Young women in the first bloom of their youth came, followed by others who, in his muffled opinion, ought to be home knitting booties for grandchildren. But his eyes widened when he recognized Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony. The two fabled dragons disembarked from their coaches and stepped smartly past him to the open door.

“Ladies!” Winifred cried in delight. “I am honored that you could come! We certainly need your help, as you will soon see!”

Susan B. Anthony managed a smile which lightened her serious countenance for a moment. Her hair was parted in the middle and swept back, and her dress was somber black with a white collar—her famous deportment. Elizabeth Cady Stanton followed, her eyes twinkling merrily, her snowy hair framing a face of pure mischief and intelligence. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss on Winifred’s face and squeezed her hand.

“Would not miss it for the world. Had a devil of a time getting everything settled at home, but when I heard Miss Appleton needed my help, there was no question in my mind.”

Winifred glowed, acknowledging the praise as rare indeed. Mrs. Stanton, while elderly, was president of the Woman Suffrage Association. It had often been said that while Mrs. Stanton forged the thunderbolts, Susan Anthony fired them. A male opponent declared them the most “pertinacious incendiaries in the country.” They were great friends.

The house was soon filled with women from all walks of life: members of Socios, the intellectual women’s club, advocates for women’s rights, Quakers and Baptists, wives and spinsters. Penelope and Aunt Eve hastened to bring more teacups, their maidservant gasped at each new arrival, and Jennifer, draped in robes, her pregnancy well advanced, enjoyed the ladies’ attention. So many came that they spilled from the parlor into the séance room and even into the kitchen.

When everyone was settled with refreshments, Winifred stood before the fire, fanning her flushed face, and began to speak. All of the women quieted, their attention firmly fixed on the lovely legal siren they had heard so much about.

“I am very grateful that you could all come today,” Winifred began. “I summoned you because I need your help. A woman is in prison for a crime she committed out of desperation, a crime considered so heinous that it may result in her spending a good part of her life in jail. Yet there is mitigating evidence to show that while the woman did wrong, she had reason.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and Winifred explained the details of Monica Black’s case. When she finished, the women began to argue in earnest. Some deplored the fact that one of their sex had attempted
to murder her husband, while others were more sympathetic. As the noise level rose, Mrs. Stanton rapped the floor sharply with her umbrella.

“Ladies, please. We all have an opinion here, and each of you will have a chance to speak. But we must proceed in an orderly fashion, or little will be accomplished.”

The noise died as the women turned respectfully toward the elderly lady, whose grandmotherly appearance hid a shrewd and calculating mind.

“Mrs. Stanton, please lead us,” Winifred said softly.

Mrs. Stanton rose and faced the crowd, determination on her merry face. “All right, my dear. Some of you here may be familiar with my views. Woman has been done an immense disservice by her fellow man. Taught that education is indelicate, she is kept ignorant. Taught that a low voice is an excellent thing, she is trained to subjugate her vocal cords. Not permitted to run and climb, her muscles deteriorate and her strength weakens. But worst of all, forbidden to enter the courts, her sex is unjustly tried and condemned for crimes that men are incapable of judging.”

The women applauded, and even Aunt Eve clapped her hands as loudly as possible. The maid paused and cheered, and even pretty Penelope, the recipient of many male admirers, thrust her fist into the air in support of Mrs. Stanton’s words.

Mrs. Anthony joined her friend and began to speak in her clear, schoolmarm tones. “Mrs. Stanton is right. Certainly Mrs. Black should not have tried to poison her husband, but it is apparent that she had attempted to obtain help without success. If we let the matter drop, she will surely hang, and once more man will have shown woman that she has no voice, no chance,
and must submit to him in the most humiliating of circumstances without complaint.”

“One of my most fervid desires is to achieve for women the freedom to end a marriage if her partner is a confirmed drunkard,” Mrs. Stanton said firmly. “Mr. Black, I understand, fits that description fully.”

“May I speak?” Mrs. Smith waved a handkerchief at the crowd of women. Winifred nodded, and the woman began softly.

“I, too, was in a loveless marriage, such as Mrs. Black’s.” A silence fell upon the crowd, as Mrs. Smith fought back tears. “I know full well the despair that becomes one’s life. I tried everything, to no avail. One bitter night, I dosed myself with arsenic, in the hope of passing into a better place than this. Instead of dying, as I had hoped, I became violently ill. My physician gave me an emetic, along with a stern lecture, and I recovered fully. Yet, had I been successful, no one would have thought my husband responsible for my death.”

Winifred saw a dozen heads nod, and a pang of pity went through her. Charles, she knew, would never treat her so shabbily, nor any other woman. Still, while many women enjoyed good marriages, a silent minority clearly did not. Her mind worked feverishly as she saw first hand the evidence that no jury would ever witness.

“But still, the Black woman may have tried to kill the man!” another woman protested. “We cannot be saying that we agree with murder?”

A horrified murmur went through the crowd, and Winifred tried in vain to calm the disagreements. Once more Mrs. Stanton rapped the floor, and once more order was regained.

“I think I understand what Miss Appleton wants here,” Mrs. Stanton declared. “She sees Mrs. Black, not
just as a murderess, but as a voice for all women who are trapped by marriage and have no escape. Having studied the genus Homo on the heights of exaltation and in the valleys of humiliation, I know there is only one way to get his attention. We must elevate this case, much as Miss Anthony has done with other cases, to shine the warm light of day on such plaintive misery. We must encourage all women, the obedient little spaniel wives, to stand up for themselves and take notice. Women like Miss Appleton will give us a voice in court. Let’s loosen our stays, fill up our lungs, and use them!”

The applause exploded once more, and this time the women—even the very round Jennifer—stood and cheered. Mrs. Stanton nodded, winked at Winifred, and exchanged a smile with Miss Anthony. That noble woman was already taking notes, putting together a strategy, and anticipating the next steps. She smiled back at Mrs. Stanton, the reins of progress already in her hands.

J
ARED
M
ARTON AND
C
HARLES
strode up Broadway the following day, having just finished lunch. They had been discussing the Black case and were pleased to learn that the appointed judge, Culvert, was known to be fair and not at all partial to females.

“It seems our case is complete,” Charles said, indicating his notes. He could not moderate the tension in his voice as he addressed Jared, although he knew he had no right to say anything to him. Jared could see anyone he chose, just as Winifred could entertain any man she wanted. Yet the thought of Jared visiting Winifred made his jaw tighten. “We have the physician, the maid who saw her serve the tea and who
summoned help. We also have the neighbor who showed Mrs. Black how to kill rats with the poison.”

“It appears to be conclusive,” Jared agreed. “William Black will also testify. Although he is not a sympathetic sort, he is bound to tell his story, which is damning, no matter how you look at it.”

“Let’s interview him first,” Charles said prudently. “I do not want to take any chances. This Black trial has to be a sure-fire win for us.” The smile faded from his face, and he spoke almost to himself. “You know, I almost feel sorry for Miss Appleton. Her first case is certain to be a loser.”

Jared stopped abruptly, his face filled with astonishment. “I don’t know if you want to feel that sorry. Take a look!”

Charles looked in the direction his compatriot pointed, and his mouth fell open like a shucked clam. Marching down Broadway was a contingent of females in bonnets and shawls, waving banners and furling ribbons. Even before reading the blaring banners, Charles had a sinking feeling that told him what this was all about. As the parade of women drew closer, their banners held high, their petticoats swaying in the breeze, he could easily read their message: