Part 39 (1/2)

”Why is that?”

”Well, he wasn't of our cla.s.s.”

”I see.” Howe smiled indulgently, as he might toward a naughty child who had decided to behave. ”Thank you, Mrs. Breckenwood. You've been most enlightening.”

Howe was exultant, but the rest of the day was torture for me. Mr. Scott next called Hiram Grace, a man who certainly had no love for me. I was not a good wife or a woman who knew her place, he said. He found these things as disquieting as murder. But as for insanity . . . I'd made foolish decisions. I was perhaps drinking. That was what he thought, and no wonder-any female who had married so far beneath herself must be unhappy. But I'd brought it on myself.

And what did Hiram Grace think of William? Howe asked. Hiram answered that William was a good stockbroker, that he'd made Grace some money over the years, but even DeLancey Van Berckel, William's own father-in-law, had not been able to get William into the Knickerbocker Club.

”DeLancey sponsored him, but there was something about him. Not quite of our cla.s.s, you know,” Hiram Grace said. ”No one knew where he came from. Newport, you say, hmmm? No, I didn't know. No one did.”

Chapter 32.

The next day the district attorney questioned Dr. Moore, who had been so ready to prescribe my laudanum, and who stated with a.s.surance that my only illness lay in the fact that I coddled my moods like any other woman. After that, Mr. Scott called Dr. Little to the stand.

The asylum superintendent was dressed in a dark brown suit b.u.t.toned so high that his dark satin necktie puffed just beneath his chin. His thinning hair was s.h.i.+ny with oil, and his gla.s.ses were gone, revealing the dull mud of his eyes. He did not look at me as Mr. Scott called him to the stand, and he sat with an air of n.o.ble superciliousness that had reporters muttering.

Howe squeezed my arm and leaned close to whisper, ”He'll play right into our hands.”

I nodded and pulled away, twisting my fingers in my lap. I was almost sick with apprehension, more so than I'd been with any of the other witnesses.

Dr. Little told the jury of his credentials. Mr. Scott started the testimony by asking, ”What is insanity, Dr. Little?”

”That's a complex question, Mr. Scott,” Dr. Little said. He laid one hand over the other, resting them on his dark-clad knee. ”But I suppose, in layman's terms, that a person is insane if he cannot control his impulses-and, more importantly, if he cannot tell right from wrong.”

Mr. Scott smiled. ”That's a precise statement indeed, Doctor. Can you tell us how you know the defendant?”

The doctor paused. Now he looked at me, with a sad, pitying expression. ”She was a patient of mine.”

”When did you first see her?”

”She and her husband consulted with me a little over a year ago. She was having hysterical episodes. I made a diagnosis of uterine monomania.”

”What exactly is uterine monomania?”

”Abnormalities in Mrs. Carelton's uterus cause a reflex action in the nervous system, subjecting her to extreme mood changes, which may range from mild depression to intense hysteria.”

”Did you suggest a treatment?”

”I did. I suggested she be placed in an asylum.”

Mr. Scott nodded gravely. ”Did Mrs. Carelton follow your advice?”

Dr. Little looked affronted. ”She did not.”

”In your opinion, was that a good idea?”

”Absolutely not. I warned her and her husband that she would grow worse.”

”What did Mr. Carelton say to that?”

”That they planned to have a child, and he felt that would solve Mrs. Carelton's problems. I warned him that a child might make her problems worse.”

”I see. Did you see Mrs. Carelton again after that visit?”

”Not until a year later. July twentieth, to be exact.”

”Under what circ.u.mstance?”

Dr. Little glanced at me again. I bowed my head to study my hands. ”Mrs. Carelton was being committed to my care at Beechwood Grove.”

”What is Beechwood Grove?”

”A private asylum.”

I heard a murmur from the back of the courtroom, the scratching of pencils, loud whispers. I did not dare look at the jury, but I felt them watching me with pitying curiosity.

”How long was Mrs. Carelton at Beechwood Grove?”

Dr. Little's voice became clipped. ”She was there until October fifth. About two and a half months.”

”Do you know, Dr. Little, what took place the next day, October sixth?”

Dr. Little's face looked cast from stone. ”I understand that she killed her husband.”

”Is this something you could have antic.i.p.ated, Doctor?”

Little shook his head. ”It was most emphatically not. Mrs. Carelton made excellent progress. At Beechwood Grove we pride ourselves on our exacting care, and Mrs. Carelton received the very best treatments available. Had there been any doubt of her sanity, she would be there still. I a.s.sure you, Mr. Scott, that when Mrs. Carelton left us, she was quite sane, as I told her husband she would be.”

”Did she have control of her impulses?” Mr. Scott asked.

”Yes. Very much so.”

”Could she tell right from wrong?”

”Oh yes. Certainly.”

”Would you say that she would have understood the consequences of her actions?”

”Mr. Scott, she was as sane as you or I.”

”Could she have been clever enough to fool you?” Mr. Scott asked.

Dr. Little reddened. ”I am a highly qualified physician, Mr. Scott, and she is only a woman.”

”Yes, of course. You're saying there is no possibility at all that she could have been insane when she left Beechwood Grove?”