Veil of Doubt, page 5
“Awkward?” Anne Marie questioned, clearly annoyed that no one was agreeing with her.
“I don’t know if ‘awkward’ is exactly the right word.” Corrie thought for a moment. “Withdrawn, maybe.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Like me. I think she’s just shy.”
“Oh, sister, that woman is nothing like you,” Anne Marie said, shaking her head. “You’ve seen her at church, mumbling to herself half the time. Just look into those eyes and you can tell there’s something not right. The devil himself is in that stare of hers.”
Powell, too, had been struck by that stare during his interview of Emily Lloyd. Something in her gaze and her antics chafed at him. It wasn’t satanic, but something else.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Anne Marie,” Matthew was saying as Powell ruminated. “Mrs. Lloyd is hardly the devil. Though I will grant you that she is a little strange.”
“See, Bettie.” Anne Marie threw her sister a satisfied smile. “Matthew agrees with me.”
Bettie rolled her eyes. “He did not agree. He is only humoring you to shut you up.”
“Matt, did she remind you of Alice?” Powell asked, interrupting the brewing spat as he made the connection.
“Our Alice?” Matt asked.
“The way Mrs. Lloyd stared at the floor. And how she rocked herself in the chair. The moodiness. The erratic behavior.”
“Now that you mention it, yes, there is a similarity,” Matt said.
“And when she snapped at you—that’s just the thing Alice would do when her mind returned from wherever it had been.”
“Powell Harrison!” Anne Marie said. “Certainly you are not comparing our sister to that mad Lloyd woman.”
“Alice was mad,” Powell said.
“Through no fault of her own,” Anne Marie retorted.
“And what if Mrs. Lloyd, through no fault of her own, is also mad?” Powell said. “We all know that Alice and her friend weren’t the only ones to suffer at the hands of rogue soldiers. What if what happened to Alice also happened to Mrs. Lloyd?”
Anne Marie shifted in her chair as an awkwardness blanketed the porch. The Harrisons rarely spoke of the event that had led to their sister’s breakdown. Or of their father’s despotic decision to send her to the lunatic asylum in Staunton.
After a long moment, Corrie broke the silence. “If something similar did happen to Mrs. Lloyd, why kill her children? Wouldn’t she kill herself like Alice did?”
“I don’t know,” Powell said. “But it’s a question that I intend to put to Dr. Stribling at the asylum.”
“Oh no, you don’t!” said Janet, who had been sitting quietly next to Powell on the wicker settee. “Insane or not, you are not defending anyone who murdered her own babies! It’s unconscionable!”
“I agree with Janet,” said Matthew’s wife, Harriette, who was sitting in a rocker opposite the settee. “The whispers and finger-pointing . . .”
“I don’t care what others say,” Janet said, turning to Powell. “I care about our children. What do I tell my daughter when she asks why Papa isn’t at supper? That you’re off defending a woman who murdered her Sunday school playmate? And you’ll be totally absent from the family. We all know how you and Matthew become when you’ve got a big trial, disappearing for weeks on end. I can only imagine your obsession with your work on a case with this much notoriety.”
Powell moved his arm from the back of the settee to her shoulder and leaned toward her. “I’m not going off anywhere.”
“And what about your head, Powell? Can the same be said for where your mind goes?” Her face reddened, and she looked away. Another long silence befell the porch.
“Janet’s right,” Harriette said at last and turned to her husband. “She and Powell don’t need this. And our family doesn’t need it either. You two need to steer clear of this case and this woman.”
“For the love of Pete!” Matt said with a roll of his eyes. “We are not involved.”
“Then pray tell, why is my husband sending telegrams off to Richmond and Staunton, asking all these questions on Mrs. Lloyd’s behalf?” Janet asked, turning her head to Powell again.
“As I’ve said, we are simply helping Mr. Foster explore possible theories in the instance that Mrs. Lloyd should need a defense.” Powell gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “That’s all there is to it, Jan.”
“Mr. Foster,” Anne Marie huffed under her breath with another shake of her head. “Pa would not approve. And he certainly would not take kindly to you gentlemen consulting in the defense of a murderess either.”
Powell had hated having to answer to his father when he was alive, and he hated answering to his memory even more. Despite the known consequences of arguing with Anne Marie, he was unable to hold his tongue.
“Might I remind you that, per our father and the law of both the commonwealth and of God Almighty Himself, Mrs. Lloyd is entitled to a presumption of innocence?”
“What law of God presumes her innocent?” Anne Marie asked with indignance.
“John 7:51,” Powell replied. “‘Doth our law judge any man before it hear him and know what he doeth?’”
A look of satisfaction spread over Anne Marie’s face. “That simply means Mrs. Lloyd has a right to tell her side of the story. God doesn’t deem her innocent just because she says she is, crazy or not.”
“And what about when God chastised those who had made false allegations against Job?” Corrie offered.
“Whose side are you on, sister?” Anne Marie snapped with a cutting glance in Corrie’s direction. “And Job was innocent.”
“I’m on no one’s side,” Corrie said, a flush erupting on her cheeks. “I just don’t believe we should rush to judgment until the truth comes out.”
“‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,’” Matt quoted with a chuckle.
Powell shot Matt a look. “And that is all that I am doing,” he said, turning his attention back to his sister. “Assisting a colleague in seeking the truth.”
Chapter 6
Saturday, April 20, 1872
It had been gloomy and overcast all day, the dampness of spring seemingly penetrating the walls as Lara sat alone by the fireplace in the parlor, reading the Book of Romans and praying for Lilith.
“‘Because the carnal mind is enmity against God,’” she read aloud, and drew a sigh. Lara didn’t know exactly where Lilith was or what she did when she wasn’t present. While she didn’t approve of Lilith’s risqué behavior, there was little she could do about it other than pray. Lara had long ago accepted that it was better to let her sister have her way than to deal with her rebellion. One day Lilith would have to answer to God for her actions. All Lara could do was hope that the Lord would somehow have mercy on her sister and save her soul from an eternity of damnation.
A chill settled over the room. Lara glanced up from her reading and saw that the fire had dwindled. Setting the Bible aside, she rose from the rocker to put another log in the fireplace. As she stoked the coals, she noticed how dark the room had become. Dusk’s shadows were gathering outside the window as night fell. Lara generally preferred darkness to the illusion of a sunny day, but tonight she felt an ominous unease.
Then she heard it. A wagon with rattling chains on the street. It halted, and all was quiet for a moment. Then boots were thudding on the cobblestones. Closer and closer. A loud knocking. Is that my door? What has Lilith done! The knock sounded again. They’re at Emily’s door. She rushed to the window, lifting the lace curtain at its edge.
The jailer’s wagon was on the street with a deputy at the reins, and two men were on the front porch, Sheriff Atwell and another deputy. They’ve come for her! She moved from the window and grabbed her shawl, wrapped it around her shoulders, and headed for the door to stop them. Her heart was in her throat when she took the knob in her hand. Another loud knock sounded.
“Mrs. Lloyd. It’s Sheriff Atwell. I’ve got a warrant here, and I need you to open the door.”
Lara froze. Should she intervene? And what would she say to the authorities? What could she do? No! We don’t need to get involved. We can always step in, should it come to that.
Drawing a long breath, she closed her eyes. She heard the door open and Emily’s small voice. “How can I help you, Sheriff?”
• • •
Settled in his favorite armchair at home after spending most of the cold, damp day with Janet’s parents, Powell was reading by the fire when JW burst into the sitting room. Startled at the intrusion, Powell looked up from the book and marked his page.
“I knocked and no one answered, so I let myself in,” JW explained before Powell had a chance to ask. “Emily Lloyd was taken into custody.”
“What?”
“Yep. Sheriff Atwell showed up at my place just after supper and told me that the inquest jury had been reconvened and had issued a warrant for Mrs. Lloyd’s arrest. When I got to the jail, Charles Lee was there with Mort Kilgour and the magistrate. The chemical analysis came back. You were right. They found arsenic.”
“This is one instance where I wish I had been wrong. You say that Charles Lee was there?” Charles Lee was another prominent Leesburg attorney well-known for assisting in the prosecution of criminal cases.
JW nodded.
“Makes sense,” Powell said. “A case this big, Kilgour is going to need the help. And Lee is much better with juries than Kilgour.”
“Lee is no match for you. You’re the best there is when it comes to charming jurymen.” JW brought his eyes to Powell’s. “I’m going to need you, Powell.”
“I need a drink to have this conversation again,” Powell said, setting his book on the side table.
“Make that two,” JW said as Powell walked to the Parsons table behind the sofa and removed the top from the decanter. He poured bourbon into two snifters and handed one to JW before returning to his seat.
“Where’s the missus?” JW asked, taking the chair on the other side of the fire.
“Lucky for you, she went to bed early.”
“She’s still mad at me?”
“What do you think?” Powell said with a half laugh and took a sip from the glass. “You know, if you’re worried about Charles Lee, you might want to think about reaching out to John Orr. He’s a seasoned barrister and has charmed a few juries into seeing things in a different light. And he’s got an incredible library as well. He’d be a good choice for second chair.”
“Orr?” JW said, shaking his head. “Not a fan.”
Powell pulled in his chin with a questioning look.
“Yes, he’s nearly as good with juries as you are, but he’s arrogant,” JW said. “Thinks he knows more than he does.”
“That’s a bit of pot-and-kettle name-calling coming from you, my friend.”
JW laughed and threw back a mouthful of the whiskey.
“Who did the autopsy analysis?” Powell asked.
“A Professor Tonry from some institute over in Baltimore.”
Powell furrowed his brow. “Tonry? Name sounds familiar.”
“You know him?”
“I think he was the chemist brought in to rescue the prosecution’s case in the Wharton trial.”
Earlier that year, Baltimore widow Ellen Wharton had been accused of murder in the poisoning death of her financial adviser and a business investor in a highly publicized trial that became a battle of forensic experts. Because of doubt cast on the chemical analysis, Mrs. Wharton had been acquitted. If Powell’s memory served him, a professor named Tonry was one of the chemists who testified at that trial.
“It makes no sense to me. Why wouldn’t Kilgour send the postmortem specimens to one of the experts in Richmond?”
“Probably because my cousin is among those experts in Richmond,” Powell reminded him.
JW leaned close and lowered his voice. “Do you think they’re trying to set Mrs. Lloyd up?”
“What would be Bentley’s motive?”
“Did you know that her uncle was one of the town’s most outspoken abolitionists? Gave the mayor a heap of trouble before the war.”
“Even Bobby Bentley wouldn’t hold a grudge that long. And against the man’s niece?”
“She’s a widow and, in Bentley’s eyes, a drain on the town’s purse.”
“But Mrs. Lloyd is not indigent.”
“He could use the opportunity to get at you.”
Powell blanched. “To get at me for what?”
“You know his zeal for prosecuting the coloreds. Every time you beat Kilgour and him on one of those cases, you make them look bad to the voters.”
“You give me too much credit. And while I don’t trust either the mayor or Mort Kilgour as far as I can spit, they aren’t so corrupt that they’d prosecute a widow as a vendetta against me. And besides, this is your case, not mine.”
With a defeated sigh, JW leaned back in his chair.
“You’re going to need chemistry experts to examine that analysis,” Powell said. “If you recall the Wharton trial, the prosecution’s case came undone once experts began to pick apart the forensics. I’ll send a telegram to my cousin in Richmond tomorrow morning if you’d like.”
“Please do. I’m going to need a battery of experts, from the looks of it.”
Powell took another drink and set the glass on his knee, his eyes studying its contents as he thought.
“JW,” Powell said, bringing his gaze up from his glass, “you have to consider the possibility that Bentley got it right. That Mrs. Lloyd is, indeed, responsible for the child’s death.”
“To your previous question, what would be her motive?”
“I’m not certain she needs one if she’s delusional.”
“Does she seem crazy to you?”
“I’m no more qualified to make that determination than you are. All I know is that if the autopsy results are accurate, which they most likely are, because Tonry won’t make the same mistakes that were made in the Wharton analysis, there are only two ways that the child was poisoned—by accident or on purpose. And if it was a deliberate act, only someone with a compromised mind would harm a child.”
“And we have an obligation to exhaust other possibilities first.”
“Indeed you do. And when you find that I’m right, that she is responsible, the only plausible defense will be an insanity plea.”
“Then all the more reason for you to defend her.”
“I’ve told you—”
“No one has the experience you do arguing insanity cases,” JW said, cutting him off. “How many times did you defend the asylum down there in Staunton to keep those lunatics locked up? And how many petitions did you file for those who’d recovered to be released? Dozens?”
Powell shrugged his shoulders. “More than I can remember.”
“If she’s insane, all the more reason why I need you. And why Mrs. Lloyd needs you.”
Powell stared again into the glass resting on his knee. “I promised Janet I would not get involved.”
“What about your obligation to God?” JW said. “You’re always saying it’s your moral duty to defend those in need.”
“Mrs. Lloyd has no want for charity.”
“Powell, she’s defenseless—just as defenseless as those Negroes you’re always representing. And she’s alone. She has no man to take up her cause. She needs us. She needs you.”
“There are other attorneys who have successfully put on an insanity defense. You should reconsider approaching Orr.”
“What if Emily Lloyd were one of your sisters? What if she were Alice? Would you want John Orr before the jury arguing for her life . . . or Powell Harrison?”
“My sister Alice harmed no one but herself!” Powell said testily.
“My apologies. My intent was not to speak ill of your sister. But you and I both know that if Emily Lloyd did kill those children, she’s insane and cannot be held responsible. Why would she be any less worthy of a defense than your sister or mine?”
Powell drew a long sigh. “I need to think about it.”
“You don’t have a lot of time. The arraignment is Monday morning.”
Powell moved his gaze to JW’s pleading eyes. “If I do agree to do this, I’d need to be lead counsel.”
“Agreed.”
“Before I make any decision, I’ll want to interview Mrs. Lloyd again.”
A broad smile broke across JW’s face. “I’ll meet you at the jail tomorrow.”
Chapter 7
Sunday, April 21, 1872
“She’s in the first one on the right.” The sheriff’s deputy waved his hand in the direction of the door behind him. “Y’all need me to let you in the cell?”
“That would be most helpful, Freddie,” Powell said with a polite smile.
Freddie Roberts pushed back from the desk and stood from the chair. He was shorter than Powell with a mass of blond curls, round blue eyes, and a childlike face. One might mistake him for a boy if it weren’t for the silver star pinned to his lapel indicating that he was a sheriff’s deputy. With a ring of keys in his hand and a revolver in a holster on his hip, Freddie escorted Powell and JW into a narrow corridor that led to the cellblock. The corridor was dimly lit, its brick walls covered in black soot from the lanterns that hung along the way and the old iron stoves that burned at each end of the passage.
Emily Lloyd was standing at the window of her cell with her back to them, wearing a black dress, staring at a row of sheds across the jail yard that had been used to detain runaway slaves years before. They now sat vacant, dilapidated, and decaying under a tangle of vines.
“Mrs. Lloyd,” Freddie said, keys jangling. “Your lawyers are here to see you.”
