That evening, I missed the briefing with Shamus. When I got back to the dormitory, Albert and Robert were poised to give me a summary.

“First, Harry,” said Albert, “Tell us how the Widow Powell is holding up under this mess.”

“Not well, as you might imagine. She is a strong woman and a devoted mother. However, without those little girls to care for …”

“May god bless all the mothers of the world,” said Robert as he walked over to where I was sitting and tousled my hair.

“You did a good thing, Harry,” he said. When I began weeping, he tousled my hair again. Then Albert came over and put an arm around my shoulder. The arm didn’t move  until my sobbing stopped.

“Well, here’s the long and short of it according to my cousin. Carleton’s lawyer made his closing argument. Apparently it was a strong one.”

“How so?”

“He claimed the prosecution did not have enough evidence to convict Carleton of murder. 

“Yes, the boy had a liaison with Mrs. Powell. But they had produced no witnesses to the crime. They had not found the gun used in the crime. In short, he said, the case was full of holes. The only option? A verdict of not guilty.”

“And the jury’s reaction to his argument?” I asked.

“There’s the rub. Shamus believes they’ve already made up their minds. He thinks Carleton’s goose is cooked regardless of what his lawyer says.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” I said.

“I don’t know about you, Robert, but I agree with Harry. I don’t like the bastard one bit. But we got a set of rules on how justice should be meted out in this country. It ain’t fair to throw those rules out and hang a bloke just because you find him a disgusting little turd.”

Robert nodded his head.

“And what about the prosecutor?” I asked. 

“Today is Friday and the defense lawyer didn’t finish his argument until late in the day. The judge adjourned the proceedings until Monday morning.”

Since final exams were approaching, I spent most of Saturday studying in the library. Memorizing the declension of Latin nouns and the conjugation of irregular French verbs distracted me from Mrs. Powell’s situation. But nothing could have distracted me from what happened on Sunday.

Exeter had a rule that all students must attend church services on Sunday morning. Which church to attend was left to the student. My choice was the village’s Presbyterian church. That is what my mother would have wanted. 

My father would not have cared. He had little use for churches. He saw them as havens for hypocrites hiding their sins behind a veneer of sanctimony. My mother did not disagree with him. But she felt hypocrites were not a sufficient reason to dodge participation in the Lord’s  works.

I’m not sure where my sentiments fell – probably closer to those of my father. But I suspect my distaste for churches stemmed mostly from having to sit on a hard bench as deacons and ministers droned on and on.

That particular Sunday morning I walkeded out of the church after having dutifully shaken the hands of the preacher and his cast of surrogates. When I looked to my left, I saw Mrs. Powell trudging along the sidewalk with her face turned downward. She did not have her children with her. As I caught up to her, I softly said, “Good morning, ma’am.” 

For a few seconds, she seemed not to recognize me. Then a warm smile formed on her face.

“Good morning, Harry. I did not expect to see you so soon.” 

She reached for my left hand with both of hers and pulled it to her cheek. She held it there for what seemed like a long while. I was beginning to feel embarrassed when she burst into tears.

“Oh, Harry. What will I do? Whatever will I do?”

“Ma’am,” I said, “Let’s walk a bit and find a quiet place to sit down?” 

She didn’t resist when I gently withdrew my hand from her grasp. I put an arm around her shoulders and lead her to a bench ensconced in a copse of spruces. 

Once we reached the bench and sat down, she slumped against me and said nothing for several minutes. It was chillingly cold. Normally I would be shivering. Perhaps it was the heat of her body pressed against mine. Perhaps it was the energy I was expending to comfort her. I don’t know. But I felt as warm as I would have in front of a fire in our dormitory.

Leaning over and looking at the ground, she hoarsely whispered, “Harry, the other evening I did not tell you everything I should have told you.

“I know you have heard that Warren came home early one afternoon and found Carleton and me in bed together.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And people believe Carleton shot and killed Warren. They believe Warren had become enraged and was threatening to ruin the boy’s future.”

“Yes, that seems to be what people think.”

“That is not what happened.”

I suppose I should have been shocked by her revelation. I was not. I have never considered myself adept at reading people. I am not like my mother who had few equals in the arena of intuition. But I had sensed right from the beginning that Carleton had not committed the crime. So, if it had not been Carleton, who else could it have been?  

After uttering her confession, she began sobbing again. I kept my arm around her shoulders as a storm of conflicting emotions washed over me: anger, sorrow, pity, outrage and others that now escape me. 

While I so wanted to give voice to these feelings, I did not. Mrs. Powell had thrust me into the role of a confidant. I somehow knew it was my task to listen to her unburdening, and, most especially, not to judge her. For the first time in my life, I think, I had an inkling of what a lawyer or a priest must feel when he hears the revelation of an unspeakable act from a distraught client or parishioner. 

            Suddenly, Mrs. Powell sprang from the bench and started running back toward the village. I knew not to pursue her.  I just sat watching her. I wondered how women could run so swiftly in cumbersome skirts and shoes.