The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [276]
“Not precise, sir, no.”
“No. But let me ask you this—would you feel sure saying that they preceded the births of Matthew and Thomas Hatch by at least nine months?”
“Your Honor!” Mr. Darrow called out. “I’m afraid the state is indulging its taste for suggestion again.”
“I’m not so sure I agree with you this time, Counselor,” the judge answered. “The state, though they have been an infernal nuisance about it, have introduced evidence that speaks to opportunity and means, in this case. I’m going to allow them to start approaching the question of motive. But you do it carefully, Mr. Picton.”
Looking like he could’ve kissed that white, fuzzy head what was bobbing behind the bench, Mr. Picton said, “Yes, Your Honor,” and then turned back to his witness. “Well, Mrs. Wright? Would you say that the timing was about right, with respect to the birth of the two younger Hatch children?”
“It was awfully close,” Mrs. Wright replied with a nod. “I remember remarking on it to myself at the time. And when the boys came out looking the way they did, well… I drew my own conclusions.”
“And how was it that they looked?” Mr. Picton stole a glance up at the bench. “I ask you not to be presumptuous here, Mrs. Wright.”
Wagging a finger toward the defense table again, Mrs. Wright said, “Those boys didn’t get their coloring—their eyes, their skin, their hair—from Mr. or Mrs. Hatch. Anybody could see that. And there was something else, too—when you live in the house that you work in, you get to know its rhythms, so to speak. Mrs. Hatch slept in a separate bedroom from Mr. Hatch. When they were first married, they spent some nights together in his room, but after Clara came … well, Mr. Hatch never slept anywhere but in his own bed. And if the missus ever went into Mr. Hatch’s room again, other than to take him food and medicine when he was dying, I certainly didn’t witness it.”
“I see. Then when was the last time you saw Mrs. Hatch go into her husband’s room?”
“The night the children were shot,” Mrs. Wright answered. “She was flying all through the house—I couldn’t stop her, I was too busy trying to help the children. But she locked herself into Mr. Hatch’s old room for a good five minutes.”
“Locked herself?” Mr. Picton repeated. “How did you know that she locked the door?”
“She was in there when the sheriff and Dr. Lawrence came,” Mrs. Wright answered with a shrug. “They tried to get to her, so Dr. Lawrence could give her something to calm her down. But the door was locked. After a few more minutes she came back out, still screaming and running all around. She said she’d found her husband’s gun, and that she was afraid she was going to do herself some injury with it. She told me to get rid of the thing—so I wrapped it up in a paper bag and dropped it down the old well.”
“And do you remember what kind of paper bag it was?”
Mrs. Wright nodded. “Mr. Hatch’d bought everything in bulk, to save money. We still had a whole crate of bags from Mr. West’s factory.”
Mr. Picton moved to his table and picked up the piece of paper bag what Lucius had cut away from the Colt revolver the evening he found the thing. “So the bag would have borne this imprint?” He handed her the snippet of brown paper.
Studying the thing, Mrs. Wright nodded. “Yes, that’s right.” “You’re sure?”
“Certainly I’m sure. You see, two years ago West’s bag company moved this writing, here, from the bottom of the bags to up around the top. If you have enough of the things, you notice.”
“And do you have enough of the things?”
“Yes, sir, I never throw them away. A widow living on an army pension can’t be too careful about expenses.”
“No, of course not. Well, thank you, Mrs. Wright. I have no more questions.”
Mr. Picton sat down, still looking very pleased that none of Mrs. Wright’s testimony had been excluded from the record. Mr. Darrow, on the other hand, seemed to be going through one of those on-the-spot strategy shifts of his: holding his hands in front of