Conjurer (21 page)

“What can you tell me about my father's disappearance?” she interrupts after another minute or two of this alien conversation. “
Signor
Lemuel Beale,” she adds, fearing she has mispronounced the word.

There's no reply from Paladino or his assistant, so Martha repeats her question, adding an assertive “You said you had information to share concerning my father. Please, you must tell me.”

But the answer the assistant supplies is a halting “There's a lady …
Signor
Paladino has conjured her in a mental vision … She does not reside in the city but in the country … My master has visited this place in a trance-induced state. He's attempting to locate it now …”

“But my—”

“Hush!” the assistant insists. “The great Eusapio Paladino must have silence in which to work.”

“But—” Martha objects. Paladino suddenly throws himself back against the coach's prickly horsehair cushions. His eyes are closed, his face rigid in concentration. Martha glances at the assistant in appeal. “My father …?” she asks again.

An abbreviated consultation ensues while Martha, increasingly concerned, is batted time and again into Eusapio's steely body. She grips the seat with her hands but finds her fingers rolling under his thighs. She pulls her hands away but is then bucketed into his chest.

“There's a lady …” the assistant reiterates as though Martha had not posed her own question. “My master informs me that she had some unfortunate situation with a man … You understand …?” He looks to Martha, who shakes her head
no
while another rapid spate of foreign words occurs.

“… It was a physical problem … a love problem …”

Martha shuts her eyes while more peculiar words barrel past her.

“… She was ravished …”

Martha turns her hot, chagrined face against the cold siding of the coach; her stomach heaves in embarrassment and self-reproach.
Why did I agree to this?
she demands of herself.
These men could be of the vilest sort, and here I am held against my will. Oh, Martha, you fool! You silly, silly woman! Your lack of circumspection may well prove your undoing
. She has a sudden and gruesome picture of Thomas Kelman called in to investigate her death at the hands of her two companions, and raises a gloved hand in both protest and supplication, but Eusapio and his assistant merely continue the horrible tide of words. “… Ravished by her brother … Many times …”

Martha covers her mouth with her hand; she gags. “Stop the coach, please. I am ill. Please! I am terribly ill!”

The horses clatter to a halt; dust swirls past the descending figures, covering them in the brown dirt and gray grit of the road; and Martha kneels ignominiously in the bracken. She feels Eusapio's hand touch her shoulder and flinches in fright.
“Marta, Maria,”
he whispers.

“I am not
Maria …
Mary,” Martha mutters in her shame, then finally summons an angry “Why am I here? You promised news about my father. Instead you—”

A further slew of Italian words issues from Eusapio as Martha gradually gathers her wits and her strength. “I must return home at once—”

Eusapio studies her.
“Difficile. Molto difficile
…” Then he stops speaking.

“Why did you bring me here?” Martha demands, standing to glare at him. “And why must you taunt me with these horrible tales? You said you had information on my father, while instead you … you—” Outrage curtails her speech.

Paladino makes no reply to Martha's accusations, and at length his assistant supplies an answer. “
Signor
Paladino no longer has a reliable picture of where this unknown woman dwells … As you know, his remarkable gift of clairvoyance requires full concentration from all persons present … and this brief stop has … has broken the thread of his vision … He agrees that we should return homeward but insists,
insists
, that your life is in terrible peril …”

Eusapio reaches for Martha's hand, but she backs away with a firm and resolute step as the translator continues. “He wants you to know that he cares for you … that his soul recognizes your soul … and that he bears you the deepest respect … But, please, Miss Beale, be careful of who your friends are—”

“Take me home,” Martha interrupts. Her voice is as stony as her face. “Take me home at once.”

A Secret Too Vile to Keep

T
HOMAS KELMAN TAKES THE TEACUP
Martha proffers, although his expression remains grim, and it's doubtful whether he knows what he's just been handed. In fact, it appears as if his fingers might snap the delicate china in two. Against the pale glow of the hearth fire, and the darkened windows that reflect the now dusky day, the painted porcelain seems very fragile and white. “You should not have been alone in the company of those two men, Miss Beale. They are unsavory characters, and Paladino's claim of having news regarding your—”

Seated meekly at the tea table while her visitor is ensconced in an adjacent settee, Martha raises her hand to beg silence. “Please, Mr. Kelman, I'm only too aware of how foolhardy I was—”

“You are a wealthy woman, Miss Beale. I need not remind you that kidnappers prey upon such as you—”

“Mr. Kelman, I—”

“And this other atrocious tale! It's unconscionable, Miss Beale. It's unconscionable that this so-called clairvoyant would dare to—!”

“I'm fully aware of all of that, Mr. Kelman. I am. Truly. It was difficult enough for me to reveal the details of
Signor
Paladino's vision to you in the first place. Indeed, I hesitated for a full hour before sending word and asking you to come to my house.”

“You should not be forced to hear of such horrors, Miss Beale.”

Martha puts down her own teacup, and as she does so, tears unexpectedly start into her eyes. She turns her head to keep Kelman from noticing. She feels incapable of stemming the emotion that inspires her upwelling of sorrow, or even of identifying its source. “I had hoped …” she manages to murmur while her blurred gaze regards the purple-hued panes of glass, the gas streetlamps nickering to a dull ocher life, as well as her own doleful reflection. “… I had hoped …” But there seems no point in defending her decision to accompany Paladino and his assistant. If there truly was news of her father … Martha doesn't bother to finish the thought. It's suddenly quite obvious to her that Lemuel Beale is gone and that there's no hope for his return. “Mr. Simms wishes to declare my father officially dead,” she says. Her tone is flat; her face remains hidden.

Kelman's outrage at her unnecessary brush with danger evaporates when he hears the despondency in her voice. “And you, Martha, what do you wish?”

For a moment she cannot understand what she's been asked; all she hears is that Thomas Kelman has called her by her given name. “I?” she finally manages to whisper.

“Yes, you. What do
you
wish?”

“Wish …” Martha considers this word, and considers also how alien is the concept of following her own desires.
Wish?
she thinks,
I?
She cannot remember when she last joined the two expressions in the same sentence. “I hardly know, Thomas—” Her words halt with a quick gasp. How can she have been so forward, so inappropriate in her behavior? It's one thing for a gentleman to make such a blunder; it's quite another thing for a lady to err in a similar fashion. Her mind flies around searching for a solution to her dilemma. Should she apologize for her egregious familiarity, or would that only call attention to her mistake? She decides to say nothing; the coward's choice, she knows. “I wish my father had not vanished,” Martha says at length, and uses no name whatsoever.

Kelman thinks. If he's aware of his hostess's
faux pas
, he makes no sign. Instead, he's silent; and Martha, glancing at him furtively, can see how troubled he's become.

“Can it be, Martha, that there is some greater evil at work in this situation that we have surmised? Your father, as you noted, has ‘vanished.' Purportedly, he's been seen elsewhere since his strange disappearance—or someone very closely resembling him has been sighted … Then this morning you were lured into a carriage by two men who have only the sketchiest of histories. What did they intend to do with you after they'd conveyed you to their unspecified location? If you hadn't become physically ill, and so caused the carriage to stop, where would you have been taken? And to what end?”

Martha has been so intent on Kelman's repetition of her given name that she has difficulty following the questions he's posing. “There's also the ‘lady' Paladino described,” she offers; embarrassment at recalling the somnambulist's description of the mystery woman's plight makes her ears suddenly tingle and her cheeks and neck grow hot.

“I don't believe there is such a person,” Kelman states with some force. “I think she's an invention, a ruse, a manipulation to make you fearful and upset.”

“Well, the trick worked,” Martha replies with a shy laugh.

“A trick indeed,” Kelman echoes somberly. “But why?” He leans back in his seat and stares at the fire, frowning and remote. Martha finds herself studying his face; at the moment, comforting him seems of paramount importance, and she yearns to cast aside discussions of her misguided journey into the countryside, and even to forgo speaking about her father.

“You trust your servants, do you not?” Thomas Kelman asks after several somber moments.

“Yes, of course.”

“And Owen Simms?”

“Naturally.” Even as she responds, Martha realizes she's not certain she's telling the truth.

“And you feel these people would defend you should … should the need arise?”

“But surely such an awful occurrence will not, Thomas?” Martha's lips clamp tight in her dismay. “Mr. Kelman …”

He stands abruptly; he's hardly listened to her query. “I wonder if you should consider hiring a secret service agency.”

“A secret service agency?” Martha has never heard the term before.

“I know of a highly respected one. It's located in the Wintrob Building on Juniper Street.”

“Oh!” She mulls over the location. It's not the most advantageous of addresses. “But what service does such an agency—on Juniper Street—supply?”

“In the case of a criminal investigation, it may be beneficial to have a specialist, other than the constabulary, make discreet inquiries, or, in certain instances, provide—”

“A criminal investigation,” she interjects. “Do you mean concerning my father?”

Kelman's response is to continue with an evasive “Provide protection to clients who might be in harm's way.”

“You refer to me, then.” Martha shakes her head.
What would I give
, she thinks,
to change the tenor of this conversation? To be simply two people enjoying the warmth of a pleasant fire and the company of one another?

“Yes. It's you I'm thinking of.”

“And my father? Is he part of this ‘criminal investigation' of yours?”

“I cannot yet explain more, Martha—other than what I said previously.”

“Cannot or will not?” Martha queries, but her guest makes no reply. So she continues with a grave “I will give your suggestion some thought.” She can't bring herself to add “Mr. Kelman,” nor can she say “Thomas.” She suppresses a sigh. “I met with Mrs. Rosegger … Yesterday. At tea. She and her husband invited me … Mrs. Rosegger seems to hold you in high regard.”

“Good” is the only response Martha receives, then Kelman walks toward the hearth, where he turns, the better to face his still-seated hostess. “I intend to thoroughly question this Eusapio Paladino and his servant.”

Martha looks up into his eyes. “May I accompany you?”

“I don't believe that would be wise.”

“Oh, wise!” Martha bursts out, gesturing so boldly she nearly upsets the tea tray. “Should I not be the judge of that?” Then she adds an equally reckless “Should I not, Thomas?”

Kelman regards her. Despite his standing position, he doesn't seem to be looking down at her; rather he seems to be gazing straight across as if he were discovering something about Martha Beale that he hadn't fully understood before. “You're quite right. You should be the judge of what you do. And when. And how … And yes, it would be most helpful if you would accompany me when I question this man Paladino.”

Emily durand's beringed hand clenches in a spasm as she replaces the letter she's just read in its envelope. She tries to conceal the dreadful unease this message from Mrs. Rosegger has caused, but her fingers willfully betray her.

“No reply,” Emily announces to whichever servant handed her the missive. The face blurs before her, and she realizes she has no notion of whether the features are male or female, young or old. “That will be all!” she barks out. “I said there was no reply.”

“Yes, madam … But the messenger said he was to wait for a response.” The old/young, female/male presence remains as still as a stone in front of Emily. “His instructions were to wait.”

“Am I not mistress in my own house? And are not
my
instructions paramount here?”

“Yes, madam.” The servant doesn't budge.

“You may leave me, then,” Emily orders.

The servant doesn't speak but also doesn't quit the room.

“There's no response to the letter … I believe I made myself clear.”

“Yes, madam.”

Long seconds tick by. “Mrs. John Durand is not available,” Emily announces at length and, summoning every ounce of strength, rises from her chair. “Tell the wretched messenger that you had been instructed not to disturb me.”

“He will ask for the return of the envelope, madam.”