Twenty-Eight

Neither Clara nor I knew why Whitbread had sent for us. Uneasy myself, I nonetheless tried to reassure Clara. The Harrison Street police station was cold in the early morning. It had rained overnight, and the day was unusually brisk and windy. Clara and I were led, not to the familiar office on the second floor, but to a larger one on the fourth floor instead. We took the elevator with the desk sergeant, whom I knew quite well, and another officer, but they failed to reply to my greetings and seemed uncomfortable. They deposited us in a carpeted room with a long table and several padded wooden armchairs. It was a room I knew was used to question influential people, and the sergeant left the younger officer guarding the door.

Detective Whitbread entered, followed by a stenographer. They took seats across the table from us. Whitbread had a dull look in his eyes and, rather than angry or wrathful, he seemed as cold as a solid block of ice in winter.

I was about to offer to take notes when he motioned me to stop and formally requested our names and addresses. I let Clara speak, then gave my information, feeling ridiculous, as I was so well known there. What did he mean by this? Nothing good, I feared. “What is this about?” I asked.

Whitbread looked at me. The transcribing officer kept his eyes on his paper, pencil poised. “We will get to that in time, Mrs. Chapman. First, I would like to ask Mrs. Cabot several questions and I would appreciate it if you would remain silent during that discussion. If you speak, I will have you removed from the room.”

I felt my heart pump and my pulse beat in my ears. Never, in all the years I’d known him, had Whitbread spoken so to me. When I heard his next question, I knew that he’d discovered my lie.

“Mrs. Cabot, will you describe what happened on the evening of June fourth? When did your husband return home?”

Clara felt the atmosphere and looked toward me. I avoided her eyes. She’d never lied to Whitbread and, as he obviously already knew that Alden had returned to the city that night, there was no point in her lying now. Dear Clara had no intention of lying in any case.

“Alden was quite late. As it happens, I was waiting for him. We were due to leave on a trip to the East Coast this week and I was concerned that he might have changed his mind about coming with us.” She looked down at the table, where her hands were clasped together. “He has had many work assignments that take him away from home and which cause conflicts with travel arrangements.” She hesitated before she continued. “I was correct in my assumptions. He did have an obligation that would prevent him from coming with us.”

“I see. And did he remain at your house all night?”

A faint tint of pink rose from her neck to her cheeks and she fixed her gaze on her hands. “No. He left again.”

“So, he was not at your home that entire night?” Whitbread stared at me as he asked this.

“No.”

“And did you let Mrs. Chapman know that? Did she ask you?”

Clara looked up and quickly glanced between me and Whitbread.

“Mrs. Cabot?”

“Well, yes. Emily asked me about it the next day…in the afternoon. I told her that Alden had come home but then left again. Why are you asking this, Detective? Has something happened?”

Whitbread was glaring hard in my direction. I didn’t dare try to explain my actions. I’d known Alden was not home all night and yet hadn’t told him.

“Mrs. Cabot, do you have accounts in the First Bank of Illinois?”

“Why, yes. But what does that have to do with anything?” she asked. Then she drew a breath. I knew she remembered the check she’d given to Alden that night.

“Tell him, Clara,” I said.

“Tell me what, Mrs. Cabot?” Whitbread asked.

“All right. I told Emily that I wrote a check for Alden that night. He asked for money and I wrote a check, and, yes, it was on the First Bank of Illinois. Is that what this about?”

“What was the check for, Mrs. Cabot?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. He just asked for it.”

“And the amount?”

“Is this necessary? All right, it was for $10,000. I’m a wealthy woman, Detective Whitbread, and I can well afford it.”

I was shocked at the amount. I had no idea it had been so large. What could Alden want it for? What could he have been thinking?

“Your husband asked you for $10,000, without saying why, and you just wrote him a check?” Whitbread was also astonished.

Clara looked like she was going to break down.

“Detective Whitbread, please,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t have me ejected. “Mrs. Cabot is under a lot of strain. I know you must be angry at me for not disclosing what I knew, but Clara knows nothing of the case. Please, tell us what’s happened.”

He stared at me for a moment before addressing Clara. “Mrs. Cabot, we have arrested your husband, Alden Cabot, for the murder of Arnold Leeder.”

“Oh, no, he would never do such a thing,” Clara said.

I closed my eyes. I’d suspected this was the case. But I never anticipated what he said next.

“I’m afraid it is true, Mrs. Cabot, and your husband has confessed.”