The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [239]
The very shapely body was draped in a fine black silk dress, a stiff crinoline undergarment keeping the skirt in perfect order. The hands were cuffed together with old-style manacles. A small hat with a jet-black rooster feather sat forward on the head, holding a black veil in place; but the weave of the veil was an open one, and the golden eyes were plainly visible as they caught the light of the gas lantern on the platform and threw it back in our faces.
“Well,” Libby Hatch said, just the same way she had the first time we’d ever heard her speak: in a tone what was open to a half-dozen interpretations, and what made me think of Miss Howard’s words about Libby’s personality being broken into pieces. Then, seeing past us to Mr. Grose and the others, Libby put on a more melancholy air. “Mr. Picton,” she said, slowly coming down the steps of the car and getting a hand from Sheriff Dunning, “I never expected to see you again—certainly not under such circumstances as these.”
“Really?” Mr. Picton said quietly, not able to keep a small grin off his face. “How odd—since I always suspected we might meet again, and under precisely these circumstances.”
The golden eyes flashed on the rest of us with a quick glare of hate, and then softened as they came to rest on Mr. Grose. “Is that you, Mr. Grose?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hatch,” the man answered, a little surprised. “You remember me?”
“We only met once or twice,” Libby answered with a gentle little nod. “But of course I remember.” Golden tears began to well up under the veil. “How is my baby—my Clara? They tell me she can finally speak again. But I can’t believe that she’d—that she’d—” Her shoulders began to heave, and the sound of gentle sobbing escaped her tightly pursed mouth.
Mr. Grose, who looked very confused but very emotional, too, was about to answer, but the Doctor stepped between them quickly. “Mr. Picton,” he said, quietly but firmly, “may I suggest…”
“Of course,” Mr. Picton answered, getting the point right away. “Dunning, you and I will take Mrs. Hunter, as she is now known, to the court house. There’s a cell waiting. You brought a rig, Henry?”
The guard, who also seemed moved by what he’d seen, stepped forward. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Then we’ll be on our way, madam,” Mr. Picton finished, indicating the station yard. “If you wish to speak to the press, or they to you, requests can be submitted to my office.”
Sheriff Dunning got behind the woman. “Come along, ma’am,” he said. “Best to do what Mr. Picton says.”
Libby Hatch kept sobbing for a few more seconds; but when she saw that it wasn’t going to buy her anything, she turned on the Doctor, the sadness disappearing with frightening speed. “This is your doing, Doctor. Don’t think I don’t know that. But I don’t care what you’ve said to my daughter or made her believe—once she sees me, she’ll know what to do. I’m her mother.” Mr. Picton took a firm hold of Libby’s right arm, and indicated to Sheriff Dunning that he should do the same on her left: together, they got her moving. “Do you hear, me, Doctor?” she called over her shoulder. “I’m her mother! I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it will to her—and to anyone with a heart! Whatever else you may have done, you can’t change that!” Sobbing again, the woman passed out into the yard with her escort, the deputies and the court house guard following behind.
The rest of us wandered out to watch them all get aboard a big, plain wagon with three bench seats what was drawn by two horses. With its lone female occupant still in tears, the rig rolled away; and as it did, Mr. Grose turned to give the Doctor a silent scowl. Then he nodded to his people, and turned to silently march off toward the low end of Bath Street, where the offices of the Journal were located.
“Well, Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, as we stood there in the silent yard. “I guess that’s really the question, isn’t it?”
The Doctor turned to him, his mind very far away. “The question?” he asked softly.
“She’s Clara’s mother,” Mr.