by Caleb Carr
As for the information Miss Howard and I brought back from Stillwater, it was duly posted on the chalkboard in Mr. Picton’s living room. Then we moved out onto the back porch to talk over the importance of the tale. It was no surprise to anybody that Mrs. Muhlenberg hadn’t known the full details of the Hatch case, being as she lived in a different township, which meant a different sheriff’s department—and small-town sheriffs were generally even less cooperative and communicative with each other than New York City police precincts. As for the poor woman’s refusal to testify, Mr. Picton informed us that such was no great loss, being as Saratoga County’s resident Solomon, Judge Charles H. Brown, was a stickler for trying every case on its own merits, and almost certainly wouldn’t have allowed any unproven allegations about something what’d happened ten years ago to reach a jury’s ear. The same held true for all the work we’d done in New York, which, our host firmly reminded us, hadn’t even resulted in an official police investigation. The case of Libby Hatch’s murdered children would have to be confined to just that; the only purpose Mrs. Muhlenberg’s story could serve would be to help us better understand the character of the woman we were dealing with.
What it offered us along these lines was further proof (not that we needed any) of just how clever our opponent was. The Doctor told us that Mrs. Muhlenberg’s little theory of how Libby’d killed her son, Michael, a tale what some might’ve written off as the ramblings of a woman driven half mad by grief, was very likely the truth: such substances as poison, taken by a nursing woman, can in fact pass on through her milk into whatever baby she’s feeding. As for the packet of black powder Mrs. Muhlenberg had found in Libby’s room along with the arsenic, the Doctor suspected that it’d been, to use his term, carbo animalis purificatus, Latin for “purified animal charcoal.” The rest of the world knows the stuff as “bone black,” and it’s commonly used as an antidote for many poisons—including arsenic. Libby’d probably kept it handy just in case she got impatient with her plan and took too high a dose of the arsenic herself. As for why she’d done what she’d done, we ail knew the answer to that one by now: little Michael Muhlenberg had committed the lethal mistake of making it obvious that Libby didn’t have much in the way of maternal talents, and instead of just admitting as much and trying to find something else to do with her life, the murderess had concocted a situation in which she came off looking like a hero for her efforts to save a kid she was actually killing. It was the same pattern we’d identified in the cases of Libby’s “adopted” children, along with the babies at the Lying-in Hospital: the woman had been at her grim work far longer than any of us—except, of course, the Doctor—had suspected, or likely would’ve believed.
There was one bit of information what passed for a helpful clue contained in Mrs. Muhlenberg’s sorry tale: if Libby Hatch had been hiring herself out as a wet nurse, it meant that she had to’ve given birth to a child of her own, at some point. If Libby hadn’t been lying on the hospital forms we’d seen, and was now thirty-nine, then in 1886 she would’ve been twenty-eight, and said kid could’ve been anywhere from an infant to my age—although the fact that she’d shown up at the Muhlenbergs’ alone indicated that the child was probably dead (which came as no big surprise to any of us). But dead or alive, there had to be some evidence of his or her existence somewhere.
So Miss Howard and I would now be looking for more than just Libby’s parents, over on the east side of the Hudson: most probably, another child’s grave awaited us, too. The interview with Mrs. Muhlenberg had given us only a general idea of where to start our search—there was a whole string of small towns on the opposite bank of the river—and because of that we needed to get started as soon as possible. I think Miss Howard would’ve been just as happy to leave that night, but there was no way I was going anywhere in the dark again; besides, we owed El Niño his first night in the bed we’d promised him. Mr. Picton showed him to a room up on the top floor of the house, the two of them chatting like old chums as they went up the stairs: we’d been right in thinking that their vocal natures would make them friends from the start. As for what in the world would become of El Niño once the case was over, Mr. Picton said he wouldn’t at all mind keeping him on as a servant; it’d certainly give the citizens of Ballston Spa something to talk about. His fate happily decided in this manner, the aborigine dove into the moderately sized bed in his room like it was an ocean, pausing in his wild celebration only when Mr. Picton told him that Mrs. Hastings wouldn’t appreciate his rolling around in the bedding with my dress shoes on.
The Doctor decided that our new partner would continue to work with Miss Howard and me for the immediate future: it was impossible to predict what kind of new trouble our search for Libby Hatch’s origins would stir up, but it was safe to say that if we did run into more danger, El Nino’s talents would come in handy. This was an easy enough consideration to see and accept; what wasn’t so obvious, but would prove pleasantly true over the next two days, was just how amusing our companion would continue to be. As we scrounged around those villages on the east bank of the Hudson, with Miss Howard asking anybody and everybody she could find about the Fraser family, El Niño and I became better and better friends, clowning, laughing, and telling any troublesome or resentful locals we ran into just where they could take their small-town hostility. The aborigine’s fierce loyalty—now enthusiastically transferred to us, after years of being reluctantly given to the mean-spirited son of his original benefactor—caused Miss Howard to develop her own attachment to him, in a way what wouldn’t have been possible with your average American white male: there was no condescension or attempt at chivalry in El Nino’s approach to her, just simple respect for someone who’d done him a good turn.
We needed all the bright spirits we could muster during that first day of our search, for it produced nothing but negative answers to Miss Howard’s questions, and more moody, distrustful stares from the local population. The fact that we were pursuing a murderer didn’t seem to cut much ice with those people: we were, first and foremost, strangers, and no constructive goal of ours could remove that barrier. Wednesday night found us back at Mr. Picton’s with nothing to show for our efforts, but we got up before dawn on Thursday and headed out again, trying not to let frustration get to us. When sunrise did come, we were crossing the river on a small ferry, heading directly into the bright, harsh morning glare. It was a state of affairs what would’ve been sickening if it hadn’t been for El Niño, who lay in the back of the buckboard sharpening his kris and happily singing some song in his native tongue what he informed me was about morning in the tropical jungles that’d once been his home.
The rest of our morning was filled with more disappointment, as was our afternoon. Town after town, tavern after tavern, postal office after postal office went by, with Miss Howard diligently dragging herself into every establishment and asking the same set of questions about a family named Fraser. By the time the light started to turn golden, I for one was more than willing to acknowledge the hopelessness of our finding anything out before the grand jury convened: we didn’t even know, after all, if Fraser had been Libby Hatch’s original name, an alias, or the handle what the father of her first child had gone by. All we felt sure of was that somewhere—maybe in a completely different state—there was a grave with that first kid’s name on it; and as late afternoon wound on into early evening Miss Howard, too, began to think that maybe such was all we really needed to know, at least for the time being. If Mr. Picton found that he required more specifics concerning that portion of the woman’s life for the actual trial (assuming we got that far), we could keep trying to find them—and he could grill Libby about such matters on the stand, too. But more and more Miss Howard was starting to feel that Libby’s violence was as much a result of having been born a girl in an oppressive, hypocritical society as it was of any possible irregularities in her family life; and our fruitless, pressured search was starting to seem like a waste of time as a result. Needless to say, Mi
ss Howard wasn’t one to put up with such a feeling for very long.
And so, when the court house clock in Ballston Spa tolled out seven o’clock that evening, we found ourselves in a position to hear it, having made our way back into town along the Malta road. We wound through Ballston’s closed shops and quiet houses, then around the train depot and up Bath Street, passing beneath Mr. Picton’s window. El Niño was sleeping in the bed of the wagon, Miss Howard was deep in her own thoughts as she rode next to me, and I was having a tough time keeping my eyes open, as my mind was lulled into relaxation by the slow, steady clatter of our faithful Morgan’s hooves.
Which, of course, was exactly the sort of moment when all hell was bound to break loose.
“Stevie!” I half thought the voice was in my head, part of some dream I was slipping into. “Stevie! Sara! Dammit, can’t you hear me?”
Miss Howard roused me, and together we turned to look at the quiet blocks around us, failing to see a single soul; but when the voice called out to us again, I marked it as Mr. Picton’s, and realized it was coming from his office window.
“Up here!” he said, at which point we glanced up to see him hanging almost half out of the court house, waving his pipe in one hand and a piece of paper in the other, trying desperately to get our attention. “Listen, Stevie,” he went on, “you’ve got to get out to the Westons’ and bring the Doctor back here! They don’t have a blasted telephone, and we need to talk! He was going to be back by nine, but I’ve just had a wire from John—we’ve got to go over it now!”
“But the hearing’s in the morning,” Miss Howard tried to answer, “and he’s still got to—”
“That doesn’t matter—all taken care of” Mr. Picton shouted, confusing the hell out of both Miss Howard and me. “Sara, you’d better take my surrey and go fetch Lucius and Cyrus—but Stevie, you’ve got to get the Doctor, as fast as you can!”
In one quick move Miss Howard jumped to the ground, starting toward High Street and the court house steps at a run. She turned around when she was about halfway there to tell me, “Wake El Niño up, Stevie—he can keep you from drifting off again!”
“Like that’s gonna happen!” I said, full of new energy. “I wanna know what the hell’s going on!”
Miss Howard smiled, gathered her skirt together, and turned to keep running. Thinking the matter over, I figured I could in fact use some company to break the monotony of a drive back along the road we’d just come in on, so I gave my companion on the bed of the wagon a good shake, causing him to bolt upright, produce his kris, and ready himself to throw it, all in one lightning move.
“Take it easy, son,” I said, patting the driver’s bench where Miss Howard had been sitting. “Come on up here and grab ahold of something—the ride’s about to get a little rough!” With a gleeful laugh at the idea of being graduated to the bench, El Niño jumped up beside me and got ready to roll as I turned the wagon around and slapped the reins against the Morgan’s backside. We wouldn’t be able to travel full speed until we got outside town again, but once we did the little stallion showed he was no worse for the day’s work, and as we barreled along we raised such a cloud of dust—not to mention such an unholy racket—that El Niño couldn’t resist breaking into another song, what he told me he’d picked up during his pirating days in the South China Sea.
It was still fully light out when we reached the Westons’ farm, a testament as much to the durability of our horse as to my driving talents. Josiah Weston, though taken off guard by the sight of the aborigine in my evening clothes, told me that the Doctor and Clara Hatch were somewhere down by the stream behind the house, once again drawing. This didn’t surprise me; the Doctor had amazing patience when it came to these things, and if a given kid responded to a certain form of treatment or communication, he could stay with it for days on end. Telling El Niño to get some feed and water for our horse, I took off down toward the stream at a run.
Shooting around the big vegetable garden, then through a cornfield and down along the banks of the loud, clear brook, I found myself getting more and more excited, about just what I had no idea. I jumped and bolted over the rocks and muddy grass of the streambank, searching for the Doctor and Clara but not finding them right off; and, even though I knew that they wouldn’t be able to hear me over the noise of the rushing water, I called out their names a couple of times, never pausing to listen for an answer. Finally, after some five minutes of dashing and leaping, I caught sight of the Doctor’s back about half a mile upstream from the house. He was sitting underneath a large maple tree, one whose roots had grown out to form a kind of platform over the streambed. Clara was sitting quietly across from him, sketching away.
When I finally did get within earshot of the Doctor, I slowed down a bit. The part of the stream where the two of them were sitting was a little bend where the water spread out into an undisturbed pool, and grew quiet enough for me to hear the Doctor’s gentle voice as he spoke with Clara. He was obviously at a critical juncture in his effort to reach the girl, based on what I could hear of his words:
“… and so you see, Clara, I began to understand that what had happened was not my fault—and that if I only told others the truth about what had happened, it would help. It would help me to stay safe, and it would help my father to stop doing such things.”
This was all fairly predictable: again, I’d heard its like before, from the Doctor, and though I knew enough to approach quietly, I also calculated that a pause in the conversation—brought on by Clara’s silent attempt to wrap her troubled young mind around his last thought—would follow. I waited for it, figuring that at said point I could gracefully step in and break the news that we were urgently needed back in town.
What happened instead was that my jaw dropped at the sound of Clara answering the Doctor in a soft, slightly hoarse, but still amazingly clear voice:
“And did your papa get better?”
I could see the Doctor nod slowly. “He was a very sick man. Like your mama. But yes, he got better, eventually. So will she.”
“But only if I tell the truth …” Clara said, quietly and with real fear.
There was no doubt about it: they were having a conversation.
CHAPTER 39
I did my damndest not to interrupt the scene, knowing that what was happening was crucial; but the sogginess of the streambank below me prevented the attempt. Standing there holding my breath, I began to feel my foot sinking into a deep patch of grassy mud. Letting out a little holler, I yanked my leg up, a move what produced a loud and slightly humorous sound. The pair of these noises caused the Doctor and Clara to spin round quickly and get to their feet. The little girl rushed to hide behind the Doctor’s leg, though when she saw it was only me—and then that the bottom of my leg was covered in a thick sludge—she began to laugh some, in that hoarse little way of hers. The Doctor smiled, too; as for me, I could feel my own face going red.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking chunks of clay and mud off my boot. “I didn’t mean to barge in, but—” I just looked down at my foot, and then the two of them laughed even harder.
“Well, Clara,” the Doctor said, “I think that someone’s been trying to sneak up on us. What do you think?” The girl’s laugh shrank to a smile as she looked at me; then she reached her head up, wanting to whisper into the Doctor’s ear. He bent down to listen, then laughed again. “No, he certainly is not very good at it!” Giving me a meaningful look what said if my business wasn’t important I’d best beat it, the Doctor went on, “And so, Stevie, what brings you?”
I tried to keep my voice casual, not knowing just what might upset Clara. “It’s Mr. Picton, sir. He says maybe it’s time to call it a day.” I let my tone get a little more pointed. “Seems he’s had a telegram—from Mr. Moore.”
The Doctor’s eyes did a little dance, but he kept his emotions under control. “I see.” He glanced down at Clara, then back at me. “All right. I’ll meet you at the house. Five minutes.”
I n
odded and departed, the Doctor turning to have a serious heart-to-heart with his young patient as I went.
By the time I got back to the house, the mud on my foot and leg had started to dry, but it was still sufficiently stupid-looking for El Niño to get a big damned howl out of it. He kept going as I removed my boot and tried to get myself cleaned up, but when the Doctor and Clara appeared he snapped to attention and became all respectful business. The girl found the aborigine a strange sight, but not, it seemed, a threatening one; and she whispered a few remarks into the Doctor’s ear again once she’d fully sized him up. The Doctor smiled and then put a hand on Clara’s head, telling her that El Nino’s size was normal for people like him.
“He comes from the other side of the world,” the Doctor explained. “There are many unusual things there. You might see them someday, if you like.” He then crouched down to look her in the eye. “I’ll be back in the morning to take you to the court house, Clara. And I’ll stay in the room there with you, just as I promised. Only Mr. Picton will ask you any questions—so you see, there’s really nothing to be afraid of. It will help—the truth will help everyone.”
Clara nodded, trying hard to believe the Doctor’s words as Josiah Weston came over to put an arm around her. Obviously very much aware that we were on the eve of Clara’s first big test, Mr. Weston shook the Doctor’s hand with what seemed like confidence; but at the same time I thought I could see a bit of lingering doubt in his eyes about whether they were doing the right thing. But as the Doctor turned to board his hired gig, Clara rushed over and threw herself around the Doctor’s leg, the way I’d seen many kids at the Institute do; and I think that convinced Mr. Weston more than any words could have that they had truly started down the only path what would ever lead to any kind of real peace for her.
As we rolled back along the Westons’ drive, I pulled over to one side to let the Doctor bring the gig up beside us, and then gave him a quick version of the situation in town, or what little I knew about it. As to what Mr. Picton had meant by the Doctor’s business at the Westons’ being “all taken care of,” it seemed that Clara had actually started talking that morning, and that the Doctor had dispatched Peter Weston to town with the news immediately, so that Mr. Picton would know that he could count on having the last weapon in his arsenal at the ready when he went before the grand jury. After telling me this, the Doctor slowed the gig, got behind our wagon again, and then put his mind to the task of keeping up with me: the rest of our ride back was as fast and rough as the trip out’d been. When we reached the court house, the Morgan stallion finally made it clear through a series of heavy sighs that he’d done all the running he was going to that day; and I told El Niño, as he led the two horses and rigs back to the livery stable, to make sure that Mr. Wooley gave the remarkable animal an especially good meal and brushing down for his efforts.
