“She’ll live,” said Lena gruffly.
The young woman looked up startled. She had been so arrested by the strange figure in the bed that she had not seen Lena sitting at the window. “I’m very glad of it,” replied the young woman earnestly. “Is it certain that there is nothing I can do to alleviate the discomfort of this unwelcome season?”
No one made reply to this stiff speech.
“Perhaps I ought to go then, and leave you to your rest,” she said quietly.
Charlotta raised herself painfully in the bed, gasped “Water!” and fell back again. Louisa hurried forward, poured out some cloudy liquid into a tumbler, and pressed it to the ill woman’s lips. She gulped it thirstily and then turned her head aside.
“Tastes like it washed over a corpse,” she whispered, and then twitched with a spasm of pain.
“Has . . . has she sufficient funds that a doctor might be called in?” asked the young woman. “One will be sent for Mrs. Leed, ought he be told to look in here as well?”
“We take care of ’Lotta,” said Lena.
“Of course,” replied the young woman hastily, and moved as if to take her leave, mumbling a farewell and a wish for the speedy recovery of the patient. But evidently thinking better of her fearfulness, she stopped suddenly, turned around and stepped quickly to Lena’s side.
“Here,” she said, handing Lena a red-letter Testament, “please take this, for her benefit,” indicating the woman groaning upon the bed, “or for your own.”
Lena Shanks looked up at the anxious young woman who proffered the slim volume. She stood just before the window, and in the motion of raising her arm, the sleeve of her dress had caught the hem of the curtain and drawn it aside. A shaft of watery sunlight fell upon her face and illuminated a pair of shining blue eyes in a field of parchment skin.
Lena drew back sharply. “Wer bist du denn?” she cried out, and with one hand she knocked the Testament away. It scudded across the floor; but before it had even come to rest, Ella had snatched it up and thrust it into the pocket of her skirt.
The young woman drew back alarmed. The curtain fell into place, the sunlight was extinguished, and the brilliant blue eyes were no more to be seen in their shadowed sockets.
“Wer bist du denn?” Lena demanded again, waving her cane in menace. “What’s your name?”
“Helen Stallworth,” she trembled.
The cane clattered to the floor.
“Was willst du denn hier?” Lena hissed. “What do you want?”
“I simply came in to see if anyone needed assistance, if anyone here were in want of . . . of . . . anything at all. I’m in the company,” she added, in case these persons were contemplating some mischief, “of Mrs. General Taunton and her servants, her several servants, who just now are in the rooms above this one.”
Lena nodded to her granddaughter, who skipped out of the room. Helen a moment later heard the door into the hallway opened. She understood that the child had been sent to determine the accuracy of her statement and she was anxious for what this might portend.
“Name again,” demanded Lena.
“Helen Stallworth.”
Lena jerked aside the curtain and once more the sunlight fell upon Helen, but she had turned her back.
“This way!” shouted Lena. Louisa Shanks had moved closer and was an ominous hovering presence. Very much discomposed, Helen looked down at the old woman, in whose gaze she seemed to discern an admixture of malevolence and fear.
“Cornelius,” whispered Lena, “you took away Cornelius and hanged him, and you put me away at the Island. You tried to take my girls. Now Alick is gone too, and Maggie’s in the Tombs—”
“Who is it you think I am?” cried Helen. “I know none—”
“Stallworth!”
Helen was held immobile by the basilisk gaze of the old woman, and understood in that terrified moment to what extent her grandfather’s reputation as a stern judge must have vilified their family name in the Black Triangle.
“Please—” said Helen, but before she could speak further, the little girl ran back in and nodded shortly.
Lena Shanks jerked the curtain closed. “Get out!” she cried.
Helen all but ran from the chamber and through the poorly furnished parlor. She reached the hallway just as Mrs. General Taunton was coming down the stairs, followed by Maisie and Martin.
“Yes, dear,” said the voice behind the black veil, “and were you more fortunate this time?”
Chapter 20
Following her arrest, at the police station Maggie Kizer was quietly recalcitrant. She gave her name and address, but entirely refused to answer any question concerning the death of Cyrus Butterfield. Her apparent unconcern for the gravity of her situation, which partly was the tag end of the opium trance and partly an aggrieved despair over her plight, infuriated the police. She was thrown into a cell without ceremony.
It was a chamber of stone, seven feet by nine, with a single slash barred window in the far wall that looked out on a blank expanse of brick a couple of yards away. The damp floor was strewn with rotted straw and the entire furnishings were a narrow cot with a grubby blanket and a dented pewter chamber pot. A penny candle was stuck onto a crossbar in the narrow door of the cell, but only guards were allowed matches.
When the warder took away the light and disappeared down the long stone passageway, leaving Maggie in the dark, there came whispers from the neighboring cells, low guttural voices demanding her identity and her crime, high cajoling voices that solicited a particular kind of companionship, irrational strident voices that accused her of setting up conspiracies to strangle Irish infants and assassinate the Pope.
Alone in the dark cell, Maggie turned and felt out the compass of the walls, frigidly cold and damp. She sat on the edge of the low, vermin-infested cot and removed from her bosom the two packets of luck—a cocaine mixture—that she always carried about with her. Her small bag containing the opium tin and the yen hock had been taken from her.
After inhaling the cocaine slowly, she lay upon her back, threw one arm across her face, and listened to the murmuring voices of all the women incarcerated around her. She lay many hours in an untroubled reverie. In the morning she was roused by the guard. Through the metal flap at the bottom of her cell door he pushed a tin tray of cold biscuits swimming in a gelatinous black gravy.
When he returned an hour later to retrieve the untouched tray, the guard told Maggie that she would be arraigned on the following day, in the court of Judge James Stallworth, and ventured his own opinion that she would be very fortunate if she got away with her life.
Maggie made no reply.
A little before noon, several men came to the door of the cell and peered in at her. Among them, Maggie noted the man with hair like fire who had been present at her arrest. She sat demurely on the edge of the cot, quite composed and as neat as she could make herself, but she responded to none of their numerous, increasingly querulous questions. At last, the reporters went away, exclaiming against her silence and demanding of no one in particular that she be forced to talk to them; but their anger could hardly be heard beneath the shrill demands of the other female prisoners, who screamed for assistance, yelled in derision, and shrieked insinuations and invitations so obscene that the reporters stopped to laugh or take up the banter.
When they were gone, Maggie turned a little on her cot so that her back was to the narrow door of the cell and withdrew the second packet of cocaine from her dress.
Her dinner arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon, but this she ignored also. Hope was a commodity Maggie Kizer had entirely given over. She had realized, in the moment of her arrest, that all the slight comforts of her existence that had sustained her in the few years past had melted away and would never be recovered by her. She did not think, “I have been betrayed,” and she did not hope, “I shall be rescued.” She simply judged that her life was over. At sixteen she had been plunged into a sea of misery and ignominy, and though
her head had been raised above those turbulent black waters for a time, she understood that now she was sunk entirely beneath the waves, not to rise again.
If this were her situation, why then there was no reason to eat, no reason to think of escape, no reason to beg for assistance, or mercy or pity; there was no reason to think at all. If Maggie could have devised a way to kill herself at that moment, she would have done so without qualm or hesitation.
Maggie had stared at the blank stone wall at the back of her cell for she knew not how long when she turned, merely for the sake of movement, and saw Daisy Shanks standing at the barred door. The abortionist wore a mauve dress festooned with pink ribbons that was drawn disconcertingly tight across her breast and down her sides. She carried a basket in the crook of her folded arm and grinned at Maggie as if they had just chanced to meet before the mermaid case at Barnum’s Museum or strolling upon the beach at Coney Island.
“Daisy!” whispered Maggie Kizer, through parched lips.
The woman blocked the entire narrow doorway of the cell, but suddenly Rob sidled between his mother and the barred door. He stared intently at Maggie, with his little delicate fingers wrapped around the iron bars.
“I’ve brought your boy to see you, Maggie,” laughed Daisy Shanks.
Maggie stared without comprehension.
“Nana says I’m to be your boy so long as you’re here,” said the child in an earnest whisper.
Maggie looked up at this, a flicker of interest in her eyes.
“I’m your boy,” the child repeated, as if it were a lesson that it was important Maggie Kizer learn. “And I’ve brought you something.”
“I don’t want food,” replied Maggie weakly.
“No food,” said Rob.
Daisy Shanks turned her beaming face to the guard at the far end of the corridor while Rob softly lifted the lid of the basket and withdrew a bulky packet done up in yellow paper and yellow string. He pushed it through the panel at the bottom of the door. Maggie automatically reached forward to shove her tin tray of food out of the way.
“It’s a lay-out,” whispered Rob.
Maggie snatched the package from the floor, nervously untied the string, and found a cheap, but complete layout for opium in it, with several dollars of second-grade dope. “Thank you,” she breathed.
Rob smiled and said, “Here, keep it hid in this cloth. Also some brandy and sandwiches.” He pushed the items through the slot, and Maggie took them gratefully. Daisy watched these transactions with apparent amusement, and though she said nothing, she shielded Rob’s actions from the view of the guards.
“Here,” said Rob, pulling from his back pocket a folded page of a newspaper, “Nana says you’re to read this.”
Maggie took the paper, unfolded it, and glanced over it briefly. It was a detailed account of the murder of Cyrus Butterfield, of her part in it, and even of her arrest the previous night. The article was florid and impassioned, but for the most part accurate.
“It was Lady Weale that peached,” giggled Daisy.
“Yes,” replied Maggie, “I was almost certain. Daisy, tell Lena to send a cart to Bleecker Street and have everything taken away. Mrs. Weale will have already been through everything looking for my jewels, but she won’t have found them and she won’t have dared to be rid of the furnishings yet. Take everything; even if I’m ever to leave this place, it won’t be to return there. You’ll find my jewels secreted in closed pockets within the hems of the parlor draperies. Hold them against my release—”
Daisy nodded. “Done today. Maggie, you think harm might come to Lady Weale?” she asked suggestively.
Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think it would help me.”
“Nana wants to know if we should talk to anybody,” said Rob.
“Talk . . . ?”
“Someone who can help you, Maggie,” said Daisy.
“Duncan—”
“Front name or back name?” demanded Rob. “Where’s he live?”
“I don’t know,” said Maggie, “Duncan’s his Christian name, and that’s all I know. I go to court tomorrow. Try to find him for me, I think he may be a lawyer.”
Daisy smiled and whispered, “Ma says take care, Ma says don’t worry about the jewelry, Ma says you never left anything with her, Ma says that’s what she’ll say at the trial—”
The guard approached from down the corridor. Daisy Shanks clapped her son on the shoulder and took a step backward. Rob’s face immediately changed its expression and character. He suddenly wore the morose aspect of a simpleton. “Oh, ma! Oh, ma!” he bleated, staring through the bars at Maggie. Daisy dragged him out of the way so that the guard might bend and fetch out the untouched tray of food.
“Won’t do you no good not to eat,” he remarked, “ ’cause they’ll hang you ’fore you get the ’tunity to starve.”
Maggie glared at him and held her hand tight over the packet of opium secreted behind her.
“This her boy?” demanded the guard of Daisy. He glanced critically at Rob, who wrapped his legs around one another in a good imitation of an imbecile.
Daisy Shanks grinned and nodded. “Boy wouldn’t bring half a dollar on the open market,” she laughed.
“No,” agreed the guard, “don’t look like he’s going to make much of a name for himself as a orphan, does he?”
Rob snuffled and wiped his face energetically against the sleeve of his jacket. The guard walked away, with the remark that they had been there long enough.
Daisy once more moved to the door, filling it, with Rob pushed up against the bars. “Take care” he whispered to Maggie with a wink of his intelligent eye, “we’ll be back.”
They turned away, and Maggie whispered, “Thank you . . .”
She stood at the door of the cell and watched the strange pair as they moved down the long corridor. Daisy paused at several cells to exchange pleasantries with women she had come across professionally. Rob knocked from one wall to another, poked his bony arms through the barred doors, wept hysterically, and jabbered as if he hadn’t an ounce of good sense in his body.
Chapter 21
Early on the evening of February 22, Judge James Stallworth and Duncan Phair sat alone in the parlor of the house on Gramercy Park. It was dark and cold without and the shutters of the parlor, though unclosed, opened on so black a night that they were as good as shut. Duncan stood nervously before the fire, fingering a China ornament on the mantel with such diligence that the mournful shepherd was in danger of losing, at the very least, all the blue of his painted pantaloons. For the most part Duncan avoided the gaze of his father-in-law, who sat stiffly in an already uncomfortable horsehair sofa.
“Lightner ought to be reprimanded,” said the Judge. “It is inexcusable that that reporter should print the story without consulting you. I am incensed, Duncan, and I wonder that you haven’t presented yourself before Lightner and demanded of him an explanation of his reprehensible conduct.”
“I’ll see him tomorrow. That will be time enough. I had rather not approach him in anger.”
Judge Stallworth glanced at Duncan sharply—his son-in-law seemed dispirited, unhappy, abstracted. A dozen different emotional discomforts played across his visage—but none of them was anger.
“Duncan,” said he, “this reporter is attempting to break free of our influence, and we of course shall not allow him to do so. Such an incident must not recur—”
“No.”
“—for I see that you are quite broken up over it . . .”
Duncan made no reply.
“Now,” continued the judge, “I would suggest that you volunteer your services to the office of the city prosecutor and participate in the state’s case against the woman Kizer—”
Duncan’s look was so wild and full of horror that Judge Stallworth involuntarily paused.
“Why do you stare so, Duncan? It is not so terrible a thing to take on one case without prospect of remuneration, I think. Tell the prosecutor that you were a part
icular friend of Butterfield—”
“No, Father,” interrupted Duncan nervously, who trembled to think how easily his liaison with Maggie might be discovered. “The Democrats will hardly let me share in the glory of this arrest and this conviction. The Tribune has been down too hard upon them, and they might actually believe that I volunteered in order to . . . to . . . to get the woman off, and so embarrass them.”
“Well,” said Judge Stallworth, as he crossed his elegant, bony legs before the fire, “I think then that the least you must do is to attend the trial and write it up for the Tribune—don’t leave that to Lightner too—show where the Democrats go wrong and so forth. I’ve sent word to the Tombs that the arraignment is to be tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, so you may be sure to be present. It is not customary for me to act as magistrate, but in this case I think I must. One never knows to what extent the Democrats may bungle, and we certainly have considerable interest in seeing this woman put to trial.”
Duncan did not dare refuse his father-in-law, but at the same time that he shortly acquiesced he was attempting to formulate an excuse for his absence from that courtroom. It was imperative that Maggie Kizer not catch sight of him. Ignorant of his surname, she had no way of finding him in the city, could not direct any message to him; and Duncan Phair, despite the real affection with which he had regarded this young unfortunate woman, had determined that they should never, under any circumstances, meet again.
Maggie Kizer was a woman who in normal circumstances would not betray displeasure, or surprise, or even sudden relief by any abrupt movement or alteration of expression; she was too well bred to be easily astonished and too circumspect to show her hand. But who knew what Maggie’s reaction might be if, on trial as an accomplice to murder, she were to see Duncan Phair, possibly her only protector, in the courtroom? Surely she would turn and gaze at him with an intensity to draw the wonder of the whole court; surely she would take the opportunity to direct a few words to him. And even if she made no attempt to communicate with him, Maggie would soon learn through discreet questioning of her attendants that her erstwhile paramour was the son-in-law of the judge who would determine her fate.
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