Abigail dropped her trowel in her lap and sat back on her heels. “Oh Merry, I don’t know what to believe. My mind keeps coming back to the thought that if it is not Jerusha, it was someone else I know and care for. She was terribly upset at the thought of Daniel being sold. She was certain he’d be put to work in the tobacco fields or the rice paddies and die within the year, even though I assured her that he would be sold as a houseboy.”
Catherine Fraser strolled near and waited as her slave woman set out a little folding bench. With a graceful sweep of brocade skirts she took her place, holding her parasol so that it shielded her face from the sun. Her handmaid stepped back two paces, near enough to be at hand, not so near that she intruded on the conversation.
“I do declare, all you ladies think of is this garden,” Catherine said.
Merry hacked at a stubborn weed. “It is not all we think of. We’ve just been discussing the trial. We don’t believe Jerusha is guilty.”
Catherine Fraser’s smile died away, leaving her looking as if she had smelled something noxious. “Of course she did it. Don’t be silly.”
Struggling to keep her dislike from showing, Merry strove for a civil tone. “I lost all tendency for silliness when I was accused of a crime I did not commit and torn from my home.”
“I’m afraid her race is prone to lying and sneaking about in order to get their own way.”
Merry met the woman’s gaze. “I have found every race prone to that particular failing. Even men who by most standards have more than they could ever need have been prodded into crimes by greed.”
The barb seemed to strike home. Mrs. Fraser paled and then flushed angry scarlet. “Surely you would not malign a dead man in front of his widow.”
“Oh no, not Mr. Benning. I am fully persuaded that he was a most honorable gentleman. Indeed, he was killed precisely because of his virtue.”
“Merry …” They both ignored Abigail’s tentative voice.
“Then what do you mean to imply?” Catherine exuded haughtiness like a stale perfume. Her manner reminded Merry of Mrs. Paget.
Merry’s fingers curled around the spade’s handle. Not again. An innocent woman would not be condemned while a pompous, self-righteous prig of a woman could not even be brought to face the truth about her own family.
“Surely you knew that your husband defrauded the insurance company and lined his pockets with the proceeds of turning the Phoenix into a pirate ship. He killed Mr. Benning to keep the truth from coming out.”
All pretense of amiable complacency disappeared as Catherine tore to her feet. “No.” The single word dripped with venom. “It was that slave woman. She placed the poison in Benning’s tincture because he meant to sell her mewling brat.”
Merry’s spine stiffened, and she dropped the spade. She gazed at Catherine Fraser with new eyes. Of course!
Graham listened intently as John Randolph, the attorney general, outlined the crown’s case against Jerusha. Despite the fact that the normal course of Randolph’s duties saw him practice at the General Court before the governor, no hint of distaste at appearing before the hustings court marred his demeanor.
He kept his message straightforward and easy for the untrained magistrates to grasp, even if he had no proof. According to the prosecution, Jerusha had been in danger of losing her son and had decided to try to end the transaction by committing petty treason, in this case, by poisoning Mr. Benning’s evening draught.
Graham would have a great deal more difficulty in holding their attention, much less persuading them to adopt his theory.
“I would like to call Mr. Harlan Fraser to appear before the court.” With a courtly gesture, Randolph gestured for the man to step up to the bar.
Graham turned to watch as Fraser took his place. The gentleman duly took his oath and waited politely for the attorney general to commence. His hands rested lightly on the bar. The brass buttons on his bottle green coat gleamed. His tricorn nestled under one arm. His periwig sat squarely in place, but had been so freshly powdered that when he moved it seemed to snow about his shoulders.
“Mr. Fraser, you are a guest at the Benning home, am I correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“Indeed, you shared various business interests with Mr. Benning.”
“Yes.”
“And you were a member of the household when this foul murder occurred.”
“Yes sir.”
“Thank you, sir. Isn’t it also true that on the night in question, you met this Jerusha in the hall?”
“Yes sir. The look she gave me would have flayed a cat.”
“Did she act in any way insubordinate?”
“Refused to make her courtesy.”
A grumble stirred through the spectators.
“Was she carrying anything at the time?”
“A tray with a pair of glasses on it.”
“What time was this?”
“Eight thirty or nine o’clock.”
“What did she do with the tray?”
“I could not undertake to say. She carried it into Benning’s chamber, and I never saw it again.”
“Thank you, sir, for your testimony.”
Fraser stepped back from the railing and the attorney general turned to the chief magistrate. “If it please Your Honor, I will now call Dr. de Sequeyra.”
With consummate skill, the prosecutor extracted the good doctor’s testimony regarding the diagnosis of poisoning.
“Had you any reason to suspect poisoning before your arrival?”
“Oh no. Good heavens, a simple case of acute gastritis I thought. But the symptoms—well, there was really very little doubt you see. They would be recognizable to any competent physician.”
The doctor described the symptoms and the steps taken to aid the dying man. “I’m afraid there just wasn’t much to be done. Their stillroom maid had already taken steps and administered the correct draughts, but the poison had advanced too far.”
“Can you opine as to when the poison had been administered?”
The doctor scratched his nose. “Based on the understanding that the first onset of symptoms was at approximately eleven thirty, I would estimate that the poison had to have been given between eight and ten o’clock.”
More rustling and murmuring from the onlookers.
Dr. de Sequeyra might just have lit the tinder that would consume Jerusha.
Chapter 13
It was you!”
Catherine’s lips twisted into a snarl. “What are you gabbling on about?”
“You murdered Mr. Benning.”
“Merry!” Abigail scrambled to her feet, and the three formed a taut triangle. “How could you say such a thing?”
“All this energy we have wasted in speculation about your husband’s fraudulent dealings, and it was you all along.”
Catherine’s face burned crimson, but she sniffed. “I think you ought to see the girl to bed, Abigail dear. It is obvious she is suffering from overexposure to the sun. Either that or she is unhinged and ought to be taken to your precious Public Hospital.”
Merry’s lips curved in a sour smile. “It shan’t work, Catherine.”
“Really, Abigail, you must do something about your little … protégé. I’d hate to have to bring a libel suit against her.”
Abigail stood gaping, her head swinging back and forth to take them both in.
“I finally have the right end. You had as much to lose as your husband. Your dowry is long since gone, and with the extravagant debts you two have acquired it is no wonder he had to set to theft in order to meet the demands upon him.”
“Shut your mouth, you venomous little wretch.” All trace of good manners and breeding had been stripped away from her demeanor. Her balled fists and belligerent stance were as common as any fishwife’s.
“It wasn’t about money for you though, was it?” Merry narrowed her eyes, closing the distance between them by one small step at a time. “At least it wasn’t the primary concern. For you it was about y
our status. The grande dame of Charles Towne.”
“Be silent!”
“Won’t they all be surprised to know your whole life was a facade?”
Catherine’s face twisted in torment, and she covered her ears with her hands.
Merry’s stomach roiled. But she had to do this. She had to provoke the woman into admitting her crime if there was to be any hope of saving Jerusha. “No more parties, no more credit. They’ll all know you are no better than the indentured convicts working in their fields.”
“No.” A howl of rage surged through the refined woman like a wild creature clawing its way free of a cage. She leaped at Merry, and they toppled together into the freshly turned dirt of the garden.
Merry had tried to force a confession, but she wasn’t prepared for the ferocity of the attack. Catherine Fraser was stronger than she appeared.
They grappled on the ground, scratching and tearing at each other.
Abigail stood over them, trying to pull first Catherine and then Merry away. She turned to Catherine’s slave woman. “Go get help!”
Nellie looked as if her eyes might pop from her skull. It took her a moment to respond. Merry could spare them little attention. Catherine’s fingers had become talons intent on scratching out her eyes.
With every ounce of strength she possessed, Merry held the woman at bay. She brought her knee up between them as Sarah had shown her and heaved Catherine off, flipping her over her head. Merry scrambled to her feet and whirled to face Catherine again, fingers flexed into claws, ready to defend herself.
Panting, Catherine staggered to her feet. Her wig had toppled to the ground, and sparse, mousy brown hair straggled in her face. Her gown was dirtied. Uglier by far was the maniacal gleam in her eye.
“I will kill you, too. By all rights you should already be dead.”
“You put the snake in my bed?”
Catherine gave an ugly snort. “That wretched Indian. He assured me it was a copperhead. Can you believe he thought I wanted to eat the creature?”
Her gaze flickered past Merry, settling just over her left shoulder, and something new flitted across her features.
Merry glanced over her shoulder. Several people were hurtling toward them from the house and grounds.
She turned back to confront Catherine with the imminence of her capture and try to reason with her, but the woman had taken to her heels.
Graham straightened his notes. God help me.
He stood, allowing the gravitas of silence to descend on the courtroom and hush the onlookers. It worked more effectively than any request for quiet.
He half turned to Jerusha. “How long have you served Mrs. Benning?”
Her eyes widened and she started. Indeed, it was the first time she had been addressed during the proceedings. “Since she was nine or ten.”
“And how old were you?”
“I was thirteen or thereabouts.”
“She brought you with her when she married because she did not wish to be parted from you.”
“Yes sir.”
“Would you characterize Mrs. Benning as a good mistress?”
“Yes sir.”
“She was kind to you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did Mrs. Benning get along well with her husband?”
Her gaze cast about the room as if looking for a way to escape answering the question.
The attorney general shot his cuffs. “Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance of this inquiry.”
Graham held up a palm. “Sir, if Mrs. Benning is known to have treated this slave woman with great kindness, and she also was on good terms with her husband, does it not stand to reason that she would have exerted her influence on behalf of her servant?”
At the magistrate’s nod, he repeated his question. “Did she get along well with Mr. Benning?”
“Yes sir. They were very happy together.”
“Do you believe that Mrs. Benning would have advocated for your son?”
“What, sir?”
“Would she have spoken on Daniel’s behalf?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
The attorney general nearly toppled his chair in his haste. “Your Honor, this is outrageous speculation. Mr. Sinclair invites the Negress to perjure herself with such questions. No witness ought to be so constrained.”
“I withdraw the question.”
Nodding sharply, Randolph resumed his seat.
Graham walked Jerusha through her activities of that fateful evening. As they had discussed, she answered truthfully, but as shortly as possible.
The crowd in the courtroom was growing restless, shifting from one foot to the other as the testimony continued.
It was time to tread more dangerous territory.
“So in essence, the case that the prosecution has built for Your Honors is based not on fact, but on mere conjecture as to what might have happened. Is this the basis of His Majesty’s justice? I say no, a thousand times no.”
As his oratorical pace began to accelerate, the crowd once more quieted. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced before the magistrate.
He had only this one opportunity.
Merry lifted her skirts and sprinted after Catherine’s fleeing form. For a sedentary gentlewoman, she was as fleet as a deer. Merry’s foot shrieked its disapproval of her hurry. The path curved around the corner of the house, and Catherine disappeared from sight.
The tumult of pursuers reached her ears, and Merry glanced over her shoulder. They were not far behind. She charged around the corner in time to see Catherine snatch John up from where he was playing on the lawn and hold him to her.
He wriggled in her grasp, but she tightened her grip until he howled. She bent her head and whispered something in his ear that stilled his protest but set tears flowing down his cheeks.
Dear Lord, what did the woman mean to do? Merry skidded to a halt. John held his little hands out to her. She had to anticipate what Catherine might do. Breathing a prayer, Merry took a single cautious step forward.
She raised a hand as if her fingers could touch John’s. She spoke, taking care to sound calm and reasonable. “Catherine, let John go. He’s just a little boy.”
Catherine backed away a pace. “I don’t want to hurt him, but if you make me, I’ll snap his neck like a chicken’s.”
Renewed sobs coursed through the little boy, and Catherine shook him. “Hush.”
Merry took another step forward.
“Catherine.” Abigail’s horrified whisper at Merry’s back signaled that the others would be mere seconds away.
Merry stretched out her hand. “It’s over, Catherine. There are too many who know.”
“Slaves.” She spat the word as if it tasted bitter. “They can’t testify against me.”
“I can.” Abigail’s firm voice surprised Merry. The woman moved nearer to Catherine, her hands outstretched toward her child. “Let my son go.”
“You’ve always had everything.” Hate scored Catherine’s words.
“Don’t be absurd.”
The hue and cry died as the pursuers rounded the corner and witnessed the drama unfolding.
“That’s just like you, always so patronizing. ‘Don’t be absurd’,” Catherine mimicked.
Abigail shook her head. “I mean only that you are blessed. You have wealth, health, and intelligence. What more could you ask?”
“I have nothing.” The cry wrenched from her throat was so ragged it hurt to hear. “But you. You had a husband who doted on you, three healthy children, even the devotion of your staff.” Her face crumpled with self-indulgent tears. “My husband will chase anything in a skirt, my five children died stillborn, and my slaves all try to run away. The only thing I have is my standing in the community. Your husband wanted to steal that from me, too.”
One eye on Abigail for any sort of signal, Merry continued to edge closer to the distraught woman.
“You’re right, Catherine. I ought to have been more compassionate. I
have been a thoughtless friend not to see that you have been troubled. Don’t punish Johnny for my sins.”
Catherine’s grip seemed to loosen ever so slightly.
“Mama,” John wailed.
Catherine blinked as if waking from a dream. Her grip tightened again as she clutched the boy to her chest. “No! Stop where you are or I will kill him.”
Just four or five more paces. As Abigail drew Catherine’s attention, Merry inched toward her. Now the woman reeled to her right, brandishing Johnny like an amulet to ward off evil.
“Stay back.”
Behind the deranged woman, Merry saw the door to the slaves’ hall ease open ever so slightly. She had to draw the woman’s attention. “Catherine, you must know that you cannot get away with this. We’ve caught you.”
The door opened a touch more.
“You? You are no better than a doxy. Parading yourself in front of my husband and all society as if you are a lady. It is ridiculous.”
Isaiah’s head appeared from behind the door and just as quickly disappeared.
Merry eased forward another step. “Not just I. There are too many who have seen your behavior today.”
With a guttural cry, Isaiah barreled through the door. Flinging himself from the stoop he wrapped his arms around Catherine’s waist and carried her to the ground. John flew free. Catherine screamed and writhed, scratching and biting.
Merry reached John first. He was bawling, but appeared uninjured. Abigail took him, cradling him close to her chest as she quieted his sobs with the comfort of her presence.
The other slaves piled into the fray, and in a moment they had Catherine Fraser’s hands trussed behind her back.
She ranted at the servants, swearing and lashing out with her feet.
Merry hobbled away from the melee. Her injured foot hurt abominably. She leaned against a tree and took the weight off it.
Daniel rounded the house, his eyes going wide and his jaw slack as he took in the scene.
Good Lord. What time was it? Merry straightened and lurched toward Abigail. “We must get her to the courthouse. Jerusha could be condemned at any moment.”
“Gentlemen, the widowed Mrs. Benning stands to suffer a doubly grievous harm in this instance. She has already lost her husband, and now she is to be faced with the loss of the services and comfort of her faithful handmaid of many years standing.”
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