“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’ farm 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.