Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

Seth Channing, M.D.

  265 First Avenue

  New York City

  “Well.” Dr. Maxwell cleared his throat. “That’s—” He stopped, looking for the right word. “Remarkable.”

  Sophie was watching Graham for some reaction, but his back was still turned to them.

  Into the silence Maxwell said, “I can verify that Dr. Channing had a medical practice on Greenwich. He set my wrist when I broke it as a boy. He was very much liked and respected.”

  Without turning Graham said, “Time. It must be time.”

  Sophie put the papers back into her bag. She had done everything in her power to move him, and she had failed.

  “Thank you,” she said to Vincent Maxwell. “For your help.”

  He followed her out into the hall, where she turned to thank him again. She said, “I had to try.”

  “Given those documents, I can see why. Can you wait a half hour in the lobby? He will be more receptive by then, and I think he might want to ask you some questions.”

  62

  AT HALF PAST nine when Sophie’s carriage pulled up to collect Anna for the journey to the Tombs, she went out to find that Sophie was gone and Amelie waited alone. From Amelie she learned that Sophie had gone off to St. Luke’s to see Neill Graham and they were to proceed without her.

  “She sent Noah back to take us to the Tombs,” Amelie said. For once there was an edge to her calm demeanor. “Then he’ll go back to St. Luke’s for her straightaway.”

  “Yesterday she talked me out of going to see him,” Anna huffed. “She never said she was planning to do the same.”

  “She is her father’s daughter,” Amelie said. “When he fell into a quiet mood you could be sure he was planning something.”

  “Did his plans work the way he hoped?”

  Amelie drew in a deep breath and smiled. “He really was the cleverest child.”

  * * *

  • • •

  JACK WAS WATCHING for them and ready to show them to the seats he had reserved for them. Every spot in the courtroom was occupied a full hour before the hearing was scheduled to start, with crowds of sorely disappointed spectators in the halls, in the rotunda, and all around the building. As soon as he had them settled and had heard the news about Sophie, he retreated to stand in the back with Oscar.

  “Sophie?” Oscar asked.

  Jack passed on the little he had learned from Anna.

  Oscar grunted and gave his mustache an irritated tug.

  Just beyond them two ladies were busy sorting through rumors. In the days since Charlotte Louden and Neill Graham had been rescued, the gossip had spiraled out of bounds. Now he listened as one of the matrons assured the other that the police had found bodies buried in the cellars of both the bookshop and the apothecary. Her companion contradicted her: the only body in the cellar was that of Geoffrey Smithson, who had been done away by his wife because she was pregnant by the bookseller and wanted to be free to marry him.

  Not five minutes ago Jack had heard one older gentleman telling a friend that Hobart had killed Geoffrey Smithson because he owed him more money than he could repay.

  There were dozens of theories in this one room, and even more out on the streets. At police headquarters, where they knew exactly how many bodies had been found—none at all beyond Hobart himself—they hadn’t been able to put the evidence together in a way that made any sense at all.

  There were a few points Jack was fairly confident about: first, Nora Smithson had turned a lonely old man into a morphine addict in order to get his cooperation and assistance. Second, and even more disturbing, she had resorted to the same methods to silence her brother.

  And here she was, the woman whose reputation had gone from maligned, respectful helpmeet to notorious manipulator of men and murderess in a matter of days. On the street she would have been heckled, but in the courthouse she was bracketed by her attorney and Anthony Comstock, as well as the bailiffs, who could be as rough as any stale beer joint bounder.

  She had hired Abe Hummel to represent her, a man known to every cop and lawyer and judge in the city for his ability to ferret out loopholes in the law and put them to use. The city’s most notorious criminals paid stiff retainers to Howe & Hummel, and unless they were particularly stupid, they rarely spent a day in jail. His talent for getting acquittals in the most unlikely cases made even bookmakers wary of him.

  Hummel looked to Jack like a man constructed out of sticks, slight and thin and unsteady on his feet, but it would be a mistake to discount him on the basis of his frailty. Beside him Comstock was as squat and dense as a fireplug.

  Nora Smithson looked like a different species altogether. She walked slowly, but her bearing was regal, straight of back, head held high, and one hand on the jut of her belly. She wore a light summer cape of emerald green with a hood that draped over her shoulders to set off the gold-blond of her hair.

  A quiet came over the courtroom, each and every person studying the woman whose name was so prominent in the newspapers these last days. All of them deciding for themselves whether she was a victim of circumstance and the machinations of her enemies, or a criminal whose rightful place was the gallows.

  63

  THE HEARING HAD been in session for an hour when Sophie came in, breathless, her heart thundering in her chest. Jack saw her straightaway and pointed to a spot near the front. As she made her way to the vacant seat between Anna and Amelie, she saw that Nora Smithson was walking to the witness box.

  Amelie grasped her hand and squeezed, and Anna raised both brows, which meant that as soon as circumstances allowed, she would be asking a lot of very pointed questions.

  While Mr. Hummel asked Nora Smithson about her childhood, how she had come to live with her grandparents, her training as a nurse and experience in her grandfather’s medical practice, Sophie’s heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm. Nora Smithson answered all Hummel’s questions quietly, calmly, sometimes with a small smile. The very picture of the sedate, well-brought-up lady and mother-to-be.

  Her attorney asked, “Mrs. Smithson, do you know why you are here today?”

  “I am not entirely sure. The police seem to think I had something to do with the trouble at Mr. Hobart’s shop.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  She shifted a little in her seat. “My brother Neill and a lady were being kept in Mr. Hobart’s apartment against their will. They suspect that I knew about it and did nothing.”

  Anna shifted and grumbled to herself.

  “Mrs. Smithson, did you play some part in that crime?”

  She looked out into the courtroom. “No.”

  “Do you have any sense of why the police might suspect you in this matter?”

  “Something about medicines and supplies that they found in Mr. Hobart’s apartment. The claim is that they came from my shop. Frankly, this strikes me as silly. There must be a hundred apothecaries in the city where Mr. Hobart could have bought what he needed.”

  “You knew Mr. Hobart well?”

  She frowned. “Not so well as he would have liked.”

  The judge used his gavel to silence the audience.

  “I see.” Hummel looked out over the sea of avid expressions and turned back to her. “Did Mr. Hobart make inappropriate advances to you?”

  “He expressed his interest. I rejected him, of course.”

  “We have heard testimony that Mr. Hobart was universally liked, a kind and thoughtful gentleman. You disagree?”

  She straightened her skirts and smoothed a hand over them. “I wouldn’t call someone who imprisons people against their will kind. I think that after his wife died, he lost his mind. That is the only explanation for his crimes.”

  “If that is true, why are you here? Do you know?”

  “I do. One of the detectives working on the case is married to a Savard. The Sa
vards took against me some years ago and strike out against me at every opportunity. My husband’s apothecary happens to be right beside Mr. Hobart’s bookshop, and they took that coincidence as reason enough to level accusations.”

  “Do you have any other evidence of the Mezzanottes and Savards seeking to cause you harm?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “The mulatto Sophie Savard, who claims to be a physician, has been telling everyone that I am not with child. That this”—she touched her belly—“is a deception. She claims that I cannot be with child and that I am barren.”

  “I see,” said Hummel, overflowing with compassion. “Mrs. Smithson, have you consulted with a physician?”

  “No,” Nora Smithson said. “My baby kicks and turns constantly. We are both in good health, and I don’t wish to be mauled by a stranger, doctor or not.”

  “Mrs. Smithson, forgive my temerity, but Dr. Savard is in fact fully trained and licensed. Is it not possible that she is correct?”

  “She is not, and I have proof. This is not my first child, and therefore, I am not barren.”

  The murmuring in the room stopped.

  “Please explain.”

  “My first child was a daughter, born out of wedlock. And she sits right there in the first row behind Mr. Comstock. Stand up, Grace, and let the judge see you.”

  The pencil slipped from Sophie’s hand and fell to the floor, but Amelie was shaking her head.

  “Not true,” she whispered.

  The assistant district attorney was on his feet, objecting. Soon he and Hummel were standing before the bench, both of them talking at once. Scowling, Judge Carruthers barked a few words. Then he got up and stalked off.

  “The judge is going to hear arguments in chambers,” Anna said. “While they are gone, Sophie, you must tell us what happened this morning with Graham.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ALLEN CROOKED A finger at Jack and Oscar, and they began to work their way through the crowd.

  “You’ve got to wonder how she’s paying Hummel,” Oscar said as they headed for the judge’s chambers.

  Jack kept his thoughts to himself, as he would have to keep his anger close to the vest over the next half hour. He hoped Oscar would do the same.

  Hummel and Allen were in full voice when the officer at the door let them into chambers. Judge Carruthers sat slumped in his chair, his fingers laced together and pressed to his mouth. For once he didn’t look bored.

  “Enough.”

  In the silence that followed, Carruthers rubbed a hand over his face.

  “So,” he said.

  Hummel took a step forward, and he held up a hand.

  “Mr. Hummel, I don’t need to hear from you. Nor from you, Mr. Allen. I want to hear from the detective sergeants. How are you, Oscar? It’s been a good while.”

  Oscar crossed his arms over his chest. “Aside from the fact that Mr. Hummel here has accused us of being dirty cops, I’m well enough. And you, Markus?”

  “This hearing is bound to give me a headache, but let’s see where we are. First order of business. I want you to understand something, Mr. Hummel. You’re going to need more than your client’s imagination to prove malicious intent by the police force. Unless you’re going to argue that they made the woman’s husband disappear? Now let’s talk about what the hell it is you think you’re doing.”

  * * *

  • • •

  WHEN THE JUDGE left the courtroom Sophie took that opportunity to tell Anna and Amelie what had happened at St. Luke’s. Anna tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was tough going.

  Amelie said, “If he wants to see me, I think that’s a good sign. Of course we should go.”

  “But not without Jack and Oscar,” Anna said. “If there’s some kind of confession forthcoming, they should be there. Can it wait another hour, Sophie?”

  “I think so. His symptoms are worsening, but not so fast as all that. And I agree that Jack and Oscar should be there.”

  “Do you have the sense that he wants to confess to something?” Amelie asked, and Sophie shook her head.

  “He’s got questions, that’s all I can say for sure. Not so much about his sister as his grandfather.”

  Amelie’s brows drew together. “He won’t like the answers.”

  “I fear you’re right,” Sophie said. “But here is the judge again. What’s next, do you know, Anna?”

  “The assistant district attorney will have the chance to question Nora Smithson. Given her history I doubt she will maintain her calm.”

  * * *

  • • •

  AS NORA SMITHSON returned to the witness box it seemed to Jack that every individual in the courtroom was leaning forward, as people did at a boxing match. In fact Mrs. Smithson was very capable of grand gestures and theatrics, but Jack hoped Allen would put a stop to that.

  “Mrs. Smithson,” he began. “You were listening earlier when an affidavit was read into the court record. Did you have any response to Dr. Channing’s account of your condition when you visited his surgery?”

  She twitched. “Why would I listen to such an outrageous collection of lies?”

  “Are you saying that you never saw Dr. Channing in his surgery?”

  “Yes, I am saying exactly that. If he is going to lie about me, he could at least do it to my face. Why isn’t he here?”

  “That’s a very good question,” Allen said. “As soon as I have the opportunity, I’ll ask his nurse to explain. Do you remember his nurse, Miss Wylie?”

  He turned to scan the first row of spectators. “There she is. If you would please stand? That is Susan Wylie, who will testify shortly. I’m sure she’ll be able to clarify things and help jog your memory.”

  “She will not,” Nora Smithson said, biting off each word.

  “A point of clarification, Mrs. Smithson. You don’t remember Dr. Channing, but you do remember visiting the midwife Amelie Savard?”

  Nora Smithson’s gaze was fixed on Susan Wylie but came away, almost reluctantly, at the mention of Amelie’s name. She touched a hand to her brow and frowned.

  “I wish I could forget that visit,” she said. “But it will be with me until my dying day.”

  “And when was that visit?”

  “In the first week of August 1871, Amelie Savard—”

  “I asked only about the date. August 1871 is correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Smithson, when was Grace Miller born?”

  “The third of August in 1870.”

  “And it is still your claim that she is your daughter.”

  “It is not a claim,” Nora Smithson said. “It is fact.”

  “I have here a copy of the Shepherd’s Fold register for when Miss Miller was taken in. Would you read it for the court, please?”

  She looked suspicious, but she took the sheet of paper and read.

  August 10, 1871

  Female infant in packing crate left on doorstep

  Age: 2–3 days

  Condition: swaddled in linen, underweight, no apparent defects

  Birthmarks: none

  Name assigned: Grace Miller

  “You left your daughter at the door of the Shepherd’s Fold?”

  Her mouth jerked at the corner. “As it says.”

  “And what is the date of the register entry you just read?”

  “August 10, 1870.”

  “Please look again, Mrs. Smithson.”

  She glared at him, silently.

  Judge Carruthers said, “Mrs. Smithson, if you won’t do as requested, hand me the piece of paper.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “Is that your position, the record in the registry is a fabrication?”

  “Yes. It’s a lie.”

  “W
e have Reverend Crowley in the gallery and can call him to verify that this is a true copy of his registry.”

  In the end she gave up the paper to the judge, who glanced at it, frowning.

  “Let the record show that this copy of a registry record indicates the child called Grace Miller was born on approximately August 8, 1871. Carry on, Mr. Allen.”

  Allen paused, a dramatic touch that drew attention to Nora Smithson’s frozen expression.

  He said, “Mrs. Smithson, are you swearing to this court that you gave birth and experienced an abortion in the same week of August 1871? How is that possible?”

  Her facial muscles sagged for the barest moment, and then she turned to the judge.

  “I am unwell.”

  Very gently Allen said, “I withdraw the question, and I have no others.”

  “You are excused, Mrs. Smithson. We’ve got time for one more witness before lunch,” Carruthers said. “Mr. Hummel, let’s keep things moving.”

  Hummel offered Mrs. Smithson his arm and escorted her to her seat beside Comstock. From where he stood Jack could see no more than the bald spot at the crown of the man’s head, but it had turned a bright red. Oscar grunted in satisfaction at the sight.

  Called to the stand, Grace Miller came forward, her gaze fixed on the floor.

  It was clear that Hummel meant to make her feel comfortable, but her posture remained bowed and her voice shook as she stated her name and answered questions about her own history.

  “Until just a short while ago I was at the Shepherd’s Fold,” she told him. “Now I’m housemaid at the apothecary.”

  “You work for Mrs. Smithson.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Mr. Smithson.”

  She cast her eyes up at him. “Yes, though I have never seen him.”

  “Is that so? Where is Mr. Smithson, can you tell us?”

  “Traveling, sir, is what Mrs. Smithson told me. In the west. He’s meant to be home soon.”