“I’m no fool, sir” is her contemptuous reply. “You can be certain I’m not. In future, I suggest you supply facts to bolster your unsavory theories. You may believe my house is a lowly one, but I assure you I have a number of clients from the cream of society. The thickest and best part of the cream. None of them enjoys being stirred up with the rest of the milk.”
YOUNG FINDAL STOKES HEARS EVERY word of this conversation, because he’s the boy Dutch Kat summoned. In the modified butler’s pantry that’s really a catch-all larder for every bottle, punch bowl, earthenware jug, and claret cup Kat doesn’t want displayed in the parlor nor left cluttering the already crowded kitchen annex, he’s not only eavesdropping but also thanking his lucky stars that he doesn’t have to produce the requested refreshments. He remembers Thomas Kelman only too well, and doesn’t want to come face-to-face with him again.
But what to do with the information he now possesses? Ransom monies, the man said! And to be sequestered in a mere laundry basket! Ten thousand dollars! The figure dances in Findal’s brain, almost too astounding to grasp. Can this Miss Theodora Crowther be worth as much as that? Surely a fine mansion might be purchased for that enormous price. Then his eyes draw into a squint, for he sees not only the flaw in the plan but the person whose addled mind created it.
A CERTAIN POSSESSION, RETURNED
WHILE FINDAL PLOTS AND SCHEMES as he slips unnoticed through the city streets, Martha and Kelman enjoy a private if somber luncheon. The fare is excellent, because Martha’s cook is masterful. There is a clear oxtail soup, a savory pigeon pie, ragout of lobster, a saddle of mutton, fruit jelly, a warm plum tart, and cabinet pudding; the table is set with a tall epergene bedecked with flowers and candied fruit, giving the room a festive appearance neither Martha nor Kelman feels. They attempt to converse about matters in the city—matters other than Dora or the proposed hunt for Ella’s mother—but the words have the shallow sound of memorization. None of their gambits concerning the celebrated actor Junius Brutus Booth in the role of King John at the American Theater, or the popular trotting races out in Nicetown’s Hunting Park, or the rumors regarding the future of Joseph Bonaparte’s palatial estate at Point Breeze, or the former emperor’s brother’s predilection for shocking his lady guests draw more than cursory notice. The interruption of a messenger bearing an urgent request from Harrison Crowther is a welcome relief to them both.
Kelman immediately rises, then finds it impossible to proceed to the Crowther household without Martha. “Surely you’ll need me there, Thomas,” she states as she folds her serviette, pushes it aside, and rises from her chair. “If only for Georgine’s sake.” She crosses the room and calls for her mantilla and bonnet. It’s of little use when Kelman protests that the brevity of the message probably indicates an unhappy turn of events and that he wishes to spare her feelings, since her response is an airy:
“I understand as much, Thomas, and I thank you for your concern. However, not so long ago you requested my aid in this matter, and I’ve come to have great empathy for the afflicted parents. Now, shall we proceed?” Then she ties the long ribbons of her bonnet, pulls on her walking gloves, and allows the footman to open the front door.
WHAT AWAITS THEM AT THE Crowthers’ is a situation that requires some untangling, because Dora’s father spends as much time berating himself as he does explaining what transpired.
“Why didn’t I have the footmen scour the streets as soon as the parcel was delivered? Wouldn’t whoever left it have waited to make certain his task was accomplished rather than worry about an unknown person stealing the bundle from the steps?”
“What bundle is that, sir?” Kelman asks.
“Why, this one! This one.” Crowther waves an irritable hand toward a twine-wrapped piece of sacking lying on the floor. Valuable objects peek out of it as though the package had been hastily tied. “It was too dirty to put on the furniture, so I told the footman to set it down there—”
“Oh, Mr. Crowther, what do we care for such niceties now—?” his wife begins to protest, but he rudely shushes her, then also glowers at his aunt and at Luther Irwin, who has preceded Kelman there, but who wisely keeps silent while his employer drops down beside the mysterious delivery and begins unraveling the hempen knots. “These are our missing candlesticks” is all he says at first. With nervous fingers, he stands them on their bases and sets them on the floor. “And these three leather-bound volumes. And this ivory figurine. And these two porcelain snuffboxes—”
“But what of Dora’s own possessions, Harrison?” Georgine interrupts, so far forgetting herself as to use her husband’s Christian name.
“How should I know?” is the brusque reply.
“Oh, but—”
“Let me attend to this in my own fashion, wife! We must remove the contents of this receptacle in an orderly manner.”
“May I, sir?” Kelman takes his place at Crowther’s side. “No message was attached to the sacking’s exterior?”
“None, damnation! Why didn’t I order that the person who brought us this be caught? What was I thinking to allow the fiend to slip away?” He swears again, then pounds the floor with his fist.
Both his wife and aunt protest the oath, but Crowther only repeats the word in a more stringent tone, lashing at the gilded candlesticks and knocking them over. In the quiet room, they clatter on the wood, causing the three ladies to jump.
Kelman continues to sort through the collection. There’s a silk fan, an inlaid camphor-wood box, and a lady’s reticule that makes Crowther leap backward. “That’s not Dora’s.”
“Isn’t it?” Martha asks as she picks it up, for it’s a very showy article and she can imagine it appealing to a young woman of Dora’s exuberant tastes.
“Goodness, no,” the mother answers. “I would never have permitted my child anything so vulgar.”
Then Kelman pulls out a separate sack in which reside a silver buttonhook, a comb, and a mirror; each is engraved with a willowy T. Harrison’s body sags while his wife cries out, “Her toilette set!”
Kelman reaches inside the small sack, but finds no letter, while Crowther attacks the camphor-wood box and yanks open the books. “Who is doing this, Kelman? Who’s so intent on torturing us—?” The words disappear in a sob that swells from his chest. One inconsolable cry follows another and another.
No one speaks. Harrison remains in his bent and defeated position; his wife reaches down and takes the buttonhook, turning it over and over in her palm while her eyes dull with misery. For once, Miss Lydia keeps her own counsel.
Martha searches for words of comfort. Finding none, she toys absently with the reticule until the small button securing it falls off and the thing opens. Inside is a folded scrap of brown paper and an engraved carte de visite belonging to Becky Grey. In silence she hands the coarse paper to Kelman, who studies it, but says nothing.
“Well, Kelman?” Crowther at last demands. “Does that have some bearing on the case, or not?”
“It purports to, sir.”
“What do you mean, man? Speak plainly.”
“The message is brief; the scribe uneducated, and probably—”
“What the devil difference does it make whether the person has schooling? I assume the villain isn’t some lofty professor—”
“Hear me out, Mr. Crowther. You’ve received two previous missives. The first was penned by an accomplished hand; the second by a lesser man—”
Without waiting for Kelman to finish, Crowther bursts to his feet, grabs the note, and thrusts it into Luther Irwin’s hands. “Read it, Mr. Irwin! I want action, not palaver.”
The secret service agent does as he’s commanded.” ‘Don’t trust uther messige,’” he quotes.
“Which last two words are misspelled,” Kelman adds.
“For God’s sake! What difference are these niceties of language? The fiend has my daughter—”
“A fiend, sir, indeed” is the calm reply. “But this directive, together with your stolen a
rticles, makes me wonder whether the person you’re intending to pay is the same one holding Miss Theodora.”
“Don’t we have my daughter’s daguerreotype to prove it?”
“Yes, sir. But why were these objects not delivered with them?”
“That’s for you to tell me, Kelman, not I you!”
“Then I propose to you, sir, that you may be dealing with several different entities—”
Irwin scoffs. “We nab one of them blackguards—if more than one it is—we nab them all. A nest of burglars isn’t made up of a solitary person, Mr. Kelman.”
“No, it’s not. But you know as well as I do that thieves often turn against one another. In which case, trouble is certain—”
A roar erupts from Crowther. “Stop this cant at once, and find me my child.”
LEAVING THE CROWTHERS’ HOME, NEITHER Martha nor Kelman speaks, but by tacit consent their feet turn toward the Taitt home: Martha to return the reticule, Kelman to question its loss and strange reappearance. Both are relieved to find the mistress of the house alone, although Becky appears the most grateful at her husband’s absence.
“You won’t tell Taitt, will you?” she begs. “It was so careless of me to allow that man in the churchyard to steal this little purse of mine; and William doesn’t appreciate thoughtless behavior. Then, too, it may have precipitated our own burglary.”
Kelman presses Becky for an account of the thief, and as she describes a man who sounds very much like Findal Stokes senior, her husband strides into the room.
“How now, wife; I see we have unexpected company.” He bows to Kelman and then to Martha, but the gesture is perfunctory. It’s clear his attention is on Becky, but she makes no reply. Rather, she withdraws into herself. Martha observes the behavior with puzzlement. This is not the woman who sauntered so intrepidly into Parkinson’s Ice Cream Palace.
“We’ve just come from the Crowther household, sir,” Kelman explains. “Some valuable possessions were delivered to them that may, in fact, belong to you.”
“Did you bring them with you?” is the drawled response.”
“No, sir.”
“Then may I ask to what we owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I was hoping to have a further conversation about the child who robbed your house, sir, as the connection between the crime that occurred here and the abduction of Theodora appears certain.”
“And did my Becky provide the necessary information?”
“I believe so, sir.”
Throughout this conversation, Martha has noticed Becky secreting the reticule within the broad sleeves of her gown. She looks at Martha in appeal, and Martha covertly answers, but Taitt is oblivious to this wordless exchange. Instead, he makes another half bow to his guests. “Mr. Kelman, Miss Beale, our thanks for this visit. I’ve no doubt you have pressing obligations, and I’m certain you won’t feel we’re inconsiderate hosts if we excuse ourselves. My wife hasn’t been herself since the night we were robbed.”
MARTHA AND KELMAN ARE NO sooner escorted out the door than she commences a barrage of questions. “Why would Becky’s reticule have been used to deliver this latest message to the Crowthers, and what is the significance of the writer’s warning? You mentioned that thieves often turn against one another, and I sensed there was some urgency in the statement. What is it, Thomas?”
They are passing along the brick walk fronting the Taitt house, Martha’s high brow creased as she considers these quandaries. She seems unconscious of her surroundings: the trees dropping their dappled shade, the carriage wheels grinding over the cobbles, a lone horseman, her fellow pedestrians, even Kelman at her side. “And why did Becky conceal her purse? What’s she frightened of? Not Taitt, I hope.”
“That, I can’t answer,” Kelman says, then smiles as he notes Martha’s look of concentration that increases by the moment rather than diminishes. “The complexities of the marriage pact are alien to me—”
“What would cause a woman who experienced autonomy in her career and private life to grow so cowed?” Martha’s strides stretch out, the soles of her shoes slapping at the pavement, her face turning fierce as if it were Taitt rather than Kelman she was addressing.
“Do you believe her vocation was hers to control?” His tone is mild and inquiring, but Martha remains vehement.
“Yes, I do. Of course I do.”
“Rather than being limited by the fickle whims of the public? Or the theater managers? You feel your friend had that much freedom?”
“She was Becky Grey!” is the indignant rejoinder. “And she still is.”
“She’s also Mrs. William Taitt.”
At this Martha sighs anew, the sound angrier this time. “I don’t like that man. I don’t mind admitting it. I find him manipulative. Manipulative, despotic, and sly.”
“It’s fortunate it’s your friend who married him rather than you, then, isn’t it?” Kelman’s voice is gentle, although a hint of humor has begun to color it.
Martha draws back in order to study his face. “I would never submit to such a domineering spouse.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Nor should you. Nor should anyone who can avoid such a choice. The lady may have been guided by other considerations. I can’t claim to understand what makes a person select one path over another, but I recognize that an uncertain livelihood is a cruel companion.” He pauses; this time Martha makes no attempt to challenge him. “You believe she lived an independent existence, but that’s an invention most performers cultivate: their daring and temerity.”
Martha thinks. “What you propose is reasonable, but I’m loath to ascribe that incentive to a person who was as lauded as she.”
“Fear is a heartless master, Martha. It can drive men and women to commit acts they could never have imagined.”
She nods, but remains silent while their twin footsteps continue on their journey. “What course will you follow now?”
“I’m going to see you home. After which I plan another excursion to Blockley. If Stokes is our man, and it certainly seems as though he is, then the officials and staff must be warned. And, too, I may be able to encounter some comrade of his who’ll be willing to supply information for a price—”
“And tomorrow?”
“Unless I can persuade Crowther otherwise, I’m afraid he’ll deliver the ransom money as planned.”
“Could I talk to Georgine about your fears, do you think, Thomas? Perhaps a frank conversation between two women would be helpful.”
Kelman shakes his head. “The man is exceedingly stubborn. And equally—and understandably—upset.”
“Yes,” Martha agrees, then falls into gloomy silence until: “Tell me more about this notion of thieves turning against one another. How would that affect Dora?”
Kelman pauses before he speaks. “This isn’t a subject I feel happy sharing with you.”
“Because you feel I won’t understand its complexities, or because it’s a sorrowful one?”
“The latter, Martha. You have a brain as apt as anyone I know—or know of.”
She allows herself a brief smile at the compliment. “Well, then, proceed. I’m not a stranger to grief, as you know.”
“Yes. I do know … So, let us suppose that Dora’s been hidden somewhere in the city—”
“By the person or persons who abducted her from her home.”
“And that there’s a master of the criminal band who committed the act. In this case, we’ll call him Stokes.”
“Yes …”
“Now, Stokes has others working with him: boys, certainly, but perhaps older ruffians as well. What if one of them decides to act on his own recognizance and send a fraudulent missive? Or perhaps becomes too anxious to continue the ruse? What happens to Dora then?”
Martha shakes her head. “Nothing worse than what’s befallen her already, I would imagine. She’s a valuable commodity for those who keep her.”
“Unless they lose their nerve. In which case, Dora becomes a liability.
”
“A liability?”
“I’ll say no more. This is hypothesis only.”
“But Thomas—”
“What I’ve explained is conjecture, and I’ll pray it remains so.”
“But what’s to be done?”
“We must wait and see.”
“My greatest failing: impatience.” Martha attempts a small smile to alleviate her worries, at which point Kelman stops walking, staring down at her with an expression so tortured that her heart jumps in her breast.
“You have no failings, Martha. From the day I met you, I realized you were as close to perfection as can be imagined. And how unworthy I—”
“Unworthy?”
“Yes. That’s the word I choose.”
“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide whether—”
“You know nothing about me! My history or—”
“What do I care for history when I have the real man in front of me? Someone who’s kind and compassionate. Who can’t abide injustice or cruelty, who’s even now struggling to reunite a family—” The words vanish as Kelman takes Martha in his arms and kisses her. There’s such ardor in their embrace that she almost forgets to breathe.
PERCY VANLENNEP
DESPITE THIS BOLD DISPLAY OF passion, despite the astonished passersby and carriage drivers and carters staring dumbfounded at a couple so absorbed with one another that they’re impervious to being in a public arena, the afternoon continues. Kelman and Martha relinquish their embrace, their eyes now averted as confusion, embarrassment, and longing settle in their brains and on their shoulders. Then, in near silence, he returns her to her home. Martha accepts her place at his side but makes no comment on what transpired. Nor does he.
When at last she climbs the steps to her house and turns to wish him farewell, her speech and pose are as awkward as a shy child’s. But so are Kelman’s.
“Thomas…”
“Yes?”
“You’ll call upon me later, will you not?”
“Yes.”
“To … to let me know the results of your visit to Blockley?”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 14
