Powell pulled from his pocket two pieces of rose-shaped sugar crystal, one pink and one green, and held one in each hand between his thumbs and forefingers. “I purchased these this morning from the mercantile across the street. The candies come in all sorts of colors, but as I understand it, Maud was particularly fond of the pink and green ones, as they reminded her of the roses on her walls.” The men in the rear row leaned forward to look. Powell held them up so that each man could see before returning the candy to his pocket.

  “Was the overconcentration of the bismuth responsible? Dr. Fauntleroy told you that Maud had the telltale blue gumline that Dr. Ellzey said was a sure indication of bismuth poisoning. Or did arsenic make its way onto the stomach when Deputy Roberts, despite memory issues that he readily admits, laid it on the counter at Dr. Moore’s apothecary? Because Professor Tonry included the organ and its contents when he prepared his sample, we don’t know if arsenic was inside the stomach or on the outside.” Powell stopped pacing and looked at the jury.

  “So who is to blame?” Powell stood silently, watching the faces of the jurymen. After a moment, he shrugged a shoulder and slowly shook his head, his brow furrowed in question.

  “I must tell you, gentlemen, that I have studied this case for over six months and I still don’t know for certain how little Maud died or the source of the arsenic found in the postmortem specimen. Neither does the prosecution. And, gentlemen”⁠—Powell paused, looking at each of them again before turning and pointing at Kilgour and Orr⁠—“that was their responsibility, and not mine, to prove. And they have failed miserably.”

  Powell turned back to the jurymen.

  “If there is any doubt at all in your minds as to how Maud Lloyd died, then it cannot be murder. And if there is no murder, then there can be no murderer. No one to blame and no option other than to find Mrs. Lloyd not guilty. Because Mrs. Lloyd is not guilty. She is innocent of what she has been accused. And yet she has remained stoic as best she could through some of the most horrendous testimony that no grieving parent should endure.

  “If you will humor me for just a moment, I’d like you to try to imagine Mrs. Lloyd’s pain. She had just buried her five-year-old daughter six weeks before little Maud fell ill with similar symptoms. For three days, the child suffered until she finally succumbed. Little Maud was still warm, her soul had yet to leave her body, when Sheriff Atwell and Sam Orrison barged into Mrs. Lloyd’s home and insisted that she allow them to cut Maud up. Not surprisingly, she refused. A few hours later, they returned and insisted again. This time she bowed to the pressure. She watched as her child’s body was desecrated before her very eyes. And then little Maud’s innards were hauled out of the front door in a blood-soaked rag and carted down the street with dogs and pigs following behind and lapping up her blood as it dripped on the walkway. The child’s innards were hurled onto a druggist’s dirty counter into God knows what, tossed into a jar, and shipped off to a distant city, where it was left on a laboratory shelf for days as trains and wagons rumbled on the dusty streets below. For hours last week, Mrs. Lloyd sat there on that dock, forced to listen to Professor Tonry explain how he sliced parts of her daughter’s body into little pieces and cooked her up as if he were preparing a man’s dinner. Imagine if it were your daughter. Or your sister. Imagine if this were your wife⁠—your widow⁠—sitting there in the dock, alone and without your protection to shield her from Mr. Kilgour’s zeal. Imagine if your widow had to endure what Mrs. Lloyd has endured. If every friend abandoned her. And every neighbor turned every physician’s visit to tend to your sick children into something nefarious. Imagine if a traveling salesman forced his way into your home and defiled your grieving widow, threatening your child’s life should she report him to the authorities. And imagine her reaction when some months later that same huckster, after learning the value of her estate, claims to be her fiancé in order to enrich himself. Imagine how your widow would feel. Imagine her outrage and indignity and pain. Imagine how you would feel. The anger. The rage!”

  Powell studied the face of each man on the jury. He could see water welling in a few pairs of eyes. And all he needed was one. He drew a pronounced breath and stepped away from them, squaring his shoulders.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, Mrs. Lloyd cannot be guilty of murder because there was no murder. Mr. Kilgour and Mr. Orr are unable to prove whether Maud Lloyd was poisoned by arsenic or bismuth because they haven’t a clue what caused her death. They haven’t proven the source of the arsenic in the postmortem. They haven’t proven a thing. The only thing Mr. Kilgour and Mr. Orr have done is persecuted a childless mother. A grieving widow. An innocent woman.”

  Powell nodded to the jurymen and returned to the defense table. As he took his seat, he held his gaze forward, staring at the judge’s bench. Matt knew not to speak to him until the judge gave the jury his instructions and Powell had come back into himself. Powell’s ability⁠—like their father’s⁠—to pull at the emotions of the men on the jury from somewhere beyond himself had not been gifted to Matt.

  As the jury left the courtroom, charged with their duty, Powell rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. He looked at Matt and JW.

  “It’s just about five o’clock,” Powell said with a glance at the clock on the wall. “I say we wait here until six. If they aren’t back by then, we’re in big trouble.”

  “Your summation was brilliant,” JW said. “Not a dry eye in the house. They’ll acquit, and it won’t take them long.”

  Matt looked over at the prosecution table. Kilgour and Orr were packing their satchels. “Looks like Kilgour is confident. He’s calling it a night now.”

  “Kilgour won’t have had time to remove his hat before he’s called to return,” JW said.

  Powell nodded his head in the direction of the dock. Freddie was assisting Emily from her chair. “Shall we wait with our client in the back?”

  “Be my guest,” Matt said. “I’ll stay here and guard the table.”

  “I’ll keep Matthew company,” JW said.

  • • •

  “What happens now?” Emily Lloyd asked.

  “We wait,” Powell said.

  “How long?”

  “I have no idea. It could be within the hour. Or it could take hours. We just need to be patient.”

  Emily Lloyd looked out the window, staring into the darkening shadows.

  “Mrs. Lloyd,” Powell said. She didn’t acknowledge him. “Emily.”

  Emily turned her head and brought her gaze to his.

  “I know about your sisters.”

  She stared at him, her expression blank, saying nothing.

  “Your two sisters. What are their names?” Powell asked. She held her stare, her brow furrowing as if she were having difficulty understanding his words. “Lara and Lilith, right?”

  “I’m not sure of your meaning,” she said finally.

  “The women who live next door in the other half of your house. They’re your sisters, aren’t they?”

  Emily opened her mouth to speak when the door opened.

  “Mr. Harrison,” Freddie said. “The jury. They’re back.”

  Powell stood. “Already?”

  “Yessir. They have a verdict.”

  • • •

  “Have you completed your deliberations?” Judge Keith asked as the jurymen settled into the chairs and the court was called to order. Powell looked at the clock on the wall. Five thirty.

  “We have, Your Honor,” said the foreman, and he handed a folded paper to the bailiff to give to the judge. Keith took the note from the bailiff and opened it. His face remained expressionless as he read.

  “And you are unanimous in your decision?” he asked, lifting his eyes from the paper.

  The foreman stood. “We are, Your Honor.”

  Keith drew a long breath and looked at Powell before directing his attention to Emily. “Would the prisoner please rise?”

  Emily had difficulty getting to her feet. Freddie offered her an arm to assist her out of her chair. Powell, Matt, and JW also stood.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, what say you?” Keith commanded.

  “On all counts of murder in the first degree, we, the jury, find the defendant, Emily Elizabeth Lloyd, not guilty.”

  Emily’s legs gave way, and she nearly fell to the floor. The crowd in the courtroom gasped. Judge Keith rapped his gavel on the bench.

  “Order. I’ll have order!”

  The crowd quieted.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, the state appreciates your service, and I do believe you made the correct decision in your deliberations.” He turned to Emily. “Mrs. Lloyd, you are free to go.” He pounded the gavel on the bench again. “We are adjourned.”

  Chapter 40

  Monday, November 4, 1872

  Lara lifted the silver frame from her dresser to pack in her trunk. With a thumb, she rubbed dust from the glass that had been covering the faces. Three frowning girls in their Sunday frocks. She tossed the picture into the trunk. That was the last of it. The last of what she wanted to take with her. The rest would remain behind. Lara left the room and went downstairs. Lilith’s trunk was open, empty of contents, and Lilith was sulking.

  “You haven’t started to pack yet?” Lara asked and checked the clock on the mantel. It was nearly noon. Their hired coach was arriving at half past one to take them to Harpers Ferry, where they would catch the last train to Baltimore. The next morning, they would leave for Jersey City, the terminus of the B&O Railroad. Lilith was under the impression that they’d be traveling west to Chicago, but Lara had no intention of settling anywhere near that huckster or in any city in the States. Lara’s plan was to leave the country altogether. And fast. From Jersey City, they would catch the first passenger train on the Lackawanna Railroad heading to Syracuse and on to the port city of Oswego, New York. There, steamers sailed daily across Lake Ontario to Toronto. Once safely in Canada, they could stay with their cousin Mary, she reasoned, who lived not far with her husband in the mining community of Allan’s Mills, until they found a place of their own.

  “I don’t want to go,” Lilith said.

  “We cannot stay here, Lilith. You know this.”

  “I want to stay close to Randy.”

  “Have you lost your mind? The man is dead. And he isn’t coming back from the grave, so it’s best to move on. I’m sure there are plenty of men in Chicago who will be happy to entertain you.”

  “It won’t be the same.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Shaking her head, Lara reminded herself that she had resolved to be more understanding toward Lilith even though she didn’t understand her at all. Lara had to do whatever was necessary to protect Emily. After all, Emily’s well-being was critical for their survival. It would be better if the three of them could learn to get along.

  “Come on, Lil,” she said gently. “There will be other men who will love you. But not in this town. Not anymore. Now, please. Help me finish packing. The coach will be here in an hour or so. We haven’t much time.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Who in blazes could be calling?” Lara said, arching her back. She glanced at Lilith with a raised brow. “You didn’t invite some fella over, did you?”

  “Of course not. As you said, with Randy gone, there’s no one here for me anymore.”

  Lara bit her tongue and walked to the window. She peered through the curtain and froze.

  “Who is it?” Lilith asked.

  “What purpose could Mr. Harrison have to call?” Lara said under her breath.

  “Mr. Harrison?” Lilith asked, moving behind her.

  “Miss Samson?” Powell hollered through the door and knocked again. “Miss Lara? Or is it Miss Lilith? I know you are there. I can see you through the curtain.”

  “Go on, Lara. Let Mr. Harrison in.”

  “Shhh,” Lara whispered. “There can be no good reason for him to be here.”

  “Miss Samson, please,” Powell said. “I would just like a few words and then I’ll be on my way.” He knocked again, this time more insistently.

  “Wouldn’t you like to thank him for all he’s done for Emily? For us?” Lilith said.

  Lara turned and looked into her sister’s pleading eyes.

  “What harm could come from it?” Lilith asked. “We’re leaving anyway. He was always so kind to Emily. And you like him.”

  Lara drew a reluctant sigh. “Fine. As long as you are packed and ready when the coach arrives.”

  Lilith nodded, her eyes igniting happily, stepping closer.

  Lara turned and placed her hand on the knob. With a twist, she pulled the door toward her. Powell Harrison was standing on the stoop in a long dark overcoat with a tall black hat on his head. As he removed the hat to greet her, Lara squeezed her eyes shut. The rumble of a passing cart and sounds of the street whirred to white noise, like water rushing around her, until it faded to silence. She felt light, floating over mute, warm waves, disappearing as she drifted into still darkness. The quiet was interrupted by a voice. A man was calling from somewhere far away.

  “Mrs. Lloyd?”

  • • •

  “Mrs. Lloyd?” Powell said.

  Staggering awkwardly, Emily put a hand on the doorframe.

  “Are you all right?” Powell asked, taking her elbow.

  “I⁠—I don’t quite know,” she said. “I just need a minute to gather myself.”

  “Ma’am?”

  She glanced about again before bringing her gaze to his. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Mrs. Greene mentioned that you were leaving town, and I wanted to wish you well. There was no answer at your door, but when I heard voices, I . . .” Powell’s eyes narrowed as he looked over her shoulder into the empty hall. “Might you introduce me to your sisters?”

  “As I’ve told you, I have no family here.”

  “Your neighbors, then, Miss Lilith and Miss Lara. I’d like to meet them,” Powell said as he stepped past her into the house. He had finally caught the recluses at home and would not be deterred. “I heard them speaking just a moment ago.”

  Powell walked into the parlor. An opened trunk sat near the settee. Other than the sparse furnishings he remembered from when he and JW had broken into the house, the room was empty. He turned to Emily, who was now behind him.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “They aren’t here at present.”

  Powell glanced down the hall. “If they aren’t here, why are you in their home?”

  Emily furrowed her brow in confusion. “I don’t know.”

  “Surely they let you in.” Powell called down the hallway. “Miss Lara? Miss Lilith? It’s Powell Harrison here.” He started toward the kitchen at the back of the house.

  When he entered the kitchen, he noticed a thick blanket of dust covering the shelves and table. The stove, too, was dusty and cold. He turned to Emily, who had followed him.

  “Where did they go?” As she shook her head, he pushed past her and headed for the stairs. At the top of the stairway, he turned left and made his way to the bedroom that faced the street. The door was open, and he could see another trunk in the room’s center.

  “Miss Lara?” He rapped on the door and poked his head through the doorway before entering. Again, he noticed the dust crawling over the edge of the nightstand and dresser’s top.

  “You can’t be in here,” Emily exclaimed, out of breath as she made her way down the hall toward him.

  Powell glanced in the trunk. Clothing, a pair of boots, the silver framed photograph of three little girls and their father. Powell noticed that the door to the closet was partially open, and daylight emanated from inside. How can that be? he thought. Unless . . . As he walked toward the closet, Emily rushed into the room.

  “You can’t be in here,” she repeated and reached for his arm.

  Powell shrugged from her grasp and pushed the door open. The small door at the rear of the closet was ajar, as was the door to Emily’s closet on the other side. Looking through the opening to Emily’s bedroom, he spotted a third trunk with its lid raised.

  “I thought you said you didn’t have a key,” he said, turning to Emily, who was standing in the closet’s doorway, her eyes closed, and swaying. “Mrs. Lloyd?” As he reached to steady her, he noticed the dress she wore, made from worsted wool that had been ravished by moths. Its sleeves were too long for her arms and the bodice much too large for her small frame. He looked at the dresses still hanging on the rod and then back at Emily.

  “Think of it as sleepwalking . . . We forget who we are and become someone else . . .” His father-in-law’s words boomed in his head. Powell’s mouth went dry. Could it be?

  “Miss Lara?” Powell asked, his voice cracking.

  Emily’s eyes fluttered and opened.

  “Mr. Harrison,” she said, her voice low and steady. A wry smile slowly broke over her face. “At long last, we meet.”

  Winter 1872

  And here the curtain falls⁠—God grant that we may never be called upon to record its like again.

  —⁠Loudoun Mirror, November 1872

  Epilogue

  Wednesday, December 18, 1872

  “I just received a message from Mortimer,” Matt said, walking into Powell’s office. “The state has decided not to pursue any further charges against Mrs. Lloyd.”

  “Since he’s won reelection,” Powell said, “I suppose he figures he doesn’t need to bow to public opinion these days.”

  “The ten-thousand-dollar cost of the last trial was more likely the reason for his decision.”

  “I guess there’s something more important to Kilgour than his ego after all.”

  “You’re sounding a bit salty, my friend,” Matt said. “It was a close contest.”

 

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