“Martha, I beseech you; listen to reason—”
“I am, Mr. Simms!” Martha fights back. “I am heeding the voice of my own heart.”
“Then let me go on alone with the other men, and you return to the warmth and comfort of your father’s house.”
“I cannot permit that, Mr. Simms.” Then she adds a more diplomatic “Surely you must understand my sentiments.”
Martha doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, the grim party moves forward one by one, boots bumping over the riverine rocks while the lights jostle flame into the night. The color is a vibrant white, and in the frigid air seems to become compacted and brilliant like molten glass thrust into chilled water. There’s little sound save for the searchers’ nervous breaths, the course chafe of their clothing, their shoes abrading the ground, and, far off from Martha, a number of grumbled curses. Her father might give employment to many, but he’s not a man blessed with either love or fidelity in return.
She walks apart from Owen Simms, urging the others on by example as they scan the water’s edge, the lesser streams that cut a meandering path into the larger river, the glades that suddenly appear within the forest, the underbrush where a spent body might lie in exhaustion and desolation. Nothing. No sign of dislodged creek pebbles, no clutched-at and broken branches. As far as they tramp there’s no sign of Lemuel Beale.
Finally, Martha stands erect. The little group has traveled a mile and a half only, an arduous journey that has consumed half the night. “We’ll go home,” she announces in a subdued and hopeless voice. “Perhaps my father did gain the opposite shore. Perhaps the current was running so fast he was carried several miles toward Philadelphia before freeing himself. Mr. Simms and I will contact the local constabulary in the morning. They will have further plans, I’m sure.” Then she extends her hand to each of the servants. “I thank you,” she tells them in a somber tone. “You have performed a great service tonight. I will make certain my father learns of your generosity.”
Dawn appears gray and bleak. Above the fanciful turrets and gables of Beale House, above its freshly quarried stone and tall tracery windows, its balconies, its verandas and parterre gardens, the threat of snow lowers in the sky. Martha rises after a brief and sleepless night, although she doesn’t ring for her maid to assist her in her morning ablutions. Instead, she laces her corset herself, slips into her endless underskirts, and pulls on the same cashmere dress she wore the day before. Owen Simms will remark upon her negligence, but Martha doesn’t care. In fact, she experiences a brief glow of rebellious anger at her daring.
Then her mind immediately retreats to duty; and she picks up the silver-handled tortoise-shell brush and begins attending to the long chestnut-colored hair that’s her secret pride. She counts the strokes as she goes: ten … twelve … twenty … before her hand stops midair. What use is dressing my hair? she demands in growing bitterness and wrath. What use is a silk cap trimmed with lace and flowers? Or finding my satin slippers? Or donning the gold locket Father gave me? What use is breakfast, or conversation, or practicing my daily notes on the piano? What use is this room? This handsome house?
Martha stares at the brush in her hand, then swiftly returns it to its mates: the comb, the buttonhook, the pot of lavender-scented cream. Her fingers are shaking uncontrollably. Her chest is now heaving also, and she places a hand above her heart to steady herself. Father doesn’t approve of theatrics, she repeats under her breath.
Then she walks to the frost-clouded windows. The vista of frozen lawns and fields marching imperiously toward the river is absolute. In the somber light, the Schuylkill’s frenzied state lies hidden beneath a veneer as slick and brutal as steel.
“Father,” Martha murmurs at length; as she speaks the name she realizes that it’s inconceivable that Lemuel Beale should be gone.
Beale House
FOR TWO FULL DAYS, MEMBERS of the day watch have scoured the grounds of Lemuel Beale’s country estate; and the news of their search has spread to and inflamed the city proper. So renowned a person doesn’t vanish without causing a good deal of speculation among citizens both affluent and not. Naturally, a tragic fall into the Schuylkill is the most obvious answer to the financier’s peculiar disappearance, but other tales are beginning to surface.
Beale is rumored to be a hard man with a penny; it’s further acknowledged that he’s a difficult taskmaster both of himself and others, that the clerks in his employ are often disgruntled with their master’s many demands, that he has a habit of keeping his underlings on tight and unhealthy leashes. Finally, the origins of his wealth itself become subject to conjecture, because Lemuel Beale is that great rarity: a millionaire, one of only ten such fortunate men in the whole of Philadelphia. New York, the city’s northern cousin, can boast a mere five in all of its boroughs. And how, people are beginning to ask, in the midst of the great depression that President Andrew Jackson precipitated and that currently holds the nation in its terrible sway, can men like Beale continue not only to survive but to thrive? Perhaps there’s more to the financier’s disappearance than meets the casual eye.
Martha, sequestered at her father’s country house, hears none of the gossip that washes over the city. Instead, she astonishes herself by becoming the calm center of the storm of apprehension that grips Beale House. By those who make the arduous journey west from the city on visits of either official investigation or personal condolence, her behavior is deemed “admirable” and “stoic” and “brave.”
Privately, she knows none of those words are true. As she dresses each morning and undresses each evening, she realizes she resembles nothing so much as her clothing. A well-crafted exterior concealing the limpest and most flimsy of interiors: lace and flannelette, velvet and watered silk. If it weren’t for this stiff corset, these hoopskirts and well-rolled seams, she tells herself, I’d collapse to the floor in a useless puddle. It’s fortunate my feet are hidden from view and can tap out their distress in private. Who would have ever imagined that fashion could serve a practical purpose?
“No, Mr. Kelman,” Martha now states in the same measured tone she’s been relying upon for two long days, “I cannot believe my father has what you refer to as an ‘enemy.’ A serious competitor in the marketplace, perhaps, or even several. But that’s not what you’re suggesting, is it?”
Martha and her unexpected guest are in the formal withdrawing room, a large and high-ceilinged space where her father habitually receives his visitors and which today she’s commandeered for her own, reasoning that the twin Parian marble mantelpieces surmounted by tall looking glasses in appropriately dark and polished frames better match the seriousness of the situation than the more private parlor. It also seems to her that the drawing room lends an unspoken air of support, as if her father were present and admonishing her to behave with dignity and stamina.
The man called Thomas Kelman regards Martha Beale in thoughtful silence. His stance is official and polite, his legs planted firmly on the Nankin blue carpet, and his back to the nearest fireplace as though his body has no use for heat. He has explained to her that he’s an assistant to the mayor of Philadelphia, although in what capacity he hasn’t indicated—nor has Martha inquired.
“You’re implying, sir—if I understand your words correctly—that my father’s disappearance may not be due to some …” Here Martha’s voice wavers, and her lips momentarily quiver. “… Some accident involving a fall into the river.”
“It’s speculation merely, Miss Beale. And I apologize for introducing it.” As Kelman speaks, his long fingers tremble slightly at his sides. Arms straight, shoulders straighter, he has a military bearing that almost negates the poet’s hands.
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 ban
ks. 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.”
&n
bsp; “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.”
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