by Caleb Carr
“And did he make a report on the particulars of the wounds themselves?” Lucius asked, still scribbling away.
“He did,” Mr. Picton answered, handing over another file. “Each child had been shot in the chest. The boys’ bullets had struck their hearts, while Clara’s, again, had passed at an angle through the upper chest and neck, grazing the spine as it exited.”
“And the range,” Marcus said. “Did he hazard a guess at that?”
“Yes,” Mr. Picton answered, again pleased that the right questions were being asked. “Point-blank. There were powder burns on both the clothing and the skin.”
“And where exactly were the children when the attack occurred?” Miss Howard said.
“That, Lawrence did not bother to ask,” Mr. Picton replied, picking up another file. “Nor did Sheriff Jones. They were, you see, accepting the story completely at face value. But Jones had telephoned me at home, and asked me to come out—thoroughly expecting that I, too, would buy into Mrs. Hatch’s tale.”
“And you did not?” the Doctor asked.
“No, no,” Mr. Picton said. “You see, I had—encountered Libby Hatch several times since my return to Ballston Spa. That’s the Presbyterian Church you can see across Bath Street, there”—he pointed to his window, and we all looked out to get a glimpse of a fair-sized, steepled structure, older and less luxurious than the other churches along High Street—“where she and Hatch were married and attended services. I would sometimes go walking on Sunday morning when church let out, and eventually we were introduced by mutual acquaintances.” Mr. Picton paused, looking to the men in the room. “I don’t have to tell you what meeting Libby is like.”
“No, you do not,” Mr. Moore answered, a shiver running through his body. “But what could she have wanted from you, Rupert?”
“I shall ignore the insult implied in that question, John,” Mr. Picton answered, “and say only that I was baffled by her flirtatious, seductive manner myself. But looking back, I realize that she was hoping to buy herself some safety when the inevitable crisis came.”
“Crisis?” Marcus asked.
“Hatch’s death. She was planning, I think, even then to kill him, and she was covering her bets—trying to cultivate a friendly ear in the district attorney’s office, aware that we would have to at least look into the death, when it happened. And her method was, I’m bound to say, well conceived—at least objectively. She divided her conversation with me between inquiries about affairs in the district attorney’s office and those coy, seductive remarks with which she attempted to charm you gentlemen.” Mr. Picton paused, staring out his window and down at the church. “But she’d miscalculated, in my case …”
“Had she?” the Doctor asked, sensing that he was about to get a useful little nugget of information concerning Mr. Picton. “And why is that?”
“Well, Doctor,” Mr. Picton said, turning back to us, “I’m quite beyond such things, you see. Quite beyond them.” For just an instant, his attention seemed to wander. “Seen a lot of such behavior …” He shook himself hard. “As has anyone who’s ever worked in the New York City office. Yes, I’m afraid that I was in a position to detect Libby Hatch’s true nature from the beginning!”
I could see that the Doctor believed this last statement, but I could also see that he wasn’t buying that it was a complete explanation of Mr. Picton’s suspicions. But Mr. Picton didn’t know the Doctor well enough yet to recognize such things himself, so he just went on with his story.
“I’d had my doubts about Daniel Hatch’s death, when it finally had occurred, but there really hadn’t been any way to pursue them. Dr. Lawrence had cited some sort of unexplained heart disease as the cause, despite the old man’s lack of any history of such a disorder. And that, so far as the district attorney was concerned, was that. But when the children were attacked—well. I wanted to be particularly careful that we got all the facts. So I went out to the Hatch place myself, to make inquiries. It was an ugly scene, I can tell you—blood everywhere, and poor little Clara—but Libby’d been calmed by the laudanum, so I decided to get a few details. According to her, the children had been riding in the bed of the wagon with the gardening supplies. Their backs had been to the driver’s seat and front wall of the bed, and Clara’d been holding little Thomas. Libby claimed that she’d told them to stay where they were when the attacker appeared, and that they’d obeyed.”
“Which means,” Marcus announced, “that the ‘attacker’ had to’ve had some mighty long arms.”
“Yes,” Mr. Picton agreed. “Either she was mistaken, or she was lying. No one could reach all the way around from the driver’s seat of such a wagon and fire point-blank into the chests of three children who were below him in the bed and whose bodies were facing in the opposite direction. And even if he had managed the angle, surely one of the other children would have moved after the first shot, preventing point-blank execution of all three. Then there was the question of why the man hadn’t shot Libby, too—she was, after all, the one who’d seen his face clearly. Her explanation was that he must’ve been crazy, and that there’s no accounting for what crazy people do—not the kind of reply that inspires a great deal of confidence. Most disturbing of all, though, was her attitude toward Clara. She seemed to have no trouble mourning over the bodies of the boys, embracing them, kissing them—but she could barely approach her daughter, and her constant questions to Dr. Lawrence about whether or not the girl would regain consciousness seemed to stem out of a variety of emotions. Grief wasn’t necessarily the strongest of them, to my way of thinking. Guilt was very evident, too, though that could perhaps be laid to her failure to protect her children. But there was fear, it seemed to me, as well.”
“Did the sheriff organize a search?” Mr. Moore asked.
“Immediately. Volunteers were easy to raise, and the area was combed with dogs throughout the night and the following days. Inquiries were made in all the surrounding towns, and men who knew the hills well—men who ordinarily would’ve been reluctant to get involved in such matters—were persuaded to check any and all hiding places in the high ground. The case aroused that much emotion. But no trace of the man, as I’ve told you, was ever found.”
“What about the money?” Miss Howard said. “Surely someone other than you considered the fact that Mrs. Hatch stood to gain from her children’s deaths?”
“You would think so, Sara, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Picton answered. “But I’m afraid you’d be wrong. I brought the subject up exactly once, to the district attorney. He informed me that if I wanted to commit professional suicide by pursuing such a line of inquiry, I could go ahead—but I’d get no help from him or anyone else in the office! I did what I could in the months that followed—checked, as I’ve told you, the county records, wrote some letters…. But Libby left Ballston within a matter of weeks, to take the job with the Vanderbilts in New York. She had, after all, no real prospects here—none to suit a woman of her restless and ambitious nature, at any rate. Just a small stipend, a decrepit old house, and a daughter whose recovery would be a long and painful one, requiring constant and careful attention.”
“Concerning that,” the Doctor said, “the daughter was left in whose care?”
“A couple who live out on the Malta road,” Mr. Picton answered, producing his watch again and looking at it. “They’ve taken in a couple of orphans, over the years, and were more than willing to look after Clara. They’re expecting us shortly.”
The Doctor seemed slightly surprised at that, but pleased, too. “It’s completely consistent, of course,” he said, “that Mrs. Hatch would want to avoid caring for the child herself. But tell me: when she left, had the doctors assured her that Clara would never speak again?”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” Mr. Picton answered. “They thought it impossible, though even I questioned why a wound to the cervical spine should impair the power of speech. But the doctors in this area are not what one might term brilliant—or even, in some cases, competent.�
�� Mr. Picton snapped his watch closed and tucked it away. “But we really should be on our way,” he said, starting toward the door. “I’m afraid that the Westons—that’s the couple—don’t want Clara to be overwhelmed by visitors, so I told them I’d just be bringing you, Doctor. The girl is still quite fragile, emotionally, and extremely shy of strangers—of people in general, really. I hope you all don’t mind.”
“No,” Miss Howard said, “it’s perfectly understandable.”
“We’ll just go back to my house and get the surrey,” Mr. Picton said to the Doctor. “As for the rest of you, there is a livery stable quite close by, and they hire rigs for very reasonable prices. There are a great many other things for you to do and see, after all.”
“There certainly are,” Lucius said. “Any chance of getting that chalkboard today?”
“It should arrive by this evening at the latest,” Mr. Picton answered.
“And what about the old Hatch place?” Marcus asked. “Not to mention the wagon, and Hatch’s gun—what happened to them?”
“The house and grounds are available for our inspection,” Mr. Picton said. “Mr. Wooley, at the stable, can give you directions on getting there—it’s quite easy. The wagon is still in the barn, though I’m afraid it’s falling apart. As for the gun, that’s a bit more complicated. Yes, indeed, a bit more complicated. Mrs. Wright told me that she wrapped it up and dropped it down a dry well, which you’ll find about a hundred yards down a hill, behind the garden. You’ll probably want to take the files”—he handed the stack over to Marcus—“so you can go over the details during your ride.”
“Just one more thing before we go,” Miss Howard said. “The children—do you happen to know if they were looked after by a wet nurse when they were babies?”
“A wet nurse?” Mr. Picton answered. “No, I don’t know. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out, though—Mrs. Wright still lives here in town. Why, Sara?”
“I’m just trying to explain the ages of the children. If they lived past infancy, there’s got to be a reason.”
Dr. Kreizler nodded to this, and followed Mr. Picton out into the hall. “Sound reasoning. I’m sure Mrs. Hastings can tell you how to contact the housekeeper, Sara. Now, Mr. Picton—concerning this visit of ours. I certainly understand the delicacy of the situation, but I should nonetheless like both Cyrus and Stevie to accompany us. If you don’t mind.”
Mr. Picton stopped at the top of the marble staircase, glancing from Cyrus to the Doctor uncomfortably.
“Dr. Kreizler—Mr. Montrose—I don’t wish to appear rude, but—surely you understand the risk—”
“I do,” the Doctor answered. “And in the unlikely event that Mrs. Hatch’s story should prove true, I shall have a great deal to answer for.”
“Well…” Mr. Picton started down the stairs at what, for him, was a ponderous pace, though it was still faster than the rest of us were moving. “All right, but—” He turned to me and Cyrus. “I warn you both, the situation really is very delicate. I must respect the Westons’ feelings, you see, and Clara’s, too—she and I have become quite good friends, the poor girl—and I would hate for you to make the trip and then be forced to wait in the carriage—”
The Doctor caught up with Mr. Picton and put a hand to his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Mr. Picton,” he said with a small smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” The Doctor thought about the matter for another instant, then proceeded farther down the stairs. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary at all.”
CHAPTER 30
After getting back to Mr. Picton’s house and aboard his surrey, we began our trip to the Westons’ form by heading over to the east side of town, where Cyrus (who’d volunteered to do the driving) followed Mr. Picton’s directions and steered us onto Malta Avenue, so named because it eventually turned into a road what led to a town of the same name. Just as soon as we were safely on this thoroughfare, Mr. Picton started asking for details about the Linares case and all the things we’d been through during the past few weeks in New York. It was all the Doctor could do to keep up with this rush of questions, especially as, in spite of their mad pace, they all cut right to the heart of the case.
Once we got back out of town, farms and woods took over the countryside around us again; and as I watched them go by in the late-afternoon light, I tried to imagine the scene of robbery and murder that Libby Hatch claimed had taken place on a road what couldn’t have been much different than the one we were traveling along. It was a beautiful setting, one what glowed gold and green the way the Hudson Valley will do during July; but all the same, it wasn’t hard to imagine violence scarring such a place, for they were lonely roads, those dirt tracks that led from small town to small town, with nothing but the occasional farmhouse for civilization. A clever criminal could’ve made quite a living off of them. Yet there were details of Libby Hatch’s story that just didn’t fit with the idea of a clever criminal. Even granting the isolated quality of the setting, things about the supposed attack just didn’t make sense, particularly not to anybody who’d spent time around murderers, thieves, and rapists, as I had.
Why did the “attacker” give up his assault, for instance, once he knew Mrs. Hatch didn’t actually have a weapon? And why kill the kids, but not the woman who could’ve identified him? And if he was so stupid or deranged as to be capable of such things, how could he suddenly become smart enough to escape a whole series of search parties what’d kept after him for days on end? No, it was obvious even to me that Libby Hatch had been banking on emotions and not reason taking over when her fellow townspeople heard her tale; and she’d been right, too, so far. But so far was only so far …
The Westons’ farm was a humble but successful enterprise located right off the Malta road about a mile and a half from Ballston Spa. They kept dairy cows and chickens, and grew vegetables to sell during the summer and fall. Mr. Picton told us that the couple’d never been able to have children of their own, and that when a pair of tragedies in town—one a train wreck, the other an illegitimate birth—had left two kids without families, the Westons’d taken them in. They’d done such a good and kindly job of raising them that Mr. Picton’d thought of a similar solution right away when it began to look like Libby Hatch wasn’t going to stick around to take care of little Clara. As we drew closer to the drive that led off the main road and up to the Westons’ rectangular, clap-boarded farmhouse, Mr. Picton told us that while we could speak freely around Mr. and Mrs. Weston, we’d have to be careful what we said in front of their kids: they weren’t aware of all of Mr. Picton’s suspicions concerning the Hatch case, and, given the nature of how rumors and news traveled in so small a town, we couldn’t risk them finding anything out until we were ready for it to become common knowledge.
Following this warning, Mr. Picton anxiously inquired as to why the Doctor’d been so determined to have me come along on the visit. “You’ll forgive my asking, I hope, Doctor,” he said. “And you, too, Stevie. I understand, of course, how crucial Clara’s reactions to Mr. Montrose may be—”
“Provided,” the Doctor interrupted, “that the Westons have not prejudiced her mind in that area.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Mr. Picton answered quickly. “I come out to visit Clara fairly regularly. The Westons, as I say, are aware of my suspicions about Libby, and though they’ve never said as much, I think that their years of taking care of her daughter have planted doubts about the woman’s honesty in their minds.” He paused, glancing at me. “But Stevie—what is his role to be?”
The Doctor looked at me with a smile. “Stevie, although he would be loath to admit it, has a unique and reassuring effect on troubled children. I’ve observed it many times at my Institute. And bringing at least one person who is not an adult will make us appear far less threatening, I suspect.”
“I see …” Mr. Picton replied.
“But tell me,” the Doctor went on, “has she really not uttered a word since the attack? Not a sound?”
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“Sounds, occasionally, yes,” Mr. Picton answered. “But no words.”
“And what of written communications?”
“Again, no luck. We know that she has the ability—Mrs. Wright, the housekeeper, taught her the basics of both reading and writing. But Clara’s done neither since the attack. Doctor Lawrence and his colleagues attribute it to the spinal damage. You may not believe it, Doctor, but they actually told me that the injury must have had some kind of indirect effect on her entire nervous system!”
The Doctor almost spat in disgust. “Idiots.”
“Yes,” Mr. Picton said. “Yes, I must say, they never seemed to pursue the matter very energetically. Not that I’ve been able to do much better. I’ve tried every way I can think of to get her to tell me something, anything, about what happened. But no luck. I hope you have some experience getting people with such afflictions to communicate, Doctor—because this little girl is a hard case.”
Cyrus and I glanced at each other quickly, and then I turned around to stare straight ahead. Mr. Picton, of course, had no way of knowing what he’d just said, no way of knowing exactly what kind of bittersweet experience the Doctor did in fact have with getting through to people—and to one person in particular—who’d been written off as unable to communicate with the rest of the world. For the Doctor’s lost love, Mary Palmer, had suffered from just such an affliction, and his efforts to find a way to communicate with her had formed the beginnings of the bond between them that had endured right up to her death.
“I … believe I know some techniques that may prove effective,” was all the Doctor said.
“I hoped you would,” Mr. Picton answered. “Indeed, I hoped you would. Oh, and one more request, Doctor: when you meet Clara, make a note of her coloring.”
“Her coloring?” the Doctor repeated.
“Her hair, eyes, and skin,” Mr. Picton went on with a nod. “I’ll tell you something you’ll find very interesting about it, on our way home …”
