Katie Rose (33 page)

Yet murder was murder, attempted or otherwise, and without laws against murder and other crimes, there would be chaos. It was all so damned confusing.

When Charles arrived home, he poured himself a good drink from his brandy flask and sat before the fire. His ideas of right and wrong, good and bad, had been profoundly shaken. He felt ashamed of his former ironclad convictions, his certainty that his way was the only way. He had been obstinate, refusing to see any other viewpoint but his own. Now Horace’s confession had made him understand that the law, his precious law, really wasn’t the same for everyone. And since it wasn’t, could he honestly fault Winifred for turning the trial into a circus?

It was enough to make him reach for another glass of brandy.

“W
INNIE!
W
HAT ON EARTH
is the matter, dear? You look terrible!”

As Winifred entered the parlor, Penelope dropped her novel and raced to her sister. She put her hand on her forehead, but Winifred smiled, removing Penelope’s cool fingers, and pressed her hand reassuringly within her own.

“I am not sick, dear. Not physically, anyway. I am just … upset.”

Penelope was perplexed. Winifred was never upset, not even under the most provoking of circumstances. Even when their parents had died, Winifred had been a tower of strength. “What is wrong? It’s this trial, isn’t
it? Oh, Winnie, don’t be worried! You have done your best, after all!”

“It is not just that.” Winifred sighed, lowering herself into the parlor sofa. Accepting a cup of Penelope’s tea, she took a sip. “I am afraid I have really made Charles angry this time. I may have lost even his friendship.”

“Oh.” Penelope smiled, more sure of herself now. “Winnie, you could never lose that. Charles cares for you too much.”

Winifred winced. “Yes, he once did. In fact”—she wanted desperately to confide in someone—“he asked to marry me.”

“What!” Penelope exclaimed in excitement. “How wonderful! Oh, I knew this would happen! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was uncertain of how to feel,” Winifred said softly.

“So when is the wedding?” Penelope asked excitedly.

“There is not going to be one,” Winifred said, smoothing Penelope’s hair as her sister’s face fell.

“Why not? I don’t understand—”

“Charles would not be happy married to me. I would drive him insane with my need to practice the law. He needs a wife who can help him politically, who has connections, whose name is beyond reproach. The Appleton name can do nothing but hurt him.”

“I see,” Penelope mused. “Then you do love him.”

Winifred started to object, but Penelope shrugged her off. “Why else would you care if marrying him hurt him? You love him.”

It all seemed so simple coming from her sister’s lips. Yet Winifred reminded herself that things were always simple where Penelope was concerned. Men
came as easily to her as the law did to Winifred. “Yes, I suppose I do. But that does not change anything—”

“You are wrong,” Penelope said authoritatively. “You are very wrong. It changes everything. Trust me, Winnie, I know.”

Winifred gazed at her sister strangely. Of all people, Penelope would know. She’d had more suitors than any woman Winifred had ever seen, and she had always drawn men to her like bees to honey.

Penelope smiled fondly. “Instead of second-guessing what is right for Charles, why don’t you just ask him? Maybe there is a way to compromise. Have you told him how you feel?”

“Sort of.” Winifred felt something tighten within her. “But he wouldn’t agree I am wrong for him—”

“Because maybe he knows you are very right for him,” Penelope said. “Winnie, I don’t think you are being fair either to Charles or to yourself. You love him; he loves you. You should at least give yourselves a chance. Oh Winnie, for once, let yourself be happy! Of all men, Charles can make you so. He has not held you back up until now, has he?”

“No,” Winifred answered truthfully. “But when we are married, he will expect me to be a wife and mother. How can I do that and still attain what I want?”

“How can you not?” Penelope said, smiling sweetly. “You and Charles can work it out. You know you can. Charles would never have tutored you if he did not want to help you. Do not be afraid to love, Winnie.”

Her words strangely echoed her aunt’s and Winifred struggled with the realization that they were right. Fear was holding her back. An incredible joy welled up inside her. Could it work? Was it really all so simple? A moment later, she came back to reality
and her bubble burst. “But Penny, that was all before. Now, after today, I don’t know if he can forgive me. He thinks I made a mockery of the judicial system, and that is something I don’t think he can forgive.”

“Give him a chance,” Penelope urged. “You do not give Charles enough credit. He knows how important this case is to you.”

“But to Charles, the law is everything. In his eyes, what I did was almost blasphemy. Yet I had to try. If only I could find a way to win fairly, to prove to him I could do it.…”

Suddenly Winifred disengaged from Penelope’s embrace and dug out her notes. Quickly she scanned the day’s testimony. “There was something I heard the druggist say earlier, something important …”

Penelope crept back to her seat. She wasn’t insulted; she knew that her sister wasn’t being rude. She watched as Winifred buried herself in her notes, her brow furrowed, her lips tight with concentration. After a good half hour, she looked up, and an expression of suppressed excitement lit up her face.

“Penny, do we have a bottle of Parson’s Potion here in the house?” Winifred’s eyes sparkled.

“Why, yes,” Penelope answered in surprise. “Aunt Eve takes it for her arthritis. I will get it for you. Vile stuff. Why, do you have a headache?”

“No, nothing like that. Can you fetch it, please?” Winifred could barely contain herself.

Penelope went to do her bidding, then returned with the amber-colored bottle and handed it to her sister.

Winifred studied the bottle intently, then a huge grin broke out across her face. “I have to go out for a while. I’ll be back. Tell Auntie not to worry.”

“But Winnie!” Penelope stared after her sister in confusion as Winifred threw on her cloak and raced
out the door, taking the bottle with her. Giving up, she sat back down, gazing at her sister’s full teacup. She had heard that sometimes genius bordered on madness. Penelope was grateful that she wasn’t either.

“W
HO IN BLAZES IS THAT?”

Horace Shane sat up in bed, hearing a slight tapping at the door below. His wife murmured something in the next bed, then fell blissfully back to sleep. Grumbling, fighting a yawn, he got to his feet and reached for his robe.

Stumbling down the stairs, Horace swore to himself as the knocking persisted. Glancing at the grandfather clock, he cringed at the lateness of the hour, wondering what drunken sot had landed on his doorstep.

“Damned intruder—” Flinging open the door, he was amazed to discover his beautiful assistant on the marble steps.

“Miss Appleton! What on earth are you doing here at this hour? Has someone died?” He glanced down the gaslit street and saw only Winifred’s carriage waiting at the curb in the warm spring night.

“No, sir, nothing like that. I am sorry, but I felt this just could not wait. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

Winifred stepped gratefully inside the lawyer’s plush home, then strode purposefully to the table and turned up the lamp. Horace waited expectantly while Winifred told him her thoughts. Skepticism was quickly replaced by interest, then finally, astonishment as Winifred handed him a sheaf of beautifully prepared legal documents.

“Are you positive about this?” Horace gave her a penetrating look. “We have to be absolutely certain.”

“I could not be more certain.” Winifred fought to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I double-checked everything. Do you think it will work?”

Horace’s bushy-white brows rose a good inch. “Not only do I think it will work, but this is the best damned bit of investigating I have ever seen in all my years as a lawyer. Good God, woman, do you know what this means?”

Winifred giggled. “I think so. Can you bring Mr. Henry back to the stand?”

“Absolutely.” Horace read the paperwork, then looked at Winifred again with amazement. “I knew Howe must have seen something in you to tutor you himself. I only suspected the obvious, a romantic interest, which is certainly there.” At the heightened color on Winifred’s face, he continued more gently. “But now I understand it even better. You were born with a gift, child, a God-given gift, and in spite of all your circumstances, you have chosen to use it. We need you. Mrs. Black needs you. God bless you.”

Tears started in Winifred’s eyes, and she wiped them quickly away. “Thank you, sir. I daresay, I have often questioned myself, but I really believed I could make a difference. Still—”

“No buts. Someday all women will make choices such as you have, and no one will think anything of it. Our society will only benefit as a result, for it desperately needs the talents of the other half of our civilization. But it will take time, and the heroines, the ones who lead the way, will unfortunately struggle the hardest. Remember dear, you can be anything you want and do anything you want. You are breaking the rules now; continue to break them. You and that man of yours can work this out. Nothing is impossible with love.”

Winifred gazed at Horace, whose opinion meant
so much to her. She wasn’t sure she knew what he was hinting at, yet it gave her tremendous peace. When he reached out and gently touched her cheek, she smiled at him in tearful gratitude.

“There now, don’t get mushy on me. We have a case to win. Leave this paperwork with me, and be in that courtroom bright and early. You want to see Mrs. Black freed, do you not?” At her nod, he continued with a smile. “Good. Now go home and get some sleep. That is an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Winifred replied.

Y
our honor, the defense would like to recall Mr. Henry to the stand.”

The crowd murmured at Horace’s statement, the jurors looked surprised, and Charles glanced up, perplexed. Mr. Henry, the druggist, had not been at all friendly to the defense. No one could imagine why Horace would want any more of the man’s damning testimony.

But the druggist rose and took the stand, glancing curiously at Horace. The elderly attorney picked up a sheaf of papers and a brightly labeled bottle of medicine.

“Mr. Henry, are you familiar with this preparation?” Horace asked, placing the bottle before the druggist, in full view of the jury.

“Yes, I am. That is Parson’s Potion.”

“I see. Is this the same medicine you referred to in your earlier testimony?”

“Yes, it is.” The druggist shrugged.

“Will the court please note that Mr. Henry identified a bottle of Parson’s Potion for the jury? Thank you.” Horace set his documents aside, then indicated
the bottle. “Mr. Henry, as I recall, you mentioned that you knew Mrs. Black so well because she frequently purchased this preparation for her husband. Is that correct?”

“Quite correct.” There was a note of annoyance in the man’s voice. “But I do not see—”

“How often would you say Mrs. Black purchased this medicine?”

The druggist shrugged once more. “I do not know for sure. About two or three times a month, I guess. Mr. Black frequently had headaches, or so she said.”

“Two or three times a month. For how long?”

“I would say at least a few months. He—Mr. Black, I mean—used to take another preparation that is no longer available, so he switched to Parson’s. I recommend it to all my patrons.”

“I am sure you do.” The amused note in Horace’s voice made Charles sit up straighter, and his pencil stopped scribbling. “Now Mr. Henry,” Horace continued. “Would you mind reading the list of ingredients in the potion for the jury?”

The judge was beginning to look annoyed, but Charles nodded, as if signaling the man to admit the testimony.

Mr. Henry dutifully picked up the bottle and began to read out loud.

“ ‘Water, sugar syrup, cherry flavor, root of licorice, sarsaparilla, alcohol, and—’ ”

Horace prompted the man. “And? Speak up, Mr. Henry, the jury cannot hear you.”

“ ‘Arsenic,’ ” The man finished. “It says arsenic.”

The gallery exploded, and the jurors stared, slack jawed. Charles, in amazement, turned to Winifred and gave her a look of such glowing admiration that it warmed her to her toes. The judge looked positively stunned, then he slammed down the gavel, ordering
silence in the courtroom. When the noise finally died down, Horace continued conversationally.

“Just to make sure there is no mistake, my assistant, Miss Appleton, yesterday had Professor Caldwell test Parson’s Potion himself. I submit to the court the result of those tests, which indicate that the potion contains, among other things, arsenic.” Horace handed the paperwork to the judge.

Turning back to the witness stand, Horace continued, “Is it not true, Mr. Henry, that arsenic can accumulate in the system over time, and could ultimately lead to an accidental self-poisoning?”