Conjurer (26 page)

Having done so, she makes another quick decision, rushing to douse the lamps before she hurries from the room, closing and locking the latch behind her with the gentlest of clicks. Her excuse about a prayer book seems too transparent all at once.

Then she proceeds toward the staircase, where she meets her father's secretary walking up and already at the landing. “Ah, Martha,” he says, “I'm sorry I had to leave you so soon after the Durand funeral. I trust you didn't find it too difficult to bear.”

Martha drops a polite curtsy but doesn't otherwise respond, and Simms passes by, saying only a regretful “My apologies, my dear, but I won't be joining you at dinner tonight as I'd planned … However, I hope that we may continue our conversation about clarifying your father's circumstances on the morrow.”

“As you wish, Mr. Simms” is Martha's careful reply, but Simms has already moved on without awaiting her answer.

Mr. Robey's Sister

T
HOMAS KELMAN REREADS PLINY EARLE'S
letter, this time with more than a little annoyance. The incident the physician describes occurred two days prior, and although Pliny has promised a thorough examination of the dead woman, Kelman chafes at the delay. He understands its cause, the need for discretion, the delicacy of his friend's position, but still he chafes. Ordinary post brought the message; a man on a fast horse could have delivered it in a matter of hours—could have brought the matter to Kelman's immediate attention. Time has been needlessly wasted.

Robey
, he thinks; his eyes narrow in concentration as if he were staring past the letter, past his desk, past the dusky walls of his office into the forgotten recesses of his own brain.
Have I heard that name before?
Something hints at the fact that he has, but he can't remember what that connection is. He considers the many conversations he's had in only a handful of days: the strange and unsettling visit to Marguerite Rosegger, his ineffectual discussions with Emily Durand, the futile interview with the clairvoyant Paladino, but finds no reference to a man called Robey.
Perhaps
, Kelman thinks,
I'm confusing it with a similar appellation
.

He folds Pliny Earle's letter, puts it in his waistcoat, then rises from his desk and takes up his hat and coat. His horse can be quickly saddled, and as the day is cold but dry and the roads hard-packed and passable, he estimates that he will arrive at the Asylum near the hour of their midday meal. If he cannot accomplish the return journey until after dark, he will spend the night there.

For a moment, he considers writing to Martha Beale to explain that he's been called out of town and may not return until the morrow. But he reminds himself the notion is a capricious one. Of what import would it be to her whether he remained within the city or not?

“I cannot provide that information, Thomas,” Earle states abruptly, although the concerned and ambivalent frown surrounding his eyes belies the rigidity of his tone. “When the patient was first admitted, it was understood that family members wished her true identity to remain unknown—”

“Her brother, you mean.”

“He was the only person who visited … But originally there was reference to ‘family members' in the plural.”

Kelman pauses in thought. “And no mention as to who those other individuals might have been?”

“No. I'm sorry I can't supply more substantial information, but you understand that the nature of this institution must be a discreet one.”

“Your rules—or your customs—certainly hamper a criminal investigation, Pliny.”

A rueful smile briefly crosses the physician's face. “You're correct; they do. However, in other cases, they provide our patients with the anonymity often necessary for their safety. Some are even healed and return to society, although in the cases of persons whose family connections or connubial situations have damaged their psyches, those unfortunate relationships are not reestablished. We have a number of women here—as you can imagine—who have suffered most cruelly at the hands of their husbands, and youths, also, who have been reduced to near imbecility by a parent's malevolent ministrations.”

Again Kelman doesn't speak for several moments. “How do you stand it, Pliny?” he finally demands. “Melancholia, mania, dementia … produced, as you so prudently described it, by ‘domestic difficulty.' How do you bear the sight of the husbands? Or the parents who have inflicted the damage?”

“Are you not also surrounded by the horror perpetrated by humanity?”

“In my case, the guilty attempt to hide themselves.”

“As they do where I'm concerned, Thomas … Only in a few instances do the culpable request to visit their prey, and so I'm spared discourse with the majority of them.”

“But not Robey.”

Pliny Earle shakes his head. “The man Robey is a different case. His visits have been regular—despite his sister's obvious discomfort in his presence.”

“Could you not have prevented his admittance?”

“Hindsight might indicate that would have been wise. But, no, I—and my predecessors—could not refuse him entrance. As he was quick to indicate, his guilt in the matter of his sister's impaired state was never proven.”

“Nor, most probably, ever investigated by a court of law.”

“I would infer not, Thomas. Despite our forefathers' best intentions, those with means exist under a different judicial system than the poor.” Earle attempts another smile.

Kelman presses the tips of his poet's fingers together as his mind mulls over what facts he has. “And how has Robey differed from the relatives of other inmates?”

This time it's Earle who pauses before speaking. “He evinced no sense of guilt or regret. People who experience shame habitually become sly or sycophantic—or, as I indicated, they ignore their connection to the patient, and probably deny their own role in the situation. They may even successfully forget they were involved. But Robey … I believe he remembers very well his part in his sister's downfall … Perhaps his visits here were in part to further witness her disgrace, or perhaps he merely wished to assure himself that he would never be castigated as a result, that her real identity has never been exposed … He's a man who needs to exercise considerable control, and my guess is that beyond the Asylum and the part he played here, he's a man who cleaves to power.”

“He raped his sister—”

“Repeatedly, as my predecessor was led to believe. And the hemorrhage she suffered as a result was engendered either by his brutality—or by a midwife attempting to curtail an unwanted pregnancy.”

Kelman's lips grow pinched and tight. “You're describing a monster.”

“Yes,” Earle says; his eyes are bleak. “Whatever his true identity, Robey is not a good man.”

Again Kelman remains silent, at length stating a pensive “I've been investigating other criminal cases, Pliny … One involves the murder of two young girls.”

The physician accepts the information with a studious demeanor but doesn't respond, so Kelman continues, almost as if he were talking to himself:

“I hardly know why I mention this, as there's no connection between this man Robey's sister and the other situations—”

“Who were the girls?” Earle interjects.

“Poor children, of no known parentage … Their only means of sustenance came from selling their bodies. For their pains, they were strangled and their tongues cut out.”

The physician shifts abruptly in his chair. “Ritualistic activities such as those are not likely to abate, Thomas. Instead, they may in all probability increase—and the victims may change.”

“Yes, I know” is the weary reply. “Until this moment, I felt we had apprehended the man: a purported necromancer and somnambulist who originally claimed to ‘see' one of the murders.”

“And now?”

“Now, I'm beginning to question whether your Mr. Robey might be involved. It's an absurd leap of judgment, I admit, and I have only intuition to guide me … or perhaps it's simply that I want so badly to solve the crime. But something about your case bears echoes of the other.” Kelman pauses. “You said that your deceased patient referred to herself alternatively as ‘Mary' or ‘Martha.'”

Pliny Earle nods.

“‘Mary' was the name given to one of the murdered children. I believe the appellation may have been part of the ritual act.”

“And ‘Martha'?” Earle asks, then watches his friend's face redden with an unaccustomed flush, although Kelman's habitual self-control quickly reasserts itself.

“The biblical allusion is a familiar one, I realize, Pliny … the two sisters of Lazarus, the friend of Jesus who was famously raised from the dead. Martha was the busy and hardworking one; Mary was thoughtful, perhaps even a trifle dreamy—although she became the chosen one of our Lord …” Kelman shakes his head. “I see from your expression that you feel I'm attempting to draw too many inferences and too many similarities where there may be none—”

“Not at all, Thomas. I'm simply surprised at—”

“My perspicacity?”

Earle laughs. “That's not the word I would have employed.”

“Ah … But I feel it was your intention.”

Earle chortles again. “You don't usually devote yourself to pondering the vagaries of the human brain, Thomas.”

“Perhaps it's time I did.”

Pliny Earle studies his friend but otherwise makes no response to this personal admission. “If the person who killed the children is indeed Robey,” he ventures at length, “and if Robey also connived to murder his sister, then I fear he may strike again. And, as is the case with our patient here, it may be a bolder attempt.”

Kelman nods. Reflexively, his focus turns to Martha, and then to the weird and ominous message provided by the necromancer. “Pliny, at the risk of making myself even more absurd … In your estimation, does communicating with the spirit world lie within the realm of human possibility?”

“The physician in me would dictate an unconditional ‘no,' Thomas. However—”

“However?”

“I believe that we medical men have too slight a grasp on circumstances that exist beyond our limited studies.”

Kelman contemplates his friend. Pliny Earle gazes calmly back.

“What does your Robey look like?” Kelman asks.

“He's a man with all the attributes of a chameleon. His hair never seems the same color from visit to visit; his clothes are very fine but characterless, revealing nothing of the wearer's mood or fancies. One month they're gaudy, one month drab. Height? Average. Girth? Also average. Age? Not young, certainly. You know how old his deceased sister was, but whether he was the younger of the two or not, I don't know. Concealed within the varying shades of his tresses, he could well have snow white thatch. He's clean shaven—if that helps you. And your murderer?”

“No one can describe him” is Kelman's quiet reply. Then he changes the subject. “What do you wish me to do in the matter of the Asylum's dead patient?”

“Nothing here—except to advise me. I'm still conducting medical tests in an attempt to determine if the woman was poisoned. The situation, as I'm sure you're aware, is a delicate one. If I find evidence of mischief, it means examining the brother's culpability, as well as the possibility of collusion from those who work here or from inmates. None of our other patients have fallen ill, so I've ruled out the possibility of accidentally tainted food. But wolfsbane, or monkshood,
Aconitium napellus
by the medical name, which tastes similar to horseradish, would produce the same results as consuming and then repeatedly vomiting up a contaminated supper—which was how Robey's sister was discovered. Horribly, persons thus doomed remain fully intelligent until the last moment of life, and so may well understand that they have been marked for death.”

“And there's no antidote to this
Aconitium napellus?”

“No. Not even if we'd been able to recognize the direness of her situation and so provide medical attention … But all this is still theoretical, Thomas.”

Kelman nods in understanding. “You'll have to inform Robey of his sister's demise.”

“I have no address … no proper name—”

“Have you considered an announcement in the newspapers? Worded sensitively, it might appear an appeal for compassion … A woman patient who died without benefit of the company of her dear brother, Mr. Robey.”

“And what then?” Pliny Earle asks.

“He'll either return to express his grief or, in his relief, he'll vanish,” Kelman responds. “My guess is that his reaction will be the former. If Robey is the manipulative man you suggest he is, then he should enjoy viewing the success of his handiwork.”

“And what do I do if and when he does appear, Thomas?”

“Send for me. At once. Send a man at a gallop, and I will gallop back—no matter the hour. And detain Robey. Insist that there are legalities that require his presence. Paperwork to sign. Staff members to meet, effects to sort through. But maintain a demeanor of condolence and sorrow; and do not, for a moment, allow your suspicions to surface.”

Pliny Earle sighs.

“It won't be as difficult as it sounds. Besides, you've dealt with many nefarious types in your line of work and have always maintained a sure grip on your emotions.”

“And what will you do to Robey when you arrive?”

“That will depend upon whether or not you can determine if your patient was murdered.”

The Rifle Found, at Last

“B
UT EVERYONE
'
S SAYING THE NECROMANCER
spoke in Beale's own voice, Henrietta … and while awaiting trial for the murder of poor John Durand! Why, whatever can it mean …? And Mr. Beale's rifle found in the possession of …?” Florence Shippen leans close to her cousin in order to whisper these awestruck words while her pudgy hand raps an ivory fan on the plush-covered box rail on the first tier of the Musical Fund Hall. She can scarcely sit still, so excited is she—as is every other patron at that evening's performance of Bellini's tragic opera
La Sonnambula
. As if the scandal created by Emily Durand, or the slayings of two young ladies of pleasure (children, really), or the mystery surrounding Lemuel Beale were not sufficient grist for the rumor mills, the discovery of his lost rifle has now set every tongue wagging again. For not only was the weapon found in the wilds near Beale House, but it was also in the hands of a half-crazed hermit—who, naturally, has denied all connection to the financier's disappearance.