The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [240]
The Doctor just shook his head, his eyes going wide. “No. But we may, perhaps, be able to change what that means.”
CHAPTER 42
The arraignment was set for ten o’clock the next morning, and by fifteen minutes to the hour we were all gathered in the main courtroom. Mr. Picton was seated at one long table on the right side of the big chamber, beyond a low, carved oak railing what separated the gallery from the officers of the court. At a similar job on the left-hand side of the room were Libby Hatch and a well-dressed, dark-haired man who wore gold-rimmed pince-nez perched on top of his long, thin nose. No fancy glasses or expensive suit, though, could keep a look of genuine uncertainty out of Irving W. Maxon’s eyes: he kept glancing around the room like a nervous bird, as if he wasn’t sure how he’d landed in his current predicament or just what he was supposed to do about it. Libby Hatch, on the other hand—still wearing her black silk dress, but not the hat or veil—was a picture of confidence, staring at the high fruitwood bench in front of her with a face what seemed forever on the verge of breaking into the coquettish smile it so often displayed.
As for Mr. Picton, he had his watch open on the table in front of him and was staring at it, more calm than he’d been at any time since we’d met him.
The Doctor, Mr. Moore, the detective sergeants, and Miss Howard were all sitting in the first row of gallery chairs behind Mr. Picton’s table and the wooden railing; Cyrus, El Niño, and I were right behind them. We’d gotten the aborigine scrubbed down pretty good for the event, and the combination of his cleanliness and my evening clothes made him one of the most presentable people in the galleries, which since nine o’clock had been crammed full of a ragtag collection of townspeople, along with some sharper-looking visitors who’d come down from Saratoga. Sheriff Dunning was sitting at a small table just to the right of Mr. Picton, and beyond him, against the right-hand wall, was the jury box, its twelve seats empty. There was a guard standing on the other side of the room, and in front of him was the court stenographer, a proper-looking lady who went by the peculiar name of Iphegeneia Blaylock. The bailiff’s desk in front of the bench was empty, and on either side of the bench itself were two iron lamp fixtures and a like number of flags, one the American, the other the state banner of New York. Back by the front door, keeping a careful eye on who came into and out of the place and how they behaved, were the guard Henry and a slightly shorter (but, to judge by the look of him, no less powerful) uniformed man.
It was a strange experience for me, to be observing all the details of the situation from someplace other than the defendant’s chair; but the strangeness soon gave way to a feeling of relief and even excitement, as I realized that this was the place where all our recent labors would reach some kind of a conclusion in the days to come. It was like standing under the wire at the track and waiting for the horses to get out of the starter’s gate: I found myself tapping and banging my feet and hands and wishing the thing would just start. To judge by the noises around me, I wasn’t alone in said feeling, either: the talking, mumbling, and skittish laughing in the courtroom rose as every second of waiting went by, until by three minutes to ten I found I almost had to yell to make myself heard by Mr. Moore.
“What?” he called back to me, touching his ear.
“I said, have you heard anything from Canfield’s about the odds?” I shouted back.
He nodded. “Fifty to one—and I’m sure it’d be higher if someone other than Rupert were arguing the state’s case!”
I whistled, glancing at the floor; then, as an idea hit me, I looked back up. “You don’t suppose we could get any bets down through a third party, do you?”
Mr. Moore smiled but shook his head. “I already thought of that, but I promised Rupert we wouldn’t! He’s superstitious—thinks it’ll put the Jonah