boots.
When they get there, the almshouse superintendent pulls back the sheet. Mr. Madison nods and says it’s his girl. The uncle stands back and peeks, while gripping tight to his slouch hat. A kind of strangulated noise issues from his throat like a rusty hinge, and he smears the corner of his eye with a thumb knuckle. Richardson regards them both—you never know how people are going to react to the sight of a dead loved one.
He asks them if they know anything about a scar above the girl’s left breast.
Madison nods. “A fever blister when she was little,” he says. “Didn’t heal properly.” He’s not inclined to say much more, but Richardson accepts the identification now as complete. He takes the two men into an office, gives them coffee, which only Madison takes, and asks about Lillian. Mr. Madison tells him that she was not yet twenty-one years old. She lived with her aunt Jane in Little Plymouth for about five years starting when she was fourteen. She moved there because she had become “difficult to handle.” She went to Bruington Academy for a while, but Mr. Madison and his wife thought it was not good for her, that she was putting on airs, and so they wouldn’t let Jane send her back. Then, not quite two years ago, she moved in with her grandfather and uncle, who lived only a few miles from her parents.
While Madison talks, the uncle, George Walker, sits there fiddling with his hat and looking forlorn and out of place. Richardson instinctively trusts him more. When asked about Willie Cluverius, they agree that he and Lillian were fond friends. “And were they intimate?” Richardson asks. Madison seems to take offense at the question, while Walker only looks puzzled.
“Were they sweethearts that you were aware of?”
“Not that I was aware of,” Walker says. “No sir.”
Madison adds, “She was well brought up. She wouldn’t let a man do her just anyway he pleased.”
“Are you suggesting she was raped?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“I know this is hard on you, Mr. Madison,” Richardson says. “But I’m trying to get at what happened. She was pregnant, as you know. The coroner suspects she was murdered.” He lets that sink in. Madison sits back in his chair, seemingly unsurprised. Walker tightens his lips as though he’s about to cry; he glances toward the door. “Now is there anyone you suspect could be responsible for either getting her pregnant or wishing her dead, or both?” The two men shake their heads, Madison with his hat still on. “She was not romantically involved with anyone you know of?”
“I don’t know of anybody except that Tommie Cluverius.”
“Tommie Cluverius?”
“Yeah, he wudn’t particularly fond of me. Seems like he took every opportunity to shun me. He’s high and mighty with me. I don’t know why.” He suddenly looks irritable, the broken veins on his nose going purple and his Adam’s apple bulging.
“Her cousin Cary mentioned a Willie Cluverius. Is this the same person?”
“No, that’s the brother. Tommie’s the lawyer.”
“Do you know his middle name?”
“Judson.”
Richardson takes some notes, then directs his attention to Mr. Walker. “Were they sweethearts, Miss Madison and this Tommie Cluverius?”
“No sir,” Walker says, looking puzzled, “not as I know of. Many a night he spent at air house on court days. I’d say they was good friends, but I can’t speculate on the rest.”
“So there was an opportunity for a seduction to occur?”
“She slept in a room by herself,” Walker says. “He slept with me when he stopped by air place. There was a empty room between.”
“Locked?”
“No. It has the old string latches, but ’twasn’t locked, ever.” Walker thinks a minute. “I remember twiced he got up in the middle of the night. I don’t remember him coming back to bed. In the morning he said he had bowel trouble.”
“I see, but were they alone together?”
“They might a went out
When they get there, the almshouse superintendent pulls back the sheet. Mr. Madison nods and says it’s his girl. The uncle stands back and peeks, while gripping tight to his slouch hat. A kind of strangulated noise issues from his throat like a rusty hinge, and he smears the corner of his eye with a thumb knuckle. Richardson regards them both—you never know how people are going to react to the sight of a dead loved one.
He asks them if they know anything about a scar above the girl’s left breast.
Madison nods. “A fever blister when she was little,” he says. “Didn’t heal properly.” He’s not inclined to say much more, but Richardson accepts the identification now as complete. He takes the two men into an office, gives them coffee, which only Madison takes, and asks about Lillian. Mr. Madison tells him that she was not yet twenty-one years old. She lived with her aunt Jane in Little Plymouth for about five years starting when she was fourteen. She moved there because she had become “difficult to handle.” She went to Bruington Academy for a while, but Mr. Madison and his wife thought it was not good for her, that she was putting on airs, and so they wouldn’t let Jane send her back. Then, not quite two years ago, she moved in with her grandfather and uncle, who lived only a few miles from her parents.
While Madison talks, the uncle, George Walker, sits there fiddling with his hat and looking forlorn and out of place. Richardson instinctively trusts him more. When asked about Willie Cluverius, they agree that he and Lillian were fond friends. “And were they intimate?” Richardson asks. Madison seems to take offense at the question, while Walker only looks puzzled.
“Were they sweethearts that you were aware of?”
“Not that I was aware of,” Walker says. “No sir.”
Madison adds, “She was well brought up. She wouldn’t let a man do her just anyway he pleased.”
“Are you suggesting she was raped?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“I know this is hard on you, Mr. Madison,” Richardson says. “But I’m trying to get at what happened. She was pregnant, as you know. The coroner suspects she was murdered.” He lets that sink in. Madison sits back in his chair, seemingly unsurprised. Walker tightens his lips as though he’s about to cry; he glances toward the door. “Now is there anyone you suspect could be responsible for either getting her pregnant or wishing her dead, or both?” The two men shake their heads, Madison with his hat still on. “She was not romantically involved with anyone you know of?”
“I don’t know of anybody except that Tommie Cluverius.”
“Tommie Cluverius?”
“Yeah, he wudn’t particularly fond of me. Seems like he took every opportunity to shun me. He’s high and mighty with me. I don’t know why.” He suddenly looks irritable, the broken veins on his nose going purple and his Adam’s apple bulging.
“Her cousin Cary mentioned a Willie Cluverius. Is this the same person?”
“No, that’s the brother. Tommie’s the lawyer.”
“Do you know his middle name?”
“Judson.”
Richardson takes some notes, then directs his attention to Mr. Walker. “Were they sweethearts, Miss Madison and this Tommie Cluverius?”
“No sir,” Walker says, looking puzzled, “not as I know of. Many a night he spent at air house on court days. I’d say they was good friends, but I can’t speculate on the rest.”
“So there was an opportunity for a seduction to occur?”
“She slept in a room by herself,” Walker says. “He slept with me when he stopped by air place. There was a empty room between.”
“Locked?”
“No. It has the old string latches, but ’twasn’t locked, ever.” Walker thinks a minute. “I remember twiced he got up in the middle of the night. I don’t remember him coming back to bed. In the morning he said he had bowel trouble.”
“I see, but were they alone together?”
“They might a went out
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