Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2)

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  “And your aunt heard nothing untoward?”

  “Her acoustical skills are severely impaired” is the leaden response.

  “Not always, nephew,” the lady herself says as she enters the apartment. She gives Kelman a placid smile, albeit one tinged with sadness. “I left your wife with the smelling salts and the servants,” she tells Harrison as she brushes past him. “I did hear Dora, nephew. Some parts of these floorboards creak a good deal. I know because the chambers were mine when I was Theodora’s age and a great favorite of the—”

  “Aunt, I beg to interrupt, but we’re all aware of the difficulty you’ve been experiencing with your—”

  “You needn’t shout, Harrison. I can hear perfectly well. You and Georgine make a grave mistake treating me as though I were a useless person. My father lived until he was ninety, and no one questioned his abilities. As doubtless you recall.” She returns to Kelman and gives him another smile. “Theodora was worried about Percy, you see. She hadn’t received a single word from him since he was driven from the house four days ago. It was my great-niece’s and her betrothed’s practice to—”

  “Aunt, please—”

  Lydia continues as if her nephew hadn’t spoken. “It was their practice to communicate with one another: she by looking for him from this window; and he by passing below in order that she might see him. Last night I knew she was awake and had positioned herself here, because of the telltale noises. I was also aware that she must have been reading, since light from her lamp slips through the floor. It provides the most picturesque shadows when my own lamps are extinguished. One can imagine all types of wondrous—”

  “Aunt Lydia—”

  “When I heard her whisper Percy’s name, I sat up directly in my bed. I thought Mr. VanLennep had come to spirit our Theodora away. They’re very much in love, you know, but sometimes my nephew and niece—”

  “Oh, Aunt!” Harrison again interjects. “Your brain is creating fabrications—”

  “What are you attempting to say to me, nephew? I do loathe it when people mumble. When I was a girl, I was taught to speak with clarity and purpose.”

  Harrison Crowther gives Kelman a beleaguered glance. “If you could hear Dora whispering, why weren’t you aware that she was being taken from the premises? Surely Dora must have cried out in protest—”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t interfere if Theodora and Percy were meeting clandestinely, Harrison. Love should be our dearest hope for one another, should it not? Isn’t that the message our preachers repeat? ‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God; for God is love.’”

  Then she dispenses with her nephew and Kelman and walks toward the door. “When I fell back asleep I was so happy. Dora left the lamp lit, so I had many pretty pictures to keep me company. And then, too, Mr. VanLennep is such a handsome man that he couldn’t help but make any lady happy. And I did hear her cry out, Harrison. You’re quite wrong when you suggest I didn’t. But it wasn’t in protest. Her dear little voice was agitated, but not afraid.” With that she quits the room as if her nephew and Kelman were no longer of interest.

  “I apologize,” Dora’s father states after an embarrassed moment. “My aunt doesn’t always have full use of her faculties. She can be a trial sometimes, I’m afraid.”

  “I understand, sir. She’s remarkably fit for her years, however.”

  “Yes. Yes, she is.” Again the tone is ambivalent, as if Harrison isn’t convinced his aunt’s physical health is a boon.

  Kelman takes note of the nephew’s attitude as he studies the floor beneath the window. On the pretext of gazing at the scene below, he walks across the wooden planks and is rewarded by the creaking Miss Lydia described. “Was this lamp still lighted when you and your wife arrived upon the scene?”

  Harrison thinks. “I cannot recall.”

  “Would the maid remember?”

  “You’re welcome to ask her, although as my wife stated, the girl’s not a clever lass; she was greatly distressed to find her mistress gone.” His shoulders slump; his head droops. “As we all were. As we continue to be.”

  MOLES AND BATS

  INSPIRED BY REPORTS IN THE penny press and daily gazettes, the tale whips around the city, dividing the populace into two distinct camps. One comprises citizens who react in horrified disbelief to the notion of a young woman abducted from her home—and therefore redouble their efforts to remember to bolt their doors, avoid strangers, and bar admittance to the beggars routinely clustered beside the service entries to their houses. The other group displays both covert and overt satisfaction at the misfortune of the elite.

  Among this voluble crowd, exaggerated descriptions of the Crowthers’ wealth and station are quoted over and over until quite another family emerges. One scandalmongering journalist decrees that Harrison Crowther has amassed more money in his coffers than the government in Washington, while another itemizes the extent of his possessions: gold plate intended for the most casual use; enough crystal goblets to serve one hundred guests; silver tureens and ice bowls, and ormolu candelabra; the rarest silks and embroidered satins tossed aside because the garments are no longer in vogue. Then, tired of reading and reciting the long list of luxuries, the talk on the street turns toward hearsay that Georgine has always been hard on her servants, as well as on her aunt and her husband. She’s ridiculed for her exacting measures; it’s even bruited about that her husband has been seen taking his pleasure among the city’s fancy houses. Finally, Miss Lydia is scorned for her addled brain and romantic memories, which then become the brunt of coarse jests and coarser gestures.

  Then the gossip alters course, for Percy VanLennep is rumored to have also disappeared.

  “‘ENTER INTO THE ROCK, AND hide thee in the dust, for fear of the Lord, and for the glory of his majesty.

  ‘The lofty looks of man shall be humbled, and the haughtiness of men shall be bowed down, and the Lord alone shall be exalted in that day.

  ‘For the day of the Lord of hosts shall be upon every one that is proud and lofty, and upon every one that is lifted up; and he shall be brought low.’” The voice of Amor Alsberg, the itinerant evangelical preacher, roars out these last words while his eyes, hot as live coals, burn into those congregated at the southwest street corner behind the State House. This open-air pulpit is Alsberg’s favorite. Kelman would have avoided the place if he’d remembered; as it is, he can’t help but be drawn into the fevered speech and equally fervent response.

  “Amen!” a man cries out in a voice choked with ardor.

  “The Holy Prophet Isaiah, my brothers and sisters. Listen to him. Heed him. Believe, and be reconciled unto your God.” For a moment the tone is coaxing; then it booms out again, crescendoing with each phrase:

  “‘And the loftiness of man shall be bowed down, and the haughtiness of men shall be made low; and the Lord alone shall be exalted in that day—’”

  Another communal “Amen” interrupts, but Alsberg is far from finished, and his words stride over the response.

  “‘And the idols he shall utterly abolish’!” The preacher repeats the phrase twice more before pounding toward his conclusion. “‘In that day a man shall cast his idols of silver, and his idols of gold, which they made each one for himself to worship, to the moles and to the bats.’”

  A moan circulates through the growing crowd. “Moles and bats,” many mutter aloud, and Alsberg takes up their cry:

  “Are not the thieves who prey upon our city no better than the filthy bats and moles that cleave to the insalubrious places? Are not those haughty rich now brought low, and their pride repaid with loss? Is not this the hour when the Lord ‘ariseth to shake terribly the earth’? My friends, abandon the ways of those who store up treasures upon earth, who allow their daughters and sons to fornicate evilly—”

  Kelman turns aside. He’s certain that any moment he will hear Theodora Crowther and her family being vilified, and he’s afraid of what his reaction to such callousness of heart might be.

  He push
es past the throng toward Chestnut Street, and all at once decides to walk west to Martha Beale’s house.

  BUT AS HE’S ADMITTED INTO her parlor, every reason for the visit suddenly appears so contrived, so ill considered and self-serving, that he wishes he could turn on his heel and leave. At the same time, Martha, who has risen from the bombe desk where she was working, finds her welcoming steps arrested by the fierce ambivalence of his gaze. “Thomas, how kind of you to call,” she exclaims by rote.

  “I did not intend to do so,” he states, then lapses into a shamed silence.

  “Ah … But you’re here, nonetheless.” She ventures a smile as she motions him toward a chair, but Kelman remains standing; and so she clasps her hands together and also waits in awkward limbo. “I assume you’ve uncovered information on the woman I saw the day I returned to the city?”

  “The …?”

  “When we last met. Following the windstorm … You said you were investigating the case of a suicide.”

  Kelman’s face flushes with hot agitation. “No. No, I came to see you because I hoped you might help me in my conversations with the Crowther family.”

  “With the Crowthers? What possible aid can I give you there? A priest, perhaps, but not—”

  “But I see I was deluding myself. I was seeking an excuse to spend time in your presence—”

  “Surely that’s not such a terrible misdeed.” Martha gives him a brighter smile and again urges him to sit, but Kelman’s cheerless speech rolls on:

  “You’re a wealthy woman, Miss Beale, and I am … I am not of your station and class. You should be free to choose other suitors.”

  “This is what you came to tell me?” The hurt in her voice is evident, but there’s also indignation. “That you have decided the future of my marital status?”

  “No, that’s not my meaning. Or, yes, perhaps it is. Oh, Martha, I want you to have a happy life! But I cannot make it so. You must understand that.”

  “No. I don’t” is her simple reply. “I know we enjoy one another’s company, and that you’re kind and compassionate.”

  “So is a priest.” The bitterness in his tone is unmistakable.

  Martha studies his face, her expression equally firm. “Shouldn’t I determine what’s appropriate? Rather than society, or you? Haven’t we discussed this matter?”

  Instead of responding directly, Kelman looks at the laden desk where Martha was recently working. “I’ve disturbed you at some important labor.”

  “Ah, yes … mathematical calculations on the exchange of one currency into another” is her acerbic reply. “However, I doubt that analyzing foreign specie and banking establishments in Havana, La Guaira, and Puerto Cabello is as vital as discussing a young lady who has been abducted from her home. Or whatever issue brought you to my door.”

  Kelman makes no answer. If he were alone, he would pace across the carpet, pounding his feet in frustration. Leave this house, his brain admonishes. Relinquish the sham purpose of your visit. You’re here because you’re in love with this woman, although you know very well you can never ask her hand in marriage.

  Of course, Martha hears none of this battle. “I cannot assist you if you don’t explain what you wish. Now, come. Let us sit together and talk in a convivial manner. Because you are kind and compassionate, Thomas, and you cannot convince me otherwise.” So saying, she walks to the bell pull in order to summon a servant and request tea and cakes. Then she seats herself, gathering her skirts to make room for him on the settee, but he continues to stand, his legs locked, his dusty boots planted upon the carpet.

  “Have you heard of the preacher Amor Alsberg?” is what he asks.

  “Whose followers believe that the Day of Judgment is at hand?” Martha shakes her head in rueful acknowledgment. She has heard Alsberg’s street-corner rantings and gives them as little credence as she does the charlatans who purvey their questionable nostrums and patent medicines. “What has Theodora Crowther’s disappearance to do with the man’s misguided prophesies, or his devotees’ equally perturbed inclinations?”

  In reply, Kelman poses a question of his own. “Do you feel your household is well enough protected?”

  “From the burglars plaguing our city, do you mean?”

  “From anyone who wishes you harm. And yes, let me mention Alsberg in this context. In listening to him, I was struck by the depth of his disciples’ discontent. True, they’re anticipating the rewards of the kingdom of Heaven and revel in quoting Scripture and invoking God’s protective care. But they’re also a resentful people who cling to every reference to Hell and eternal damnation. In their minds, the rich are venal and deserving of destruction. If the leap from burglary to Amor Alsberg seems extreme, I assure you it isn’t. At least to my mind.”

  “You and Miss Pettiman must be in collusion,” Martha answers in a brief attempt at levity, then adds a more serious “Yes. I’ve discussed the need for vigilance with my staff. So you needn’t worry, Thomas. We’re quite safe.”

  “But I do worry! I worry about you all the time—” That declaration is interrupted by the arrival of a footman bearing a silver tray laden with two gold-rimmed cups, two saucers, a silver teapot fashioned in the Adam style, and an additional silver pot containing hot water, as well as a small epergne displaying candied fruits and sweet biscuits.

  Martha watches the man’s white gloves arranging the gleaming display, extends her thanks, and then pays not one particle of attention to the food and drink arrayed before her. So the tea remains unpoured and the delicacies left untouched while Martha and Kelman gaze at each other across the vast expanse of mahogany table and Turkey carpet and damask-covered seats, tapestry footstools and the small and large pieces of statuary that litter every available space.

  “Oh, Thomas!” she finally declares while he blurts out a jagged:

  “You’ve won my heart, Martha Beale! What can I do but consider your well-being every moment of every day?”

  In the silence that follows these wondrous words, Martha is aware of the dull throb of noise in the street, then the small creaks, tip-taps of feet, and swinging of doors as unseen bodies move through the house. Mostly she hears the beating of her own heart.

  Instead of proposing marriage, however, Kelman flings himself down on a facing chair. “Forgive me. Please forgive me. My outburst was inexcusable. I told you I had no intention of standing in your way. What I said was beneath contempt. I apologize. I hope and pray that you’ll accept my apology. I will be a friend to you. I’ll be a friend to you all my days, but I can’t allow myself to prevent you from seeking a better and more deserving companion.”

  Martha regards him, her eyes filling with tears, which she blinks away in irritation. Her mouth opens in reply, then immediately clamps tight while Kelman leans forward. “Let us speak about the Crowthers, Martha.”

  “Is that what you wish? To discuss Dora’s disappearance? Is that the sole purpose of your visit? Or to confer on the odious Amor Alsberg?”

  “Yes,” he lies.

  “What if my choice is another subject? Two people who have reached a certain understanding and ease of companionship, for instance?”

  “Then I must beg your forgiveness and take my leave.”

  “You seem very certain how I should conduct my life, Mr. Kelman”

  “Martha … Listen to me. You state we’ve reached an ‘ease of companionship,’ and you’re correct in the assessment. We’ve entered a level of friendship that’s more than ease; it’s a deep level of trust. But there are other gentlemen with whom you could experience the same harmony—”

  “What if I don’t choose to seek them out?”

  “That decision is yours.”

  Martha stands. So abrupt is her movement that the table with its plethora of dainty objects jumps, setting in dangerous motion the porcelain cups and silver spoons and gilded cake knives and fluted forks. She glares at this discordant array, then moves the same commanding gaze to Kelman. “What is it you wished to ask me ab
out the Crowther family?” she asks. Her voice is flat and harsh.

  Kelman watches her for a moment, as she also regards him. It would take nothing for them to sweep aside the tea tray and table, but neither moves. Instead, he begins to speak in a brisk and competent tone, although his agitated expression belies this seeming detachment.

  “I wish you to meet with the Crowthers. As my mouth and ears. You’re of their social sphere. I’m not. And I believe they don’t fully trust my motives; the mother, especially. I’m sure you plan to call upon them to express your hopes for their daughter’s safe return, but endeavor when you do to detect whether the family has an enemy—”

  “An enemy.”

  “The notion came upon me when I was listening to Alsberg preach. Two days is a long period for the culprit to remain uncommunicative—if profit is the sole motive.”

  “Couldn’t the young couple have simply eloped? Uncaring as that action may be.”

  Kelman apparently doesn’t hear the suggestion. “I’ll also add that the robbery of the Crowther household struck me as being different than those I encountered at the Taitts’ and Ilsleys’ and so forth—”

  “I have no idea how to conduct such a conversation. I haven’t any training in the art of interrogation—”

  “What you have, Martha, is an innate understanding of the working of the human heart. You listen. You watch. You examine. I’ve seen you do it.”

  “That’s habit only. The result of a childhood spent in solitary pursuits.”

  He smiles at her, the first such happy expression since he entered the room. “Those are precisely the gifts I require: your humanity, your sense of wonder, your compassion and loving heart.” Before she can answer, he continues with a rapid “Query Miss Lydia Crowther first. She’ll be an easier subject; and I believe she has information concerning VanLennep and Theodora that the parents don’t. And yes, as you suggest, an elopement isn’t out of the realm of possibility. Although if that’s the case, I’m perturbed by the callousness of the act.”