A Matter of Principle

by Kris Tualla

  She prayed through her rosary again.

  May 5, 1822

  St. Louis

  Candidate’s Wife Arrested for Murder

  Mrs. Siobhan Sydney Hansen, wife of Legislative Candidate Nicolas Hansen, was arrested at her husband’s home on Saturday. She has been charged with murder in the death of Lady Lily Jane Atherton Kensington on Monday, April 29. Mrs. Hansen, a practicing midwife, used a hunting knife on Lady Kensington to deliver her of her son. Lady Kensington died as a result.

  Mrs. Hansen’s assumed motive would stem from Lady Kensington’s claim that her husband, Mr. Nicolas Hansen, was the father of the child. Lady Kensington maintained that she and Mr. Hansen had several trysts after her return to Cheltenham in the autumn. She also maintained that these trysts were an extension of the relationship they enjoyed before Mr. Hansen wed his current wife.

  There is speculation that Mrs. Hansen intended to harm the child as well as the mother. However, the baby, a boy, did survive the early birth and has been removed to Raleigh, North Carolina, by Sir Ezra Kensington, the grieving widower.

  In a related story, the attack on the Hansens and resultant killing of two highwaymen, as reported in this publication on February 28 of this year, alluded to the possibility that it was Mrs. Hansen who shot the second man, lending weight to the idea that she is capable of committing the act with which she is charged.

  Mrs. Hansen is currently resting in the Cheltenham jail, and will be brought to St. Louis for trial, possibly as early as next week.

  

  Nicolas sat outside the Cheltenham jail and waited, his legs bouncing with impatience. Fyrste snorted, tore up clumps of grass that grew along the side of the jail’s wooden walls and chewed them contentedly. The sun was still low in the sky, but the day promised to be sunny and hot. Nicolas swatted a fly.

  When he saw Mrs. Ansel exit her boarding house, he loped over and graciously offered to carry Sydney’s breakfast tray for the elderly woman.

  “Oh, thank you, Mister Hansen!” she chirped. She sounded uncannily like the birds greeting the morning from the surrounding treetops. “Such a shame about your wife.”

  “She’s innocent, Mrs. Ansel,” Nicolas said firmly.

  “Of course she is, dear!” Ada patted his arm.

  Mrs. Ansel rapped her knuckles on the jail door. Soon Nate Busby’s heavy boots began to clomp down the stairs. He fumbled with the lock, then creaked the heavy door open. He squinted in surprise at Nicolas.

  “Morning, Hansen!” he rumbled, stepping aside to admit the spry octogenarian. “Mrs. Ansel.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff. Did you sleep well?” Ada paused to inquire.

  “Like a rock, ma’am,” he replied.

  Nicolas tapped one foot and trampled past the niceties. “Might I deliver my wife’s breakfast?”

  “Oh! Of course. Let me get the key.” Busby jangled a ring on his belt, unmoving.

  “Nicolas?” Sydney’s voice called from the other side of the wall. “Is that you?”

  Nicolas rushed toward the cell. He stood in front of it, the tray wedged between his belly and the bars. “How are you, min presang?”

  “I’m alright.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Sydney shook her head, no.

  Nicolas didn’t know what to say next. But he knew he must keep talking, or risk bawling like a baby. His wife looked terrible. Her hair was tangled, her skin too pale. Brownish smudges curved under her heavy-lidded eyes. Her clothes looked like they were slept in; with a start he remembered that they were.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Sydney shrugged and gave him a wan smile. “I suppose I am.”

  Nicolas turned to the sheriff. “Haven’t you found the key yet?” he barked.

  “Hold yer horses, Hansen!” Nate chided. “She’s not going anywhere!” He slipped the key in the lock and the door relaxed. He pulled it open so Nicolas could enter the cell. “You’ll be wanting to stay in there a bit?”

  “Yes.”

  Nate moved to re-lock the door. Nicolas pushed away memories that threatened his tenuous grip on his emotions.

  “Is that really necessary, Sheriff?” Sydney asked. Her eyes flicked to Nicolas’s and back to the sheriff. “My husband is not here to break me out. I give you my word.”

  Nathan Busby blushed. “No, I suppose he isn’t.” He left the cell door open.

  “Mr. Hansen, would you be kind enough to bring my tray back when she has finished?” Mrs. Ansel queried.

  “It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”

  With a kind smile that nearly buried her eyes under crinkled lids, Ada left the jail. Nicolas set the tray on the cot and pulled Sydney to him. He held her so tightly that she protested her inability to breathe. He reluctantly loosened his grasp, but held her still.

  “Did you talk to Nelson Ivarsen?” her muffled voice emitted from someplace close to his armpit.

  “I did. He’ll be coming to see you today.”

  “Did he say anything about my chances?”

  “Nothing specific. He has to talk to all the witnesses first.”

  Sydney’s ribs expanded slowly, pushing out his elbows, then shrank. “All the witnesses with something to gain.”

  Nicolas was shocked. “Did you puzzle that out yourself?” he asked.

  “I told you I didn’t sleep,” she answered. “Am I going to be moved to St. Louis?”

  “I don’t know.” Nicolas could not bear to think of her in that horrible place. “Will you eat?”

  Sydney nodded. Nicolas let go of her then, and she sat on the cot. He hovered over her while she ate, prodding her to eat more. He rambled on about anything he could think of, trying to lift her spirits. He could not remember ever seeing her so defeated.

  Nicolas stayed until Nate Busby returned and made him leave. He collected the tray and sat it on the floor outside the cell. Then he went back to hold his wife once more. He ran his fingers through her long dark hair, working out tangles, rocking side to side.

  “Am I a murderer?” she whispered.

  “No. Never,” he answered. He used one knuckle to lift her chin until her eyes met his. “You bring life, min presang. Always, you bring life.”

  “Jeg elsker De, Nicolas.”

  “Jeg elsker De også,” he replied.

  

  Nelson Ivarsen arrived before lunch. He asked Sydney more questions than she would have considered possible about her midwife’s training, her past experiences, Lily’s condition, the baby’s condition, and who saw what, or heard what, and when they saw or heard it. His eyes widened when she mentioned the stethoscope.

  “You can hear the baby’s heart beating? Inside the mother?”

  “Yes. It’s a new implement. Nicolas gave it to me for Christmas,” she explained.

  “Well. I’ll be.” He shook his grayed head. “What will they think of next?” He went back to making notes on his paper.

  “Nelson?” Sydney ventured.

  “Yes?” He didn’t look up.

  “Will I—I mean, what are my—” she couldn’t continue. She twisted her reddened fingers into white-edged knots.

  Nelson did look at her then. He rested one wrinkled hand over hers. “I do believe that I’ll be able to make a judge see that you did all you could to save Lily Kensington and her child.”

  “And if you are able to do so?”

  “Then the charge will be dropped and you will not have to go to trial.”

  Sydney gave a brief nod. “Then that is what you must do.”

  Nelson Ivarsen stood. “I’ll go to Rickard’s and take his testimony, and his wife’s. I already have Nicolas’s.”

  “Will you talk to Taycie?”

  Nelson shrugged. “Her word isn’t admissible. But I may, just to see if she remembers something the others may have forgotten to mention.”

  Sydney stood as well. She extended her hand to the lawyer. “Thank you.”

  He gripped it warmly. “As I told Nicola
s, I’ll do all I can to see you acquitted. And soon.”

  May 8, 1822

  St. Louis

  Sydney was placed in the same cell that Nicolas had occupied when he was arrested two years ago. It still smelled of urine. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep from slinging his wife over his shoulder and kicking his way out of there.

  “It’s my fault you’re here,” he muttered.

  “Why would you say that?” Sydney asked. Her gray-green eyes met his, concerned.

  He laid the bedding—which he carted the ten miles from the Cheltenham jail—onto the built-in bench. “If I was not running for legislator, this situation would not have garnered so much attention. Without so much attention, the judge would not have insisted that you be moved to St. Louis.”

  “You could not possibly know that, Nicolas.”

  He straightened and faced his wife. “Oh, but I do. Now I see how politics work. It’s every man for himself, and the rest be damned.”

  Sydney began to wordlessly arrange her bed. Nicolas watched her, deep in thought. When she finished, she sat and faced him. Her face was drawn, somber. The strain of the past days had washed all color from her skin. Only the green in her eyes still showed spirit, but that was fading to gray. He made his decision.

  “I am going to quit.”

  “The hell you are!” she blurted.

  “Sydney, be reasonable. This,” he waved his hand around the filthy, stinking cell, “is not worth it!”

  She jumped to her feet. “And you think that if you quit, it will all just disappear?” she challenged.

  “Perhaps!” he answered, his voice expanding. “Perhaps it just might!”

  Sydney folded her arms and glared at him. “Lily will still be dead, husband, and I will still be the one holding the knife! This,” she imitated his arm’s sweep, “will still be here and you will have abandoned your destiny!”

  Nicolas snorted. “So now it’s my destiny, is it?”

  “Now? Now?” Sydney shouted at him. “It always has been, you big Norwegian ass!”

  Nicolas stepped back. He stared at her from under lowered brows. “What are you talking about?”

  Sydney clamped her palms against the sides of her head. “Oh! How can you know so little of yourself?”

  “Might you care to enlighten me, wife?” he asked sarcastically.

  Sydney pointed a finger at him. “You were born a prince. The blood that flows through your veins has come down through centuries. From men who ran countries, fought wars, sailed on dangerous raids and struck fear in the hearts of those who beheld them!”

  Nicolas shook his head. “I’m a bit removed from the Vikings, Sydney.”

  “No, you are not. You may be more refined, but you are no less a warrior.” She stepped closer. “Do you not see how men defer to you? How they avoid tangling with you? How they ask what you think and respect what you say?”

  Nicolas shrugged and waved his hands, but had no comment to make.

  Sydney poked her finger into his chest. “You have fire in your blood and justice in your heart!”

  Nicolas clenched his jaw and gripped the offending finger inside his fist. “Sydney…”

  “I have not finished!” she declared. She yanked her finger free and waggled it in his face. “And, damn it all, you’ll listen until I am, Nicolas Reidar Hansen!”

  Nicolas fought the sudden urge to laugh. Looking down at his slender wife, whose head barely reached his chin, thrusting her digital sword and threatening him was too surprising. Her cheeks flushed with renewed color. She vibrated with irate energy. She was magnificent.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nicolas allowed a faint grin.

  Sydney’s mouth opened, then flapped closed. She straightened and dropped her hand. “I’m sorry. I did not intend to be rude.”

  “No offense has been taken I assure you, Madam.”

  Sydney plunked down on the bedding, hands falling between her knees. “You are not an average man, Nicolas.”

  “How so?” he asked, curiosity piqued.

  “Well… have you seen yourself? To start off, you are at the least half-a-head taller, and fifty pounds heavier, than most men.”

  Nicolas shrugged his acknowledgement.

  “And you have classic Nordic features: a strong jaw, straight nose, hair the color of wheat and eyes the color of the ocean,” she continued.

  Nicolas felt his face warming. He deflected his embarrassment with a joke, “I suppose I am devastatingly handsome.”

  Sydney laughed at that, and wagged her finger at him once again. “Don’t smirk at me, pay heed to what I’m saying!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nicolas dipped his chin in deference.

  “You are more intelligent than most, you have had more education than most. You have traveled quite a lot more than most. And those things are all because of who you were at your birth. You are singularly blessed, Nicolas.”

  He considered his wife through narrowed lids. “So I have no choice in all of this?”

  “Men always have choices, Nicolas. But they don’t always make the right ones.”

  “And the right one for me is to see this campaign through to its culmination, is that your point?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Sydney sighed heavily. “That is my point exactly.”

  He moved across the cell and sank onto the bench beside her. “How do you feel about that?”

  A soft smile crept over Sydney’s countenance. “It will take me along a path I never imagined to be on. But I know two things for certain.”

  Nicolas arched his brows. “They are?”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “As long as we are together, I shall follow any path you lead me on.”

  Nicolas wrapped his arm around her waist. “And the other?”

  Her eyes twinkled as she looked up at him. “I shall most assuredly never die of boredom.”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  May 10, 1822

  St. Louis

  The Character of a Murderer

  Herbert Q. Percival

  What is a murderer made of?

  Motive, certainly.

  It might be that a life was threatened. Or a business. Or a reputation. Perhaps a goal thwarted, and the obstacle killed. Perhaps, caught in the act of a crime, a witness is silenced. It might be that a man wants what another has, and kills to get it. Or it is as simple as an unforgivable insult. Or the wrong color of skin. Or loving the wrong sort of person.

  And once the motive is there, the method must be chosen. Violence is usually involved. Guns, knives, ropes, fire. Blood everywhere.

  Then, the escape.

  Swiftly, the murderer must go in an unexpected direction. They must dispose of the weapon and hide their identity. They must never reveal their motive to anyone.

  That is the character of a murderer.

  Only a fool would kill someone while others watch. Or kill someone with whom that fool has a public disagreement. Or simply go home afterward and continue a normal life.

  Have you met Siobhan Hansen ~ the woman called ‘Sydney’ by friends and family?

  She is most assuredly not a fool.

  And, as much as I dislike uncharacteristically championing anyone’s particular cause, even I find it hard to believe that she could ever take a life.

  So, dear Reader, consider carefully what you hear.

  Sydney Hansen has suffered substantial losses of her own. I cannot believe she would wish the same on anyone else.

  Nicolas read the article three times to be sure it said what he believed it said. He leaned back in his chair, hand resting loosely around his coffee mug. Steam swirled above it lifting the rich dark aroma to mingle with the essences of brandy and cigar smoke; entrenched residents of the apartment now that only men resided there.

  “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “Rodger came through…”

  He was not sure how he felt about that.

  Rodger lived a life that repulsed Nicolas. How any man could t
hink of—no, desire to forgo a woman’s special gift, and ram his yard up another man’s arse instead was beyond his comprehension.

  Nicolas loved the soft touch, the sweet smell and the giving warmth of women in general, and Sydney in particular. Kissing someone whose morning stubble would rasp against his own was unthinkable.

  He shuddered.

  “It’s only to save his hide,” Nicolas muttered.

  Was it? Or had the man had a change of heart?

  Nicolas stood and drank his coffee. “I don’t much care!” he declared to no one.

  Vincent pushed the apartment door open and he entered with Leif, both of their arms laden with trays of breakfast from the tavern across the street. Hickory smoke on bacon was the first aroma to reach him, and Nicolas’s stomach rumbled. Vincent’s eyes caught the open newspaper.

  “Is there any good news today?” he asked while Nicolas moved it out of the way.

  “Perhaps.”

  Leif helped Vincent spread out the plates of food. “Would you care to elaborate?” the secretary prodded.

  “Our favorite character, Herbert Q. Percival.”

  Vincent’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, no. What now?”

  Nicolas frowned and pressed his lips to a line. He handed Vincent the paper.

  “What does it say?” Leif tried to look over Vincent’s shoulder. “Read it out loud.”

  As Vincent did so, his voice transformed from grimly expectant to pleasantly confused. When he finished, he pinned Nicolas with an intent stare.

  “What did you do to him?” he demanded.

  “Nothing!” Nicolas exhaled.

  Leif considered him suspiciously. “Did you discover who he is, Sir?”

  Nicolas shrugged and nodded.

  Vincent startled. “How?”

  “I would rather not say.”

  Vincent lifted his chin and looked down the length of his nose at his employer.

  “And you swear that you did not beat him? Or blackmail him? Or bribe him?” he pressed.