Katie Rose (27 page)

“B
RIDGET
F
LYNN
, to the stand.”

The crowd rumbled as the Blacks’ maid, a no-nonsense Irishwoman, marched up to the witness box. Holding up a well-scrubbed hand, she promised to tell the truth with a loud “That I do.” Taking her seat, she smoothed her immaculate dress neatly and eyed Charles with an air of distaste.

“Now, Miss Flynn, could you describe for the court what you do for the Blacks?”

“I am their maid. Their only servant, really. Mr. Black could afford quite a few more, but he likes to keep his money to himself, he does. That is, unless he’s spending it on showgirls and such.”

Laughter broke out in the gallery, and Charles tapped his fingers impatiently. “Miss Flynn, please confine your answers to the question itself. Now, can you tell me something about your job? For example, is it customary for you to prepare the Blacks’ food and drink?”

“Yes, that I normally do, as well as the washing, the cleaning, the dusting, and the sweeping. It’s a big old house, and we certainly could use more help. Mrs.
Black pitches in once in a while, the poor dear, but it is a lot for one body.”

“I see.” Charles gazed at the woman sharply. “Can you tell the jury what happened on the night of March 8, leaving out your opinions?”

Bridget glanced sympathetically toward her mistress, then spoke with regret.

“Mr. Black had been out again. He’d been doing this regularly, going out for hours at night, the useless sot, only to come home late, demanding his tea. When I heard his steps in the foyer, I set the water to boil, expecting much of the same.”

“And did he ask for tea?”

“Yes. He’d been drinking again, that much I could tell right away. Could smell the whiskey on him from across the room. The poor missus was up, pacing and worrying, wondering where he was, like she did every night. She deserves much better than him, that is for certain.”

“Miss Flynn,” the judge said sternly as the gallery erupted with laughter, “Mr. Howe has already warned you once. Please confine your answers to the question, or you’ll be held in contempt.”

“Yes, sir,” Bridget answered glumly.

“Thank you,” Charles said to the judge, then turned to the witness once more. “What happened next?”

Bridget turned up her nose as if he smelled bad. “He demanded his tea, and I prepared a meal for him.”

“What did the meal consist of?”

“The usual. Some cold ham sandwiches, some seed cake, a few pieces of fruit, and the tea. Make it every night, and never so much as a thank you from his lordship. I put it all on the tray for him.”

“Did you give him the tray yourself?”

Again Bridget glanced to her mistress. Almost imperceptibly, Monica Black nodded, and Bridget spoke softly.

“No, I did not.”

Her answer was so soft, it was a struggle to hear her.

Charles spoke loudly. “What did you say? I am having trouble hearing you.”

“I said no! What’s the matter, boyo? Your hearing gone, along with your manners?”

Charles glared at the maid, who glared right back.

“Miss Flynn, I am losing my patience with you,” the judge spoke harshly.

“I’m very sorry,” Bridget replied unrepentantly.

“Who, then, gave the tea to Mr. Black?” Charles persisted.

Bridget didn’t answer for a moment. Charles stopped pacing the courtroom and stopped before her.

“Did you understand my question?”

“I did.”

“Would you mind answering?”

Bridget looked as if she wanted to murder him herself. “The missus,” she answered reluctantly. “She gave it to him and stayed with him while he drank it. He never ate the food.”

The crowd broke into outraged cries, and the gavel banged once more. Winifred covered her face with her hands. For all that Bridget loved her mistress, her testimony was damning.

“Was it customary for Mrs. Black to attend her husband in this manner?” Charles asked.

Bridget’s glare would have shriveled the stockings from a less brave man. “No, she didn’t. Normally, I took his tea to him.”

“But on this night, she did it herself.” Charles let
the statement sink in. “Why do you suppose that was?”

“Objection!” Horace shouted. “Calls for speculation.”

Before the judge could sustain the objection, Bridget jumped to her feet in outrage.

“I know what you’re trying to make me say, you scoundrel! You’re all scoundrels, locking the sweet missus away! That cad she’s wed to ain’t worthy to wipe her boots! He’s a no-good slug. If anyone tried to do him in, I say good riddance!”

The mob broke into chaos. Horace’s eyes met Winifred’s, and she shrugged with incredulity. The judge’s gavel seemed like a soft tapping compared with the outbreak of noise. Reporters scrambled out the door, Charles stared at the maid, appalled, while the jury murmured to themselves. The judge finally rose, his face stern with outrage.

“Order! Order!” He turned to the witness, whose face was as red as her hair. She was glaring at Mr. Black as if she wanted to attack him personally. The bailiff approached her as the judge spoke harshly.

“Miss Flynn, I am holding you in contempt. This court will not tolerate such outbursts. Court is adjourned until Monday.”

The maid was hauled off, still protesting and shaking her fist.

Charles collected his papers and met Jared outside. The other lawyer was still guffawing about what had taken place.

“Do you believe that maid? I thought for sure Culvert was going to lock her up!”

Charles joined in his laughter reluctantly, shaking his head wryly. “I can’t remember ever dealing with a witness like that. But she helped us a great deal. It’s too bad for the defense. On Monday Bridget will have
to testify to the rest—that Mrs. Black was the only one who had access to Mr. Black’s tea. It does not take a genius to figure out who tampered with it.”

Jared nodded. “I know. For all Bridget’s loyalty to her mistress, her testimony was very damaging to her. She even supplied the motive. Now we don’t have to try to come up with one.”

Charles nodded. “Then that’s it. Winifred and Horace will be left picking up the crumbs by the end of next week. But then again, maybe it is for the best. Perhaps now she’ll give up wanting to be a lawyer.” Charles felt no triumph. In truth, he did feel badly for Winifred. He would see her tonight, he resolved, and hold her, comfort her. It was the least he could do.

Suddenly Edgar Whitcomb rushed up to them, waving a newspaper. His face was red, and his eyes were bulging.

“Edgar! What’s wrong?” Charles was concerned that the poor man might faint again.

“Did you see this? A boy is selling them on the steps of the courthouse.”

Dread filled Charles.
She couldn’t have
. Yet as he read the glaring print, a sinking feeling swept over him.

POOR MRS. BLACK, LOVE VICTIM!

According to the article, Mrs. Black, instead of being the perpetrator of an attempted murder, was a victim. A Mr. Albright, it appeared, had inveigled his way into her good graces, then seduced her into committing this despicable crime. Mr. Albright had a history of befriending rich married women, then living off their largess. Other well-to-do women—whose names made Charles’s eyes go wide—had previously
been entangled with Mr. Albright. The article continued with quotes from Mrs. Stanton denouncing unscrupulous men who entrapped women in loveless marriages. A statement from Mrs. Woodhull decried the trial of an innocent woman and demanded that the country adopt free love. Even the local reverend was quoted declaring that women were helpless against such libertines. Then came a statement from the mysterious Miss Appleton, finally identifying herself, that “passion is the criminal here, not poor Mrs. Black.”

The rest of the article described Miss Appleton’s legal work and her assistance to Horace Shane. “Miss A.” was undoubtedly part of the brains behind the defense, the paper claimed. When questioned, Mr. Shane heartily confirmed it.

Charles did not bother to read the rest. This was too much, even for Winifred. Thrusting the newspaper inside his coat, he started for the street.

“Where are you going?” Jared demanded.

Charles didn’t stop to respond. There was one person behind all this, and he was determined to put a stop to it, once and for all.

I
demand to see Miss Winifred at once!”

Charles stood on the familiar steps of the Appleton household. It was not often that he shouted at servants, but today he was doing exactly that. The poor befuddled maid stared at him as if he were some kind of tyrant, then nodded, her eyes wide with fright.

“Yes, sir. Wait there, sir. I’ll fetch her right down.”

The woman disappeared with a flap of her apron, and Charles had the grim satisfaction of knowing he could still frighten someone. Winifred, for all the time he had spent with her, did not seem to give his feelings a second thought.

It was incredible that she would do such a thing. Charles looked again, amazed, at the newspaper article. Once again, after his repeated warnings, she had boldly manipulated the press. And this time he himself had supplied her with the story.

Aunt Eve appeared a moment later, delighted when she recognized him. “Charles! I did not know it was you. Our poor maid thought—” She shook her
head, and Charles could very well imagine what she had said. “Do come in, I was just getting tea ready.”

“No, thank you,” Charles said firmly. “This is not a social call. I have something to say to Miss Winnie. I will wait outside.”

“I see.” The elderly woman’s face grew concerned. “I will fetch her directly then. Are you certain you won’t at least wait in the foyer?”

“No, I am perfectly comfortable here,” Charles said stubbornly.

He would not allow them to do it to him again. He’d first met Winifred six months ago at an Appleton tea, warm and wonderful, with all the comforts of home, a ginger cat at his feet, the beautiful sisters attending to his every want, and the sweetest little old lady in the world adoring him. No, he knew where his Achilles’ heel lay. Accepting even the smallest bit of Appleton hospitality would ruin his resolve.

Eve disappeared, and as he waited, he paced on the walk, muttering to himself, his outrage growing by the second. All of their differences—and Winifred’s lack of gratitude, and her complete disregard for the law—came back to enrage him. She had taken a piece of information he had given her, information that he could have used against Mrs. Black, and had twisted it on behalf of the defense. Mrs. Black was not only a would-be murderess but an adulteress as well—yet Winifred had once again portrayed her as the victim! It wasn’t to be borne! He could not wait to get his hands on her. When he did, she would never think to try such a thing again.

Finally Winifred appeared in the doorway. “Charles!” she said warily. “I was not expecting you.”

Without preamble, he thrust the newspaper toward her. “Would you mind explaining this?” His fury made his words come slowly.

For a brief moment, as she glanced at the headline, Winifred lost her cool composure and shuddered.

“Charles, I can understand why you would be upset by this. But I have good reason—”

“There is no good reason!” he shouted, mindless of the neighbors, whose lace curtains had begun to twitch. “There is no excuse for this! How could you do such a thing? I told you about Albright in order to give you time to prepare. Instead, you turned it to your own advantage by ruthlessly manipulating the press!”

He took a step closer, immensely gratified that the cool assurance had left those incredible hazel eyes. She appeared far more uncertain than usual.

Taking a step backward, she spoke haltingly. “Try to understand, Charles. This woman has no other chance. The facts alone—”

“Should speak for themselves! The law is the law, and no one, not even you or your Mrs. Black, is above it!”

He was shouting loudly now, and the neighbors’ curtains twitched violently. Somehow he had to get through to this woman, to make her understand that what she was doing was wrong. He took another step closer.

“Charles,” Winifred tried, “why don’t you come inside, and we can discuss this. I am sure you do not want to make a public spectacle of us both—”

Charles snapped at her incredulously. “Don’t you think it is a little late to be worried about that? After all,
The New York Times
is your platform!” Then he lowered his voice and assumed a lecturing tone. “Winifred, I am very disappointed in you. I never tutored you for this end. No matter how you want to paint it, you and I both know that this woman tried to kill her husband!”

In his righteous wrath, he didn’t notice that carriages were beginning to line the street. Nor did he see the derby-hatted reporters scrambling up to the wrought-iron gate, eager to catch his every word. Furious beyond measure, he advanced on Winifred until his face was mere inches from hers.

“Charles—” Winifred tried again, but he cut her off.

“Don’t interrupt me! I am only getting started! I was teaching you the law, not some suffragette interpretation of it that happens to be convenient for your client!”