If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

in the habit of dosing himself with patent medicines obtained from the cities he frequented on business. Despite the physician’s warnings about these nostrums, Todhunter was forever trying some new elixir guaranteed to cure all ills. Elizabeth thought she detected a note of asperity in the doctor’s description of his perpetually ailing patient. Apparently, he considered Todhunter a hypochondriac.

Humphreys’s attitude toward Mrs. Lucy Todhunter was altogether more sympathetic. He chronicled the difficulties of her pregnancies, and the sorrow and suffering that accompanied her miscarriages. She will not live to stand many more assaults on her constitution, Humphreys wrote. To my mind it is odd that the Major is so mollycoddling of his own health, and so indifferent to that of his wife. I have warned him that his determination to get an heir will make him a widower, but my counsel falls on deaf ears. I have told Miss Lucy as well, and she wept a bit and implored me to speak to Todhunter. Finally, I sent her off to White Sulphur Springs. The rest will do her as much good as the waters, I daresay.

Elizabeth read this passage three times, before finally putting the photocopy aside and staring at the white ceiling for some time. She resumed her reading with an air of determination. “Maybe Lucy wasn’t guilty,” she said aloud, turning a page. “I wonder if it can be that simple.”

Her next path of inquiry was to study Mary Hadley Compson’s version of the events. Everett Yancey had written a notation at the top of the page: The Compsons were Lucy Avery Todhunter’s North Carolina cousins, visiting at the time of Philip Todhunter’s death. Mary Compson’s account of that fateful visit was contained in a series of letters written to her married daughter in New Bern. The letters spanned the period of time both before Todhunter’s death and later during the trial. Because they dealt with a Danville cause celebre, a descendant of Mary Hadley Compson had donated the letters to the city’s historical society. Everett Yancey had dutifully photocopied the lot of them, occasionally penciling in missing words where the copperplate script had faded into illegibility.

“He’s thorough; I’ll give him that,” said Elizabeth, settling down under the stronger light of the table lamp as she attempted to decipher the spidery writing.

Though she has much in the way of material wealth to make her proud, I cannot think that Cousin Lucy is a happy woman, Mary Compson had told her daughter, in a letter dated the week before Todhunter’s death. Her recent confinement has left her much weakened, and there is an air of strain between husband and wife that saddens me greatly. Mr. Todhunter seems to be neither a brutal man, nor a drunkard, but he seems more concerned with his own trifling ailments than with the health of his young wife. It grieves me to see them, Louisa, and I trust that you will count yourself fortunate to have been spared such a fate. You have not your cousin’s finery or possessions, but you will be the happier for it, I am certain.

“I wonder if she thought Lucy solved her marriage problems with white powder,” murmured Elizabeth, reading on.

Cousin Lucy’s husband has been taken dreadfully ill, Mary Compson wrote her daughter. At first we feared that it was some outbreak of fever that would imperil us as well, but that does not seem to be the case. It cannot be bad food, as the Major has taken nothing in several days. Both attending physicians have been most stern in their questioning of the household, but we could tell them nothing. Nor would we, if we knew anything to the detriment of that poor young woman, our cousin. She tends her stricken spouse like an angel of mercy, but I cannot say I have seen her in much distress over his condition.

The little maid-the clever one-told me that the poor Major was heard to say, “Oh, Lucy, why did you do it?” But this may be put down to the ravings of a delirious man. Indeed, I have given the matter much thought, and I have decided that if Lucy Avery made away with her husband, she is a cleverer woman than I take her for, for I cannot see how she could have accomplished it.

The Compsons stayed on after the death of Major Todhunter, ostensibly to give aid and comfort to their bereaved kinswoman, but also perhaps because the local law-enforcement people wanted them to be available for questioning, and to testify at the forthcoming trial.

I told them all I knew, Mary Hadley Compson recalled. Which was that Lucy seemed a dutiful helpmeet, and a sympathetic nurse to the dying Major. She had voiced no complaint to me about her marriage, and at no time did I see her behaving in a sinister fashion, with potions or anything of the sort She gave him a pastry, I told them in court, and I know it was not tainted, because we all ate from the same plate. Any one of us could have chosen the one he ate. So there! Mercifully, Lucy has been acquitted, and we have not spoken of the unpleasantness, although she knows that we are anxious to leave. We think it might not be wise to eat too many Virginia… pastries.

“Ha! Mary Compson suspects Lucy, too!” said Elizabeth, tapping the paper. “But she isn’t sure of her guilt, because she can’t figure out how it was done. Neither could anybody else, which is the only reason Lucy was acquitted. How do you poison a man with a doughnut, when you didn’t have the opportunity to tamper with it? I wish I knew. But, clearly, nobody thinks the major did it to himself. And why did he cry out, ‘Lucy, why did you do it?’ I have to figure out what it was that she could have done.”

By the time Elizabeth had finished reading the Compsons’ testimony about their visit to the ill-fated household, and then the medical reports of the deceased, she was fairly certain that she knew the motive for the murder of Major Todhunter, and she had a suspicion about what might have caused his death, but now she needed to do some reading on nineteenth-century medicine-or nineteenth-century ailments.

If I’m right, this will be one of those good news/bad news situations, thought Elizabeth. I hope Bill looks on the bright side. I think his client’s great-grandmother committed murder, but not in a way that Donna Jean Morgan could duplicate. Now I suppose I’ll have to figure out that poisoning, too.

Elizabeth looked at the clock. Just after ten, but this was urgent. She found Edith’s home phone number scribbled on the erasable message board in the kitchen, and dialed the number. “I know it’s late,” she told the secretary, “but I remembered that Bill said you had gone with him to Chevry Morgan’s church one night. I wondered if you could give me directions on how to get there. I need to look at the place as part of my investigation.”

“You sure do,” said Edith. “We got a call from the widow Morgan late this afternoon. They’ve arrested her for murder. I thought I’d wait until she was convicted to notify the Nobel Prize people.”

“I thought she claimed to be innocent.”

“Just modesty, I expect,” said Edith. “But I realize that Bill has to get her off, because her husband has done enough harm to her without inconveniencing her with a prison sentence, so you just let me know how I can help.”

“Can you tell me how to find the church, Edith?”

“Well… it’s not the end of the world, but you can see it from there. Anyhow, I can’t remember all those three-digit state road numbers that they use for those cow paths. It would be easier just to show you where it is. Do you want to go tomorrow?”

“Yes, but I was planning to go early. I also need to drive to Charlottesville tomorrow to consult the UVA medical library. How long will it take us to find the church?”

“Let’s allow two hours for the round-trip and the poking around,” said Edith. “Meet me at Shoney’s at six, and we’ll have the breakfast buffet before we drive out there.”

“Thank you, Edith,” said Elizabeth. “I really appreciate your taking the time and trouble to do this for me.”

“You’re buying breakfast,” said Edith, followed by a dial tone.

Elizabeth replaced the receiver, still thinking about the poisoning cases. She supposed that she ought to go to bed if the day’s research was going to start so early. Somewhat startled, she realized that she had not thought about Cameron Dawson for nearly two hours.

“What do you mean, my lawyer’s in Florida?” asked Donna Jean Morgan, her eyes red from crying.

“He’s getting depositions for another case,” said A. P. Hill. She was uncomfortable in the presence of strong emotion, and she hoped she wouldn’t be expected to bestow comforting hugs, or to cope with hysterical outbursts from this poor, drab woman.

“But I’ve been charged with murder, ma’am,” wailed Donna Jean. “How could he leave me at a time like this?”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” murmured A. P. Hill automatically. “I answer to Powell, or A.P., or just about anything, except honey.” A guard had just tried that last one, and received a blistering lecture on the deportment of law-enforcement personnel, delivered in an icy tone from four inches below his shoulder patch. Bill hadn’t been able to get an evening flight back into