never have brought something like that into the house. What woman would? No, it must have been brought in by Captain Sullivan himself.
And why would he do that? He was a fit man, hardly in need of a heavy-duty scale.
Shane felt the answer before he had time to think it—the scale wasn't there for Captain Sullivan. It was there for her. He was the one who brought it home, but it was there for her.
Shane had plenty of experience at being the object of taunting, and now the same familiar feel was here. What else could the big scale be, he asked himself, besides some sort of goad from Sullivan to his wife? The scale's mere presence in the house presented an ongoing insult. The contraption might as well have been screaming,
This is what it takes to weigh you!
In its power to inflict pain, it could laugh at her in a cruel voice that no one else heard.
Shane wondered how long the big scale had been in the house. Surely every single one of those days held some special new humiliation for Elsie Sullivan. Each one was delivered by the sight of the scale itself, possibly along with the occasional verbal barb from her husband. Like straws on the camel's back, they built up, one after another after another, into a boiling mass of resentment and a murderous rage.
And so she shot him, just right, so that he fell more or less across the thing. And then she left him there on purpose.
This is for your oversized scale, bastard!
Shane couldn't explain the gun, but he felt certain now that Sullivan's mistress was innocent. It hurt him to think of how terrified she had to be, locked up for this crime. The memory of Mrs. Nightingale's final screams of terror and desperation were stuck in his brain like bullet fragments, and he had to wonder if the Pairo woman's fear was any less. He found himself overwhelmed with the urge to help her. However, the force of it didn't keep him from being baffled as to what he could actually do. After all, was he supposed to go to the police with all this?
To tell them what?
And why should they believe anything that he told them, anyway? Worst of all, what if somebody recognized him for what he was? What if somehow these men who dealt with criminals every day could look at him and see his horrible guilt?
But the picture might as well have been burned into his brain; Marietta Pairo's pain was now linked to the final agonies of Mrs. Nightingale. There was nobody but him to help her now. He had to ask himself if he was ready to abandon another innocent one, ready to lie quiet and piss himself instead of taking the necessary risk. Back in the kitchen pantry, his legs had been paralyzed and his throat sealed shut. But what would his excuse be now, if he kept silent about his suspicion, just to keep himself safe?
What good was anyone's life under that kind of burden? He knew the answer to that.
Shane picked up his newspaper and opened it to a full-page advertisement that left a good portion of the page blank. He tore off the blank part to use for notepaper and went to get a pencil from the Mission schoolroom. There, he addressed the note to the head police officer named in the newspaper article: Sergeant Randall Blackburn.
Shane knew of no other way to try to get the images out of his head, so he began to write down his suspicions.
The freshly minted Widow Elsie Sullivan spent her entire ride to the City Hall station fuming in outrage and plotting her ultimate revenge against that arrogant police officer, Blackman or Black-heart or whatever his name was. The man had not only committed the outrage of summoning her down to the station house, but he had sent hirelings in uniform to arrest her like some petty criminal. Fortunately, none of her friends were in attendance. Still, plenty of servants observed the spectacle of the grieving widow being escorted from her home and driven away.
The few moments that it took to walk with the officers from her doorway to the police cart felt as if they took half an hour. Her
And why would he do that? He was a fit man, hardly in need of a heavy-duty scale.
Shane felt the answer before he had time to think it—the scale wasn't there for Captain Sullivan. It was there for her. He was the one who brought it home, but it was there for her.
Shane had plenty of experience at being the object of taunting, and now the same familiar feel was here. What else could the big scale be, he asked himself, besides some sort of goad from Sullivan to his wife? The scale's mere presence in the house presented an ongoing insult. The contraption might as well have been screaming,
This is what it takes to weigh you!
In its power to inflict pain, it could laugh at her in a cruel voice that no one else heard.
Shane wondered how long the big scale had been in the house. Surely every single one of those days held some special new humiliation for Elsie Sullivan. Each one was delivered by the sight of the scale itself, possibly along with the occasional verbal barb from her husband. Like straws on the camel's back, they built up, one after another after another, into a boiling mass of resentment and a murderous rage.
And so she shot him, just right, so that he fell more or less across the thing. And then she left him there on purpose.
This is for your oversized scale, bastard!
Shane couldn't explain the gun, but he felt certain now that Sullivan's mistress was innocent. It hurt him to think of how terrified she had to be, locked up for this crime. The memory of Mrs. Nightingale's final screams of terror and desperation were stuck in his brain like bullet fragments, and he had to wonder if the Pairo woman's fear was any less. He found himself overwhelmed with the urge to help her. However, the force of it didn't keep him from being baffled as to what he could actually do. After all, was he supposed to go to the police with all this?
To tell them what?
And why should they believe anything that he told them, anyway? Worst of all, what if somebody recognized him for what he was? What if somehow these men who dealt with criminals every day could look at him and see his horrible guilt?
But the picture might as well have been burned into his brain; Marietta Pairo's pain was now linked to the final agonies of Mrs. Nightingale. There was nobody but him to help her now. He had to ask himself if he was ready to abandon another innocent one, ready to lie quiet and piss himself instead of taking the necessary risk. Back in the kitchen pantry, his legs had been paralyzed and his throat sealed shut. But what would his excuse be now, if he kept silent about his suspicion, just to keep himself safe?
What good was anyone's life under that kind of burden? He knew the answer to that.
Shane picked up his newspaper and opened it to a full-page advertisement that left a good portion of the page blank. He tore off the blank part to use for notepaper and went to get a pencil from the Mission schoolroom. There, he addressed the note to the head police officer named in the newspaper article: Sergeant Randall Blackburn.
Shane knew of no other way to try to get the images out of his head, so he began to write down his suspicions.
The freshly minted Widow Elsie Sullivan spent her entire ride to the City Hall station fuming in outrage and plotting her ultimate revenge against that arrogant police officer, Blackman or Black-heart or whatever his name was. The man had not only committed the outrage of summoning her down to the station house, but he had sent hirelings in uniform to arrest her like some petty criminal. Fortunately, none of her friends were in attendance. Still, plenty of servants observed the spectacle of the grieving widow being escorted from her home and driven away.
The few moments that it took to walk with the officers from her doorway to the police cart felt as if they took half an hour. Her
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