Conjurer (33 page)

But no, she will not. He knows it as well as he knows his own true name; and the beautiful vision bursts apart like a vase falling onto a marble floor.

His Mary will not keep quiet; she'll draw back in alarm and pain as he seeks to enter her; then she'll scream aloud and try to squirm away, while he'll be forced to lash out and hit her in order to stop her dreadful squawks.

And then the loving act will turn unspeakably sordid. In her escalating panic, she'll claw and bite him, then soil herself like a fox in a trap, all the while grunting and yelping and heaving her body one way and another as if she were fighting off the devil instead of welcoming her savior.

Reliving this ugly picture, Robey stifles a moan. His right hand flies to his pocket and the pearl-handled knife he keeps there. He moans again and, in his despair and fury and bitter disappointment, is all at once aware that the girl outside has heard him. The floor creaks. He knows that she's risen to a standing position.

“Go up to your room, Mary,” he calls out sharply. “I don't want you here.”

No noise. She's hesitating, unsure of what to do. Robey hears her shallow, uncertain breaths.

“Go away, Mary. I don't want you.” His voice maintains its harsh and angry tone.

He listens, and, at last, she scurries away.
I must train this one properly
, he thinks.
As a dog is taught by a firm and deliberate master. I must take my time and wait until she's ready to obey my every command, exactly as a hunting dog would: silently and without question
.

The Courtroom of Judge Alonzo Craig

T
HE COURTROOM OF JUDGE ALONZO
Craig is filled to overflowing. Spectators crowd every bench both on the floor and in the gallery: the ladies crushed in among the gentlemen; the aristocracy of the city rubbing elbows with shopmen and milliners and actresses and pie sellers. Noise is everywhere as everyone clamors at once. With the fickleness of all public opinion, the recent headlines concerning the slaying of Lemuel Beale are now of far less consequence than the trial of the conjurer and necromancer Eusapio Paladiono.

Naturally, all of those who've managed to gain access to the room hope to witness one of the mesmerist's spectacular performances. Perhaps he'll succumb to one of his celebrated trances and reenact the crime, shooting his victim in the head and then creeping away in the dead of night. Perhaps he'll “speak” in John Durand's voice, reviling Emily from the grave for her wanton infidelity. Perhaps somnambulism will grip the Great Paladino, and he'll lapse into an unnatural sleep and revisit the scenes of his amorous entanglements. Or perhaps, perhaps, the mesmerist may prove to have been an unwitting dupe, and the crime will have been not one of passion but a hired assassination by a woman who'd grown tired of her married state. The other rumored charge against Paladino—that he may also have slain two young ladies of pleasure—is of lesser importance to the spectators today. Such deaths among the impoverished of the city occur, perhaps not in such a bloody fashion, but they're part of daily life. The downfall of a woman who held herself above even her most exalted peers is not.

The circus atmosphere would have appealed to Emily Durand, but she's not there, of course. Her widowed state will not permit her to be abroad in the public eye, so the scandal she's engendered must carry on without her. However, Rosegger, as they've agreed, is in attendance; the private pact he made with Emily supersedes his wife's mysterious malady. It's important that the tale he's devised, and that Emily has agreed to be bruited about: a heart-wrenching fable of a distraught lady who now bitterly repents her follies, who will no longer appeal for Paladino's release but instead insist that his strange mind must have concocted the cruel murder of her dear husband—a crime she knew nothing of. According to this scheme, she'll bemoan her manifold transgressions in letters sent to the mayor (the contents of which will then find their way into the penny press) and declare she would trade all she had in this world to have her dearest helpmeet and soulmate returned to the land of the living, and herself returned to her formerly blameless state.

Rosegger's public role in this charade is to stoutly denounce Paladino while forgiving his foolish and misguided paramour. Yes, the lady was dreadfully wrong to have entered into an illicit liaison, but ladies are weak and must be protected from their coarser instincts. Perhaps, Rosegger will continue to suggest, Durand was a harsh mate. The marriage was never blessed with children; perhaps their empty home led her to impulsively place her affections elsewhere … The final and obvious consequence of these arguments being that the conjurer seized upon poor Emily's frailty and, in his arrogance and overweening jealousy, murdered a respected member of the community.

It's a neat play Emily and Rosegger have prepared to enact, although Rosegger understands his role to be assured while Emily, at home, is experiencing several degrees of terror. The impulse that led her to accept Rosegger's protection now seems both foolhardy and dangerous; the only constant is her realization of how beholden to him she's about to become. Everything in her existence, her homes, even the clothes upon her back, will be subject to his whims and caprices.
And when he tires of this game and of me?
she thinks, but her brain stops there. When Rosegger casts her off, Emily knows full well she'll have nothing.

“What say you, Ilsley?” Rosegger now asks as the professor and his wife make their way through the crowd. “The conjurer's guilty, of course.”

Ilsley stares at the speaker. “I did not believe I'd see you here, sir.”

“But surely we both counted the Durands as friends, Professor,” is the genial reply.

“It's not that to which I refer, sir, but to the frail health of your wife. My sympathies to you both. I'd heard—”

“Yes, yes. My poor, dear wife … In truth, she's gravely ill, gravely ill.” Rosegger repeats the phrase with a heavy sigh. “But she insisted that I attend today to show my support for Mrs. Durand—”

“Ah, then your wife has regained full use of her faculties?” Henrietta Ilsley asks. “Oh, I'm so happy for you. It's an answered prayer. We share the same physician, as you may know, and he told me she was quite unable to communicate.”

Rosegger stares down at the little woman. “No, I did not realize that we had a medical doctor in common, Mrs. Ilsley.”

“Oh, yes, and he was most terribly concerned. Tainted food can often prove fatal—even to those with robust digestions. I know he feared greatly for her life. It was tainted food, was it not?”

“Mrs. Rosegger—and I—are fortunate indeed to have so many concerned friends” is the surprisingly cool response, and Ilsley interrupts what he believes is becoming an awkward conversation.

“My wife did not intend to pry into your and your wife's personal affairs, sir. It was her natural compassion that led her to question our physician. She wanted to help in any fashion she could. Her nature is one that is greatly affected by the welfare of those around her.”

Rosegger accepts this apology with a nod but doesn't otherwise reply, and Ilsley continues with an equally conciliatory:

“In fact, it's because of my dear wife that we're here today. Were it not for her generosity of spirit, we would have avoided such a spectacle, but, you see, she feels much to blame for introducing the prisoner to the Durands. I've tried to convince her otherwise, but—”

Rosegger again looks down at Henrietta, a convincingly compassionate smile now spread across his face. “You mustn't criticize yourself, dear Mrs. Ilsley. Your lady friend was misguided, terribly misguided, but surely all culpability rests on the charlatan we shall soon see in chains before us. He cast a spell upon her as he does with all his audiences—”

“Oh, Mr. Rosegger, that's kind indeed of you to say …” Henrietta dabs at eyes that are misty with regret.

“It's not kindness but the truth, Mrs. Ilsley.” Then he turns to the professor. “True ladies have such tender hearts. Our task as gentlemen is to safeguard our wives and sisters and mothers from actors who spin tales in order to further their own gains.”

“And what gains would those be, Mr. Rosegger?” Henrietta asks.

“Dear lady, I hardly think it appropriate to discuss this in your presence … but imagine Mrs. Durand left a sorrowing widow—which she is. Imagine, then, the mesmerist freed from prison by some fluke; and finally, ask yourself to whom she might turn in her distress. Mrs. Durand has been left a wealthy woman. I need hardly say more.”

“Oh!” Henrietta gasps. “You believe—?”

“I do. And all the more reason Paladino should hang. He did not envision himself as an aide to those seeking news of loved ones long deceased—but was hoping to assume the role of John Durand. And, though I apologize for mentioning so base a subject, we cannot disregard the other two reputed charges against him.”

“Oh!” Henrietta gasps again.

Further speech is curtailed as the prisoner and his assistant are brought into the room. Both are manacled; both are under guard. A thrilled hush falls across the crowd, so that when Judge Craig's slumberous voice calls out a weighty “Silence!” the throng is already stilled; and the only sound is the occasional creak of whalebone stays or the rustle of silk as the female spectators in their blinkered bonnets strain for a better view.

Rosegger looks around him. He spots the Shippens, to whom he briefly nods in greeting, and Owen Simms, whom he also acknowledges. Thomas Kelman is there as well, although his part in the proceedings seems to be as spectator rather than participant. Rosegger observes, however, with what keen attention Kelman regards Simms. The behavior strikes him as curious, and he makes a mental note of it. It will not be beneficial to continue in partnership with a man under scrutiny by the police.

Then the trial begins.

After two hours of intense questioning, the case against Paladino is no further advanced. The prisoner behaves like a man asleep; his eyes close when the barrister is finished querying him, and when open, they're listless and unresponsive, roving aimlessly among the crowd, seeing nothing. No wonder that those gathered in Judge Craig's courtroom are growing restless, and that his solemn, patrician voice must remind them over and over to keep silent.

The orders, coming as they do from an obvious member of the gentility, begin to rankle with the poorer members of the crowd. “He's related to the Cadwaladers and Rittenhouses and such. He can't tell me what to do—not in my free time, at any rate,” they mutter with increasing discontent until Alonzo Craig growls out a loud “Silence in the court!” and either the commanding tone or the suddenness of the declamation so startles Paladino that his body jolts in the prisoner's box and his manacled hands strain to reach into the air before him as though caressing an invisible human form.

“I will call you Mary, the beloved of the Lord,” he murmurs in English while he swings his head around to stare at the crowd, picking out females in the audience to affix with a leering stare. “Do not speak, my child, my little one.”

The courtroom erupts in noise. Nothing Judge Craig can demand nor the warders shout can halt the gasps of surprise and horror or the cries of delight. A number of ladies faint, and their male companions call for aid, for smelling salts, for space in which to move.

“Mary, Mary!” a trio of young toughs chants. “How does thy pretty little garden grow?” The song is greeted with such obstreperous cackles and hisses and cheers that it spawns another version; and the back of the room replies with a lusty “Little maids all in a row!”

Paladino and his assistant are dragged from the room by their guards while members of the day watch appear, truncheons at the ready. They move among the churning sea of people pushing them toward the doors and then out onto the street, where Rosegger and Simms find themselves face-to-face.

“A word with you, sir,” Rosegger says. As he speaks, he offers his arm to Florence Shippen, who's being so buffeted by the crowd she looks as though she'll fall. “My husband,” she pants while Rosegger spots the tall barrister and hails him, handing him his frightened wife. But Simms lacks his companion's purposeful equilibrium; in fact, he trembles all over.

“Have you a touch of ague?” Rosegger asks in a pointed tone.

“No” is the brusque reply. “What do you wish to speak with me about, Rosegger?” Then Simms collects himself. “My apologies, sir. I should be asking you about the welfare of your wife. I was told that she was most horribly—”

“Yes, a dreadful mistake made by a new kitchen maid—or so the physician assumes. The girl has been fired, naturally, but the fact cannot readily heal my wife from her villainous ailment. If, indeed, she can ever fully recover. As yet, we live with diabolical uncertainty.” Then the financier abruptly ceases his discussion of his wife's health while he regards the former confidential secretary. “You're accoutered well, Mr. Simms. Lemuel Beale's unfortunate demise has not affected you adversely, I'm glad to see.”

Simms makes a thin attempt at a smile while his eyes continue to search out and acknowledge those passersby he recognizes. “If you wish us to speak, sir, shouldn't we find a less congested thoroughfare?”

The conversation between the two men is interrupted by a noisy altercation nearby. It concerns a member of the day watch and a Negress whom Simms and Rosegger—as well as everyone else in the vicinity—assume to be a beggar. A dirty beggar woman and a drunk, to boot. A disapproving space clears around the pair, leaving them to battle as if they'd been provided with a private stage.

“I'm telling you I know where he's keeping himself,” the woman's shouting, although the words slip and slide into a nearly unintelligible morass of rum combined with an empty stomach. “The prisoner that escaped from Cherry Hill. The man with—”