Read The Evening Spider Online
Authors: Emily Arsenault
The Evening Spider (8 page)
Herbert Hayden was arrested, and there was a hearing. He denied ever having an affair with Mary Stannard, and his wife provided supportive testimony. His lawyers managed to keep Mary's half-sister's statements out of the hearing, and he was eventually released. But more evidence against him was found after that initial hearing. Most compellingly, sixty grains of arsenic were found in Mary Stannard's stomach when her body was exhumed and reexamined. She wasn't pregnant, they foundâbut she had a mass in her uterus that likely would have mimicked the symptoms of pregnancy. Herbert Hayden was arrested again and put on trial in October of 1879.
The article concluded with the names of all of the many lawyers who would be trying and defending the case. I looked for Matthew Barnett's name, since Gerard had mentioned he was a lawyer. But his name wasn't there.
The brutality of the murder was horrific even to my modern sensibilities, so it was curious to me that Little Miss Muffin Minutes could be so matter-of-fact about the gory details of the trial. But then, perhaps by the time she'd gotten around to writing of her acquaintance'sâher brother's?âinvolvement in the testimony, she'd grown used to some of the more shocking details being bandied about.
I skimmed some of the subsequent pages of the journal, looking for more references to Harry, Professor Johnson, Herbert Hayden, and the trial. It appeared there were several.
Then I looked over a few more
New York Times
articles. It
was getting late, and I was too tired to digest all of the details, but one fact became clear as I read: Mary Stannard's body had been exhumed three times at various points in the investigation. I wasn't sure why, but that part chilled me nearly as much as the murder itself. Her various organs and body parts were kept in jars and examined by expertsâmany of them from Yaleâand discussed in the courtroom.
Said the
New York Times
on October 18:
              Â
Prof. Samuel W. Johnson, a most important expert in this case, is a small man who dresses in an unassuming way, and wears spectacles. He looks like a German
savant
. For 23 years he has been an instructor in the Yale Scientific School, for 15 years in the Chair of Analytical Chemistry, and for the remainder of the time as Professor of Theoretical and Agricultural Chemistry.
As I was reading this, I thought I heard a slight squeak. The receiving end of the baby monitor was upstairs, so I had to stop what I was doing and listen carefully.
Silence.
I read on, finding the early portions of the professor's testimony:
              Â
“Dr. White brought to me, Oct. 4, 1878, what he said were her stomach and liver, in a large glass bottle; he brought to me Oct. 8 what he said was her brain; Dr. Hotchkiss brought to me, March 7, 1879, what he said were portions of her diaphragm, gullet, intestines and lungs, and one kidney.”
              Â
“What did you do with the stomach?”
              Â
“No incisions had been made in it. I opened it, and found in it about two tablespoons full of liquid, and partly-digested food. There were some little lumps, which were probably white of egg, and some seeds of pulp of blackberries. Beside the food there was about a teaspoonful of a heavy, gritty white powderâa powder which when exposed to the sunlight and moved, reflected light like a crystalline substance. Under the microscope this substance was found to consist mainly of regular crystals; some of it was in opaque white lumps. This gritty powder I found to be ordinary white arsenic, mingled with flakes of yellow arsenic. Or arsenic sulphide; on the inner membrane of the stomach were stains of a canary-yellow color; these I scraped off, and found to be arsenious sulphide; this substance is produced when hydrogen sulphide gas generated by putrefaction comes in contact with white arsenic.”
Then I heard Lucy's little cry. Not a loud or desperate cry, but still I needed to check it out. I felt calm as I climbed the stairs, but as I reached the final step, I heard the cry change tone and become more impatient. I felt my stomach drop a little.
The door was open a crack. I put my hand up to it to push it open.
It wouldn't go.
It wouldn't open.
“Lucy!” I cried and kicked at the door, which promptly swung open.
OOOOOAAAHHHR-eeeee.
I stepped past the door and to the crib, then lifted Lucy up to my shoulder. She put her hand on my shoulder and made a little noise that sounded almost like “AHA!”
“Just wanted to make sure I was still here?” I whispered, taking a deep breath.
Lucy gurgled and pushed her face into my neck. My pulse stopped racing
“Don't you want to sleep a little more?” I asked.
Don't you want to sleep a little more so Mama can read more about arsenic and disembodied stomachs?
Another contented gurgle.
“No? You want to play?”
I sat in the rocker and grabbed a board book from the floor.
The Touch and Feel Farm
was the title.
“Oooh. Just what I need. The touchy-feely farm,” I said, and chuckled at my own joke.
Lucy smiled at me just slightlyâas if trying to understand my laughter, or trying to humor me. Her face crinkled a little bit, bringing her bruise into focus. Patty had been right that it was “almost perfectly round.” And there seemed to be a perfect spiral of yellow forming inside the purple.
Lucy stopped smiling, apparently bored or perplexed by my silence. The bruise seemed to fade back into formlessness.
I opened the book. I took another deep breath.
“The cow says moo,” I announced.
Northampton Lunatic Hospital
Northampton, Massachusetts
December 20, 1885
D
uring that time that I was made to rest in that little upstairs room, I didn't have enough physical activity in the day to allow me to sleep soundly at night. At night, my mind was often in chaos.
On the worst of those nights, a particular memory troubled meâan incident that had occurred approximately a year earlierâin the summer of 1878.
A goblet had broken at Matthew's feet, and a shard had cut him in the leg. It
had
been an accident, had it not? Lying half-mad in that bed for days on end, however, I no longer felt certain of anything.
He had been reading and asked me to pour him some water. As I'd approached him with it, I'd felt a bit light-headed. I know nowâand knew soon afterwardâthat it was the pregnancy. For a moment, the air in front of me speckled pink and orange, and my stomach was gripped with a sudden pain. The crash of the goblet swept away the pink and orange spots, and I managed to grip the wall to keep from falling.
Ahhh! Frances! What in God's name . . .
Oh, Matthew! Oh, I'm so sorry! Let me have a look . . .
And what made me lie awake now, worrying over a cut that had long since healed? (Should I not be thinking of Martha's, which hadn't yet?) Had Matthew perhaps suspected some wicked intention in my clumsiness, that time and this more recent one with poor Martha?
I troubled over this for the rest of the night, and by daylight my mind was numb with the thought. That was the day I might have gone mad, completely and forever.
But that very day, fate left me a giftâa distraction. The nurseâwhose name I cannot recall, and don't wish toâleft her book on her chair when she had gone to procure my lunch from the kitchen. I snatched it up and jammed it under my mattress without looking at the title. She was, for the hour after that, so occupied with the feeding of her patientâbuttered bread and then two monstrously tall glasses of milk âthat she seemed not to notice the absence of her book. Later that afternoon, I saw her peering under the table, under the bed. Since I played so passive when she was present, it apparently didn't occur to her that I could've taken it. Perhaps she was simply afraid to cause a stir by accusing me and thus alerting Matthew to the length and frequency of her absences from the room.
I looked at the book before suppertime, when the nurse was downstairs, occupied with the preparation of my next meal. It was a small green book, not much bigger than my hand, with a pretty gold design on its spine. Its title was
The Sunny Side,
and it was published by an organization called the American
Sunday-School Union. It was a simply written little book, about the trials and tribulations of the wife of a minister.
At first, I was rather annoyed with the milquetoast little nurse for her tame taste in stories. Why couldn't she have been a devious sort of girl who'd bring to her work a novel with a bit of scandal or crime? Or at least a touch of romance? After many days with that book as my only entertainment, however, Emily, the wife, and Henry, the ministerâand their familyâbecame dear friends to me. I rationed the little book's twenty-six chapters (yes, I remember exactly), allowing myself one chapter per day, and occasionally more if I was feeling particularly lonely or desperate and the nurse absented herself at length. The faithful and hardworking Emily had seven children, which the couple struggled to feed and clothe and educate on Henry's meager earnings. Two chapters were devoted to finding the means to buy their son an appropriate cloak for college. One child died, one daughter married, and then another. The remaining sons eventually entered successful careers. Emily died, and then Henry followed her on the book's final page.
When I reached this ending, I weptânot because I found the story particularly compelling, or even because Emily and Henry were dead, as they both lived long and pious lives and had happy, successful progeny to show for itâbut because I'd have nothing new to read, or to anticipate reading. Still, I turned back to the beginning during my next reading opportunity. I was five chapters into my second reading when Dr. Stayer declared the end of my treatment.
I was given two days to move about the house and re-acclimate myself to the household duties before I was to see
Martha again. At my earliest opportunity, I tossed
The Sunny Side
into the oven coals. I didn't want any evidence to remain of my rebellion against the treatment. Nor did I wish to ever think about Emily and Henry again. The mere thought of them left a terrible taste of milk in my mouth.
          Â
January 3, 1879
              Â
This will probably be my last entry. I tried, at Christmas, to have special, private words with everyone dear to meâMother, Clara, Matthew, and most of all Harryâto let them know how much I love them. Affection is not my strongest quality, but I tried my best.
              Â
I made the mistake, with Matthew, of saying something about my “final Christmas,” and he looked positively stunned. Poor dear. He'll look even more stunned when the day comes and he sees how right I was.
              Â
Blessed Lord, I am in your hands.
          Â
February 2, 1879
              Â
The birth was long and difficult, and my recovery has been slow. Clara has been assisting me a great deal. Martha Elizabeth Barnett was born on January 10, late in the evening.
          Â
February 5, 1879
              Â
Clara's help continues to be invaluable. I am finally up and about the house more, although I am not yet as
efficient in the kitchen as I was. Both Clara and Tessa have rushed me back to bed on more than one occasion, saying I don't look well.
              Â
Sometimes I think Clara wishes to keep Martha mostly to herself. I do not blame her. Martha is an enchanting little creature when she isn't crying. Her eyes have the same shape and glimmer as Father's. A deep and complex color, like twilight approaching.
              Â
I am too tired to write more tonight.
          Â
February 9, 1879
              Â
Mother came to visit us again. I find it surprising that she never remarks on Martha's resemblance to Father. In any case, she held and rocked her for nearly two hours while Tessa helped me to organize the pantry and other downstairs rooms after such a long period of neglect. On Saturday, I hope to make cider loaves. I believe that making such a familiar recipe will help me feel at ease in the kitchen again. I hope that the familiar taste will have a curative effect as well.
          Â
February 19, 1879
              Â
Another snow today. It seems light at the moment, but as we know from last week, what can appear a delightful flurry can quickly turn furious and unending. I pray we don't get a storm like last week's.
              Â
Matthew was assisting with a prosecution in Hartford, and I expected him home on Wednesday. He had warned
me many times this winter that if there is ever treacherous weather while he is in Hartford, he will stay an extra day or two with his cousin. Still, as evening approached and Martha grew more agitated, I began to dread the nights alone with her. Matthew is not skilled with infants or Martha in particular. His presence, however, makes me more efficient in my motherly duties. It has the opposite effect of Clara's or Tessa's presence.
              Â
I had not been alone with Martha for any significant length of time. I found, in Matthew's absence, I could forgo any supper and simply focus on Martha's nursing and sleeping. All was fine until she awoke around midnight. In her cries I thought I heard despairâdespair at the dark, despair at the late hour, despair, primarily, at the sense that she was alone with me.
              Â
I nursed her back down as I've done nearly every night, and she was quiet again.
              Â
My heart was, for a sleepless night, nonetheless filled with blackness at hearing her despair.
              Â
And that is why I wish for it not to snow so heavily againâthis week particularly, as Matthew's trial continues.
          Â
February 25, 1879
              Â
I had so long forgotten the simple pleasures of snow! I was too eager to outgrow it, when I was a girl. Now I am eager for Martha to be old enough to play in it with me.
              Â
Today, light flakes were falling, but the temperature was surprisingly mild.
              Â
I bundled myself and Martha and went out walking. Such big, fluffy flakes landed on my coat. I stayed out as long as I could, to preserve their beauty.
              Â
We stayed out till Tessa came looking for us. She had a soup waiting on the stove, she said. And Matthew had told her to insist that I eat.
          Â
March 1, 1879
              Â
An unusually warm day for the season, and much of the snow is turning to mush.
              Â
How odd to have a glimpse of this spring I did not think myself meant to see.
              Â
I am sewing Martha a blue sun bonnet with a lacey trim.
          Â
March 14, 1879
              Â
I was foolish last night, attempting the roast from so late an hour. I should have foreseen that it would be too difficult to manage with Martha's fussing. Matthew tried to stay in good humor about it, but supper was not served until nearly nine o'clock. Tessa was positively frantic, but it wasn't her fault. This afternoon I shall cook soupâand start early to make certain there will be no delay! I am too tired to write more. Martha's troubles are the same. I hope for more sun and more warmth tomorrow. It has rained for three days. Four, perhaps. I have lost count. I suppose I have lost count in more than one respect.
          Â
March 22, 1879
              Â
The wind was strong today, and the air as cold as any winter day's, but Martha and I took the carriage on its maiden voyage nonetheless. When we were on Winston Street, near the church, there was such a violent gust that I gripped the handle and said a little prayer. Martha's eyes fluttered but she didn't wake. Still, in that moment, I wondered what had possessed me to go out in this weather. I suppose I am simply too eager for spring to come, to cast its healing light and warmth on me.
              Â
I believe I shall be a better wife and mother in the spring, when Nature can lend a hand. Until then, is all of the light to come from me?
          Â
April 14, 1879
              Â
I finished sewing for Matthew the white shirt. He seemed quite delighted by the surprise, tried it on for me late in the evening after Martha had gone to sleep. The shoulders were, disappointingly, a bit largeâI had thought I'd measured correctly against his other shirts. Still, he was very complimentary about it. (Despite mentioning that he hoped I had not “given up more enjoyable pursuits” to complete it.)
              Â
As he undressed for bed, I caught a glimpse of the scar on his calf. I occurs to me I hadn't seen the poor leg in some time. It is bigger than I remember itâangrier than I'd have imagined it. It is half-purple, half-red, with a jagged downward turn, frowning at me. I had to look away.
              Â
I should be glad Matthew did not see me looking.
              Â
Perhaps I should make him another shirt. Or perhaps challenge myself with a pair of trousers.
          Â
April 25, 1879
              Â
I could not sleep the other night, for I was still thinking about Matthew's scar.
              Â
I wished to see it againâto examine it more thoroughly. He was conveniently positioned on his stomach, with his right leg angling almost out of the bed. I loosened the covers by degrees. There was enough moonlight to get a fair glimpse, I thought. When I finally managed to push up his hem, however, I found its shape and color obscured in the darkness. I lowered my face close to the leg and looked for the frown I'd seen the other night. As I did so, Matthew grunted and flipped himself round.
              Â
“What is the matter?” he mumbled sleepily. “Is Martha crying?”
              Â
“No,” I said. “I believe you were dreaming of wolves again.”
              Â
Matthew often dreams of wolves and awakens with a start. I shouldn't have deceived him, but I didn't wish to explain my desire to examine the scar. He would think it too strange.
          Â
May 2, 1879
              Â
Yesterday was May Day, and some of the ladies held festivities on the green. Mrs. Lawton invited me along, but I was not in the right spirit.
              Â
I have completed a sewing project this week and begun a new one. Martha's new nightdress is not perfectâthe button holes are uneven. Hardly anyone will see her in it, however, and I'm eager to try a different shirt design for Matthew. I'm disappointed that I miscalculated the shoulders on the last one. He has worn it once, and quite happily, but to my eye he didn't look as sharp as he could. I hope he doesn't announce too exuberantly that it is his wife's handiwork.