Martha’s lips open in objection, but Georgine’s ferocious glare obliterates her effort at speech.
“Only Harrison. My husband. Harrison. He killed my daughter. Killed her with his own hands—”
“Oh, Mrs.—”
Martha might as well not have spoken, for Georgine continues, her mouth like a gash, her eyes wild. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes … I realize it must have been some type of hideous accident. I believe that. I do. I do. Don’t I understand each and every one of his deficiencies? A choleric man like Harrison, given to fits of rage whenever his wishes weren’t realized. Ask his aunt if you doubt me. Ask her about her dear nephew’s ill-tempered ways. But however my darling child’s death occurred, what I can tell you is that every act he committed after that… every act he—” The speech halts. Georgine’s head sags, her wrath now supplanted by a sense of such hideous loss that the emotion seems unendurable. Taking Martha’s arm, she drags her through the door. “Let me read to you from the letter he wrote before swallowing that damnable poison. I keep it here in Dora’s apartment. I keep it because I… because …” The words clatter out like stones. “Why did this happen, Miss Beale? Why? Weren’t we good enough? Devout enough? Kind enough? Is this God’s punishment?”
Martha makes no reply. What can she say in the face of this extraordinary confession? That Georgine is mistaken? That Stokes—or some as yet undiscovered person—was to blame?
“Harrison closed the missive by quoting from the Revelation of Saint John. However, he made two telling alterations to the text.” She picks up the letter. Martha notices how creased and rumpled the paper is, and how roughly the lady handles it. “In times past, we were schooled by memorizing long passages from the Bible. You may not have been raised in such a fashion, but I was; and aged as I am, I still remember my lessons, so I can tell you what words my husband excised.” Holding the page to her eyes, Georgine’s fingers almost rend it in half.
“‘It is done!’ he writes. ‘He that overcometh shall inherit all things. But the fearful shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone’. The words my husband eliminated after ‘fearful’ include ‘murderers’ and ‘whoremongers.’”
She throws the letter on her daughter’s bed. “I see how those words affect you, Miss Beale. Perhaps you know more about this than I realized, and are also aware of a certain fancy house my husband frequented—and young Percy’s connection to the same establishment? Or the hunting accident that wasn’t as arbitrary as it seemed? Don’t speak. Your expression has answered for you. As mine must have also when I discovered Harrison’s involvement in that hateful matter.” Georgine’s chest heaves; her cheeks redden, then turn icy white. Her mouth opens and closes, opens and closes; and Martha steps toward her, fearing the lady will faint.
“Dora’s betrothed dead in the woods,” she cries out. “Wouldn’t the incident have assured his guilt? Or if not assured, then made him forever suspect, gossiped over, his complicity never proved nor disproved.” She crumples her husband’s missive; then, heedless of her actions, begins tearing it in pieces. “My citified spouse tramping the forest while my girl’s poor body rotted in a filthy heap of coal. What fiend would undertake such an act, do you think? Burying his child in coal cobbles!”
Martha doesn’t answer; instead, she watches Georgine’s hands as they shred the words her husband has penned.
“If I’d examined those two ransom letters with greater care, Miss Beale … if I’d questioned Harrison concerning where the monies were to be left, or why his reaction to the return of my little girl’s daguerreotype was so uncharacteristic and full of dread, perhaps I would have detected the lie sooner. But what good would that have done? My darling was dead by then! My daughter, my dearest, dearest daughter was already—”
The mother begins to weep, her tears as noisy and copious as a child’s. Martha makes not a sound. It seems to her that there’s enough pain in these two small chambers to fill the entire house several times over. Enough to cast a long, dark shadow over the entire street also. She looks across the room, imagining Dora alive, sitting at her escritoire, writing in her journal, gazing out a sunny, spring-filled window, happy, fun-loving, considerate of her parents’ wishes, then tumbling headlong into youthful love.
In her mind’s eye, Martha sees the girl pacing back and forth in front of her window, waiting for a glimpse of Percy, her slender frame nearly shivering in anticipation. She laughs aloud, catches sight of her pretty face in the looking glass, and beams at her own reflection.
Then without warning the lighthearted vision turns sinister, and Martha witnesses an uncompromising father and increasingly obstinate daughter. Their bodies are illumined only by a single candle resting on Dora’s bed table, although the girl herself is fully dressed and seated near the now night-filled window-panes. Martha hears voices begin to rise in querulous argument; there are remonstrances and pleas; there are parental commands and haughty contradictions; there’s ill-considered opposition and petulant tears, then a strangled oath, a shout, a startled yelp, while a blow seems to descend upon Martha’s body as if it had been aimed at her and not at Theodora. As Martha reacts to this illusory attack, there is also the echo of a scream.
“How could he have committed the crime he did, Miss Beale? How could he have harmed his own child? And then hidden—?”
“Mrs. Crowther, don’t torture yourself thus—”
“Torture! You don’t know what the word means. My daughter gone. My husband destroyed in mind and body. No, don’t talk to me of torment, because I can see my child dying as though I were witnessing the scene. I see it over and over and over again. Here. Right here. And Harrison, too. He lives with the memory every waking and sleeping moment. When he told me—” All at once, she lunges toward her husband’s torn letter, swoops up the pieces, and deposits them in Martha’s hand. “Take these to your Mr. Kelman. Let him solve the conundrum of who first discovered Harrison’s crime. For some devil did—and intended to profit from that knowledge.”
Georgine’s hands cup Martha’s; her grip tightens until Martha feels her fingers nearly imprisoned in the larger woman’s. The grasp grows more rigid; Martha’s own flesh begins to tingle. “But I have a request to make first.”
Martha’s heart sinks as she looks into Dora’s mother’s eyes, for she intuits the petition will not be an easy one to honor. “A request?”
“Yes. That he and you tell no one of this matter.”
“Oh, Mrs. Crowther—”
“I see you wish to pull away. You desire honesty. You want and respect truth. But the man who was reported to have stolen my child from her home has perished. His reputation was sullied already; let him remain guilty in the public arena. Let it be as everyone believes. That Stokes murdered my Theodora, and that the hand of God has dispatched him … Whoever attempted to blackmail us by returning Dora’s portrait and the possessions taken from this room, I’ll deal with myself after—”
“Oh, Mrs. Crowther, what you’re asking—”
“Is against your scruples, is that it, Miss Beale?” The words fly out, knifing through the air. “Or your fine Mr. Kelman’s?”
“No, madam” is the austere reply. “What I was going to say is that it’s against the law.”
“Oh, the law! The grand and illustrious decrees of this commonwealth. Did those verdicts protect my child? Did they?” Georgine’s voice has risen again; her fingers have become like vises. “Did they, Miss Beale? Did they save my little girl? Or Harrison?” Then she abruptly opens her locked hands and flings Martha’s from them.
“Grant me what I ask. My husband may be guilty of the worst sin a father can commit. He may be a coward. He is a coward. I know he is. What he did was terrible; and then to compound the one mistake with so many craven and heartless acts … But haven’t we been instructed to follow Christ’s example? Haven’t we been taught that no one is perfect except our Father that is in Heaven? That we must love our enemies, and bless those that curse us? That
we must forgive and forgive, and that even our anger is wickedness?” By now Georgine’s voice is so close to a howl, and her focus so inward turned, that she seems unaware of another person beside her. “Oh, God, help me to show mercy. Help me to walk in thy path, and feel thy presence sustaining me. Fill me with love, instead of hate. And for what I did to my husband …” The words disappear in a moan.
Martha’s lips part to speak, but no sound comes; the two rooms at the top of the house also remain hushed as if interpreting those final words. Then a curious noise begins to shiver through the walls; it’s like a breeze gusting through the chimney, although the damper is shut and the day relatively windless. The sound grows and swells until it half moans, half sings within the flue, and a spurt of air bursts out upon the floor.
“That’s my Dora,” the mother murmurs at length in a sluggish tone. “She comes home like this. To watch over her parents. Wretched sinners that we are.”
HOW MARTHA DEPARTS THE HOUSE and finds herself again on the street she isn’t certain. She recalls a footman opening the door, another footman delivering her cloak, someone bowing, asking if she wishes to be escorted home—and her murmured refusal. Then the door shuts behind her, and she’s aware of praying that she’ll never have to enter the house again.
Walking away, her feet wander. She’s mindful of nothing except one shoe stepping in front of the other. So lost is she to outward sensation that she doesn’t notice how threatening the sky has grown or how her fellow travelers are beginning to hasten for cover.
Crowther attempted to kill Percy… her thoughts echo. How did Georgine discover that fact if not from her husband? And how did she learn about Dutch Kat’s? And when? Or the ransom letters… What did Georgine mean? That Harrison created them? Or that it was an act of blackmail? The questions roil through Martha’s brain, repeating themselves but providing no solutions; instead, they spin into further dilemmas. I can’t ask Thomas to lie. I can’t suggest he leave the blame on Stokes. No matter how reprehensible the man may have been, he can’t be falsely accused.
Then those quandaries are superseded by a memory that bursts into her consciousness. And for what I did to my husband… Martha’s body jerks to a halt as she recognizes the import of those words. Georgine poisoned Harrison.
Before this new revelation can unfold, the storm hits; water descends slantwise upon the roadway as though being poured from a giant and bottomless bucket. Martha looks up in bewilderment. She has no idea how she came to be in the section of the city bordering the Delaware River docks. In a second, she’s soaked through: her fine bonnet limp and soggy, her mantilla clinging to her gown, her gown and petticoats wrapping themselves around her legs. She makes no attempt to escape the deluge but continues to stand in the middle of the street, gazing incomprehensibly into the angry sky.
“Watch out, miss!” a boy’s voice calls, but Martha doesn’t hear.
“Miss! Watch out. That horse is—”
The warning finally penetrates her brain. Horse? she thinks while simultaneously remembering the careering fire wagon that ran down Findal Stokes. No sooner has this picture surfaced in her mind than a boy barrels into her, knocking her out of the road and onto the opposite walkway while a runaway dray horse, still dragging a heavy cart behind it, gallops across the cobbles she occupied not a second before. Then the animal’s traces tear loose; the cart crashes onto its side, and the increasingly frenzied and frightened beast plunges on amid shouts and oaths.
“Miss? Are you hurt?” Martha hears as witnesses press round her. Hands reach down; faces peer; someone picks up and returns her now trampled mantilla. “If it hadn’t been for that lad over yonder pushing you out of harm’s way … You’ve got yourself a guardian angel there, miss—”
She looks in the direction indicated but can only see a figure disappearing into the crowd.
SO THIS IS HOW THE day ends: Martha is returned to her house, bruised and sore and shaken but otherwise undamaged. With the aid of her lady’s maid, she’s ensconced on the chaise in her private parlor, where she reclines surrounded by all the comforts of her home, a silk-covered quilt across her legs, a down pillow at her head, another under her feet. Thomas arrives, taking charge as he paces the room, ordering a concoction of brandy and water for the patient, and an emulsion of extract of lead to treat the swelling and lacerations on her face. If he’s oblivious to his uncharacteristic domesticity, Martha is not. She watches his movements with eyes full of private delight.
“You must take greater care, my dearest heart,” he repeats. “Indeed, from all reports you were fortunate to escape with your life.”
She accepts the admonishment (his several admonishments) with a small nod but has no opportunity to defend herself, because Kelman is far from finished. “And venturing into that area of town, as well. What were you thinking?”
“Of Dora … and Percy. And Crowther—”
“But not about your well-being if you took yourself down to the docks. It’s a blessing you weren’t robbed.”
Martha ignores his badgering. “Oh, Thomas, it was such an insignificant accident when compared to all else that has occurred.”
“It’s not insignificant to me. You could have been killed.” With that, he finally ceases his restless steps and draws a chair close to Martha’s divan.
“But I wasn’t.” She tries to smile. Even her face feels pained and achy.
“What will happen to Crowther now? And Georgine?”
Kelman doesn’t answer for a moment. “I don’t know. He’s very ill.”
“And when he dies?”
“I don’t know, Martha. If the wife is willing to publicly attest to what she told you in confidence …” The words trail away.
“Could you … could you delay your investigation—?”
“Until he succumbs to his supposedly self-inflicted dose of oil of vitriol?”
She nods again, although that small activity hurts more than it should.
Kelman releases a troubled breath. “That’s a treacherous path to embark upon, my dearest.”
“Yes. I know. And there’s your reputation and position to consider.”
“Hang my reputation.” Despite this outburst, Kelman says no more on the subject, instead reverting to grim self-assessment. “Why didn’t I recognize that the first ransom letter was Crowther’s creation? That no professional thief would have delivered it, as there was no method for payment. Or the peculiar manner in which he dealt with the second request? The return of Dora’s portrait, too. The wife was correct. Despite all symptoms of a man overcome by grief, there was something more: a state of panic and inflexibility. I couldn’t reconcile it with the situation, but I overlooked its significance … And his motive in hiring a man like Luther Irwin—why didn’t I query that decision more effectively? Crowther was trying to thwart the investigation from the beginning—while attempting both to buy off the person he believed had uncovered his crime and to cast suspicion on young VanLennep. The daguerreotype must have seemed proof positive to Crowther that he’d been caught. And when Percy reappeared—”
“Oh, Thomas. How premeditated and brutal that seems.”
“It does. It was. But, as his wife indicated, he’d begun a deception he was incapable of ending.”
Neither speaks for a moment while their thoughts scrutinize every facet of the case. “Poor Georgine,” Martha finally says. “And Dora …”
“Yes.” Then Kelman’s logical brain returns to the unanswered question. “Who could have discovered the ruse, I wonder?”
Martha looks at him. It requires a moment for her mind to adjust. “Could further examination of the second letter reveal—?” she offers, and Kelman interjects an energetic:
“Perhaps. Perhaps. I can order every hired scribe in the city questioned, and their statements may yield—” Then he interrupts himself with an impatient sigh. “But the enterprise comes too late. Learning the identity of the person or persons who knew that Crowther killed his daughter is immaterial n
ow. The damage can’t be remedied.” He leans back in his chair, his face dark with regret.
“Thomas, my dear, you mustn’t castigate yourself. Even if you’d had all the information at your disposal originally, you still couldn’t have saved Dora.”
“No …” is the eventual reply.
“Nor the parents,” she murmurs.
“No.”
Ella explodes through the door at that moment. She’s just returned from school and has been regaled with the tale of her adoptive mother’s accident by Miss Pettiman, who’s had no qualms about explaining the gravity of the situation. “You might have been killed, Mother! A runaway horse just like the one that trampled the man to death outside our house.” So intent is Ella on the drama of the moment that she doesn’t notice Kelman’s presence until she’s halfway across the room.
“Oh, Mr. Kelman! I didn’t realize… Miss Pettiman didn’t say that Mother was entertaining. Only that she was very badly injured—”
“Which you see isn’t the case,” Martha tells her. With effort, she pulls herself more erect and thus farther from Kelman. Ella frowns. The truth confronting her isn’t the truth she’s conjured up. Except for a bandage on her adoptive mother’s face, she looks no different than she normally does.
“I’m only bruised, and a little scratched. Nothing worse. I think you sustained greater injuries when you fell out of the apple tree last spring and got such a large bump on your head.”
“But Miss Pettiman said—”
“She was probably trying to impress upon you the need for caution when you cross the street, don’t you think?”
Ella’s frown grows. She senses that Martha’s smooth speech is concealing something, but what that secret is she doesn’t know.
“Miss Pettiman says you’re often rash in your behavior, Mother. And that’s why troubles like this one occur.”
“Does she?”
“Yes. And that you don’t always consider where your actions will lead, either.”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 24
