The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [207]
Miss Howard seemed to guess that I was ready to bolt, and she put a hand to my arm to hold me where I was.
“Arsenic?” she said. “Was she feeding it to your son?”
“If you know about Libby,” Mrs. Muhlenberg said with a small hiss, “you know that she’s too smart to’ve done anything so bold as give it to him directly. And I was watching her whenever she was with him. Whenever she was with him—but not when she was alone. And that was my mistake…. My husband asked Libby why she had the arsenic. She said that she’d been woken one night by a rat in her room. As if we ever had rats…. But we couldn’t think of any other explanation.” Trying to hold down more sobs, Mrs. Muhlenberg gasped out, “Michael died soon after that. Libby played at being grief-stricken very well, and for days. It was only when we were burying my son that the truth came to me. Libby was standing there weeping, and I realized that her own health was returning. Suddenly, I saw everything clearly—so clearly…. She had poisoned him—she’d eaten the arsenic herself, and it had passed to him through her milk. Not enough to kill a grown woman, but enough to kill a baby. Satan himself couldn’t have been more clever.”
That was about it for me. “Miss Howard—” I whispered.
But she just tightened her grip on my arm, her eyes never leaving the dark corner across the room. “Did you confront her?” she asked.
“Of course,” Mrs. Muhlenberg answered. “I couldn’t prove anything, I knew that. But I wanted her to know that I knew she’d done it. And I wanted to know why. Why kill my son? What had he done to her?” The tears started to come again. “What could a baby boy do to a grown woman to make her want to kill him?”
I thought for a minute that Miss Howard might try to explain the theory of Libby Hatch’s mind what we’d worked out over the last few weeks, but she didn’t; wisely, I figured, being as even if Mrs. Muhlenberg could’ve grasped the ideas, she was in no emotional shape to bear them.
“She denied it all, of course,” Mrs. Muhlenberg went on. “But that very night …” One of her hands went up, pointing in the direction of the ruins next door. “The fire … my husband was killed. I barely survived. And Libby was gone …”
Another pause followed, and I prayed that the story was over. It turned out that it was, but Miss Howard wasn’t ready to let matters go at that. “Mrs. Muhlenberg,” she said, “would you be prepared to go before a jury and talk about your experiences with Libby? It might help.”
That awful, piteous moan floated across the room again. “No—no! Why? You can tell them—someone else can tell them! I can’t prove anything—you don’t need me—”
“I could tell them,” Miss Howard said, “but it won’t carry any weight. If they hear it from you, and see your face—”
At that the moan became another hoarse, terrible laugh. “But that’s what’s impossible, Miss Howard: they can’t see my face. Even I can’t see my face.” There was a terribly still pause, and with a sudden chill I realized what the fan was for: “I have no face. It was lost in the fire. Along with my husband—and my life …” The shadow of her head began to shake. “I won’t parade this mass of scars in a courtroom. I won’t give Libby Fraser that last satisfaction. I hope that my story can help you, Miss Howard. But I won’t—I can’t…”
Miss Howard took a deep breath. “I understand,” she said. “But perhaps you can help in another way. We’ve been unable to determine just where Libby came from. Did she ever mention her home to you?”
“Not exactly,” Mrs. Muhlenberg answered. “She talked many times about towns across the river, in Washington County. It was always my impression that she came from there. But I can’t be sure.”
Miss Howard nodded and, finally letting go of my arm, stood up. “I see. Well—thank you, Mrs. Muhlenberg.”
The old black woman had reappeared at the doorway to show us out. As we started toward the front hall, Mrs. Muhlenberg said, “Miss Howard?” We both turned. “Look at your boy’s face. Do you see the terror in his eyes? You may think it’s just his imagination. But