The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [200]
Mr. Picton was so confident, in fact, that he announced that he intended to schedule the grand jury hearing for the following Friday; only five days away. As we discovered the next morning, however, our host’s boss, District Attorney Pearson, didn’t share his assistant’s confidence: when Mr. Picton told him about his plan, Mr. Pearson declared that he now intended to move his vacation, which he’d been planning to take in two weeks anyway, up a week—and that he wouldn’t be back until the whole “unnatural” business of the Hatch case was over. Mr. Picton, for his part, didn’t seem at all concerned about this: he merrily said good-bye to Mr. Moore and Marcus (who were set to leave for New York at noon) and then withdrew into his office, at which point the rest of us split off to pursue our separate tasks.
For Miss Howard and myself, the first order of business was a visit to Mrs. Louisa Wright’s house over on Beach Street. It was an odd place, located so near the Schafer greenhouses that it existed in a sort of continuous daylight, being as there wasn’t an hour of the night when some part of the giant floral plant wasn’t artificially lit up. Because of this Mrs. Wright—a pleasant-looking but tough-talking lady in her fifties whose husband had died during the Civil War, when she was still young—had her windows covered with particularly heavy curtains and drapes, what made the house as quiet as the grave. A clock on her parlor mantel was the main source of noise, its steady ticking seeming to cry out that life was slipping by. The many pictures of Louisa Wright’s young husband what decorated the house completed the funeral home feel of the joint.
Mrs. Wright served us tea and sandwiches in the parlor, very content, it seemed to me, to get even further involved in our pursuit of Libby Hatch—and when she heard that she was going to be called as a witness before a grand jury investigating the matter, her contentment seemed to grow into positive satisfaction. As will (with any luck) become clear soon enough, what the old girl had to say about Libby Hatch. Reverend Parker, the Hatch kids, and the death of old Daniel was very revealing, and reinforced all the things she’d originally told Miss Howard about the case. Because of this, when Miss Howard and I left the house at about three to head over to the livery stable and hire a rig for our trip to Stillwater, we were in very optimistic spirits.
We engaged the same buckboard—pulled by the same little Morgan stallion—what had brought us back from the old Hatch place on Friday, and the first part of our ride east and south, while not exactly luxurious, was made quick and easy by the steady-spirited horse. Unfortunately, the rig itself proved a lot less reliable: just after we turned onto the road what ran alongside the Hudson, we threw a rear wheel with a jarring, nasty crash, and while the collapse didn’t damage either the wheel or the rig, it did mean that we were stuck on the side of the road for a couple of hours, until a passing farmer who was carrying some heavy rope offered to give us a hand raising the buckboard and getting the wheel back on. This process took another couple of hours, and then we had to slowly follow our Good Samaritan back to his farm, where he had the tools to make sure that the wheel stayed in place. Miss Howard gave the amiable if not very talkative man five dollars for his help, and then we decided that, being as we were slightly closer