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

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  “This under-housemaid saw no one loitering nearby? A boy who delivered this, perhaps?” Kelman asks, although his focus remains on the document.

  “What makes you suspect a child is involved?” Crowther glowers as if he suddenly finds Kelman’s presence not only abrasive but superfluous. “Theodora may possess a delicate and graceful frame, but a mere boy couldn’t have abducted her.”

  “It was a boy who robbed the Taitt household, nephew.” It’s Miss Lydia who makes this pronouncement from her place at the center of one of the settees. An ear trumpet rests on her lap, and her fingers play across its surface as if it were a little dog. “A boy who slithered down the chimney flue and then opened a window that couldn’t be seen from the street.”

  “Aunt, please—”

  “May I not say my piece, nephew? You posed a question. I choose to reply.”

  “It was Mr. Kelman I was addressing, Aunt Lydia. Not you.” Crowther’s resentment builds until the veins on his face turn purple-red. “We waste precious moments fretting needlessly over nests of burglars and children who enter houses in the dead of night. Whoever stole my daughter from her home is an adult.”

  At this exclamation, Dora’s mother finally stirs. From the moment Martha and Kelman entered the room she has remained as still as death, propped up in a wing chair whose upholstery replicates the color of her Persian blue gown. True, her eyes open and close, and her chest rises and falls; but her conscious mind, dosed with laudanum—or so Martha suspects—is distant from these mechanical activities. “My Theodora … my baby girl …” she mutters before again nodding into silence.

  “My wife took a turn for the worse when the missive arrived,” Harrison explains, “and as our physician had prescribed—”

  “What Georgine requires is exercise, nephew, not elixirs which cause her to become insensate. A constitutional such as I make it my habit to engage in—”

  “Aunt, desist, I beg you! It’s my daughter we discuss. Not you. Nor Georgine. Nor idle saunters round the park, or mystery boys who—”

  “Am I forbidden from having an opinion? Just like Theodora?”

  “Aunt!”

  “Don’t shout at me, Harrison! It’s very ungentlemanly of you.”

  “I’m not shouting.” As proof of this fact, Crowther lowers his voice, but his fists are clenched.

  “Nor are you employing a conversational tone.” Undefeated, Lydia Crowther fluffs at her peau de soie skirts and repositions her petite shoes on the stool at her feet. “I find it puzzling that young Percy cannot be found,” she states while Martha shares a look with Kelman.

  “And you still have had no word from Mr. VanLennep?” she asks in a soft voice. “How distressing that must be to you and your wife, sir. In this worrisome time, it would be beneficial to have a friend help shoulder your burdens.”

  “Well, that thoughtful person would never be Percy VanLennep.” Crowther’s irate words fly out, and he quickly tries to reclaim them. “He’s young, you see, Miss Beale. And impetuous—”

  “Impetuosity should be prized, nephew, rather than trounced in the mud.”

  “Aunt!”

  “If you find Percy unsuitable, you shouldn’t have permitted their betrothal.”

  “Aunt, please.” Crowther’s hands now join together in a gesture of reconciliation while his eyes shift first to Martha and then to Kelman as if seeking their indulgence for the old lady and her meddling ways. “I fear that Mr. VanLennep’s great love for my daughter might cause him to be a hindrance rather than an aid. Hopefully, by the time he returns, this frightful interval will be no more than memory.”

  “Let us pray fervently for that joyous event, Mr. Crowther,” Martha concludes, then looks again at Kelman, who maintains his watchful pose beside the table.

  “What can you tell me about this message, sir?” he asks, and Martha is relieved to note that his tone has grown friendlier.

  “No more than I’ve said. A housemaid found it and gave it to a footman who in turn presented the missive to me. I immediately sent word to you—as you requested.”

  Kelman regards Harrison Crowther; then his glance shifts to the nearly stupified Georgine and then to Miss Lydia, who maintains her alert posture, raising and lowering the ear trumpet while her face beams cheerful concern.

  “I must be honest with you, sir. I find the wording of the message—” But Kelman has no sooner begun than Crowther interrupts. His voice is sharp.

  “What is there to understand other than that the writer demands money, and that my daughter will not be released until the sum of one thousand dollars is delivered?”

  “That’s the intended interpretation, I admit. But I believe this missive is fraudulent.”

  “Fraudulent! How can you claim such a ludicrous thing?” Crowther grabs back the letter and reads aloud. “If you wish to see your daughter, I require a payment of one thousand dollars. What could be clearer than that?”

  “On the surface, nothing. However, I find the simplicity of the demand perplexing. Despite an attempt at disguise, the handwriting clearly belongs to an educated person—”

  Again Crowther starts to challenge the statement, but Kelman overrides him. “I’m also concerned that there’s no mention of Miss Theodora’s welfare, or how or when you might expect to be reunited with her … And although the sum is high, it seems insufficient given your family’s status—”

  “This palaver of yours brings us no results, sir! What do I care about the amount as long as I get her back? And quickly, too! You state this demand may be a fraud. Then my question for you is: Where is my Dora, and why can’t you find her? It has been four days since she vanished. Four days! Even the most lethargic of our city’s journalists are trumpeting that disturbing news. Surely this town is not so large that it has swallowed my daughter whole. Furthermore: If this missive isn’t a ransom letter, what is it?”

  Despite the barrage of words, Kelman remains calm. “I’m beginning to wonder, Mr. Crowther, whether it might have been composed by a stranger hoping for a chance at easy money. As you just mentioned, every journal and gazette has been full of the story—”

  “Easy money, sir! Is it ease with which Dora’s mother and I wait out each day hoping for our child’s return? Is it a chance of finding her that we expect? No! It’s a suitable investigation. It’s dedication and police work, sir, rather than guesswork and hypothesis!”

  The loudness of Harrison’s voice has again startled Georgine. Her body jolts within the chair’s supporting wings, and her eyes open wide as though waking from a sleep. She stares at Kelman; for a moment, she seems not to recognize him; when she does her mouth turns downward in mistrust. Then she looks at her husband’s irate face, and her skeptical gaze dissolves in sorrow. “Mr. Crowther, sir, please be so kind as to escort me to my rooms. I fear I am unwell.”

  Immediately solicitous, he hurries to his wife’s side, jamming the ransom letter into his pocket as he does. “Of course, my dear. Of course.”

  Hefting the large woman to her feet isn’t easily done, however, and Crowther requires both Kelman’s and Martha’s aid in order to raise the woozy lady and set her traveling in the correct direction. As the pair moves unsteadily toward the door, Crowther lands a parting shot. “I have it in mind to hire a secret service agent, sir. Someone for whom our case would be of the highest priority.”

  Kelman receives this latest insult with dismay. “Mr. Luther Irwin’s Bureau of Secret Service, is that your intention?”

  “It is. I’ve already spoken with Mr. Irwin in person. He assures me that he can guarantee results, and that he will personally handle the affair.”

  Kelman nods once, although his face remains set. “So he will. But if this missive is the hoax I intuit it to be, you’d be advised to tread more lightly than Luther Irwin will recommend. To my knowledge, he has never handled anything of this nature before. You don’t wish to jeopardize your daughter’s safety—”

  “What safety do you speak of?” Crowther cri
es out. “If Theodora is not under her own roof, what protection is she assured?”

  “You’re correct, sir, but an agency like Irwin’s can do more harm than good—”

  But Harrison Crowther and his wife are past the door and treading uncertainly across the foyer by the time this final warning is uttered.

  “He won’t listen,” Miss Lydia now states with the trumpet held firmly to her ear. “He never has. He was stubborn as a child, Lord knows, and the bane of his mother’s existence. He’s stubborn yet, and will be until the day he meets his Maker. But then my nephew is of a short and ungainly build. A tall, imposing stature is more appealing in a gentleman. More impressive, too. The general stood head and shoulders above his peers; and look what he accomplished.” Then the ear trumpet is returned to her lap while she closes her eyes as if shutting out every trouble the modern world offers.

  “COULD DORA AND PERCY HAVE eloped, do you think?” These are the first words Martha utters as Kelman walks her home. So intent are they on their interview that they’ve unconsciously assumed the appearance of husband and wife. Martha’s hand is tucked into the crook of Kelman’s arm; his own fingers caress hers in return. A stranger could easily mistake them for the most comfortable of couples.

  “With Miss Lydia’s connivance? Is that your supposition?”

  Martha nods, her gaze fixed on the street before her. “She claims to have heard her great-niece whisper Percy’s name the night she vanished. And if Crowther dislikes his future son-in-law as much as he appears, then perhaps—”

  “Dislike is a strong word, Martha.”

  “Is it? An only child and a daughter. Clearly a father would want a suitor of the highest caliber. Missing the mark by even a small amount might cause the candidate’s status to plummet.”

  “Was your own father so exacting?”

  “He never permitted me a suitor.” This bitter confession is out before Martha has time to stop it. She pinches her lips as if to prevent the escape of further awkward disclosures while Kelman’s jaw tightens in self-reproach.

  “Forgive me, Martha. My question was insensitive.”

  “It was honest, Thomas; so there’s nothing to forgive.”

  “I would rather my nature were more naturally thoughtful and considerate—”

  “And replace truth with good manners?” She smiles as she speaks. “I’d rather have you as you are.” Then her eyes crease with worry as her thoughts return to Dora Crowther. “When I originally visited the household, I found the behavior between husband and wife perplexing. Georgine displayed a good deal of anger. I had the impression she was harboring a secret grievance.”

  “Given her present state, it’s difficult to know what she believes.”

  “It is. I must admit, I find such liberal use of calmative potions troubling.” Martha’s pensive frown deepens. “Explain to me again why you feel the Crowthers’ letter is fraudulent.”

  “If this were the second missive they’d received, I would have few questions other than those I already posed. But the writer makes no mention of Dora, nor does he enclose a snippet of her hair or a memento the parents would recognize. There’s only the statement that money must change hands if the Crowthers wish to ‘see’ their daughter—although the directive curiously fails to provide a means by which that payment can be made. So, does the author, in fact, possess the young lady? And why did he wait so long before approaching the family? I also remain baffled by the differences in the robbery the Crowthers suffered and those perpetrated on other families. In short, these queries lead me to believe that things are not as they seem.”

  Martha thinks for several long moments. “Could the missive have been written by Percy—with Dora’s collusion?”

  Kelman shakes his head. “What sort of daughter would inflict this kind of misery on her parents?”

  “An angry one? Or a young lady so deeply in love that she can think only of herself and her swain? If Miss Lydia is correct in inferring that Dora and Percy were denied each other’s company—perhaps even conclusively—then I imagine the girl’s ardor could turn ruthless.”

  “But Georgine has stated repeatedly that Dora is soon to be wed.”

  “And Crowther? Does he seem to you to share his wife’s positive attitude about the marriage, or its date?”

  “I believed so. I continue to believe it. In my opinion, Dora’s father is simply a choleric man facing a situation he can’t control. Stubborn, too, as his aunt suggests. Yes, he referred to VanLennep as thoughtless and impetuous; and yes, there were other innuendoes regarding his displeasure with the match, but he also mentioned Percy’s ‘great love’ for Dora, which leads me to believe that a state of helplessness is the sole cause of his immoderate speech. Gentlemen like him who are accustomed to wielding influence are sometimes easily provoked.”

  Martha inclines her head, pondering what Kelman has said. “What of this Luther Irwin? You warned Crowther to step lightly. Are the secret agent’s methods overly harsh, then?”

  “Severe or brutal might be a more fitting word. I realize that much of police investigative work relies upon cowing the criminal classes, but Irwin doesn’t mind breaking heads to get results. In the case of a kidnapping, when a human life is at stake, such measures may prove counterproductive. There, the guilty persons are more apt to be attacked by fear and doubt, and therefore fight amongst themselves. It’s not unknown for the victim to be found murdered—” Kelman interrupts himself as Martha lets out a frightened gasp. “I apologize. We shouldn’t be discussing such eventualities. You may be perfectly correct. Dora and Percy may have eloped.”

  Martha isn’t soothed by the statement, however. “Oh, Thomas, let us hope that my theory is accurate. Dora must be found. Alive and well, too!”

  He makes no immediate reply. When he speaks again, his voice is resolute and his eyes bear a distant glint. “With or without Irwin and his rowdies, I’ll maintain my investigation. Theodora Crowther will be reunited with her parents.”

  With that they fall silent as they continue their journey, their footsteps falling side by side, their bodies linked, their minds consumed by similar concerns. “Is Ella serious about wishing to find her true mother?” Kelman asks at length, and his tone, although steady, sounds like the saddest of songs.

  “Yes. She is.”

  “Is that what you want, too? Because such a search can be set aside. False leads, or none, might be unearthed. Of course, the deception may be necessary. Children like Ella usually enter the world without anyone recording pertinent information.”

  Martha is silent for a moment. When she does reply, her words are philosophical. “I will do as Ella requests, and therefore earnestly ask you for your help.”

  “If, and it is an uncertainty, mother and child can be reunited, you may be compelled to relinquish your own role.”

  “I’m aware of the consequences.” Martha allows herself a fleeting smile. “This isn’t to suggest that I’m pleased—just that I’m aware of what the future may hold.”

  “And if I discover the father who sold her?”

  “Let us ponder that problem when and if it arises.”

  They cross the street to the greensward leading to the State House. Amor Alsberg and his flock are encamped there, and Kelman mutters his dismay. “How stupid of me. I should have chosen another route.” The confession is drowned by the itinerant preacher’s ferocious rant:

  “And what does the Prophet Isaiah say about the haughty daughters of Zion, my brothers and sisters? Does he not state that the Lord will afflict them, smiting their heads with scabs and laying bare their secret parts? Is that not the third chapter of Isaiah, beginning at verse sixteen, wherein the Lord deprives those heartless women of all that they hold dear? ‘Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil … Their children also shall be dashed to pieces before their eyes’!”

  “Oh,” Martha murmurs, pulling back. “Is this the same message you heard the other day?”

  “Not the same, but simila
r.” As Kelman answers, it becomes clear to Martha that his focus is fixed on a man standing several paces away. Despite a poorly patched coat and dirty linen, he has a boastful stance as if poverty were a source of pride. Feeling Kelman’s eyes upon him, he turns and glowers while his lips curl back from his teeth like an angry dog’s. Martha notices that the man’s ears have turned very red and that they are pointed at the tips. Beneath the tall hat he wears squashed on his head, the ears escape like leathery wings.

  “Do you know that person?” she asks.

  “I’m not certain” is the quiet reply. Then Kelman extricates his arm from hers and asks if she would be comfortable strolling off a little distance, away from Alsberg’s congregation.

  “I can take myself home, Thomas.”

  “No. I would rather you wait for me. You’re dressed too finely not to be noticed and perhaps followed.” So saying, he moves toward the man with the ugly stare, who steps away from the crowd as if he’s been awaiting this confrontation.

  “Are you Mr. Findal Stokes senior, by any chance?”

  “Who is it wants to know, by any chance?” Martha hears sarcasm drip through the words, then realizes to her dismay that the man, Stokes, has spotted her. He touches his hat and gives a private leer that Kelman fortunately doesn’t see. “I may be. I may not. It depends on what’s on offer.”

  “And your son is young Findal Stokes?”

  “If that’s my name, it would make sense I’d pass it along, wouldn’t it? I believe that’s what you fine gents and ladies do. Or is there a rule saying us lesser folk haven’t the right to emulate our superiors?”

  If Kelman notes the heckling tone, he doesn’t show it. “Where’s your son now, Mr. Stokes?”

  “I haven’t said that’s my name yet, have I, guv?”

  “A boy called Findal Stokes has information concerning a mother who attempted to murder her baby and is herself believed to be a suicide. He and his father were kept at Blockley—”

  At the name of the institution, Stokes’s fists fly upward, and his mouth opens in a roar that doesn’t come. “What should I know about that place?” he demands, but his tone is choked as if fingers grasped his neck. “Do I look like a pauper to you? Do I look like a bankrupt, to be consigned to the almshouse—?”