Katie Rose (20 page)

“Dr. Perkins, how long have you been practicing medicine in this state?”

“Over thirty years,” the doctor said, puffing up importantly.

“I see. Have you seen many cases of intentional poisoning in your time?”

“A few,” the doctor replied. “More in recent years. They seem to be epidemic.”

The crowd tittered with laughter, and the judge banged the gavel.

When the noise died, Horace continued in his seemingly absentminded way. “Doctor, you indicated that you had treated the Blacks for many years. Is this so?”

“Yes. Mr. Black has been my patient since he was a youth, and Mrs. Black after they wed.”

“And for what condition did you treat Mrs. Black?”

Winifred leaned forward in anticipation. She knew where Horace was going with this, and only prayed that it worked.

“Mrs. Black had the usual—influenza, colds, that sort of thing. Overall she was healthy, so I only saw her when she had viral complaints.”

“Anything else?” Horace asked pointedly. “You mentioned injuries. Did you ever treat Mrs. Black for an injury?”

To Winifred’s surprise, Charles did not object but simply waited for the man’s response.

“Yes, I did once treat Mrs. Black for an injury. She had several bruises and contusions on her face.”

“To what did you attribute those injuries?”

“She said she had walked into a door,” the doctor answered.

Another murmur swept through the crowd. Mr. Black sat up warily, like a rabbit sensing a hunter. Mrs. Black sobbed beneath her veil, loud enough for the jury to hear.

Horace paused for a moment, then spoke as if to himself. “Bruises about the face. Contusions. Dr. Perkins, I am no physician, but I think I would have difficulty obtaining that sort of injury by walking into a door. Can you enlighten me?”

The physician looked indignant, glancing at Charles as if for help. Charles simply returned his stare.

The doctor shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I have never walked into a door.” The crowd chuckled nervously.

“Would you say that her injuries were consistent with what one would happen if one actually did something so ridiculous?”

“Objection!” Mr. Black rose from the table, his outburst astonishing everyone. “She hit me with a frying pan!”

The judge banged the gavel amid the uproar, ordering silence. “Order in this courtroom! We will endure no more outbursts like that,” he warned, measuring each word. “You will have an opportunity to speak, Mr. Black. Please wait until you are called.”

Mr. Black sank back down into his seat, apparently disgruntled by his dismissal. The judge turned to Horace. “Proceed, Mr. Shane.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Horace appeared more than pleased by what had transpired. “Doctor, is it your opinion that Mrs. Black’s injuries could have been caused by a door?”

The doctor struggled hard for a moment. “I did not question her. That is what she said.”

“I understand, but in your professional opinion, does it make sense?”

The doctor looked at the veiled prisoner, the judge, and then finally Horace. Taking a deep breath, he admitted, “No, it does not. I do not know how Mrs. Black received her bruises, but they probably could not have resulted from what she claimed.”

“No further questions.” Horace walked away as the crowd broke into excited commentary.

One volley fired
, Winifred thought. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She could not resist taking a peek at Charles. Instead of appearing annoyed or dismayed, he was devouring her with his eyes, mentally undressing
her. He focused first on her collar, and she could envision him peeling the linen away from her throat, placing scorching kisses on her flesh. Then he lowered his gaze to her bodice, fastening on the row of buttons marching between her breasts. As surely as if he were actually doing it, she could feel him slipping each button out of its sphere, exposing her bare breasts. His smile grew wicked as he lowered his eyes still further, and she could only guess what he was thinking now.…

Her hands flew up to her face, and the heat stung her cool fingers. Charles saw her reaction, and then his smoldering gaze met hers with a sensual promise that brooked no argument. Winifred heard him as clearly as if he’d spoken in her ear.

I will win you, come hell or high water
.

Gasping, she looked quickly away, as a rush of erotic energy filled her. Her body flushed with heat, and her blood pounded in her veins. Good God, this man was dangerous! He could seduce her with little more than a glance! Forcing her attention back to her notes, she could not stop her pencil from trembling.

It was going to be a long case.

C
harles hid a chuckle as he saw Winifred tighten her lips and lift her head, trying desperately to appear unaffected by his sensual eye play.

Not that he could blame her. She was on the opposite side of the Black trial from him. But far from being dismayed by the situation, he found it unbearably stimulating. Every ounce of male predator inside him rose to the challenge, and he became even more determined to win her.

Especially after her blatant dismissal of him the other night, it gave him some satisfaction now to see her squirm. Yet every time he envisioned her in Horace’s office, bent over her desk, pleading with him to love her, his own arousal pounded. It was all he could do not to cross the courtroom and pull her into his arms.

It was amazing and more than a little disconcerting that she had this power over him. He didn’t at all like the lack of control he felt whenever she was around. He found it increasingly difficult to focus on the case, a case he had to win, because of her beautiful and sensual presence.

So he was not at all sorry he had laid down the law with her after they made love that night. Winifred Appleton was entirely too headstrong for her own good. That their argument had taken a sensual turn only showed him that her feelings were much more complicated than she admitted. What he needed to do now was to court her, to prove to her that what she felt was much more than “mating instincts,” to get her outside the courtroom, where she could see him as a man and not as the prosecutor. He also had to win this case.

The defense was doing a damned good job, he had to admit. Charles had always admired Horace’s technique, but the elderly lawyer had brought all his skills into focus for this trial. Charles didn’t know whether Winifred’s influence had something to do with Horace’s interests but he would not doubt it—Horace was not so old as to remain unaffected by his bright and lovely apprentice.

Still, he would have felt better if his own office had been able to find Mrs. Black’s lover. As he stared at the notepad before him, he remembered Mrs. Costello’s testimony. There was another man—he felt it in his gut. A woman like Mrs. Black would not resort to murder unless she had a compelling alternative—someone or something to move on to. And the jury would be much more likely to convict if they knew such a strong motive. Juries liked to know why someone perpetrated a crime.

“Officer Lafferty to the stand!”

The burly policeman appeared in the rear of the courtroom, then strode up to take the stand. After the preliminaries, the officer glanced around the room with interest, his gaze settling on the veiled figure seated at the defense table.

“Officer Lafferty, would you mind telling us what
happened on the night of March 8?” Charles asked him.

“I was on night duty. I was just finishing up when the clerk told me that a possible poisoning case had been reported by the Blacks’ maid, and that Dr. Perkins was in attendance. Normally, I would have waited until the next morning to see if the victim wished to sign a complaint, but I decided to stop by the house instead.”

“Why did you do that?” Charles asked.

The policeman, perfectly comfortable, shrugged. “The maid indicated the man was pretty sick. I’d been involved in a few poisoning cases before—the victim lingers for a day or so, then passes on. I thought it might be a good idea to stop by right away, since I had the following day off.”

“And what did you discover?”

“When I arrived at the house, Mrs. Black was in the dining room, sobbing quietly and wringing her handkerchief, much like she’s doing now. When I asked for her husband, she seemed too upset to answer me, but the maid indicated that he was in his bedroom. When I approached Mr. Black, Dr. Perkins was still tending him, but he indicated that he could speak. Mr. Black appeared to have been poisoned.”

“Objection!” Horace said quickly. “The officer is not a physician and is not in a position to make that determination.”

“Let me ask the question another way.” Charles glanced at his notes. “Officer, you say you have witnessed other poisoning cases. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I’m not sure—probably at least a dozen.”

“So you are familiar with what a poisoning victim
looks like immediately after ingesting poison,” Charles continued.

“Unfortunately, yes. In all the cases I’ve seen, the victim gets a sudden attack of severe vomiting, which lasts for several hours. There are other symptoms as well, including a pale complexion and, in advanced cases, a peculiar stiffness of the limbs. There are additional symptoms once the person dies.”

A gasp came from the gallery at the policeman’s casual description. Charles persisted asking, “Can you cite other cases where the victim had a similar appearance?”

“The Wilson case last year, the Peterson murders, and the Royce case, just a month ago. They all appeared remarkably the same.”

Charles made a note and then glanced at the judge. “I think that Officer Lafferty’s experience establishes him as something of an expert, but we will note that his testimony is not medical evidence.”

“Agreed,” the judge said, satisfied, and nodded to the clerk. Charles glanced at Horace, but the defense lawyer didn’t challenge him.

“After you decided that a crime did take place, Officer Lafferty, what happened next?”

“I interviewed Mr. Black. He was still vomiting, but eventually could speak to me. He told me he had come home and drunk a cup of tea given to him by his wife. It was after that that he became violently ill. He believed that his wife had deliberately tried to kill him.”

A deadly silence fell over the courtroom. Even the gallery was quiet—the shuffling and coughing ceased for a long moment as the spectators digested the idea of a wife attempting murder. Mrs. Black lowered her veiled head as if in shame, while her husband simply stared at her.

“Then what did you do?” Charles asked gently.

“I asked him if he wanted to press charges, and he said that he did. I brought him the forms, and he signed them in my presence. I then ordered the maid to bring the tea, the cups, the sugar, spoons, and the tea tin, and any other implements used to brew the tea. It turns out the doctor, suspecting the same thing, had already asked her to bag everything up. It was funny, but the tea tin itself was missing.”

Charles glanced up, instantly alert. “What do you mean, missing?”

“It was not in the house. Bridget, the maid, could not explain its disappearance, and neither could Mrs. Black. I had the place searched, but the tin was gone. It didn’t matter much in any case, since we had the teapot and cups, which were sent out for testing.”

“I see.” Charles glanced at Horace, who shrugged, as if unable to answer the question himself. “So after Mr. Black agreed to press charges, and you wrapped up the tea implements, what took place next?”

“I escorted Mrs. Black to the Ludlow Street jail, where she was placed under arrest.”

Mrs. Black sniffled, reaching pathetically for her lace handkerchief. Charles realized that Horace must have tutored her well.

She appeared to know exactly when to sob, when to lower her head, and when to look directly toward the witness with her head cocked in disbelief. Using the veils was a clever move by the defense, since they hid a demeanor that Charles knew could be very immature and less than serious. Horace was playing every card he had.

“What was Mrs. Black’s state of mind at the time of her arrest?”

“Horrified,” the officer admitted. “She begged her
husband not to let us take her in, but he wasn’t sympathetic, particularly since he still had his head in a bucket. The doctor gave her a sedative, and she cried all the way to the jail.”

“Did she seem particularly remorseful, or more concerned with herself?”

“Objection!” Horace shouted. “There is no way the officer could know why Mrs. Black was crying.”

“Sustained.” The judge gave Charles a warning look.

“I apologize,” Charles said, although he wasn’t sorry in the least. He had to dispel the doleful picture that the policeman had painted. Mrs. Black, as he knew from talking to her, hadn’t been at all sorry that her husband had almost died. If anything, she had seemed disappointed that he had survived.

“When she arrived at the jail, did she say anything about the crime?”

For the first time, the policeman grinned. “Yes. She said she could not remember if she did it or not.”

A
S
W
INIFRED LISTENED
to the testimony, her heart sank. Although she and Horace had interviewed the policeman and knew exactly what he would say, it was damning. Lafferty was the perfect prosecutor’s witness. He was sure of himself and spoke with authority, but he didn’t exaggerate or fill in with information he didn’t know. His testimony about the missing tea tin clearly showed that. By admitting he didn’t have all the answers, he came across as even more credible.