by Megan Chance
William Howe sent Blake to my door nearly with first light. I was awake; I’d been unable to sleep. Howe’s assistant gave me terse instructions.
“He insists you wear black, Mrs. Carelton. You are in mourning for your husband. Dress as somberly as you can but not severely. He wants the jury to notice how”—he swallowed uncomfortably—“how attractive you are.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. He handed it to me. “You’re to wear this.”
I unwrapped it to find a mourning brooch—a wreath made of braided dark hair. I looked up at him in surprise. “William’s hair?”
He shook his head. “No, but the jury’ll never know the difference.”
I smiled. “Of course not.”
“Are you ready for this, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I took a deep breath. “I’m quite ready.”
He left, and I did as he bade. Gillian helped me into the black wool gown I’d ordered for just this event. It was beautifully cut, appliquéd with satin, jet-buttoned. The fabric fell over the bustle in sedate ruffles and folds. It made my skin look very pale and enhanced my slenderness. I looked as if I might not have the strength to carry the bustle. I added a hat—very simple, very tasteful, decorated with black feathers and tulle that did not cover my eyes. I carefully fastened the brooch Blake had given me over my breast. I wondered whose it had been, whose hair had been woven for this adornment.
I was ready when the carriage was brought, and Papa and I made our way to the Halls of Justice—the Tombs, as it was called, quite appropriately, grim as it looked with its Grecian architecture. William Howe was waiting for me in the courtroom, along with Mr. Blake, who murmured a greeting.
Howe smiled when he saw me. “You look perfect,” he said, and then he held out a chair for me between himself and his assistant. Papa sat in the row behind. Howe leaned down to whisper in my ear, “We’re before Judge Wilfred Hammond. He’s a decent judge—we could have done far worse. He’ll make sure Scott doesn’t try any tricks, but he’s not disposed to like you. The man doesn’t trust women.”
I shrank at his words. I hazarded a glance at Judge Hammond, who was busy with his papers and didn’t look at me. He was an older man, in his midsixties, I guessed, with thinning silver hair and a rather bulbous nose. He grumbled and muttered to himself as he worked, and when the district attorney came into the room, he glanced up with a smile and small wave. Obviously the two knew each other. I gave Howe a worried glance.
“Don’t worry,” he assured me. “Randolph Scott is the nephew of the captain of the Harbor Police. Hammond knows him, but I don’t think they’re particular friends.” Howe smiled wickedly and whispered, “Scott has a penchant for tenderloin brothels, and Hammond knows it. They once pulled him from a raid. Kept it all very quiet, and Scott’s cleaned his nose a bit since then, but there’s no love lost there. Hammond’s not a fool.”
I wasn’t reassured.
Judge Hammond cleared his throat. “We’re here to seat a jury in People v. Carelton. Are you gentlemen ready?”
Howe straightened and nodded. The lights caught on the silver threads in his brightly checkered vest and glinted on the ornate buttons. “The defense is ready, Your Honor.”
“As is the state,” Mr. Scott said.
The judge turned to the bailiff. “Bring them in.”
The door opened, and in filed men of all ages, dressed in all manners. As they took their seats, they stared at me so intently I felt myself go hot. Howe had told me to look at them as they came in, but I could not.
Beside me, Blake put a reassuring hand on my arm. “They’re curious, Mrs. Carelton,” he said. “They’ll look for a while, and then they’ll lose interest.” But even after Howe stood and introduced me, their scrutiny was so hard that I didn’t have to feign the tears filling my eyes.
“Is she the one?” one of the men asked, and the hatred in his gaze alarmed me. “Is that the she-devil who killed her husband?”
After that everything passed in a blur. I heard Howe’s questions of the men, and Scott’s questions, the virulence of some who were summarily dismissed. Howe had not warned me about this. Who I was and what I’d done were a threat to these men. I sat in shocked silence, letting their abhorrence whittle away at my calm until, at the end of the day, I was a trembling mass of nerves.
We had twelve jurors, most of them businessmen and merchants.
Howe turned to me with a wry look. “Well, we’ve got it, Mrs. Carelton. A jury of your peers.”
I looked up at Howe uncertainly, and it was as if he sensed my distress. He sat beside me. “This is not as bad as it seems,” he said. “You must trust me.”
The echo of other words, another time. As then, I had no other choice. I nodded my assent. “And tomorrow?” I asked.
He sighed. “Tomorrow we begin the trial. I should warn you, there will be reporters everywhere—but that’s not my worry. We own enough of them. The seats will be full, some with your friends, many who are simply curious. You must ignore them all. Today you were quite effective. If you can manage to look as distraught tomorrow—”
“It shouldn’t be too difficult,” I said quietly.
He gave me an admiring look. “Yes, that’s just the expression we want. And Mrs. Carelton”—he hesitated—“I must warn you that there will be things said tomorrow. . . .”
“There could not be anything worse than today,” I told him.
I was wrong.
The next morning, after a breakfast that I couldn’t eat, I went again to the courtroom. Papa was not allowed inside. He was to testify in my defense, so he left me in the hall. As I turned to go in, he touched my arm. “I’m here for you, my girl. Don’t you think I’m not.” Though I had never before thought that we looked alike, now I saw myself in the slope of his jaw, the set of his eyes, and I had the not entirely unwelcome idea that I was truly my father’s daughter.
“Thank you, Papa,” I said, and then I went into the courtroom.
Howe had said the seats would be full, but I had not imagined the crush. Every space was taken, even against the walls. There were not just men but women too, many of whom had brought huge picnic baskets for the lunch break, no doubt so they would not lose their place. Some I recognized. Daisy Hadden was there, as were Alma Fister and Leonard Ames. Millie wasn’t; she was also a witness. Nor, of course, was Victor, though there was a moment when I searched for him, when the noise and motion seemed suspended.
I sat down at the defense table beside Blake. William Howe came into the courtroom then, like a triumphant gladiator. He was all smiles, flashy and diamond-laid, with his stickpins and rings. Today he wore a fawn suit with a vest of scarlet poppies on a black ground. It seemed he knew nearly everyone in the courtroom. He shook hands, he grinned, he laughed, he won the crowd with his flamboyance and his ease. I only hoped the jury would be as easily influenced.
The district attorney entered as long-faced and boyishly earnest as ever. It was hard for me to imagine that he had a penchant for the tenderloin brothels, as Howe had said, though I had spent my life in a world where facades were all-important. I knew vices lay beneath.
Mr. Scott was followed by his secretary. They sat at the prosecution table. Then the judge nodded to the bailiff, and the jury was led in. The crowd silenced, watching as, one by one, the men took their seats.
“Gentlemen,” Judge Hammond said, looking at Howe and Scott, and then, “Gentlemen of the jury. We’re here today to decide the fate of Mrs. William Carelton, who sits before you charged with the murder of her husband. We’ll start with opening statements. Mr. Scott, are you ready?”
“I am, Your Honor,” Scott said.
Howe laid his hand on my arm and leaned close to whisper, “Prepare yourself, Mrs. Carelton.”
I took a deep breath, and it felt as if I did not release it during the whole of Scott’s statement.
It was horrible. Randolph Scott laid the scene well: October sixth, ten P.M.,
just before dinner was to be served. He was as much a storyteller as anyone I’d ever heard. I saw myself come down the stairs smiling, talking with my friends. I saw my eyes lit with chilling fury as I pulled the trigger. The pictures he painted were extraordinary. Had I not been there, I would have thought his detail incredible. As it was, I felt myself pulled into the scene he imagined.
At the end he went to the jury box and leaned on the rail, his voice vibrant and deep. “Gentlemen, the defense will attempt to prove that Mrs. Carelton is insane, but we will show that she is not, and that the shooting of her husband was a cold-blooded, premeditated act. She meant to free herself of his loving control and take command of the fortune he administered so admirably for her benefit. And why is this? Why would she do such a thing? Because Mrs. Carelton knew that as long as her husband was alive, she would not be free to carry on with her lover.”
There was a gasp—it was my own. Howe tightened his grip on my arm in warning.
“Insanity has nothing to do with this case, gentlemen. In the end you will have no choice but to find Mrs. Carelton guilty of first-degree murder.”
Scott turned. His gaze lit on me for an instant, then flickered to Howe in triumph before he took his seat. The courtroom was quiet. I felt eyes on me, and I did as Howe had instructed me. I lowered my gaze, I bit my lip. I felt frail, undone.
Howe rose. Under his bulk, his footsteps had resonance. He walked to the jury box, his hands in his pockets, and then he sighed.
“This is a sad case,” he said, shaking his head. There were actually unshed tears in his eyes. “A very sad case. Mrs. William Carelton is a fine, upstanding citizen of this community. Her family is descended from our first settlers, from the original Dutch ambassador to New York. She grew up coddled by her parents, admired by her friends. In short, there was no reason to think that Mrs. Carelton might not have the kind of life most of us envy. But for one thing.
“She married badly. On the outside William Carelton seemed a fine man. He was certainly intelligent. He was a successful stockbroker who made a great deal of money for many people. On the surface their marriage seemed to be a love match. It was anything but.
“In the four years of their marriage, William Carelton abused his wife to the point of illness. Mr. Scott is correct when he says that William Carelton controlled his wife and his wife’s money, but it was not a loving arrangement. Over the years she saw countless doctors for the relief of hysteria and neurasthenia. And when she finally found one who could help her, Mr. Carelton panicked. He forced his wife into a lunatic asylum, lied to their friends, and found himself in full control of her estate—without her interference.
“Gentlemen, we shall prove that Mrs. Carelton was not in her right mind when she shot her husband, but was in thrall to an irresistible urge, an undeniable, desperate attempt to free herself from his manipulations and torture. Our expert witnesses will testify that Mrs. Carelton was not in control of her emotions or her mind. We will also show that Mr. Carelton was not the man he seemed to be, and that even his wife had no knowledge of the truth of him.
“Mrs. Carelton’s shooting of her husband is the saddest story of all, gentlemen, because it shows what can happen when a man abuses the sacred contract that God Himself put down between men and women. This case is not about seeking the control of money or about the freedom to be with a lover. This case is about what can happen when a man does not temper his superiority and strength, does not offer kindness to the fragile woman in his care. When Mr. Carelton denied the charge put to him by God and society, Mrs. Carelton was forced by desperation and fear to take the only avenue she could. Gentlemen, this fine woman had no other choice. In the moment that she pulled the trigger, she was driven to a desperation that knew no rationality or logic. She could no longer live in the world of his making.”
Here Howe paused. He lowered his eyes in abject sorrow.
“Yes, gentlemen,” he said. “This is a sad, sad case. But it is not Mrs. Carelton we should blame but her husband. I trust you will find in your hearts the ability to understand this poor woman. I trust you will right the wrongs that have been committed against her.” He pulled them in with his gaze. His voice was huge, dramatic. “I trust that you will prove to be wise men.”
THE WORLD
New York, Monday, December 7, 1885
SOCIETY MURDER TRIAL
Police Testify
“She Knew She Done Wrong”
SOCIETY ATTENDS TRIAL
Today began the murder trial of Mrs. William Carelton. Mrs. Gerald Fister and Mrs. Moreton Hadden were in attendance, as were Mr. Leonard Ames and several lesser luminaries of the city. As Mrs. Hadden said, “Of course we will stand by Lucy Carelton. She’s one of our own.”
Mrs. Carelton wore a black wool gown with satin and jet decorations, and a hat decorated with black feathers. She constantly fingered a mourning brooch—a brooch, Mr. Howe told us, that was made from her husband’s hair. Mrs. Carelton was tearful throughout and obviously deeply disturbed by the proceedings.
The first witness called by the prosecution was Officer Edward Boyd, one of the men called to the Carelton residence on the night of the murder. Officer Boyd described the scene in grisly detail. “The house was lit like the Fourth of July,” he claimed, with electric lights. There was an orchestra in the room, but they were silent. “I never heard such a sound,” Officer Boyd told the district attorney. “Or, I should say, such a nonsound. There was all these people there, all huddled around whispering, and it was like being at a funeral.” The officers rushed directly to the dining room, where they found the fallen body of William Carelton lying in a pool of his own blood, the mortal wound one that had struck his chest. “It was from close range,” the officer said. “He was splayed open like a butchered hog.” Several of the ladies in the courtroom swooned at his description. Mrs. Carelton bent her head and cried silently while Mr. Howe put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
“She Wanted to Be Punished”
Officer Boyd said that he had gone with the president of the Board of Police, Mr. Stephen French, to Mrs. Carelton’s sitting room, where she had been led from the slaughtered body of her husband. Officer Boyd said that she “was perfectly calm. Dry-eyed, if you want to know the truth. Nothing like I expected her to be.”
Mr. Scott asked, “And how was that?”
“Well, most females who’ve done in a man like that, they’re pretty shook up.”
“And Mrs. Carelton was not?”
The officer shrugged. “Not to my eyes.” He then told the jury that Mrs. Carelton did not seem to him to be in any way insane. “She agreed with Mr. French’s terms as calm as you please,” he said. “It was like she wanted to be punished. Like she knew she done wrong.”
The defense attorney, Big Bill Howe, asked the officer if he was qualified to judge a woman’s insanity. Officer Boyd answered that he’d seen enough crazy women to know the look of one.
“Could it be that Mrs. Carelton was in shock over the sight of her husband?” Mr. Howe asked. “That she was not calm, as you suggest, but deeply horrified by what she’d just done?”
Officer Boyd answered that it might be so.
“And isn’t it true, Officer Boyd, that you have never spent time in a lunatic asylum, and that you have no way of judging the different ways in which insanity might claim a victim?”
Officer Boyd was clearly uncomfortable when he admitted that Mr. Howe’s statement was correct. Mr. Howe dismissed him after asking if he had known Mrs. Carelton prior to her arrest, and if he had any reason to know what her demeanor normally was when she was in shock or upset. Officer Boyd said he did not.
This reporter would have to say that although the officer’s description of the crime scene was vivid and disturbing, Big Bill Howe clearly was the victor in the determination over Mrs. Carelton’s state of mind upon her arrest.
The court reconvenes tomorrow morning at nine A.M.
Chapter 31
I could not forget th
e words the officer had said, how William had looked to him like a butchered hog, and it was this description above all else—a description I knew but could not remember—that kept me tossing and turning restlessly through the night. That and my dreams of Victor, of how I’d last seen him, limned by moonlight in my room at Beechwood Grove. I was pale and tired as I went to the courtroom the next morning.
Mr. Scott had been thorough. He first called Julia Breckenwood, and though Howe had told me her name was on the list, I was startled by her appearance. She was dressed in dark green, elegant and self-possessed as they swore her in, and yet I remembered her in Millie’s dining room at Newport, confused as she woke from a trance, straining to hear the music on the beach. I remembered her quiet humiliation when I told her it wasn’t so, and then I remembered William’s insinuations about the weekend she and Victor had spent at Daisy Hadden’s country house, and I realized uncomfortably that I had no idea what she would say.
Mr. Scott came over to her and smiled. He rested his hand on the witness box and said, “You were invited to the party Mr. and Mrs. Carelton gave on October sixth to open their new house, were you not?”
“Yes,” she said.
“And did you go?”
“Oh yes. Everyone went.”
“It was quite an occasion, then?”
She nodded. “William had been talking about the house for nearly a year. He was very excited.”
“What about Mrs. Carelton? Was she excited as well?”
Julia glanced down at her hands, and I tensed with apprehension. “Well, it was odd, you see. I don’t know. She never spoke of it. I would have spent every moment decorating, but Lucy seemed . . . she seemed not to care.”
“Did she ever tell you why that might be?”
“No.” She shook her head. A tiny curl came loose to bounce at her cheek, and she pushed it aside with a nervous movement. “She never confided in me. We were friends, but not . . . good ones.”