Midnight came and went, causing Mr. Picton to remark that he hoped the Spanish government and people were even worse at keeping to timetables than Americans were, if our country really intended to go to war with Madrid. Finally, at about 12:15, the train’s whistle sounded again, much closer this time. El Niño hopped down and did the old Indian trick of putting his ear to the tracks, then nodded eagerly as he rejoined us on the platform. The actual noise of the train’s engine reached our ears just as a light flashed through a break in the buildings beyond the depot; and in a few more seconds the steaming locomotive and its four nearly empty cars stormed in, causing us all to take a few steps back toward the station.
Sheriff Dunning was the first man off the forward car, and even in the near darkness his face looked plainly exhausted. One of his deputies followed, and then there was a long pause. Finally, she appeared.
The very shapely body was draped in a fine black silk dress, a stiff crinoline undergarment keeping the skirt in perfect order. The hands were cuffed together with old-style manacles. A small hat with a jet-black rooster feather sat forward on the head, holding a black veil in place; but the weave of the veil was an open one, and the golden eyes were plainly visible as they caught the light of the gas lantern on the platform and threw it back in our faces.
“Well,”Libby Hatch said, just the same way she had the first time we’d ever heard her speak: in a tone what was open to a half-dozen interpretations, and what made me think of Miss Howard’s words about Libby’s personality being broken into pieces. Then, seeing past us to Mr. Grose and the others, Libby put on a more melancholy air. “Mr. Picton,” she said, slowly coming down the steps of the car and getting a hand from Sheriff Dunning, “I never expected to see you again-certainly not under such circumstances as these.”
“Really?” Mr. Picton said quietly, not able to keep a small grin off his face. “How odd-since I always suspected we might meet again, and under precisely these circumstances.”
The golden eyes flashed on the rest of us with a quick glare of hate, and then softened as they came to rest on Mr. Grose. “Is that you, Mr. Grose?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hatch,” the man answered, a little surprised. “You remember me?”
“We only met once or twice,” Libby answered with a gentle little nod. “But of course I remember.” Golden tears began to well up under the veil. “How is my baby-my Clara? They tell me she can finally speak again. But I can’t believe that she’d-that she’d-” Her shoulders began to heave, and the sound of gentle sobbing escaped her tightly pursed mouth.
Mr. Grose, who looked very confused but very emotional, too, was about to answer, but the Doctor stepped between them quickly. “Mr. Picton,” he said, quietly but firmly, “may I suggest…”
“Of course,” Mr. Picton answered, getting the point right away. “Dunning, you and I will take Mrs. Hunter, as she is now known, to the court house. There’s a cell waiting. You brought a rig, Henry?”
The guard, who also seemed moved by what he’d seen, stepped forward. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Then we’ll be on our way, madam,” Mr. Picton finished, indicating the station yard. “If you wish to speak to the press, or they to you, requests can be submitted to my office.”
Sheriff Dunning got behind the woman. “Come along, ma’am,” he said. “Best to do what Mr. Picton says.”
Libby Hatch kept sobbing for a few more seconds; but when she saw that it wasn’t going to buy her anything, she turned on the Doctor, the sadness disappearing with frightening speed. “This is your doing, Doctor. Don’t think I don’t know that. But I don’t care what you’ve said to my daughter or made her believe-once she sees me, she’ll know what to do. I’m her mother.”Mr. Picton took a firm hold of Libby’s right arm, and indicated to Sheriff Dunning that he should do the same on her left: together, they got her moving. “Do you hear, me, Doctor?” she called over her shoulder. “I’m her mother! I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it will to her-and to anyone with a heart! Whatever else you may have done, you can’t change that!” Sobbing again, the woman passed out into the yard with her escort, the deputies and the court house guard following behind.
The rest of us wandered out to watch them all get aboard a big, plain wagon with three bench seats what was drawn by two horses. With its lone female occupant still in tears, the rig rolled away; and as it did, Mr. Grose turned to give the Doctor a silent scowl. Then he nodded to his people, and turned to silently march off toward the low end of Bath Street, where the offices of the Journal were located.
“Well, Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, as we stood there in the silent yard. “I guess that’s really the question, isn’t it?”
The Doctor turned to him, his mind very far away. “The question?” he asked softly.
“She’s Clara’s mother,” Mr. Moore said, with a grim but curious look on his face. “Can you change that?”
The Doctor just shook his head, his eyes going wide. “No. But we may, perhaps, be able to change what that means.”
CHAPTER 42
The arraignment was set for ten o’clock the next morning, and by fifteen minutes to the hour we were all gathered in the main courtroom. Mr. Picton was seated at one long table on the right side of the big chamber, beyond a low, carved oak railing what separated the gallery from the officers of the court. At a similar job on the left-hand side of the room were Libby Hatch and a well-dressed, dark-haired man who wore gold-rimmed pince-nez perched on top of his long, thin nose. No fancy glasses or expensive suit, though, could keep a look of genuine uncertainty out of Irving W. Maxon’s eyes: he kept glancing around the room like a nervous bird, as if he wasn’t sure how he’d landed in his current predicament or just what he was supposed to do about it. Libby Hatch, on the other hand-still wearing her black silk dress, but not the hat or veil-was a picture of confidence, staring at the high fruitwood bench in front of her with a face what seemed forever on the verge of breaking into the coquettish smile it so often displayed.
As for Mr. Picton, he had his watch open on the table in front of him and was staring at it, more calm than he’d been at any time since we’d met him.
The Doctor, Mr. Moore, the detective sergeants, and Miss Howard were all sitting in the first row of gallery chairs behind Mr. Picton’s table and the wooden railing; Cyrus, El Niño, and I were right behind them. We’d gotten the aborigine scrubbed down pretty good for the event, and the combination of his cleanliness and my evening clothes made him one of the most presentable people in the galleries, which since nine o’clock had been crammed full of a ragtag collection of townspeople, along with some sharper-looking visitors who’d come down from Saratoga. Sheriff Dunning was sitting at a small table just to the right of Mr. Picton, and beyond him, against the right-hand wall, was the jury box, its twelve seats empty. There was a guard standing on the other side of the room, and in front of him was the court stenographer, a proper-looking lady who went by the peculiar name of Iphegeneia Blaylock. The bailiff’s desk in front of the bench was empty, and on either side of the bench itself were two iron lamp fixtures and a like number of flags, one the American, the other the state banner of New York. Back by the front door, keeping a careful eye on who came into and out of the place and how they behaved, were the guard Henry and a slightly shorter (but, to judge by the look of him, no less powerful) uniformed man.
It was a strange experience for me, to be observing all the details of the situation from someplace other than the defendant’s chair; but the strangeness soon gave way to a feeling of relief and even excitement, as I realized that this was the place where all our recent labors would reach some kind of a conclusion in the days to come. It was like standing under the wire at the track and waiting for the horses to get out of the starter’s gate: I found myself tapping and banging my feet and hands and wishing the thing would just start. To judge by the noises around me, I wasn’t alone in said feeling, either: the talking, mumbling, and skittish laughing in the courtroom rose as every second of waiting went by, until by three minutes to ten I found I almost had to yell to make myself heard by Mr. Moore.