by Dorothy Love
“Gentlemen, I have no idea who shot Mr. Sterling, or why. But in all my years of practicing law I have never encountered a stronger case for reasonable doubt.
“You must search your consciences on this matter and determine whether there is enough doubt about Miss Hartley’s guilt to set her free. The law does not ask you to provide a solution to what really happened at the Southern Palace that night. It asks only that you determine whether there is any other plausible explanation.”
India poured herself another glass of water, her hands shaking.
“I believe the only fair verdict is a verdict of not guilty. But in any case, I ask you for mercy for my client.” He paused and inclined his head toward India. “As a sworn jury you hold the power of life and death in your hands. You must decide whether to deprive this young woman of life or liberty or whether to set her free.”
Philip braced his hands on the rail of the jury box and looked at each man in turn. “Shakespeare once wrote that mercy is an attribute of God Himself. And earthly power shows like God’s when mercy seasons justice.”
He nodded once and turned on his heel. The courtroom exploded into applause. The reporters scribbled in their notebooks.
The judge gaveled the room into silence. “This room will come to order. Any more of that and I’ll clear this courtroom. Mr. McLendon, do you wish to address the jury?”
The prosecutor rose. “As compelling as Mr. Sinclair’s oratory is, the fact is that there is no way to determine whether the lead ball found in the theater did in fact come from a wild shot fired from Miss Hartley’s gun. Or whether it came from another gun, and had been there for weeks, months, or years. Mr. Sinclair has not offered up any other person with a reason to harm such a beloved local figure. This woman”—he turned and pointed to India—“came out of nowhere, came here to Savannah, and the next thing we know, our most talented thespian lies dead, our most beautiful theater is locked up tight, and our citizens are mourning a man who can never be replaced. I agree with my colleague that someone must pay for this death and grief and the disruption to our pleasant life here in Savannah, but that is where our agreement ends.” He paused. “You should find her guilty.”
Mr. McLendon sat down, and Philip resumed his seat beside India. Blinded by tears, she squeezed his hand. Whatever happened now, he had done his best. It was all she could ask.
Judge Bartlett spoke to the jury, but India was so terrified that his words might well have been spoken in Arabic. At length, they filed out, and she and Philip were escorted to the anteroom to wait.
He sprawled in the chair and raked a hand over his chin, too spent for words.
“You were brilliant,” India said after half an hour had passed. She spoke quietly, out of the hearing of the officer stationed by the door. “Whatever happens, I want you to know I couldn’t have expected a more thorough defense.”
“I thought we’d get an acquittal based on the colonel’s testimony. We would have, I’m sure, had Judge Russell heard the case. Bartlett is noted for deferring to the jury, but it was worth a try.”
India watched a small flock of birds rise and fall along a distant rooftop. “I was surprised that Mr. McLendon seemed unprepared for the colonel’s testimony about the two weapons.”
“So was I.” He ventured a weary smile. “The similarities between the two clearly caught him off guard.”
“This morning you said we have a good chance. Do you still think so, Philip?”
“McLendon is trying to play upon the jury’s fears by reminding them you are an outsider. And much of our case is circumstantial. We can’t prove when that other bullet was fired or by whom.”
“But the case against me is circumstantial too. They can’t prove that I wanted to harm Mr. Sterling, or that I knew the gun was not the one Mr. Philbrick showed me. Surely they must give me the benefit of the doubt.”
The door opened, and the clerk stuck his head in. “Mr. Sinclair, the jury’s back.”
CHAPTER 20
DEEP OBLIVION PULLED AT HER, DRAGGED HER INTO blessed darkness. Something terrible had happened. She struggled to remember, but all she felt was an overwhelming sense of vertigo, of bumping up against the edges of the known world.
She was surrounded by silence and shadows. A sharp, medicinal smell permeated her cell, and she willed her eyes to open.
“You’re awake.” A rough, low whisper came from out of the darkness. A black-clad figure loomed over her. One hand covered her mouth, the other grasped her wrist. “Shhhhhh. Don’t talk. Just listen.”
She was fully awake now, every nerve taut. She tore at the hand covering her mouth.
“I’m here to get you out.” The man tossed her a garment. “Put this on.”
Now she realized this was not the jail, but a hospital. The man in the room was dressed as a priest, and the garment he’d given her was a nun’s habit. Bits and pieces of yesterday’s events came back to her. The spectators and reporters wedged into every nook of the courtroom—the circus-like atmosphere—as they waited for the verdict. The jurors’ hard eyes as the decision was announced. Philip’s muttered oath. A fear so intense her legs buckled. The loss of consciousness, the explosion of pain, and the gush of blood as she fell against the sharp edge of the table. She reached up to touch a thick bandage covering her head.
“We don’t have much time,” the priest said, his breath soft in her ear. “Can you walk?”
She nodded. “But I don’t under—”
He grabbed the habit from her hands and pulled it over her head, threading her arms through the sleeves, tying the cord at her waist. He felt around in the darkness for her shoes and helped her put them on, then bundled her dress and hid it under his cassock.
Holding her back with one arm, he eased open the door, stepped into the darkened hallway, then motioned her to follow. “To your left and out the door. Be quick, but don’t run. We don’t want to attract attention or to wake the officer.”
India noticed the policeman slumped over in his chair just outside her room. Obviously he’d been posted there to ensure that she didn’t run.
“Chloroform,” the priest whispered. “Go!”
Too confused to protest, India did as she was told, terror scraping at her insides. With the priest in the lead, they rounded the corner and nearly collided with a doctor just emerging from the indigents’ ward.
“Father, I’m glad you’re still here.” The doctor shifted his medical bag to his other hand.
The priest grasped India’s elbow, urging her on.
“A word with you, Father?” The doctor loomed in the dimly lit corridor. His bulky form blocked their path and cast dark shadows on the walls.
“Yes, what is it?”
“It’s Mrs. Ryan.” The doctor nodded toward the ward he had just exited. “I doubt she’ll last till morning, and there are nine fatherless children at home. Someone will have to take charge of them. If you could—”
“I’ll see to it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get Sister Luke here back to the—”
Rapid footsteps sounded behind them, and the police officer turned the corner. India froze, her heart jerking hard against her ribs.
“Good n
ight, Doctor.” The priest hurried India toward the door. As soon as they reached the outside, he grabbed her hand, and they ran between the buildings, crossing deserted yards, the policeman in pursuit. India slowed and pressed her hand to her side. At last the priest dragged her into an alley behind a boardinghouse, where a horse and rig waited. He boosted her inside, and they set off toward the river.
The night was cold. Gaslights formed a chain of stars along the quiet street. When the pain subsided and India caught her breath, she found her voice. “I don’t understand what’s happening, Father.”
“Father. That’s a good one.”
Something in his voice seemed familiar. Her stomach dropped. “Mr. Lockwood?”
“In the flesh.”
Huddled inside the jostling rig, her wounded head throbbing, India tried to make sense of the situation, but her thoughts were scattered like winter stars in wild disarray. Mr. Lockwood had no reason to harm her, but still . . . what did she really know about him? He was fond of drink. He needed money for his trip to Texas. Perhaps he intended to hold her for ransom. Be careful who you trust.
“Mr. Lockwood, what’s the meaning of all this?”
“Sinclair is on the trail of another witness.”
“But the trial is over. The jury has spoken.” All of Philip’s skilled arguments had not been enough to overcome the fact that she was an outsider and a woman engaged in a less-than-respectable profession. Mr. McLendon’s assertions and Victoria Bryson’s wrenching sobs had found their mark. “It’s too late.” Her voice cracked.
“Maybe not. The way it was explained to me, the judge wouldn’t pronounce sentence because you were taken to the hospital with that head wound. Way I heard it, there was blood everywhere.”
They passed a ragtag group of sailors hurrying toward the wharf, cloaks flying in the winter wind.
“I don’t see what difference another witness could make now. And running away will make things worse.”
“What’s worse than a date with the gallows? Judge Bartlett has never had a decision reversed. He didn’t want to sentence you in absentia and give Sinclair another reason to appeal. If Sinclair can find this other witness before the formal sentencing, he can ask the judge to reopen the case. And if the judge can’t find you, he can’t sentence you. Here we are. Now pipe down, and do as I tell you.”
He halted the rig and helped her down. “We’ll walk from here.”
Keeping to the shadows, they hurried along the waterfront, down a flight of narrow steps, past a row of brigs and schooners anchored in the river, and made their way to a small skiff tied to the wooden pilings. Mr. Lockwood helped her enter the boat and pointed to a large blanket tucked into the bow. “Cover yourself until we clear the wharf.”
The boat creaked as he untied the lines and cast off. On the wharf, the sailors laughed and whistled, their shouts and catcalls breaking the silence.
From beneath the blanket, India said, “Where are we going?” “Isle of Hope. The Sinclairs have an old fishing camp there. It ain’t much to look at, but it’s secluded, and with any luck the police won’t think to look for you there.”
She felt the boat sway and settle on the river.
“Better not talk just now,” Mr. Lockwood said, his voice low. “You never know when those sailors might get curious and take it upon themselves to investigate.”
India lay motionless beneath the blanket. She had no choice now but to trust Mr. Lockwood. But who did Philip think would emerge as her savior? And anyway, who—
“Ahoy!” A shout carried across the river.
Through the fabric of the blanket, India saw a faint flicker of light. Another boat bumped theirs. A voice said, “Evenin’, Father. You’re out awfully late.”
“That I am, Captain.”
“Where you headed this time o’ the night?”
India’s legs had gone numb, but she dared not move. She breathed though her mouth, her ears straining to hear the conversation.
“Screven’s Landing. Delivering some supplies to a couple o’ hunters.” Mr. Lockwood laughed. “They come up from the islands yesterday and got in a hurry and left all their belongings behind.”
“And they prevailed on a priest to deliver them? In the middle of the night?”
“They wanted to get an early start in the mornin’. One of ’em is kin to me so I could hardly refuse his request. Besides, I extracted a promise of a donation to the poor box for my trouble. We must be forever vigilant for any source of help for those less fortunate.”
“I reckon that’s true enough. Well, you be careful, Father. Tide’s coming in. Water’s getting rough.”
“Though waters roar, the Lord will shield me.”
India heard the splash of oars as the boat moved away from theirs. Despite her terror she had to hand it to Mr. Lockwood. He had certainly played his part convincingly. She shifted beneath the blanket, her head throbbing. “Mr. Lockwood? How much longer?”
“A while yet. But you can come out now.”
She threw off the blanket and gulped the chilly night air. The evening wore on. The boat bucked in the rising tide. Across the water a few faint lights gleamed and faded as dawn broke.
At last they reached the shore. Mr. Lockwood beached the boat and dragged it into the thick undergrowth. He took a large wooden box from the stern and in the gray light led India up a slight bluff and along an overgrown path. A faint light glimmered through the trees.
“That’s Carsten Hall,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not sure if anyone is at home just now. But the caretaker is probably around.”
“It seems so lonely out here,” India said. “I wouldn’t want to live in the only house on the island.”
“It isn’t the only one. There are a few others the other side of the bluff. More are going up these days.” He shifted his burden to his other arm. “Arthur Sterling was one of the first to build here after the war. Just down the road past Carsten Hall. The newspapers made quite a to-do over it at the time. I’ve never seen it myself, but they say it’s twice the size of the Carstens’ place.”
A ten-minute walk brought them to a cabin nestled in a thick stand of old oaks. It loomed like a mirage in the pearlescent mist, its siding dark with age, its roof caving in. The porch sagged beneath their feet as Mr. Lockwood pushed open the door.
India brushed sticky cobwebs from her face and looked around. A thick layer of dust coated a scarred wooden table and three chairs. In the old brick fireplace, the ashes had hardened to a dull gray mass. The plank floor was littered with dead bugs and the desiccated skin of a snake. The stale air smelled faintly of rotten fish.
“Like I said, it isn’t the Paris Plaza.” Mr. Lockwood set the box down. “I’ll pump you some water, but don’t light a fire. You don’t want to give that caretaker a reason to investigate.”
He indicated the box. “There’s another blanket in there. Enough food for a few days.”
He fished a bucket from the box, and a few moments later India heard the groaning of the outdoor pump. She sank onto a dusty chair. Her head pounded. The knife wound on her arm burned. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How on earth had she wound up dressed as
a nun and running from the law?
Mr. Lockwood returned and set the water bucket on the table. “This place is fairly deserted this time of year, but I’d advise you to stay inside as much as possible.”
She nodded, too stunned for words.
“There’s a privy out back. Just follow the path from the back door. Or, if you can’t find the path, just follow your nose.” He released a gusty breath. “With any luck, Sinclair will come to collect you in a few days.”
He shook out her crumpled dress and draped it over the back of a chair. “I expect you’ll want out of that religious garb.”
“I would, yes. Where did you get it anyway? I can’t imagine you found robes and a habit hanging on a clothesline somewhere.”
“Borrowed ’em, you might say. From a friend of a friend.” He scratched at his arms. “They’re not all that comfortable are they? I must say wearin’ this getup has given me a deeper appreciation for our men of the cloth.”
Despite the circumstances, she laughed. “I have no idea why Mr. Sinclair thinks this scheme will work, but I’m in your debt, Mr. Lockwood. I’m not sure I can ever repay your kindness.”
“Just put in a good word for me with Miss Amelia.”
“I think you may find that she already holds you in high regard.” The gravity of her situation came roaring back. “But I will press your case. If I ever see her again.”
“You can’t give up hope, miss. Once you do that, you’re done for.”
She blinked back the rush of tears behind her eyes.
“I’d better get going,” he said. “It’ll be full daylight soon, and I don’t want anybody to see me leaving here.”
He reached into the box again, and she noticed his palms were reddened and blistered from the long row across the river. “You’re hurt.”
