The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [205]
“Mrs. Muhlenberg?” Miss Howard asked quietly, looking into the dark corner.
“I didn’t know,” the scratchy voice answered, “that the district attorney had taken to employing women. Who are you?”
“My name is Sara Howard.”
The head behind the fan nodded. “And the boy?”
“My driver,” Miss Howard said, smiling to me. “And my bodyguard.” She turned back to Mrs. Muhlenberg. “It seems I need one, in this town.”
The shadowy head just kept nodding. “You’re asking about Libby Fraser. She’s a dangerous subject …” In a sudden rush, Mrs. Muhlenberg took in a big gulp of air with a moan what would’ve raised the hackles on a dead man. “Please,” she went on after a few seconds, “sit…”
We found two straight-backed chairs that looked a little sturdier than the other items in the room, and tried to settle in.
“Mrs. Muhlenberg,” Miss Howard said. “I confess that I’m a little puzzled. We—I—certainly didn’t come here looking for trouble. Or with the intention of offending anyone. But it seems that the mere mention of Libby Fraser ‘s name—”
“You saw what’s left of the house next door?” Mrs. Muhlenberg cut in. “That used to be my house. My husband’s, actually. We lived there with our son. The people of this town don’t want to see their own places reduced to charred brick and ashes.”
Miss Howard absorbed that for a few seconds. “You mean—she did that? Libby Fraser?”
The head started to nod again. “Not that I could ever have proved it. Any more than I could’ve proved that she killed my child. She’s much too clever …”
The mention of another dead kid, coming in a town and a house like that, had me ready to dive through the sitting room window, get onto the buckboard, and whip our little Morgan until we were all the way back to New York. But Miss Howard never flinched.
“I see,” she said, in a low but firm tone. “I think you ought to know, Mrs. Muhlenberg, that Assistant District Attorney Picton is preparing an indictment against the woman you knew as Libby Fraser for murder—the murder of her own children.”
That brought another one of those pitiable gasps from behind the fan, and one foot at the end of the divan began to shake noticeably. “Her own—” The foot suddenly grew still. “When? Where?”
“Three years ago—in Ballston Spa.”
Still another gasp floated our way. “Not the shooting—the one they said was a Negro?”
“Yes,” Miss Howard answered. “You know about it?”
“We heard rumors,” Mrs. Muhlenberg said. “And a party of men searched the town. Those were Libby’s children?”
“They were. And we believe she killed them. Along with several others in New York City.”
A different sort of sound now came from behind the fan; and after a few seconds I made it out as hoarse sobbing. “But why should I be shocked?” Mrs. Muhlenberg finally said quietly. “If any woman could do such a thing, it would be Libby.”
Leaning forward, Miss Howard put all the sympathy she was capable of—which was a very great deal, especially when she was dealing with a member of her own sex—into her next question: “Can you tell me what happened here, Mrs. Muhlenberg? It may help us in our effort to prosecute her.”
There was another pause, and then the soft sobbing stopped; but the foot started twitching again. “Will she be executed?”
Miss Howard nodded. “It’s very possible.”
Mrs. Muhlenberg’s voice now filled with a kind of relief, maybe even excitement. “If she can die—if you can bring that about—then yes, Miss Howard. I’ll tell you what happened.”
Very quietly and carefully, Miss Howard produced a pad and a pencil, ready to take notes. As Mrs. Muhlenberg launched into her tale, the old black woman left the room shaking her head, as if listening to the story was more than she could stand.
“It was a long time ago,” Mrs. Muhlenberg began. “Or maybe it wasn’t, to most people’s way of thinking. The late summer—1886. That’s when she came to us. My husband’s family owned one of the mills here in town. We moved into the house next door right after our marriage. It had been his grandmother’s. Oh, it was