The Spiritualist (15 page)

“You’re aware you’ve been arrested for your husband’s murder?”

I nodded.

Callahan sighed as he turned a page of the papers in his hand. “On the night of January fifteenth, you attended a spirit circle with your husband at Dorothy Bennett’s where there were many other society members in attendance. During the course of the evening, a gun misfired.”

I frowned at him. “I’ve told you all this.”

“Everyone but you had been to this circle many times, isn’t that right, Mrs. Atherton?”

“Yes. It was the first time I’d gone.”

“Were you accused of firing the gun?”

The surprise of what he’d said made me forget Irene. “Pardon?”

He raised a brow and glanced again at the paper. “Don’t you remember? Are you subject to bouts of amnesia, Mrs. Atherton?”

“I—surely you can’t be serious… .” I trailed off as I realized how intently he was watching me.

“Was the accusation made, Mrs. Atherton?”

“Who told you this? Was it Mr. Jourdain? I know he came to talk to you—”

“I asked you a question, Mrs. Atherton. Were you accused of firing the gun in the circle that night?”

“I think the accusation was made in jest. No one could possibly have taken it seriously.”

“Did the others in the circle know how much you disliked your husband?”

“Disliked him? But—but that’s ridiculous!”

“Is it?” He glanced again at the paper. “You rarely attended society events with him. There were rumors that the two of you were estranged, that he was going to leave you.”

“No. No, that’s not true—”

“To be abandoned that way, without the money or prospects you worked so hard for… Well, that might have made anyone desperate, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said faintly.

“Is it also true that you were having an affair with Michel Jourdain?”

I was stunned into silence.

Callahan leaned forward. “Is it true, Mrs. Atherton?”

Suddenly I was exhausted beyond measure. “He’s hardly… appropriate, Mr. Callahan. And even if he were, I was devoted to my husband.”

“So you weren’t having an affair with him.”

“I was not.”

“Here, it says that at a ball at Mrs. Henry Reid’s home on January seventeenth of this year, you told a witness that you were quite taken with Mr. Jourdain.”

“I hardly would have said such a thing. I might have said I was impressed with him, but I meant that regarding his skill as a charlatan—”

“Did you also tell this witness that you were jealous of the attention your husband paid his friends, and that you hated him?”

“At Rose Reid’s ball?” I asked in surprise. “I never said that. Not to anyone.”

“Apparently you did. To Mrs. Daniel Cushing.”

I gaped at him in disbelief. Then, slowly, the realization of what Irene had done, of the things I had said to her in confidence, dawned on me. She had been my dearest friend. I had thought, she, of all people, would help me… .

Only the hard carapace of my dress kept me from dissolving before him. My corset felt cruelly tight; I could not breathe.

“Mrs. Cushing alleges that you were certain something terrible had happened to your husband—that you thought so long before any reasonable person would. ‘As if you had some superior knowledge,’ she said.”

“My God,” I whispered—surely there was nothing more now that could be done to me; surely there was not a single other hurt to be inflicted.

But Robert Callahan, as if he knew what little reserve of strength I had left, said, “Your husband’s family has alleged that you married your husband three years ago to get your hands on his fortune. That you manipulated him to write a will, and then you either murdered him yourself or had him murdered.” He paused, looking up from his paper with a gaze so coolly detached I could see no humanity within it. “What say you to these charges, Mrs. Atherton?”

“I want a lawyer.” Was that my voice? That thin and wispy sound?

“One will be appointed for you at your arraignment tomorrow morning.”

“My arraignment,” I repeated. I felt as if I were watching myself from far away, as if my body was not my own. “What time tomorrow? Where shall I present myself?”

“Present yourself? Oh, you needn’t worry. One of the guards will take you there.”

“They’ll pick me up? At what time?”

“They’ll retrieve you from the holding cell.”

I frowned. “From the holding cell?”

He gave me a cold smile. “Where did you think you were going, Mrs. Atherton? Home? Not until after your arraignment. And only if you can make bail. If they even set it, of course. I have several statements here from people claiming you’re likely to flee the city if you’re released. It seems no one really knows where you’re from.”

“I’m from here,” I managed. “I grew up in the city. My father… I was born on Duane Street. Near the market.”

“Were you?”

“I’ve never… I don’t know anywhere else. Where would I go?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Atherton.” He sighed again. “So, is there anything you wish to say? Any response to these accusations?”

Faintly, I said, “Only that I’m innocent.”

He nodded. Then he stood, and shouted, “Tyler!”

There was the sound of footsteps. The door opened, and my guard stuck his face back in. “Yes, sir?”

“Take Mrs. Atherton back to her cell.”

I remember nothing of the return to the basement. The next thing I knew, the barred door was closing firmly behind me, and my three companions were looking up with wary interest, and I went numbly to my bunk and curled as best as I could upon it, and waited out another sleepless night.

T
he next morning, after a meager breakfast of bread and weak tea, I was escorted again from my cell. This time, I was put into a Black Maria—a police wagon—and taken to one of the district courts. I was weary and listless; I could not even bring myself to look around me as they hustled me from the carriage and into the building that housed the court. I could not have told where in the city I was.

The lawyer I’d asked for had not materialized. The patrolman who escorted me was quick to say that after the arraignment, I’d probably be taken to the Tombs, the notorious Egyptian-styled Halls of Detention at Leonard and Elm Streets, where I would wait out the weeks or months until my trial date, unless I could afford to pay whatever bail was set. If indeed it were set at all.

I listened to these sentiments with only half an ear. Callahan’s listing of the accusations against me had cluttered my mind all through the night. Irene Cushing’s betrayal had been hard to bear; I shuddered to think of all the things I had told her, all the secrets of my marriage I’d revealed. It was the knowledge of her duplicity that had finally stolen my hope. Dorothy Bennett had pledged me her support, but I wondered now if she would even remember. And as for the rest of the circle: the Dudleys, Sarah Grimm, Jacob Colville, and Wilson Maull… I’d seen no sign of them at Peter’s funeral. I knew they didn’t believe in such ceremonies, but in my despair their absence took on a new meaning. Their lack of help implied that Peter had been right to suspect one of them. They must know something about my husband’s murder, and now I was imprisoned and unlikely to discover it. I burned with resentment and anger, but it was better than my fear, and so I nurtured it.

The two patrolmen who had guard of me took me up the stone stairs to the courtroom, which was large, but stuffy and stinking even on this cold day, and ill lit, so the prisoners and policemen and lawyers moving about were cast as grotesque shadows against the wall behind the judges, who sat on a high dais flanked by large globed lamps. There was a cast-iron rail separating the audience from the judges, and between that and the dais was a step, also surrounded by a railing, at which a man stood now, conferring with a judge.

The courtroom was full; I saw reporters scribbling away in their notebooks, and family members crying into their handkerchiefs as they waited for their friends and relatives to be charged.

“Here, ma’am,” said one of my guards, directing me to a bench that lined the wall perpendicular to the audience, separated again by a railing. There were others on those benches too: several men, and one other woman, who gazed with mutinous silence on the proceedings. I sat down, and my guards sat on either side of me as I waited my turn. I found myself searching the courtroom for someone I knew, a friendly face, but there was no one, although several reporters studied me with interest. In dismay, I realized my name and misfortune would be splashed all over the newspapers by tomorrow.

Then, the back door of the courtroom opened, and I started as my relatives—all clad starkly in mourning—walked in. Paul first, and then John and Pamela. Penny came last, her face as pinched and sour as I’d ever seen it. Paul did not even occasion a glance in my direction, nor did John, but Pamela and Penny darted me vicious little looks.

“Looks like they wish you dead,” whispered one of my guards, chuckling. “I wouldn’t count on bail set today.”

The four of them took seats in the front row before the judges. It seemed clear that now the Athertons had arrived, my name would soon come before the judges, and I’d not yet seen any sign of a lawyer. Surely I’d been assigned a public defender? Anxiously I looked about, trying to catch sight of any harried, over-worked young man, but the few fitting that description were in conference with other prisoners.

Then the door opened again, and into the courtroom stepped Benjamin Rampling.

He looked so confident and self-assured in his dark suit and somber vest and necktie, so competent, and though I knew he was not on my side, I could not help feeling an overwhelming relief at his presence. I know I gasped; the sound was loud enough that he turned to look, and I watched in stunned disbelief as he stepped past the Athertons without a word and crossed the courtroom to me.

“Evelyn, my dear,” he said, and then surprisingly, his dark eyes went glassy with unshed tears. “How can you forgive me?”

I could not answer. I thought for a moment this must be a dream—how could he be here standing before me now? I struggled to keep what faint hope I had from rising.

He sat beside me on the bench and reached for my hand, clasping it between his. “You must have thought I’d abandoned you. Trust me when I say nothing was further from my mind.”

“But—where have you been? You—you weren’t at the funeral.”

“In Albany. The wretched case took longer than I’d hoped. I’m afraid I was away from my hotel for some days. I didn’t receive the telegram from the office until yesterday. I came as soon as I could.”

“Oh, Ben,” I whispered. Damnable tears filled my eyes; I could not stop them.

His hand tightened on mine. “How terrible this must have been for you. What you must have thought… I would have done whatever I could to prevent it. Peter would never have wanted this.” He released my hand long enough to take a handkerchief from his pocket. When he offered it to me, I took it gratefully. Then I saw the avaricious way the reporters were watching, and I straightened and attempted to restore myself.

“I was afraid of what to think,” I admitted quietly. “When you sent no word—”

“You must believe I didn’t know. I’d assumed Peter had returned, that all was well. When I discovered what had happened… Dear God, Evelyn, I cannot apologize enough.”

I glanced toward the Athertons, who watched with bitter animosity, and murmured, “You don’t believe it then? The things they’re saying of me?”

“No, I don’t believe it.”

“Peter’s family means to see me hang.”

“They’ve been angry since Peter’s mother left him the house.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Peter protected you from it. My dear, there is so much we must speak about. I’ve contacted several people in the short time I’ve been back. I believe I can help you. Will you allow me to do so?”

I took a deep breath. “I’d be so grateful, Benjamin. Truly. It’s been so horrible! Everyone’s abandoned me, I’m afraid—”

“Not everyone. You’re not alone, my dear. There are still some who deplore what’s happened here.” His voice lowered with what seemed a fiercely contained anger, and he glanced quickly over his shoulder at Peter’s family. “This time, they shan’t get their way.”

I whispered, “Are you certain, Ben? Peter’s family can be formidable—”

“Peter would have wanted me to do this,” he told me. He looked as if he would say something more, but just then the bailiff’s voice rang out over the room.

“Mrs. Peter Atherton, approach the bench.”

Benjamin gave me a reassuring smile and helped me to my feet. He directed me past the benches, to the small table on the step before the judges, who looked down from their high desk like avenging angels.

“Benjamin Rampling representing Mrs. Peter Atherton,” Benjamin said, waiting while a secretary scratched his name onto a piece of paper.

One of the magistrates peered at me over the order before him. “Are you Mrs. Peter Atherton?”

I gripped the railing before me. My throat felt too dry to speak, but finally I answered, “I am, sir.”

“Evelyn Graff Atherton, you are charged with first-degree murder in the death of your husband, Mr. Peter Atherton, on January fifteenth, 1857. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty, Your Honor.”

Again, the scratching of the pen. I heard the whispering behind me, the furious scribbling of the newspaper reporters.

“So noted,” said the judge. “We’ll set the trial date for Monday, March twenty-third, 1857. Will that give you sufficient time to prepare, Mr. Rampling?”

“It would, Your Honor. Now to the subject of bail. Mrs. Atherton begs for leniency. As you will note, Mrs. Atherton is an upstanding member of society—”