When Albert, Robert, and I arrived back in Exeter Sunday night, we had to drag ourselves to bed. As we trudged into the dining hall the next morning, something was afoot. We expected to see a group of bleary-eyed boys. What we encountered was a buzzing throng. Robert and I were too spent to ferret out the source of the commotion. Not Albert. 

“Sit yourselves down. I’ll make the rounds and figure out what’s up. Shouldn’t take long.” He was right.

“This will stretch the limits of your imagination,” he said as he  peered down at us. Robert and I gave him blank stares.

“Jaysus, might as well converse with a pair of cadavers. Should let yis learn the news on your own.”

“Albert,” I said, “forgive our lethargy. We are anxious to hear the fruits of your investigation.”

“That’s better. Here’s the skinny. Our dear friend Carleton Rogers? He’s been charged with the murder of Mr. Powell. His trial starts Wednesday in Exeter.”

 I sat with my mouth agape. Robert did the same.

“Shocked the shite out of me, too. Didn’t think the wanker had the gumption.”

 I was more surprised than Albert. I did not like Carleton. His arrogance and pomposity were hard to bear. But a murderer? Someone who could rip the life from a man like Mr. Powell. I could not picture that.

As the day wore on, more details seeped out. The authorities claimed Carleton and Mrs. Powell had formed a liaison. They argued that one afternoon Carleton had shot Mr. Powell when he caught the two in bed. Most importantly, the prosecutors insisted they had incontrovertible evidence to prove their charge. 

That evening Robert, Albert, and I strolled around the campus as the temperature deopped below freezing. Being a southern boy, I would have preferred our discussion be in front of a warm fire. But suggesting that would have only puzzled and annoyed lads hardened to biting winter cold.

“They ain’t gonna let us students attend the trial. That’s for sure,”said Robert.

“True enough, lads, true enough. But I’ve conjured up a scheme to get the lowdown without being in the courtroom.”

“Why am I not surprised you’ve managed that, Albert?” I asked as I stifled a snicker.

“’Cause you know me to be the resourceful scoundrel that I am, Harry.”

“Mon dieu!”

“All right, all right. Here’s the deal. Shamus O’Flaherty is a cousin of mine working for one of the Boston newspapers. His editor has given him the job of covering the trial …”

“How did ya find that?”

“Just as it was getting dark I seen him talking to a copper near the courthouse. Later I pushed him for what the two of them was yakking about. Seems they was having a negotiation. My cousin greased him with a fiver in return for information about the trial. Information other reporters would not be privy to.”

“Just a fiver? Don’t seem like much,” said Robert.

“I said the same thing to cousin Shamus. To close the deal, he had to provide the copper with spirits and an occasional professional lady from Boston.

“The best part is every evening he’ll fill us in on the day’s proceedings.”

For the next several days, I tried to put this whole matter out of my mind. Yes, it was an important event for the Powell family, for those of us at the school, and for the town of Exeter. On the other hand, it paled compared to the horrors I had seen back home during and after the war. I was ashamed to be so fascinated by the murder. It seemed a form of disloyalty to my fellow southerners who had suffered so much for so long.

My  self-directed preaching was futile. If anything, it fueled my curiosity more than quelling it. When it came time for our first briefing from Albert’s cousin, I was as eager as my two friends to hear what he would tell us.

We had found a wooded clearing to hold our meetings. Well out of earshot from anyone strolling about  in the cold night air. Shamus O’Flaherty was a slightly older and larger version of Albert. The only differences I could detect between the two were that Shamus (having been born in Ireland) had a brogue and was a bit more extroverted than Albert – if such were possible.

“So cousin, give us the scoop. What were you seeing and hearing in that courtroom?”

“Jaysus, where to begin? First off, as you might imagine, the place was packed to the rafters with journalists and townspeople. It is not what you’d call a spacious venue. There was a crowd out in the hall clamoring to hear every word and an even bigger one out in front of the building.”

“A bloody circus.”

“It was. The judge must have worn out his frail old arm banging the gavel and howling at the sheriff’s deputies to maintain order. Mostly to no avail.”

“Pity we couldn’t have been there.”

“Not so sure … waiting for hours on end to run out and take meself a pee was not enjoyable. But let me give yis the high points …” 

Shamus began by describing the opening arguments from the prosecuting and defense attorneys. He went on for ten minutes before Albert interrupted.

“Sounds like they got a good case against Carleton.”

“Maybe, maybe. But the defense lawyer they got for him is one impressive gent.”

“How so?”

 

“He’s like one of them British barristers we’d see back home. Not a real likeable sort, you know, but the bastard has a way with the words. It’s plain he can get the jury’s attention in a way the prosecutor can’t.”

“Shamus,” I said, “Have they gotten to putting witnesses on the stand?”

“No, no. It’s still all the preamble shite. And the judge – tough old codger he is – said what the two gents was contending is not evidence. They should pay most attention to what the witnesses say.”

“What about Carleton,” asked Robert. “How’d he look?”

“Maybe a bit scared, but not terror-stricken. And smug. Like you said, cousin, an arrogant little prick if I ever saw one.”

“Ya think he done it?”

“Albert, yis know I’m not shy about placing a wager now and again.”

“And with this business?”

“Wouldn’t lay down a ha’ penny.”

The next evening, the four of us convened at the same spot for our briefing. Shamus looked both fatigued and exhilarated.

“Well, lads, things got more dramatic today.” He drew in a breath and let it out with a whoosh.

“Cousin, might a pint of Guinness help yis?”

“It would, Albert. It would. But here’s the deal …”

Shamus said the prosecutor had called five witnesses. All were townspeople; none were Exeter students. Each had seen Mrs. Powell and Carleton in secluded spots around the town. I am too prudish to recount the lewd nature of what these witnesses had seen. 

“Bloody hell,” said Albert. “And how did the jurors react to all this?”

“Hazard a guess, Albert.”

“Trying to look disgusted but secretly enjoying it?”

“For the most part. But one old bloke tossed his cookies. Judge called a recess so’s he could get himself outside for a bit of air. That gave a custodian time to mop up the mess.”

“Not looking so good for old Carleton right about then, I’d venture.”

“’Twould be an understatement, cousin.”

“Shamus, was Mrs. Powell in the courtroom to see this spectacle?” I asked.

“She was not. Hasn’t been there at all. No so far as I know.”

I was comforted at hearing that, but I worried over her well-being. It was bad enough this poor lady had to endure the violent loss of her husband. But to have that loss occur under such scandalous circumstances? I decided then I would find a way to extend myself to her.

 

 Such an opportunity presented itself late the next afternoon. I was ambling about the campus as the sun dipped below the horizon. Darkness would soon envelop us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. Powell walking slowly with her two girls. She was stooped over to hold each by the hand. The girls were chattering away as she strained to absorb what they were saying. I was reminded of how taxing it can be to listen to little ones. Ones whom you love dearly but who can’t yet express themselves with clarity and consistency.

My throat tightened as I struggled to hold back tears. I hesitated a few seconds before approaching.

“Good evening, Mrs. Powell,” I said with as much softness as I could muster. 

“Good evening, Harry,” she said with a faint smile. 

Before I could say anything more, her daughters wrapped their tiny arms around my legs and looked up at me with wide eyes. My self-restraint evaporated. I began to weep as I reached down to caress them on the tops of their heads. Then Mrs. Powell began to weep and now I was being hugged by all three women. What a sight we would have made for any passerby whose eyes could have pierced the darkness.

I do not recall how long we stood like that. At some point Mrs. Powell said, “Harry, why don’t we go back to our house? Perhaps sharing a bit of dinner would do us all some good.”

“I think that is a splendid idea, ma’am. Please allow me to go and have a word with Mr. Macpherson. If I don’t, they will miss me in the dining hall and likely send out a search party to retrieve me.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” she said with a brighter smile than I thought her capable of. 

“Go do what you need to do. We shall look forward to seeing you in about twenty minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as I trotted off.

“Good lad, Harry. Good lad,” said Mr. Macpherson after I explained my situation.

“Not to worry about your absence from the dining hall. On your way, son. Let’s not keep the dear lady waiting.”

When she opened the door, the warmth of her home spilled out onto me.  I heard oak logs crackling in a fire. I smelled a roast and potatoes from a stove. I saw a sitting room hung with pictures of sailing boats and mountains and pastures. And I saw a thickly-cushioned couch and loveseat. 

It was smaller and more compact than our house in South Carolina. But it had the ambience only a woman like my mother or Mrs. Powell could have created.

Closing the door behind me, she reached up and patted my cheek. Then took my hand, and led me to an old rocking chair. Turning toward the kitchen, she said, “We should be able to sit down to dinner in just a moment, Harry. Can I get you something to drink?” 

When I hesitated, she added, “Since you are from the South, perhaps a bit of bourbon would be a good choice?”

“That would be wonderful, ma’am. Thank you.” And it was. With my first swallow, the winter chill and my nervousness started to melt.

Soon the four of us were seated at the dining room table. The two little girls, Amanda and Christine, sat on chairs stacked with pillows. Even with that, their adorable faces barely rose above the level of the table. Going back and forth to the kitchen, Mrs. Powell tried to maintain a happy tone, but her hollowed out eyes betrayed her.

Our conversation was focused on the girls. Amanda was about 3 1/2 years old. Christine had just turned two. Neither could begin to understand what had happened to their father. All they knew was that “Papa” had gone to another place and would not be coming back. I was no stranger to little children losing their fathers. No amount of explaining could push away the sadness hanging over them.

After the table had been cleared, Mrs. Powell put the girls to bed. I washed the dishes and placed them as best I could in the cupboards. That completed, she sat on the loveseat while I reoccupied the rocking chair.

“Ma’am, you know how sorry I am about your loss. I so wish I could lighten your burden. But I do not know what that would be.” 

For a long time she said nothing. She sat with her elbows on her knees and her head cupped in her hands. Tears dripped through her fingers. I wanted to go to her and wrap her in my arms. Finally she spoke.

“Harry, you have already done much to lessen my pain. You are a sweet and caring young man, and I shall never forget your kindness.” 

Then she began weeping again. I sat quietly for another ten minutes. Finally, I rose, walked over and patted her shoulder.  She put a hand on top of mine and said, “Harry, please sit down. I must tell you some things.” I nodded and slid back into the rocking chair.

Drawing in a long breath, she began, “I feel I owe you an explanation about my liaison with Carleton.”

Shaking my head vigorously, I began to protest, but she stopped me. “No, Harry, this needs to be said. I know … I know … you feel this is not your business and that you are not here to judge me. I appreciate that deeply. But, please, let me tell you what I have to tell you.

“I was foolish to ever be lured in by Carleton. He can be enormously charming when it suits him, but at heart he is a cunning, conniving boy who cares only for himself. I believe he has no conscience and is incapable of feeling remorse.”

I struggled to maintain a serious expression. My thoughts ran to what Albert might have mumbled had he been in the room: 

“Charming? Whadya know, Harry? Guess we missed that side of him. We’ve only seen the part where he’s a nasty pissant.”

“It all began when he saw me walking with the girls one afternoon about two months ago. We recognized each other from one of the teas Warren arranged with your history class in our home. As he approached, he warmly greeted us and commented on how adorable the girls were.” Then she stopped, looked down, and slowly shook her head. 

“Now it is clear what his motives were. But at the time I was foolishly naïve, and … and … I was vulnerable.” She must have noticed my look of puzzlement.

“Warren was a good man, a very good man. Kind. Loving. A caring and nurturing father. But Warren was not … how shall I put this delicately?”

“Ma’am, whatever you say will not shock nor offend me. Because of the war …”

“Yes, of course … I had forgotten. All that you must have lived through. Yes. Well, casting ‘delicacy’ aside, Warren was not a passionate nor a romantic man. I am certain he had never been with another woman before the two of us were married. I, on the other hand …”

As her face flushed, I raised both palms and gave her a nod.

“One thing quickly led to another and Carleton and I became lovers. And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, we were not discreet about things.”

“Yes.” This produced a hint of an impish smile from her.

“Then, Harry, I presume you’ve had some firsthand experience in such matters?”

I smiled and gave my head a little twist.

“Each time the two of us would meet, Carleton would mention how much he was looking forward to going to Harvard. At first, I was warm and encouraging, but then his intent became more and more clear.”

“He was coaxing you to get Mr. Powell to write a glowing letter of recommendation for him to the Harvard admissions people. Am I close to being right, ma’am?”

“Not close, Harry. Spot on. You must think me such a fool.”

“No, ma’am, not at all. But I do think Carleton is even more contemptible than I thought prior to this evening.”

“He is all that … all that and more.” Then her face hardened into such an angry mask that it frightened me. Putting my hands on the arms of the rocker, I slowly raised myself up and watched her for a moment. She seemed not to notice me at all. With a short bow I said, “Thank you for the delicious meal, ma’am.” Then I walked out the front door, opening and closing it as silently as I could.