The Two Deaths of Lilian Carmichael

Chapter 1

One

Charleston, South Carolina

These three things I know for certain: Arsenic has no taste, I did not kill my sister, and tomorrow, I will die.

I look through the barred window at the exercise yard two stories below, where Claudia Hamilton sits, her dingy, prison-issue skirts fanning out on the bench.

A crow pecks at the ground near her feet.

Claudia loves those birds. Talks to them.

Sings to them in her high-pitched, reedy voice.

Claudia also kicked me in the shins yesterday, for no good reason apart from boredom.

Boredom is in ready supply here at the jail, but for me, the endless despair and monotony will soon be over.

In the morning, I’ll become the second woman ever to be hanged in South Carolina history.

I wonder what my predecessor, Lavinia Fisher, thought about in her final hours.

I wonder if she was truly as innocent as she claimed to be.

As innocent as I am. The stories say she was a coldhearted seductress who lured travelers to her roadside inn, only to poison them so her husband might rob them.

But how much is true? No one will ever know, for certain.

The evidence used to convict Lavinia was circumstantial. Just like with me.

The door to my cell creaks open, and the matron, Mrs. Banks, trudges in, feet shuffling across the straw-covered floor. “Brought your breakfast.”

I mouth the words silently as she says them. The same words, every morning, for the past two years. Mrs. Banks has only a handful of phrases, really, all of them said in a lilting Cockney accent:

Brought your breakfast.

Wash your bits.

Outside with you.

Lights out a’nine.

I sit at the narrow ledge that serves as my table. Mrs. Banks places a bowl of porridge in front of me, sprinkled with cinnamon (Cook must be feeling kind this morning), and a tin cup filled with bitter, tepid coffee.

“You can have whatever you like for dinner tonight. Anything at all.” Mrs. Banks presses her thin lips together in something that might have resembled a smile in her younger years.

“My last meal?”

She grunts, her gray eyes sliding to the window. “I suppose it is. Think on it, dove. I’ll be back in a bit.”

After she goes, I run my spoon through the thin gruel, lifting it to my mouth with a trembling hand.

Memories of the food from my life on the outside drift through my head, tempting me.

Oyster roasts in the fall. Veal cutlets, apple fritters, syllabub.

I don’t miss much about the past, but I do miss the food.

I often helped Mother decide our menus for banquets and holidays, deliberating over the enticing choices in our cook’s repertoire.

I was preparing to run a household of my own soon, after all.

At twenty-one, I was betrothed to Second Lieutenant William Cameron—freshly commissioned from the Citadel and easy to look at as a June day.

We were going to live on the East Battery, in his family’s grand, three-story mansion, with wide windows overlooking the harbor.

But my sister stole William from me. Rebecca was ever stealing from me—whether it was a simple thing, like my best ribbon for her bouncing curls, or our mother’s attention.

She used her frail constitution to her benefit, begging indisposition when it suited her needs, only to emerge from her moribund state whenever an engraved invitation arrived bearing her name.

She was the cleverest of thieves, a born charmer with bright-blue eyes, blooming cheeks, and fragile, doll-like beauty.

“She needs someone to take care of her, Lil. More than you do.” That’s what William told me, on that summer day he asked for his ring back, so he might give it to Rebecca instead.

Spurned and shamed by his rejection, I decided to become a governess, only to be forced to abandon my studies at Miss Murden’s Seminary School to help my mother care for Rebecca in her final illness. Two weeks later, my sister was dead.

Everyone believed I’d killed Rebecca out of jealousy.

When I’d taken the stand to plead my innocence, even Mother’s tearful eyes had accused me.

But although my very life depended on it, I could not bring myself to tell the judge and jury the full truth.

And now, because of my reluctant tongue, I will die.

It’s not the thought of death that concerns me; it’s the getting there I dread.

I saw a man die here once, by hanging. The drop from the gallows wasn’t high enough to break his neck, so it took a long time.

He made such sounds. He even soiled himself.

I push the bowl of gruel away. No. I will eat no more food.

What little dignity I have will remain once I’m dead.

I take the cup of coffee and go back to the window.

Claudia is gone. Only the crows remain, cawing and pecking at the ground.

A breeze brushes my face, bringing with it the salt-tinged fragrance of an ocean I’ll never see again.

I close my eyes. For the first time in many years, I pray.

The priest comes just as dawn breaks. I didn’t sleep last night, imagining the sensation of the noose tightening around my neck, the spectators jeering for my death like jackals, all the poor choices that led me here.

The priest crosses the room and takes the chair next to my cot, his wrinkled cassock draped over his thin frame, the stole adorning his shoulders heavily embroidered with gold thread.

He’s young for his station and handsome in a bland, nondescript sort of way, but with a world-weary air that does little to alleviate my anxiety over my impending death.

He must be the jail’s new chaplain—the replacement for Father Mark, who died shortly after Christmas.

“God’s peace be with you. I’ve come to hear your final confession and to bestow the sacraments, Miss Carmichael.” An Irish brogue accents his words. I wonder if he’s one of the many recently driven from their mother country by famine.

“I have nothing to confess, Father.”

“Nothing? Are you certain, my child? Your sister . . .” he continues, clearing his throat.

“Is dead. But not by my hand.”

He smiles patiently, as if he’s heard this sort of pronouncement a thousand times before.

“I can see that you don’t believe me,” I say. “No one does.”

“I’m only here to grant absolution. Not judgment. Let me offer you God’s forgiveness before you depart this life.” He beseeches me with watery blue eyes. At least there’s kindness behind them.

I turn toward the window. Despite the roar of the unrelenting rain, I can hear the crowd gathering in the jail’s courtyard.

From the corner of the cell, I sense Rebecca’s spirit watching me.

I refuse to look at her. I’ve been seeing her more lately, as my own death approaches.

She looks much the same as she did the week she died.

Pale, with vacant eyes and those horrid bruises on her hands.

Outward proof of the arsenic that had damned me.

I wonder if my spirit will soon join hers, cursed to wander this world without rest.

“My soul . . .” I start. “What do you think will happen to it, Father? After?”

He’s silent for a long moment. “If you die with unconfessed sin on your spirit, you may face purgatory.”

Purgatory, then. Not hell. The heaviness in the room lifts, ever so slightly, but still—I’d much prefer heaven. I glance at the corner. Rebecca is gone. “I’m not guilty of murder,” I say. “Only a lie.”

“A lie?”

“Yes. A lie of omission.” I pull in a slow breath and turn to look at the young priest, calculating. My secret sits ready on my tongue. If I were to speak it to him now, would he believe me? Would it be enough to grant me pardon even at this late hour?

“My child,” he says gently, “if you have anything to confess, let it be now.”

“It’s only that I . . . saw things. I knew things. I can’t be certain, but Rebecca might have died because of them.” Even now, the memory of it all sickens me, tumbling like sharp glass in my empty gut.

“Yes?” the priest prods, his back straightening. “If you know anything about your sister’s death . . . who killed her, it might be possible to plead your innocence to the governor. He’s here, today, in the city.”

It would be so easy to say the betraying words, to place this yoke of guilt on another’s shoulders.

But I cannot. Because I do not know for certain what killed Rebecca.

They said it was the arsenic. Our doctor.

The coroner. As to who killed my sister, I only know where my suspicions lie—where they always have—but that, too, is only conjecture.

Heavy footsteps sound from down the corridor. The warden. Panic flits across the young priest’s face at the same time it races through my heart. “Miss Carmichael, I beg of you . . .”

I steel myself. I must speak, because Collingwood is on the way—horrid man—and I refuse to die without the sacraments.

Only God above will ever know the full truth of Rebecca’s demise.

I must make peace with that. My confession, at least, will grant me absolution in death, even if it’s a lie.

“I did it,” I say, in a rush. “I killed her. Poisoned her with arsenic. She stole my fiancé, right out from under my nose, and I hated her for it.”

The priest regards me, his eyes narrowing warily. “You’re absolutely certain this is your final confession? There isn’t something else you’d like to tell me?”

“No. You asked for my confession, and there it is, Father. Please. The sacraments.”

He stands and removes a small vial of anointing oil from the folds of his cassock. “Kneel before me.”

I sink onto the floor, and he hurriedly completes his holy ministrations, fragrant oil dripping sloppily down my forehead, the Eucharist dissolving on my tongue. He makes the sign of the cross and offers his hand to help me rise. “May God’s grace be with you, my child.”