“I did not. Never took my eyes off her for a moment. She didn’t add anything. I’ll take my oath to that.”
“So you have, Mr. Norville,” said Russell, smiling. “Mrs. Todhunter gave her husband a beignet, and he became ill and died. But she ate from the same pastry and was not affected. Perhaps some secret antidote to the fatal dose?”
Norville shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. I told you: we had all eaten a pastry from that plate at breakfast before she took the tray up to his room.”
“You don’t tell me!” said Russell, slipping a bit of brogue into his performance.
“I do,” said Norville grimly. “All four of us-me, the Compsons, and Mrs. Lucy Todhunter-ate one of those baked goods from that very plate before it was taken upstairs to Philip Todhunter.”
“And this plate of pastries…” Russell leaned close to the witness, measuring his words by the syllable. “It never left your sight from the time you all ate one until the time Philip Todhunter took his last mouthful of sustenance on this earth from its contents?”
Patrick Russell gave a deep sigh and turned to face the jury. From the prosecution’s table, young Gerald Hillyard watched with a heavy heart. “There it is, gentlemen,” he said, without a single note of triumph in his voice. Hearing him, you might have believed that he was sorry to have to point out the inescapable conclusion to the assembled seekers of truth. “There it is, indeed. We have two eminent physicians who assure us that poor Philip Todhunter went out of this world on account of a few grains of arsenic that sickened his body. And I’m sure I don’t doubt the word of two fine, learned gentlemen such as these.” He nodded courteously at Bell and Humphreys, both scowling at him from just behind the railing. “And my earnest colleague Mr. Hillyard there-why, he would have you believe that the frail young lady whom I am defending, Mrs. Lucy Todhunter, did willfully poison her husband with that arsenic. There’s even been testimony by Dr. Bell that a jar full of the deadly substance was found hidden in the upstairs of the home. And yet, the beignets were tested. The kitchen sugar was tested. And the stomach contents of Mr. Todhunter were tested. All proved to be arsenic-free. Well, gentlemen of the jury, I suppose that leaves us with but the one question…” He looked at the jury, at Hillyard, and then stared down the crowd who had come to watch the trial.
“Can you tell me how in heaven the lady managed to do it?”
“How’s your case going?” Bill MacPherson asked his law partner, over spurious morning coffee. He tried to sound casual about it.
“I’ve just begun,” said A. P. Hill, turning a page of the Danville Register & Bee. “I’m still gathering information. Haven’t even decided on an angle for the defense yet really.”
“I had a question,” said Bill diffidently. “Just a hypothetical thingamabob, you know. Just a thought that occurred to me. Thought I’d run it by you.”
Powell Hill was reading the editorials now. “Um-hmm,” she said. “What is it?”
“Well, supposing that Jeb Royden hadn’t divorced Eleanor. I mean, supposing he just up and announced that he’d had-oh, say, a message from God-and that he had been instructed to take a new wife. So instead of tossing Eleanor out to the wolves, suppose he had just brought in a third party. Wife number two.”
She lowered the paper slowly until her eyes met Bill’s. “What do you mean, brought a new wife home? You mean
“Well, not technically. I mean-just say, for example-that he had exchanged vows with the new wife privately, without benefit of the state licensing procedure.”
“This is a legal question, right, Bill?” Powell Hill gave him a cold smile. “I mean, I know what
Bill crossed his legs. “Yeah, but you’ll have to pay Edith a quarter if you tell me.”
A voice from the receptionist’s area called out, “Are you all talking about Manassas Three again?”
“No!” Bill yelled back. “Just some legal theorizing.”
“What
“Oh, all right. I took a new case while you were in Roanoke, interviewing Eleanor Royden.”
“A case about bigamy? You found a bigamist in Danville?”
“Well, sort of.” Bill explained about Chevry Morgan’s directive from God. A. P. Hill listened in silence, but her expression suggested that she would not be converting to that particular brand of religion. In fact, if an angel had appeared to her, she might have sent him back for the fiery sword while she made out her hit list. And lo! Chevry Morgan’s name would lead all the rest.
Powell sipped her tea, discovered that it was cold, and set it down again. “I can’t believe it,” she said softly. “There is actually a woman alive today who would fall for that crap?”
“Two of them, to be exact,” Bill pointed out. “And you can’t blame it on an unenlightened generation, either, because both of the Mrs. Morgans seem to have accepted the news of their husband’s divine mission without too many qualms. Remember wife number two is a teenager.” He looked at his partner’s forbidding expression. “Of course, that isn’t to say that
“Probably not,” she agreed. “I am neither adolescent and gullible, nor old and helpless. I’m trying to think what we can do to help these poor women.”
“I don’t think the second Mrs. Morgan wants any help. When I saw her last night, she looked like the cat in the cream jug.”
“You
Bill reddened. “Did I forget to mention that? Edith and I went to church.”
“I hope you didn’t put anything in the collection plate,” snapped A. P. Hill.
“Edith wanted to contribute something, but it wasn’t monetary. I talked her out of it. I don’t think there’s much we can do about Mrs. Morgan the Younger, unless we can think of something to charge Bluebeard with, and get him sent to jail. She might wise up once he’s gone. Right now they’re like birds hypnotized by a snake. You should have seen him at the service. He was very charismatic. Sort of an ecumenical Elvis, prancing around with his microphone.”
“I can imagine. And nobody questioned his lunacy? What about the girl’s parents?”
“Members of the congregation. He convinced them, too.”
Powell Hill shook her head. “I hope the tabloids don’t get wind of this. You haven’t lived down the Confederate Women yet.” Bill winced at this mention of his first case-a real-estate transaction that had become a nightmare. “Tell me, why did the other Mrs. Morgan come to you?”
“Glimmerings of common sense, I think,” said Bill. “Every so often Chevry Morgan’s spell wears thin. Then she realizes how absurd the whole thing is. When hubby comes back, she’s trapped again. For all I know, she may call off the case any day now. If he finds out she’s been seeing a lawyer, he’ll pressure her until she gives in.”
“Get her out of there, Bill.”
Bill looked uncomfortable. “Well, it’s tricky. She claims she doesn’t want a divorce.”
“She doesn’t want a divorce?”
“Doesn’t believe in them. They belong to a very strict fundamentalist sect. Mrs. Morgan the Younger has a long list of
“Oh, right,” said A. P. Hill, emptying her teacup into Bill’s philodendron. “This teenage honey isn’t allowed to dance or wear makeup, but her folks let her go off and have sex with a married man old enough to be her grandfather. Right.”
“Maybe you ought to take this case,” said Bill, rooting around on his desk for the pertinent manila folder. “You have exactly the right tone to highlight the folly of it all. I can just picture you cross-examining Chevry Morgan.”
“Sorry, partner,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I’m doing a murder case, and I don’t handle domestic matters. But if someone
“Well, do you have any suggestions on what I might do?”
“Check the statutory-rape laws. The girl is probably too old for that to work, though. Give Chevry credit for being sly enough to escape the obvious pitfalls. Then see if laws pertaining to alienation of affection or criminal conversation are still on the books.” Powell Hill grimaced. “I never thought I’d hear myself recommending that one.”
“Criminal
