Conjurer (3 page)

Martha acknowledges the apology in silence while her brow furrows with worry. “I can only repeat what I previously told you, Mr. Kelman: that the police captain and the members of the day watch who searched the area mentioned nothing of an unusual nature. My father went hunting, as is his wont, in the neighboring forests and along the Schuylkill's banks. And the captain's assumption, which he assured me was based on many years of experience with the river at flood strength, and the frailty of—” Her words cease; she lowers her head; within her shoes her toes have curled themselves into knots.

“Miss Beale, are you quite well?”

Martha nods once but cannot make herself reply. She wills herself to breathe in and out while the icy rain that's been intermittently spattering the now dusk-dark windows grows to a malign gust, rattling the glass in their solid wood casements. She listens to the doleful racket before continuing. “In my heart, Mr. Kelman, I cannot imagine my father dead … cannot even imagine him gone from this house—not for a mere journey of a week or so; I was accustomed to those absences … but for all time? That, I cannot accept. I simply cannot.” She pauses again, then notes that Kelman's body has gradually shifted from shadow to light, and that the scar she previously noticed on his left cheek now appears in greater relief. It's as if he were entrusting her with his most precious secret.

“It has been two days, Miss Beale,” he says gently. “Two days in most inclement weather.”

“But such occurrences do happen, Mr. Kelman, do they not? If my father were … if he were wounded and struggling … if he were carried downriver—even toward the Delaware—his escape from the torrent and thus to land wouldn't be easy. But he's a strong man; and the forests on both banks are dense, and might provide adequate shelter.”

“That's true, Miss Beale.” Kelman hesitates. “But the river and climate are exceedingly cold.”

Martha glances again at his scar. She has a sudden and shameful desire to touch it, to touch his face and his wondrous hands. Instead, she cleaves to her air of studied detachment. “So I have been repeatedly cautioned, Mr. Kelman. Not even my father could survive in the river for more than a few minutes' time.” Then she gazes at her visitor full in the face, behavior that seems as wanton and reckless as her previous wish. “But if Father did escape, could he not have found a cave in which to take refuge? And isn't it possible that he's there now? Delirious from the chill he must have taken …”

Her words again trail off; and Kelman waits for a moment before continuing.

“I apologize again, Miss Beale, for my lack of delicacy. But a man as important as your father … Well, we must examine every aspect of the situation.” He looks to her for comprehension, but she remains motionless in her chair.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, Mr. Kelman,” Martha murmurs at length, although the tone has grown hollow, and her posture appears resigned rather than grateful. “But I wonder, if this were not the case of a wealthy and illustrious man, but rather that of a destitute person, would so much attention be paid … especially by an assistant to our city's mayor?”

The thin line on Kelman's cheek turns a bitter pink while his black eyes cloud. “Police procedure dictates scrupulous equality in dealings with those of both great and lesser birth, Miss Beale.”

She stares at him in surprise. The sentiment is a far cry from those she's heard espoused by her father and Owen Simms. “Do you also adhere to this policy, Mr. Kelman?”

“I do.”

She doesn't respond. What is it in his tone, she wonders, that so resembles reverence? It isn't the stentorian theatrics of Dr. Percival at St. Peter's Church or the rumbling incantations of the famous Bishop Fosche; instead, it's a pure sound, unrehearsed, heartfelt, clean. She feels herself blush; this time she doesn't bow her head.

“As long as I can recall, Mr. Kelman, my father has been a successful man of affairs … an increasingly successful man. In answer to your previous question: Yes, I imagine it's possible he became unpopular with some of those who considered themselves his competitors … perhaps even some who are not American born. My father, as you may know, has had many successful enterprises issuing notes against foreign currencies: Spanish and German specie and so forth. However … however, I don't believe civilized persons—no matter what nationality—kill one another.”

The scar on Kelman's cheek again reddens with emotion. Martha clasps her hands in her lap and shifts her gaze to the floor. When she next speaks, her tone is subdued. “Do you ever work among the poor?” she asks.

The question seems to take him by surprise. “Among them? As a city official, do you mean, Miss Beale? Or are you referring to service with one of the charitable institutions?”

“As anything you wish.”

His answer is slow in coming. “I'm in contact with people of differing means, differing social and economic histories, differing educations.” He pauses and gazes at the sleet-coated windows. “Philadelphia's police departments, as you know, are many—representing many districts. The night watch, the day watch, the turnkeys, lieutenants, and captains of each division have their hours filled up with larceny, vagrancy, the receiving of stolen goods, threat of riots, bloody competition between fire brigades, and so forth. If there's a death from unnatural causes, I'm often summoned, Miss Beale,” Kelman concludes, then hesitates again. He hadn't intended a dissertation on the inadequacy of a decentralized constabulary in an expanding city. He looks at her in her chair, then rapidly glances away. “This isn't a conversation I would normally have with a lady, Miss Beale.”

She stares up into his face. “Are ladies then excluded from tragic ends?”

The thin scar flushes hot; the black eyes flash. “All types and conditions of men—and of women—can meet a brutal death, Miss Beale.”

She doesn't speak. She recognizes something deeply personal in his response; and women of her social sphere are strongly discouraged from soliciting private revelations—even from their husbands. “I should like to work among the poor, Mr. Kelman,” she offers in quiet apology. “Not in a policing capacity such as yours, of course, but as an aide … someone bringing a measure of solace …”

“What they need is food, Miss Beale.” He speaks the words rapidly and without thought, then attempts to remedy the rashness of the statement. “And comfort, too … I should imagine.”

A half-smile briefly lights Martha's face. “You're direct, Mr. Kelman. An admirable trait. It's one Father greatly admires.” She flushes again, looks toward the windows again, then returns her gaze to Kelman, attempting a self-deprecating laugh as she does so. “My father forbade me to join a humanitarian mission. Perhaps he, like you, realized my lofty goals would make paltry fare for empty bellies.”

Kelman is silent. Martha realizes that he's berating himself for his impulsive speech. It's something she's often done herself. “The city sympathizes with you in this time of travail,” he says at length.

This time she smiles in earnest. “Less direct, Mr. Kelman. But more politic.”

“I hope you understand that my queries into his disappearance are
pro forma
, Miss Beale?”

She nods. The fleeting look of pleasure that suffused her face is gone. “If the household staff can assist you in any fashion, Mr. Kelman, they'll be only too happy to comply” is all she says.

“Comply with what, Martha?” The heavy drawing room doors slide open at that moment, causing the fires in the double grates to flare in alarm, and Kelman and Martha to turn in surprise as though caught in some clandestine act. Owen Simms strides into the room. “I'm Mr. Beale's confidential secretary. I was in town attending to his affairs; if not, I would have been here to greet you sooner.”

“And I am Thomas Kelman.” Kelman nods politely, although his eyes remain observant and impassive.

“Mr. Kelman has been dispatched from the mayor's office, Mr. Simms—” Martha begins.

“Yes, I know.” Simms doesn't sit; instead, he walks to the fire beside which Martha sits, warming his hands behind him while he continues to regard Kelman. “I've heard your name mentioned before now.” He glances briefly at Martha before resuming his speech. “The local day watch searched the shore and woodlands exhaustively. I fear that no trace of Miss Beale's father was found.”

“I'm aware of that fact, sir. There was also mention of a missing percussion rifle?”

“‘Stolen' might be the more appropriate term, Mr. Kelman. And by the very gardener who purported to ‘find' Mr. Beale's effects—”

Martha interrupts. “That's conjecture only, Mr. Simms. And quite unfair to poor old Jacob.”

Simms regards her in an avuncular fashion, then lets that indulgent glance travel to Kelman. “Miss Beale has an exceedingly kind heart, as you must have noted.”

Martha inadvertently bites her lip but doesn't otherwise respond. “It's not kindness, Mr. Simms,” she insists at length, and then turns to Thomas Kelman. “I simply do not believe Jacob would steal from my father.”

“He's a fortunate man to have your trust, miss.”

After another hesitant pause, Martha speaks again, her words now clearly articulated and assured. “I asked the captain in charge of the day watch if he would send members of his force to areas further down the river—”

“Martha, my dear, I—and many others—have already explained the situation to you,” Simms interposes. “Further down the river are the separate communities of Gray's Ferry and Southwark, each with their own day and night watches. The captain to whom you spoke has no jurisdiction there—”

Lemuel Beale's daughter ignores the interruption. “Mr. Kelman suggested that Father might have met with some … some malicious intent.” She glances up at Kelman in appeal. “And he does have jurisdiction, do you not, sir? You can order a search in those other parts of Philadelphia, as well as in the nearer forests, can you not?”

“Oh, Martha, let us be reasonable,” Simms interjects. “Your father isn't hidden in some hermit's cave. Nor has he been deliberately dispatched, as your visitor may have attempted to imply. Believe me when I tell you that I know far more about your father's worldly affairs than you. He has no mortal enemies; his methods have always been above reproach. Painful as it is, we must accept the obvious evidence we have: the falls in terrible torrent, a stumble upon the rocks … We can only pray that his end was quick.”

But Martha doesn't heed this plea. “Will you help me find my father, Mr. Kelman …? Living or not, as may be?”

We can only pray
, Martha thinks as she clambers into her canopied bed that night. As sacrilegious as the notion is, the idea of prayer as solace and solution brings not one speck of relief.
Besides, what should I pray for?
she asks herself.
Should I do as Mr. Simms suggests, and beseech God to grant that my father's demise was mercifully swift? Should I not beg for a miracle instead? Or yearn that Father be immediately restored to his home? Or perhaps I should wish that he'd never gone hunting in the first place!

Martha shuts her eyes, although not in piety. Instead, she's willfully closing out her thoughts as she moves her toes across the cold sheets and sniffs at the comforting scent of starch and the flatiron. She might as well be an unhappy ten-year-old instead of a lady of twenty-six.

Then suddenly panic catapults her back into her adult self.
If Father is truly gone, then what of his affairs?
her brain demands.
How will I manage them? How will I deal with Owen Simms? If I haven't the faintest notion of how to order my own existence, how can I hope to run the business of a successful man?
Worrying thus, Martha collapses into sleep.

But dreamland proves no more peaceful a place. A tomb springs up before her closed and sleeping eyes; it's a cave dug into a hillside, and two girls are trapped within its rocky walls. Near them, lying on a stone bed and wrapped in a gray and flimsy winding sheet, is a corpse. Martha knows it's her father, although she cannot see his face.

She also understands that she's the younger of the two children imprisoned in that inhospitable place. “There, there, don't cry,” she hears her taller companion say. “Mary, my dearest, don't you cry—”

“But I'm Martha,” she protests with the high-pitched whimper of someone very young.

Dressed in a plain gown of old-fashioned cut, the older girl turns her back in irritable contempt. She doesn't respond to Martha's weeping pronouncement but instead embarks upon a remarkable transformation: growing gray-haired and stiff-boned beneath garments that also alter, leaving her clad in a rough woolen tunic and heavy felt shoes.

Martha witnesses this change with dismay though little surprise. “I liked your other dress better,” she states, then adds a vigorous “And I'm not Mary. I'm—”

But the old woman interrupts with a bitter “First me, then you!”

In her Father's house, beneath the layers of down and wool and freshly ironed lace, Martha doesn't wake.

The Conjurer

E
MILY DURAND SITS RAMROD STRAIGHT
, staring fixedly into the looking glass as her maid dresses her hair for the evening: two ringlets on each side of her face; a single long braid coiled at the nape of her neck and then woven upward to be pinned in another curl at the top of her head. Within this plait is a string of pearls. Additional pearls dangle from Emily's earlobes; more grace her neck. The dress she will soon don—a new figured gauze over lilac satin—is also trimmed in pearls. Emily Durand prides herself on being an arbiter of fashion, and not only an arbiter, a vanguard of all that is glittering and lovely. The home in which she now allows herself to be attired, and that she shares with her husband, John, reflects this attitude. The pallor of her skin, the soft blondness of her hair, the proud manner in which she carries herself, her well-chosen gestures, her walk: all attest to a lady of noble birth but with decidedly cosmopolitan leanings. Emily is a queen in the realm that is social Philadelphia.