The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  When I arrived at the Professor’s office, I had never seen him so despairing.

  “She had no hope, of course,” he said as I entered. “Her lungs, I’m sure, were virtually destroyed.” When he looked up, I saw that his eyes were red. “She was sent to work when she was five, did you know that? Running errands in a paint factory. Twelve hours a day. By the time she was eight, she was mixing paint. After she got sick, they threw her out. She lived on the street for more than a year before she was finally put into an orphanage. She had no memory of her parents. She wasn’t even sure how old she was. What a sad, wasted life.”

  “It’s a great tragedy,” I agreed. “Her spirit was so light.”

  “Yes,” said the Professor, seizing on the term. “It was light, wasn’t it? If we could have saved her, Ephraim, we could have helped her salvage her remaining years. You could see that she was intelligent. She could have gone to school….” The Professor slumped in his chair. “What a terrible business this can be.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Dr. Osler,” I said softly.

  He dismissed the sentiment with a short wave of his hand.

  “Do you know the actual cause of death?” I asked.

  The Professor shook his head. “Not precisely, although I suspect toxicity in the environment in which she worked contributed greatly.”

  “When will you conduct the postmortem?”

  The Professor looked up. “I won’t. Couldn’t bear it, Carroll. I’ve arranged for her to be buried in a private cemetery.”

  I nodded, relieved at the remarks despite the horrible circumstances. Dr. Osler’s behavior with the female cadaver might have an innocent explanation after all. There were indeed, it seemed, cadavers that even he could not cut into.

  When we met for rounds, it was clear that everyone had been as deeply affected as had been the Professor. Corrigan’s face was ashen and Farnshaw appeared similarly. The death of one doomed little girl had pointed up to us the limits of our powers to heal and the fragility of our profession. Only Simpson preserved control, almost certainly because she had been forced to prove every day that she was not susceptible to female emotion.

  I took her aside when rounds had been completed. “Perhaps you would be willing to step out with me for a moment,” I said to her. “I need air.”

  Simpson’s face was set, as if in stone. But at my request, a thin smile appeared briefly on her lips. “You need air, Ephraim? Of course. Thank you for asking.”

  We left the hospital and walked to the pathway along the river and turned south, away from the Blockley.

  “I cannot bear cruelty to children,” she remarked after we had gone a few paces.

  “There is something particularly execrable about those who would abuse the helpless,” I agreed.

  “That girl … such extraordinary will …”

  “She certainly brightened everyone who came near her. I will miss her as well.”

  “Do you like children, then?” she asked. “Many men do not.”

  “I liked Annie,” I replied, but then considered the larger question. “Yes,” I said finally. “I believe I do like children.”

  “It is the principal reason that I became a doctor,” Simpson confided.

  A nobler reason than mine, to be sure.

  We walked a bit farther, watching the boats on the Schuylkill. A small private sailboat had caught the wind and was racing across the path of a steam packet boat heading upriver. As the sailboat came closer to view, it was possible to make out a young man at the tiller and a woman in the bow, both obviously of means, enjoying the maneuver, although an officer on the packet, leaning over the rail shaking his fist, did not share their amusement. Imagining the carefree woman to be Abigail Benedict was not difficult … but could I have been the man?

  Simpson broke into my reverie. “If you’re not busy this evening, Ephraim, perhaps you could come by the settlement house. There’s something I want to show you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” I replied, not able to completely tear my eyes from the sailboat, “I cannot.” In reply to Abigail’s note, I had sent a boy to the Benedict home to leave word that I would arrive at eight. “Perhaps another evening.”

  “Of course,” she answered, but her voice had gone distant. Her eyes were now on the sailboat as well. “We should be getting back now, I think.”

  When I knocked on the Benedicts’ door at the appointed hour, opening it was not a servant but rather Albert Benedict. “Dr. Carroll,” he effused, shaking my hand warmly, dripping noblesse oblige, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. Do come in.”

  Benedict ushered me into a parlor, where we sat on either side of a brilliantly polished tea table on which sat a crystal decanter.

  “It’s a Hennessey, 1825,” he told me. “Privately bottled. The family owns a vineyard in Jarnac. Hennessey will blend and bottle every vintage for anyone who sells them grapes. This one is quite good.”

  The cognac was indeed superb; smooth, without any bite at all.

  “You are here to see my sister?” Albert asked after a moment.

  “At her request,” I replied.

  “So she mentioned. Tell me, Dr. Carroll, what are your intentions?”

  “I am not sure that I know your sister well enough to have intentions, Mr. Benedict, although this seems a question more for your father to be asking.”

  Benedict sipped his cognac. “Well, Dr. Carroll, as my sister pointed out, I’ve been ordained to take his place and have therefore been delegated certain tasks with which I might gain experience.”

  “And I am one of your tasks?”

  “Not you specifically. Abigail is one of my tasks.”

  “Abigail seems more than able to fend for herself.”

  Benedict removed his spectacles and polished them with a silk handkerchief that he took from his vest. “You might be surprised,” he replied. “In any event, we take a dim view in our family of those who attempt to prey upon the weakness of women.”

  “I don’t find women to be particularly weak,” I rejoined, wondering how he could make such a statement with Abigail as a sister. “Certainly no more so than men.”

  “Women are gullible and naïve,” insisted Benedict. “They are easily swayed by flattery or pleasing prevarication. It is the natural order of things.”

  I was stunned. These were sentiments that I associated with Elias Schoonmaker’s generation. “I’m not sure Darwin would agree,” I replied simply.

  “Darwin dealt with physical traits. I am speaking of essential character.” Benedict leaned back in his chair in studied relaxation. “Dr. Carroll, I will be blunt. We have quite a bit of money, as you know, and as such my family is an appealing target for some who wish to improve their circumstances at our expense.”

  I was supposed to be insulted, of course, to rise to the bait, to point out that it was his sister who had pursued me and not the other way round, and that I was not even sure of her motives. Protestations of innocence, however, were what people as rich as the Benedicts doubtless heard every day. Instead, I remained silent and, after a moment, he continued.

  “It is only because your professional reputation is so excellent and that you work with Dr. Osler that we will take no action at the moment and allow you to continue to call on my sister.” Benedict spoke easily, casually, as if menacing potential suitors was a common event. Perhaps it was. “Abigail has, I might add, expressed an interest in you, but she always was susceptible to charm.” Charm? This man thought I had made my way on charm? “If, however, we find that your attentions are motivated by a desire to improve your social or financial position or are in any other way insincere … well, Dr. Carroll, we can make things extremely difficult for you, and we can do so whether you are in Philadelphia, Baltimore, or Constantinople.”

  Ten days ago, I would have been overpowered—one of the most dominant families in the city, perhaps the entire nation, had promised to break me unless I behaved exactly as I was told. But I was not the same man as ten d
ays ago. During that period, I had been threatened with prison by Borst and bodily injury by Haggens, uncovered a murder, and put the work of a decade at risk. While I certainly did not take the Benedicts lightly, the threat issued by Albert seemed rather benign compared to the others.

  “Mr. Benedict,” I replied, “I understand your position exactly. Although I can issue all the appropriate assurances of honorable behavior, you would still have every reason for skepticism. I am sure, after all, that the most convincing assurances come from the worst rogues. Your father … and you, of course … will, I know, judge me by my demeanor, not by anything I say.”

  I had not expressed the appropriate fealty, but nor had I challenged his authority. A stalemate, if he would allow it. For the moment, evidently, he would, as, without further conversation, he rose. “I will fetch my sister,” he said evenly. “Wait in the sunroom.”

  I was escorted by a retainer through the labyrinthine house to a small room at the back whose ceiling and walls were glass. It was filled with greenery and flowers, and the moon was visible overhead. The air was as thick as I imagined the tropics to be. Five minutes later, Abigail walked in. She was once again dressed simply and looked all the more alluring for it. She closed the door behind her and took my hands in hers. We sat in large fan-back wicker chairs.

  “Why did you want to see me?” I asked without preamble.

  “Is that all you can say? Rather brusque, is it not?”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “It has been an extremely difficult day.”

  “Why, Ephraim?” she asked softly.

  The use of my Christian name brought me up short, as I am sure it was intended to. “A patient died. Someone I had been attending.”

  “I don’t understand how you endure all that death and suffering,” she said. Her empathy seemed genuine.

  “Sometimes we can prevent death and alleviate suffering,” I replied. “Thanks to men like Dr. Osler, we are getting better at both with every passing year.”

  “Still …”

  “Yes. One never gets used to the tragedies.”

  “Was there something special about this patient … the one today?”

  “She was a child. Twelve or thirteen, although no one knows for sure. She was very brave.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Miss Benedict whispered. “Of what did she die?”

  The scene on the river flashed before my eyes. “She worked in a factory owned by the very type of person who has dinner here. Someone who made a great deal of money while girls like Annie were slowly suffocated.”

  She pulled back. “That isn’t fair,” she exclaimed. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “That really isn’t fair.”

  I could not believe I had allowed such a hurtful remark to escape my lips. Yet the anger I felt was real. “I am sorry. Truly. It was not at all fair.”

  Miss Benedict regained her composure but sat up straight in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.

  “You are angry, and not simply because of your patient. Are you going to tell me why?”

  “Do you know George Turk?” I asked.

  “No. Should I?”

  “Are you sure? George … Turk.” I repeated the name slowly for emphasis. I refused to be anyone’s fool, not even hers.

  “If I said that I don’t know George Turk, I don’t know George Turk. Who is he, anyway?” Abigail Benedict replied, the muscles in her jaw knotting. Her egalitarian sentiments notwithstanding, she was still Hiram Benedict’s daughter and unaccustomed to being cross-questioned.

  “He was the man that you went with Rebecca Lachtmann to The Fatted Calf to meet,” I said. A guess, certainly, but one that fit all the facts. And it was hard to imagine any other reason for them to be at Haggens’ establishment.

  Her face changed instantly. The bellicosity vanished, replaced by astonishment. “So that was his name. How did you find out?”

  “That isn’t important,” I said. “Why did you go to meet him?”

  “I went so that Rebecca would not have to go alone. Thomas accompanied us. None of us knew his name, only that he had been recommended as someone who could help.”

  “Who recommended him?”

  “I’m not sure. Someone Thomas knows.”

  “And did Turk help?”

  “I don’t know. He was supposed to come to us but he never arrived. We waited at that revolting place for well over an hour but no one approached us. I wasn’t lying to you. I don’t know the man.”

  “Didn’t know. George Turk is dead. He was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned? When? By whom?”

  “The police are currently attempting to find out. If she did not meet him that night, did Rebecca ever succeed in making contact?”

  “Not that I know of, but perhaps she did later.”

  “I think it is time that you gave me more of the details,” I said.

  Abigail Benedict’s expression hardened once more. “No,” she replied. “I don’t think it is.”

  “But why?” I asked. “How can I help if I don’t know precisely what to look for?”

  “I don’t think I want your help. I thought I did, but apparently I was mistaken. I do not want the help of someone who does not trust my motives, who sits back smugly passing moral judgments on me, my family, and my friends, who eyes my every action as if I were some bacterium under a microscope. No, Ephraim, Thomas and I will have to muddle through without you. I do hope that you have sufficient honor not to transmit any of what you were told in confidence to others.”

  The words hit like a slap. When she made to stand, I leapt up. “Please, Abigail. Sit down. Please.” Her hands remained on the arms of the chair, but she made no further move to leave the room.

  “You are completely correct,” I went on. “I have behaved like a fool and a cad. I do trust you … I think I do … but … it is simply …” I felt my breath gush out. “It is simply that I am terribly attracted to you and I fear betrayal.”

  “Or perhaps my father and brother are correct. Perhaps you are attracted to our money,” she said. She seemed on the verge of sneering at me and I became desperate to turn her anger.

  “Why would you accuse me of that? What cause have I given you to believe such a thing?”

  “What cause have I given you to believe that my motives are deceitful?” she retorted. “If you insist on thinking the worst of me, why should you protest when you are afforded the same treatment?”

  “I deserve everything you have said,” I agreed, in full surrender. “There is no reason that you should believe it, but circumstances would be so much easier for me if it were your money. The sad fact is that I think about you obsessively and constantly.”

  She smiled, a soft and beautiful smile. An actress onstage could not change mood so often or so quickly. “Is that how you think of it? As sad?”

  “I fear that will be the upshot, at least for me. I can think of no reason why it should end any other way.”

  “Can’t you?” she demanded.

  “Are you still angry? You have every right to be.”

  “If people were held to every stupid thing said out of passion, the species would soon go extinct.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling hauled back from the edge of a precipice. At that moment, I knew that I would do anything to help her, and spewed out those very sentiments.

  “I find you very gallant, Dr. Carroll,” she said, “when you are not being churlish, of course. Perhaps we might try to begin anew.”

  “I would like that,” I said.

  “Please sit down, then, and let us go on. We must find Rebecca quickly. She may have simply secreted herself, but she may also be ill. It has been two weeks, and I feel certain she would have contacted us if she were able. It has been dreadful, sitting here helpless. I love her as I would a sister. Can you not understand that?”

  “Yes, of course I can,” I replied. I placed my hand on hers and she did not resist. “But I need more details.” If my hypothesis for the overall chain of
events was correct, the news, I feared, would not be good, but I owed Abigail the truth.

  “I cannot provide them until I speak with Thomas,” she said plaintively. “We made a pact and I will not break it. If Thomas agrees—and I’m sure he will—we will tell you everything we know. Until then, I would ask that you act on faith a bit longer.”

  “Of course,” I said, trying to live up to the reputation for gallantry with which she had endowed me. “Why was it that you wanted to see me if not to give me information?”

  “The situation has become more complicated. Jonas has grown suspicious of Rebecca’s whereabouts. I’m not sure what aroused him but we must be more careful.”

  “What is he likely to do?”

  “One can never tell. But Jonas is dangerous. He has already killed at least two men.”

  “Killed?”

  “The first was in California when he was just starting out in business. Jonas did not come from means, you know. He shot a man who had cheated him in a business deal. It was called self-defense, but Father told me that Jonas had paid the local sheriff to give false testimony. Then, just after he arrived in Philadelphia, about ten years ago, a footpad accosted Jonas and Eunice as they were leaving a restaurant. The man had a knife and demanded money. Jonas disarmed the thief and then beat him to death, right there on the street. The police called that self-defense, as well.”

  “And you didn’t feel the need to mention these incidents when you enlisted my assistance?”

  “I had no idea that matters would become this complicated. I’m telling you now because I care about what happens to you. I would understand fully if you withdrew.”

  “No,” I replied. “I’ll continue on.”

  “Thank you, Ephraim.”

  We both stood. Abigail moved opposite me, very close. I could feel the heat from her skin and smell the aroma of her lavender bath salts. Her lips parted and we stood for a second looking into each other’s eyes. Then, as if at a signal, we each leaned in toward the other and our lips met. Without breaking contact, she shifted and pressed against me. I’m not sure how long we kissed, but it was blissful and eternal.