Veil of Doubt, page 10
A cold silence settled in between them, interrupted only by the sounds of the girls’ play. Powell absently watched as Nannie poured pretend tea from the small blue pot into cups while Lalla banged a silver spoon against a saucer.
“I am so sorry, darling,” Powell said at long last. “I should have never let my emotions get away from me. Will you forgive me?”
Minutes more passed as Powell awaited her answer.
“I had Rebecca set a place for you in the dining room,” she said finally, her eyes steady on her stitching. “The girls and I will take our supper in my room this evening.”
Powell bowed his head, not knowing what to say. After another long moment, he lifted his frame from the chair.
• • •
Janet said not a word for the rest of the evening, taking their daughters upstairs with her, leaving Powell to eat alone. He withdrew to his study and poured himself a brandy before setting to work. He took Dr. Frank Stribling’s correspondence from the desk drawer and pulled the letter from the envelope. Unfolding it on the desk, he opened his journal and picked up a pen, writing Lloyd Interview across the top. With the pen still in his hand, he moved his attention to the letter and read it again.
My Dear Friend Powell,
I must say that I was most enthused to receive your letter. A bright spot in an otherwise dismal day. My apologies if I sound dismayed, but with continued overcrowding and so many incurable patients, my ability to cure those with hope is nearly impossible, rendering my spirits ever more depressed. But enough about my problems here at Western State. On to helping with yours.
In your correspondence, you had inquired as to what might cause a woman to murder her children. The obvious, of course, and as you suggested, is insanity. I would make inquiries regarding any falls or injuries she might have suffered; any familial record of insanity; inhospitable or abusive treatment from a spouse, son, father, or other male; excessive loss and grief, especially when she was a child. And, of course, issues with menstruation, although I would advise you to refrain from asking her questions on this topic. Best to let a physician enter into that fray!
A diseased mind capable of murdering multiple children over a period of several years is, in all probability, incurable. As such, we have no capacity here at the asylum for incurable patients should the mother be found not guilty by reason of insanity. My advice is to restrain her so that she is not a harm to herself or others. Antimony, bromides, and acetate of morphine or morphine sulfate would all be acceptable medicines. As for treatments, options are few, but mercurial bowel purges, regular warm baths, and tonics certainly would not hurt. But there is no cure for such chronic dementia. The best we can do is protect the patient from herself and her actions during the periods of mania when the disease takes control of the mind.
I will gladly send Dr. Allen Berkley to you to conduct an evaluation and to offer testimony at the proceeding when the time comes. Have Mr. Foster send us a communication over the wire when he’s ready.
Give my best to Mrs. Harrison and the girls. And don’t be a stranger. Staunton misses you, as do I.
Your Obedient Servant,
Frank
Powell startled when Nannie’s tabby jumped onto the desk. Purring, it nudged Powell’s wrist with its nose.
“What is it you want, Whiskers?”
The cat lowered its head and rubbed its face against Powell’s hand.
“I’ve no time for you tonight,” he said, stroking its head before shooing it away. The cat moved to the opposite side of the desk and settled near the edge, paws tucked under its breast, watching Powell with attentive eyes.
“What should I ask her?” Powell addressed the cat. “Definitely about her marriage to that sot.” He made a note. “And about her childhood.” He made another note before looking at the gray tabby again. “Do you think she had one of you growing up?”
Purring loudly, the feline closed its slit-lids over its eyes, seemingly losing interest.
“A lot of help you are!” Powell shook his head and continued to scribble his list of questions for Emily. He was tapping his pen on the desk, strategizing his approach, when his thoughts drifted to his sister Alice. Stribling had said Alice was unable to live with the shame of what had happened. She was so traumatized she could not rid her mind of the memory. A fever would spike without warning, Stribling said, sending her into a delirious state. Yet, throughout, even when Alice was not in her right mind, she was always aware of her actions. Felt guilt and remorse for the things she said and did. This didn’t seem to hold true with Emily Lloyd. Ms. Lloyd claimed no knowledge of poisoning the children. She expressed no remorse, displayed no guilt.
That’s a question for Frank, he thought and picked up the letter. “The best we can do is protect the patient from herself and her actions during the periods of mania when the disease takes control of the mind.”
He looked at the purring cat. Both Maggie and Delphi had been with Mrs. Lloyd during periods of time when she was supposedly administering the poison, yet neither of them had witnessed any mania or abnormal behavior.
“Why?” he asked the sleeping tabby. “How is it no one took notice?” He looked down at his notes and then back to the cat, not liking the answer that was forming in his mind.
Chapter 11
Wednesday, April 24, 1872
“My childhood?”
Emily’s brows furrowed at Powell’s question. When he arrived at the Lloyd house, she had been packing a case, expecting the judge to remand her the next morning. She had removed her children’s portraits from the wall and laid them next to the case to take with her to jail.
“There’s not much to tell. I have lived here nearly all my life. Grew up in this very house with my aunt and uncle.”
“I had heard that you were orphaned,” Powell said, glancing at the clock between two lamps on the mantel. The clock was old and its face yellowed, and, not wound since Emily’s incarceration, its crooked hands were frozen on the numbers one and ten. Trinkets were scattered over the mantel and side table, and quilt squares sat in a basket on the floor by her feet.
“My mother died in childbirth,” Emily replied. “And my father and stepmother died in a fire. Somehow I escaped without so much as a scratch. My aunt said they found me wandering around in the snow afterward.”
“How horrible!” Powell said, reminded of his sister Alice. “That must have been a terrifying experience for you.”
“As I was not yet four years of age at the time, I have no memory of the event. Nor of my father, nor of living in Clark.”
“So you came to Leesburg to live with your aunt and uncle?”
“Aunt Liza and my mother were sisters, so she and Uncle Frank took me in.”
“What about siblings? Any sisters or brothers?”
“The only person who might be considered a sibling would be my cousin Mary. She is Aunt Liza and Uncle Frank’s daughter. She’s about ten years older than me but treated me like a little sister until she married and moved to Chicago with her husband.”
“I’d like to speak with her.” Powell pulled his notepad from his pocket. “What’s her surname now?”
“Reynolds. Mrs. Mary Reynolds.” Emily lifted her head and watched as Powell wrote the name in his book.
“Her husband’s first name?”
“William? Or maybe Walter? Then again, it could be Robert.” Emily sighed. “I have a terrible memory for such things.”
“Do you have an address for her?”
“Last I wrote to her was when she was in Chicago. A few years back, she moved to Canada. Somewhere near Toronto, I think. With the war and all, I lost contact with her.”
“I’ll see if I can find her for you, assuming you’d like to be in touch with her.”
“That would be very nice.”
Powell made a note and shifted in his chair. “About this fire, do you know when it happened?”
“It would have been the winter of ’40 or ’41, I reckon.”
“Do you know how the fire started?”
Emily shook her head.
“What was your father’s occupation?”
She shook her head again.
“Do you remember him at all?”
“As I said, I have no recollection of the man or of the fire.” Emily’s gaze drifted to the floor as if she were searching for something. “Who knows what demons lay buried in the ashes.” Powell cocked his head as she brought her eyes back to his. “Aunt Liza used to say that forgotten memories are sleeping demons we need not wake.” She smiled. “It was a long time ago, Mr. Harrison, and I was very young.”
Powell nodded and made another note. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions about your marriage?”
“Not at all.”
“How did you meet Mr. Lloyd?”
“Charlie?” She smiled again. “He was driving a coach when I met him. Had big dreams back then, Charlie did. We married in ’59. George arrived a year later. And not long after, Henry. Then came the war, and Charlie was gone. When he returned, he wasn’t the same man. But I can understand when you experience things, when you’ve seen things. Horrible things can change a person.”
“Did you see something, experience something, that might have caused a change in you? During the war, maybe?”
Emily narrowed her eyes and scrutinized his face to understand his meaning.
“Those things of which you speak can change a woman as well,” Powell said. “I’m sure you know that I have three sisters, because you see them at church.” He was going out on a limb here, but he knew of no other way to get to what he wanted to know. “I had a fourth sister, Alice, whom I was very close to. You remind me of her sometimes. She would be about your age now if she were still with us.”
“I’m sorry for you, Mr. Harrison.”
“During the war, something terrible happened to Alice. The incident threw her into a state of deep melancholy. Something so terrible that she was unable to live with its burden.”
“What happened?”
“It was through no fault of her own. Alice had been taking care of a sick friend whose husband, like most able-bodied men, was off fighting the Yankees. One afternoon, a rogue band of Federal cavalry arrived at the farm where the two young women were staying alone. For hours, these men terrorized my sister and her friend. My sister’s friend died from the assault. And while Alice’s body recovered, her mind was never the same again.”
Emily brought her fingers to her lips, her eyes staring down to a point between the chair and the floor.
“That’s a horrible story, Mr. Harrison. What a monstrous thing. Your poor sister.”
“Indeed, it is all very tragic, yet occurred all too often, I’m afraid.” Powell shifted in his chair. “Did you witness something similar during the war?”
“Not at all. I found the Yankees to be polite when they occupied the town. It was mostly the Rebels who would visit my door, robbing our supplies and stores. But nothing like what you described.”
“You mentioned that your husband was a changed man after the war. Was he abusive toward you?”
“Like all men, I suppose, he would on occasion discipline the boys with the lash. And then there were times when he would come home from the tavern and lose his patience with them.”
“I was asking about you, Mrs. Lloyd. Did Mr. Lloyd lose his patience with you?”
Emily moved her gaze to her hands resting in her lap. “Sometimes.”
Powell leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “I was told about an incident in your backyard a few years back. When Colonel Nixon called the sheriff. Were there other occasions when your husband assaulted you—or took liberties without your consent?”
“I am quite uncomfortable with these questions. And what on earth does any of this have to do with finding out who hurt my little girl?”
“Mrs. Lloyd, you have been accused of not only causing the deaths of your children but also the death of your husband. If he were abusive toward you, the prosecution will surely claim that abuse as motive. I am simply trying to understand the circumstances. And to get to know you better so that I might provide the best defense possible.”
“Nothing that happened between me and my husband had anything to do with the deaths of my children. I can assure you that I had nothing to do with any of it.” Emily shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
“And that’s what we are trying to prove,” Powell said. Getting nowhere, he decided to change the subject. The doctors from Western State would have ample opportunity to delve deeper into her relationship with her husband and what, if anything, had happened to her while her husband was gone. “Have you suffered any falls? Any injury to your head where you lost consciousness?”
“No, none that I remember. I wasn’t much for being out of doors or climbing trees.” She laughed. “But I do get confused and sometimes become a bit disoriented. I’ll find myself in a room and, for the life of me, can’t remember how I got there. And I am so forgetful.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head.
“Have you always had bouts of forgetfulness? Or is it something that has developed more recently?”
“I think I’ve always been this way. Uncle Frank used to tell folks that I had my head in the clouds. Always talking to my imaginary friends in my make-believe world, he’d say.” She laughed at the memory. “But that was when I was a little girl. You have daughters, Mr. Harrison. You know how vivid young imaginations can be.”
“I do indeed,” Powell said with a laugh. “Just last evening, my Nannie and her little sister had tea with three imaginary guests in our parlor. And our poor cat. Sometimes she puts a bib on him and forces him to join her for tea as well.”
Emily smiled. “Annie and Maudie would have similar parties. I couldn’t possibly remember the names of all the dignitaries who attended their teas. I do remember one time Annie told me that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert were joining them. And she was quite insistent that I needed to bake a wedding cake for the occasion.”
“You don’t say,” Powell said with a British accent, stiffening his lips. They laughed together.
“I miss them, you know,” Emily said, the laughter in her voice fading. “And I ask myself: Why? Why did the Lord take my babies?”
“In his Gospel,” Powell said, recalling a lesson that his pastor in Staunton shared when Alice died, “John the Apostle tells a story of Jesus healing an impotent man on the Sabbath.”
“John 5,” Emily said. “The cripple by the pool of Bethesda.”
“You know it?”
“I do,” Emily acknowledged. “But Jesus cured that man. He didn’t cure my babies.”
“Jesus did, in fact, heal the man. But there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others, lame and blind, lying around the pool. Jesus stepped over them all, leaving them to suffer while only saving the one. John tells us later in the chapter that Jesus acts only at the direction of the Father. ‘For the Father loveth the Son, and showeth Him all things that Himself doeth: and He will show Him greater works than these.’ God had not yet disclosed all of His works to Jesus. Just as He does not disclose all of His works or share all His thoughts with us.”
“You’re quoting Isaiah now,” she said.
“Yes,” Powell said, impressed with her knowledge of scripture. “And together with John 5, it tells us that we aren’t meant to understand.”
“It doesn’t make it any easier, Mr. Harrison.” She brought her eyes to her hands that lay folded in her lap.
“Having lost a child of my own, I understand your doubt and pain more than you know,” Powell said, glancing down at his notes.
Emily brought her gaze to Powell. “I remember your boy.”
She reached over and placed a hand on his sleeve.
He looked up from the journal, his eyes catching hers.
“There is no pain worse,” Emily said, her voice filled with compassion.
Powell felt the familiar lump of sorrow rising in his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing it down.
Emily smiled empathetically before removing her hand.
“When I don’t understand God’s ways,” she said, most certainly seeing the anguish on his face, “I cling to God’s worth. Every night, I fall to my knees and ask Him to guide me through my suffering.”
“I haven’t spoken to God since Bo’s death,” Powell said, moving his gaze from hers.
“‘He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.’” She smiled at him. “We must hold fast to our faith, Mr. Harrison. And trust that the Lord is good even when our worlds are falling apart.”
Powell inhaled a long, silent stream of air deep into his lungs, and released it slowly. He had not admitted his abstinence from prayer—his rift with God, as he coined it—to a soul, not even to Janet, yet here he was confessing to Emily Lloyd, a near stranger. What had gotten into him? He glanced at his notes again and cleared his throat.
“When I was here with Mr. Foster the other day, I noticed a small door at the back of the closet in your chamber,” he said, moving the discussion back to his questions.
“It’s an access to the chimney flue and was locked off by my uncle. He was afraid one of us girls might fall to our deaths thinking it was a secret hiding place to play in.”
“Do you use the door now?”
“I’ve never had a reason to access the chimney. The door is locked, and I have no idea where the key might be.”
Powell flipped the page to his final topic. “One last question, Mrs. Lloyd. I notice that this house is a twin. Who rents the other half from you?”
“I don’t own the other side. But there are two sisters who live there. Lara and Lilith are their names.”
“How well do you know them?”
“I’m friendly with Lara. She’s kind to me. And a God-fearing woman. The other one, Lilith, she is an immoral woman, she is. And a filthy mouth, that one has. I don’t care for her at all.”
