The Visionist: A Novel

by Rachel Urquhart

  Dear Neighbor Pryor,

  My name is Elder Sister Agnes and I reside in a place that is referred to by your kind as “the Shaker settlement” in Albion. You should know that we believers refer to our home as The City of Hope, and that is what I shall call it henceforth. I expect you to do the same.

  I was recently made aware that a fire took place some time ago on the outskirts of Ashland. The mention in the monthly compendium of notable World events was small—just a few lines conveying little but the name of its owner, one Silas Kimball; the extent of the destruction; the fact that Mister Kimball had died; and that his wife and daughter had gone missing. You were named as the fire inspector, which is the reason I am writing to you now.

  I do not usually meddle in the affairs of the World’s people, but as we are an ever-growing community with a great interest in making bountiful and pure any land that appears to have, in some way, fallen into wild disarray, I have undertaken to approach you with a simple request. It is one I should like to speak about privately and in person. Also, on the chance that it might aid you in your investigation, you should know that I have some knowledge of the family involved. In anticipation of your agreeing to meet, I trust that you will be at liberty to visit me this Wednesday in the late afternoon (4 o’clock will be convenient enough) so that we may discuss the business to which I have alluded here.

  Of course, I am willing to pay you a fair wage for what I ask, but more I will not say. Please pen your answer clearly and leave it in precisely the place where you discovered this letter. I assure you, it will find its way to me promptly.

  In friendship,

  Elder Sister Agnes

  The City of Hope

  The tone of her letter was upright enough, and I welcomed the opportunity to learn more about the Kimball clan—to say nothing of calling upon so mysterious a people as the Shakers. They do not often crop up in regular conversation, their ways having been deemed too strange to merit mention. Oh, and the purse promised? What do you think? I wrote that though I was indeed a busy man at present, I would find a way to meet the Elder Sister at her convenience. Then, as instructed, I slipped the envelope under my door. By the time I had finished my breakfast, it was gone.

  I sighed. Not even the prompt, early morning response to a professional inquiry could save me from the bureaucratic task that lay ahead. I had tried my damnedest to avoid it, but now with a new client to please, it seemed all the more important to keep abreast of the facts. After all, who knew what the Shaker woman would have to say? If there was something I’d missed the first time I rifled through the town files—some record of a will or a far-flung heir or a child—I wanted to find it.

  Property deeds and church records of marriages, births, and deaths: Does society offer up documents of a more paradoxically dry nature? They testify to our ownership of the very earth upon which we live, our most costly oath, our grand entry, and our final bow. Still, it often seems to me that they are written solely to be sorted in the wrong spot by a bespectacled clerk, pale as a grub and sporting suspenders.

  In the bowels of the Ashland courthouse, dust and faded ink made an enemy of me for hours as I searched once again for something that might indicate the owner of the Kimball farm. A birth certificate testifying to the existence of May’s son would have been equally welcome. A thorough perusal of the ancient rolls in a nearby church had led me to discover official proof of the death of Benjamin Briggs, his wife and newborn son, and the births of May and her daughter, Polly. But there was no reference whatsoever to Silas, nor to his son—the boy Peeles had inquired after. May’s name had been entered in the flowing script of Reverend Israel Harkness, next to the elegant signatures of her mother and father, Mister and Mrs. Benjamin Briggs. I could not help noticing that Polly’s entry bore only Peeles’s careful print, May’s shaky scrawl, and Silas’s X followed by his name, which a more confident scribe had written out in full. Their marriage had been recorded in much the same manner, but those were the only official mentions I could find relating to members of the Briggs and Kimball clans. The illiterate farmer’s death had yet to be noted, probably because May was not present to see it done.

  With regard to ownership of the property, I could find nothing except an old deed on file in the courthouse indicating Benjamin Briggs to be the original proprietor of the Ashland farm. It almost didn’t matter that there seemed to be no indication as to whether Briggs had had a will. Given what I knew of the efficacy of James Hurlbut’s machinations, it was likely that the farm would end up within his greedy grasp whether or not there existed a legitimate heir. As for Elder Sister Agnes, I could not imagine what foothold the Shaker woman’s pursuit of bounty and purity might gain in this slippery scenario. In my experience, greed trounces good most every time.

  So what did I expect to find in this dismal, underground room? My report, provided I could find and speak to May and her children, had assured their innocence. Now, I sought a means by which I might thwart Hurlbut’s plans, but seeing Benjamin Briggs’s property placed firmly back in the hands of his kin would be tricky. I needed more information and I needed to find May Kimball. I packed up and hoped that my new “neighbor” could assist me.

  “Pryor?” I heard a voice close by my right shoulder. “Simon Pryor?”

  Turning to face my inquisitor, I nearly bumped into a gentleman possessed of a windswept wave of brown hair, a full face, and expressive dark eyes that advertised an earnest, intelligent mind. He was dressed like a man who brings in little more than his keep through hard work and a sharp wit, which is to say that the notches on the lapels of his well-made waistcoat had lost their crispness and the garment displayed diminished resolve to hold its shape. His style was rumpled, to be sure, but a far cry from the patched garb of the common swindler. I granted him a respectful nod.

  “Simon Pryor I am,” I said, closing the registry. “Who’s asking?”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “My name is Barnabas Trask. I work as a solicitor in Ashland. I wondered if I might have a word with you about the Briggs—I mean, the Kimball place.”

  “Why?” I asked. “And how, pray, did you find me here?”

  He looked down sheepishly. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I have been watching you, waiting for a moment when we might speak in private. When I chanced to see you enter the courthouse…well, I know from experience that few people save for myself hang about in these dungeons. So I thought it a grand opportunity to…” His voice faded, as though the effort of explaining himself had induced exhaustion.

  I sighed. Another scavenger.

  “Let me guess,” I interrupted. “You would like to pay me a tidy sum to ensure that, when the county is ready to bang the gavel, the Kimball farm goes to you.” I turned back to the register and stared blankly at the dusty cover in front of me. It’s bad business to appear overly interested in a new assignment. A world-weary manner always pulls the money in.

  “You are half-correct,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “I am also interested in the family who lived there, but to be frank, I would like to ascertain whether there are any encumbrances upon the property. When it becomes available at public auction…on account of the death of… Well, you don’t need a lesson from me as to how complicated these things can be—I just don’t want to waste my time chasing a land sale that might turn out to be tangled in a web of legalities.” He paused a moment before asking, uncertainly, “Have you found them? The family, I mean?”

  I avoided his question. I wasn’t on the clock yet, and so I owed him nothing.

  “I believe I get the picture,” I said. “You’re a speculator caught up in a race to buy every bit of land you can find, especially when the parcel is as blessed by nature as this one appears to be. Well, I’ll not argue—it’s a lovely piece. But all I can say is, you’re not alone.”

  “I know.” He sounded glum. “I rarely am in these matters. Still, what will you answer me?”

  I hesitated for effect, calculating the pros and
cons of his proposal. In fact, I was thrilled by the job, for it allowed me to assist someone—however shady he might be—other than James Hurlbut. Equally, I would line my pockets finishing a task I had already begun on my own: to find May Kimball.

  Beat, beat, beat—I made him wait for my reply. No need to sound desperate.

  “Of course,” I said, ruminating, “the money would have to be good. In these parts, finding a poor family—or what may be left of one—is like looking for fleas in a shepherd dog’s coat. There are more than a few to spot, and for one reason or another, they’re not always keen to be picked out.”

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a fat envelope of notes. “This should be enough to get you started. And there’s more, especially if you deliver a quick and tidy outcome.”

  I ran my fingers through the paper, working hard to conceal my satisfaction. “This will get me on a bit,” I said finally. “I’ll take your case. Where can I find you, should information of any import come my way?”

  “I’ve a shingle out on the main street,” he said, relief washing over his face and making him appear years younger. “I’m afraid the office serves as my lodgings as well for the time being, so you’ll find me there whenever you come looking.”

  “You’re new to your trade?” I said. “Not that it’s any concern of mine.”

  “New to…?” He was clearly perplexed.

  “I don’t mean the law,” I answered. “I mean land-grabbing. You’ll pardon my saying so, but you’re either green or not much good at it. Otherwise you’d be rich enough to be sleeping somewhere with a better view than that of the underside of your desk.”

  He looked down and smiled. “Yes, now I get your meaning. As a matter of fact, I am a novice in the game of chasing parcels of land. But lawyering doesn’t garner me much in the way of income, so… At any rate, I’m hoping to be the dark horse in this race—with your help, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said as I gathered up my things and prepared to leave.

  I liked this man, however unlikable he might turn out to be in the end. My opinion of people changes with every new piece of information I collect, but for now, he was certainly preferable to my usual employer. What a strange and unholy trinity of clients I faced: a crook, a Shaker, and a lawyer. Was this some sort of Heavenly test? If so, then God had more of a sense of humor than I’d previously given him credit for. Not quite reason enough to convert me any time soon, but a point in his favor nonetheless.

  I bade Trask farewell and climbed out of the basement towards the light. Turning as I reached the middle step, I said, “You asked about the family—what I know so far. Well, I can tell you about as much as has already been printed. Silas Kimball died in his bed. As to the mother and her daughter, I’ve not a clue as to where they’ve gone.” I deliberately left out the mysterious son; after all, some people can’t wait to tell an inspector what he’s missed. But Trask said nothing. Waving the envelope, I added, “Here’s hoping this speeds the hunt.”

  Perhaps it was my use of the word hunt that caused him to seem momentarily knocked off-balance by what I’d offered as a casual answer to his question. Looking away, he regained his composure and faced me once again.

  “Thank you for letting me know,” he said. Then, after a brief pause, he went on. “It occurs to me, if I might, that there may be any number of men like me looking out for the widow. As she is the person closest to the property, she’ll be the one best able to attest to its legal status. You’d do well to find her quickly if no harm is to come her way.” He laughed self-consciously. “But who am I to tell you your business?”

  I said nothing in return and looked up the stairs towards a notice board where a single sheet had been pinned. Its news was common enough—a pauper auction was to be held in Burns’ Hollow on the coming Saturday. Foul event. I scowled, my mind darting quickly elsewhere.

  “What’s that?” Trask asked.

  “It’s nothing,” I answered, tipping my chin at the sign. “I don’t much like seeing humans for sale is all, and there’s an unfortunate lot up for auction Saturday next.” I had only to utter the words for both Trask and me to arrive at the same thought.

  “Not a bad place to look for May and her daughter, is it?” he said. “A woman and a girl with no home, no prospects…”

  I looked into his eyes and nodded. “The idea had occurred to me,” I said, recommencing my climb. Something about this Trask figure suddenly struck me as odd.

  The notice in the paper had mentioned Silas’s name. It had said nothing of his wife’s.

  Polly

  POLLY AND CHARITY had led an interior life since she arrived. Around them swirled first the brown leaves of November, then the dry snows of December. They woke at the tolling of the early bell, crossing over to the brethren’s side by candlelight to clean the men’s chambers and make neat the upper floors of the dwelling house before returning to the sisters’ side and going down the back stairs to the kitchen to lay the cooking fires.

  It was dull work, airing or changing soiled sheets, never giving them so much as a glance. Sister Charity had taught Polly with the slightest of smiles that, as the linens had touched the brethren’s bodies and were thus tinged with their scent, the intimacy might excite desire in a less disciplined sister. Morning after morning, they beat the mattresses until the cushioning rose off the rope webbing of the narrow beds. They emptied chamber pots, swishing them clean, dumping the refuse into metal pails, then placing the porcelain vessels, gleaming, back inside their cupboards. The air must always be pure, and the upper floors must shine in the name of Godliness, in the name of Mother Ann, and no sister could treat the work as drudgery. For where dirt resided, so did sin. Even the heavy labor of loading the soapstone ovens with wood and then stoking them until the flames died into even-tempered embers was a form of worship, and she and Sister Charity tried to do so with cheer at the start of each day before the older sisters began preparing the Early Meal.

  But Polly was haunted by her kitchen work. She saw Mama by the stove, heard Ben singing, felt the heat of the coals, and thought only of flames. That was not all. One day, a young sister named Rebecca suffered a skirt fire. She had leaned in too close to the open hearth—the only part left of the old kitchen chimney that had yet to be enclosed. It happened in an instant, her apron aflame and her clothes gone up so quickly that Polly and the others could not douse the blaze before it had consumed her. Listening to Rebecca’s wails, Polly could not help wondering: Had he survived a curse such as this?

  The brethren arrived as quickly as they could, carrying Rebecca upstairs to the healing room in spite of her moans.

  “Boil up some water,” Charity ordered them, and Polly was surprised to hear how confident she sounded as she commanded sisters and brethren alike to do her bidding—to fetch more water and ice from the icehouse, tear muslin into strips, boil barberry stems into an infusion, bruise leaves of bee balm, and pound the roots of purple coneflower. She whirled round them as they worked, showing them how to do it quicker, better. And then, after the liquids had cooled, she dressed the burns with linseed oil so that the bandages would not stick, and laid the poultices over the whole of Rebecca’s body. Throughout the bustle of preparation and the wrapping of skin, the girl lay on the bed, gently rocking and crying in her pain because she could not writhe or scream.

  “I think she might be soothed to hear your voice, to hear the Visionist speak,” Charity whispered to Polly as she wiped the sweat from her brow and continued her ministrations.

  Polly nodded, then pulled a chair close to the bed where the young girl lay. Rebecca was but eleven, an orphan who’d been left with the believers not a year before. Polly tried to speak and found herself mute, unable to do anything but stare at the burns that blazed so angrily on the sister’s skin. She might have felt that she could be of some comfort if only she could touch Rebecca, but there was hardly a place on her body that had not been ravaged by fire. Strange how Charity’s markings drew Po
lly in while this affliction terrified her. It was not that she had no sympathy for the poor girl. It was her agony, the nearness of it, and the fact that Polly was powerless to assuage it.

  Then she heard her whisper. Polly leaned in and put her ear close to the girl’s blistered lips.

  “Mother,” she said, barely more than breathing the word. At first, Polly assumed Rebecca wanted her mother, but then she remembered that she had none. “Mother,” she said again. “Call…her.”

  Polly was silent. She did not want to pretend to this child that she could do something she feared she could not, for her angels had been deaf to her pleas for some time now. And yet, to deny Rebecca comfort seemed cruel.

  “I…I shall try,” she said. How she wished she could hold the girl’s hands and offer her love in some other manner, one that didn’t need to be conjured.

  “Is she here?” Rebecca whispered. Polly looked away, feeling weak. What could she do?

  Nearby the bed, a window had been cracked open to let the steam out of the room. A cool breeze blew in from outside.

  “There,” said Polly. “Do you feel them?”

  “Who? Who has come?” Rebecca croaked. “Is it…?”

  “Her angels,” Polly said, whispering into her ear. She closed her own eyes. “Do you feel the cool beating of their wings? They are all around you. Can you hear them singing?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Rebecca said. Then her body seemed to go rigid. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I can hear them!”

  “They are Mother’s angels, sent down to comfort you,” Polly told her. Her eyes were still closed, and though she’d called for them to come, she had not expected the angels to pay her any mind. And yet… “They are singing, can you hear? They sing of Mother’s love. They sing so that you might be healed, might feel no more pain. They are singing for you, can you hear, dear Rebecca?”