Sharyn McCrumb: If I'd Killed Him When I Met Him…

“Mrs. Royden, did you talk that way to the police when you turned yourself in? Because if you did, it’s going to take two magicians and a hypnotist to get you out of here.”

The accused nodded approvingly. “That was mildly funny,” she said. “If you ever stop taking yourself so seriously, you’ll be all right. Now, what did you ask?”

“Did you say anything incriminating to the arresting officers?” A. P. Hill sighed. “Surely you exercised your right to remain silent until you had an attorney present?”

“I think I was pretty subdued then. It was about seven A.M., which helped, because I am not a morning person.” She paused for breath and eyed the younger woman. “I expect you are.”

“Yes. That’s about the time I finish jogging. Now I really need to hear your side of the story, Mrs. Royden, because you’re about to get charged with murder in a state that has a death penalty. You’d better stop joking and concentrate on the fact that you could lose your life .”

Eleanor Royden shrugged. “I already have.”

LUCY TODHUNTER PAUSED for one stricken moment, staring at the spilled beef tea that was slowly staining the linen sheets-and at the writhing man in the bed. Then she turned and ran from the room.

Richard Norville grasped his friend by the shoulders. “Todhunter, what is the matter with you? I haven’t seen anything like this since the war.” He thought of the gut-shot youths he had seen right there in Virginia, and his face grew gray. “We’ll have the doctor around to you soon,” he said.

Philip Todhunter’s only reply was a guttural cry and more thrashing among sweat-soaked sheets.

“What was that?” asked Norville, straining to catch the word. He thought he heard the word basin , but when he moved the china bowl closer to the bed, Todhunter only shook his head and howled, clutching at his abdomen with both hands. Trying not to glance at his wretched friend, Norville picked up the towel from atop the oak washstand. “Perhaps you’d like to bathe your forehead,” Norville muttered, eyeing the door with longing. “The doctor should be along presently.”

This time the gabbled cry was-distinctly- “Don’t leave me!”

Norville sat down again, trying not to fidget. Absently, for want of anything else to do, he picked up a copy of The Lady of the Lake , leafed through the pages, and began to read aloud: “‘Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Dream of fighting fields no more-’”

For three quarters of an hour Richard Norville read aloud Sir Walter Scott, while the sick man alternately drowsed and screamed. Then the retching began. Twice he filled the basin with the blood-streaked evidence of his distress.

It was nearly noon when Lucy Todhunter returned, ushering in Dr. Richard Humphreys. They entered during one of Philip’s somnolent periods, and he lay motionless with his back to them while Norville fidgeted in his eagerness to be relieved of duty.

“How is he?” asked Lucy, giving the invalid a tender glance.

Norville indicated the basin, spilling over onto a now stained carpet-evidence of the recent illness. “I have never known a man so stricken to live,” he said. “His suffering is piteous.”

The doctor edged past them and bent over the patient. “How long has he been like this?”

“The pains and vomiting began just this morning,” said Lucy. “But for a day or two he has been seedy.”

Humphreys held his fingers against Philip Todhunter’s wrist. “Seedy!” he said in a voice tinged with sarcasm. “What has he eaten, Mrs. Todhunter?”

“Only a little pastry. I brought beef tea, but-”

“Last night, then. Was there seafood in the house? Mushrooms? Did anything taste as if it had spoiled?”

“Nothing,” said Lucy Todhunter. “But Philip did not dine with us. He has refused his meals since Sunday. He said he could not bear the sight of food.”

The black-bearded doctor scowled at her and leaned down to feel the patient’s forehead. “Clammy,” he remarked to no one in particular. “So he has eaten nothing these two days, madam?” She nodded. “Then what has he taken?”

“But I told you,” she said, giving him a bewildered look. “Only some water now and again, and his beignet a little while ago. I brought him beef tea, but he spilled it without taking any.”

“Madam, I ask you again. What has your husband taken ? If he had dined on a bit of questionable beef or the odd mushroom, I should put this down to gastric upset. But since he has not done so, I must regard this as a case of poisoning. Make no mistake about it.” He turned to Richard Norville. “Sir, I shall need some of the basin’s contents collected in a small container for analysis. And bring me the breakfast pastries as well.”

Norville, happy to be given an honorable excuse to flee, hurried from the room in search of a jar. Lucy Todhunter joined the doctor at her husband’s bedside. “Philip,” she called out. “Oh, my dear, can you hear me?”

Todhunter groaned, but his eyes remained closed.

“He will be all right, won’t he?” she whispered to the doctor.

Philip Todhunter opened his eyes, and groaned. A shudder of pain convulsed him, and when it was over, he lay back against the pillow, panting, and cold sweat beaded on his brow.

Dr. Humphreys leaned close to his patient’s ear. “Todhunter,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “You must tell me what you have taken, or you will surely die.”

Todhunter stared up with unseeing eyes, and one trembling hand flailed at nothing. “Lucy!” he cried. “Why did you do it?”

Bill MacPherson was still holding the photograph of the frowsy middle-aged couple and the smiling teenage girl. Funny how one bit of information can completely change what you see. Suddenly the dull but pleasant family group had changed into a leering tabloid peep show. Bill had often heard the phrase the mind boggled ; this was the first time his had actually done so. In fact, it was boggling like mad.

“Your husband brought home this girl-this kid in the picture-and said she was his wife ?”

Donna Morgan dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “Yes.”

“Did you know her?” Bill looked back at the photo, half expecting to see a cringing kidnap victim with pleading eyes, but the grinning girl looked as saucy as before. He might even venture to say smug .

“Knew who she was. From church. Her name is Tanya Faith Reinhardt. Well, she goes by Tanya Faith Morgan now, and I-I guess I ought to-”

“How old is she?” asked Bill, forestalling another cloudburst.

“Sixteen.”

Bill glanced at the doorway. Surely this was a prank at his expense. Surely any second now Edith and A. P. Hill were going to leap out grinning, and shout, “Gotcha!” But the damp silence went on and on. Bill sighed and made a note on his legal pad: sixteen . “What do her parents think of this?”

“Oh, they won’t stand in the way of the Lord’s will. They’re stronger in the faith than I am. Though I do pray for the strength to accept this with a loving heart.”

Bill nodded. That was reassuring. Most of the women of his acquaintance would have prayed for the strength to lift a newly sharpened double-bladed ax. He was glad that violence was not an issue here, but he still couldn’t figure out how polygamy had arrived in Danville without his noticing. “The Lord’s will?” he said. “I still don’t follow you.”

“Chevry is a minister. He has a little white-frame church out in the country past Pumpkin Creek. There’s no steeple or anything. It used to be a Baptist church, but that closed years ago, so the congregation got it cheap. We fixed it up ourselves. The men made benches for pews, and Chevry laid the carpet.”