Conjurer

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  She shifts in her chair. The most extraordinary events in her entire life are unfolding while she’s forced to sit in polite silence and study a diva feign walking in her sleep—rather than discuss Eusapio Paladino conjuring the spirit of Lemuel Beale, or how the missing man’s weapon was retrieved, or what sort of cruel beast could so brutally slay two girls. Florence kicks her little feet against the brocadeclad wall. Oh, to have dared enter the terrors of the Moyamensing Prison! Oh, to have heard the tortuous cry of “I’m in a watery grave; search for me no more!” Oh, to be as willful as the terrible but fascinating Emily Durand.

  “And the members of the day watch who discovered the hermit are quite convinced they’ve apprehended Father’s murderer, Mr. Simms?” Martha asks, then pauses for a moment only, shaking her head in confusion and disbelief. “But I still fail to understand how they can be certain that such a simple soul—”

  Owen Simms interrupts, walking with a show of authoritarian calm to the parlor hearth, the better to view his master’s daughter. In his hand is the porcelain cup she recently filled; she remains, as customary, presiding over the silver tea things arrayed upon the table. The subdued supper during which they scarcely referred to the astonishing arrest has given way to a more heated exchange now that the servants are no longer present. “My dear Martha, you and I must rely upon the long experience of the constabulary. If they’re convinced they have the man who killed your father—”

  “But what does Mr. Kelman say to this notion?” Martha’s brow is creased, and her chest feels tight with perplexity and the sense that her father’s confidential secretary is not providing the entire story of what occurred. “Because surely such a reclusive creature would be easy to blame … wrongly accuse is what I mean—”

  “Your Mr. Kelman is no longer part of this investigation” is Simms’s firm response.

  Martha stares at him. She cannot believe she’s heard correctly. “Oh, but Mr. Simms, surely—?”

  “Martha, have we not had similar discussions in the past? I must caution you to obey reason and not your heart. Mr. Kelman no longer has—”

  “But have you spoken to him?” she asks in growing consternation. “Have you explained—?”

  Owen Simms smiles down as he interrupts her again. “You’re as stubborn as your dear papa, Martha. I think he’d be pleased to see you so insistent that all proper measures in this inquiry be satisfied. You have a kind heart. He—and I—have long recognized that fact. You fret over dogs taking chill; you worry about overtaxing your servants; you wish to aid the destitute. Naturally, you also desire to spare the feelings of Thomas Kelman … But the truth in this matter cannot be avoided. A half-beast of a man was found in possession of your father’s rifle. How could this hermit have come to own the weapon if he hadn’t slain your father?”

  “But Jacob saw it lying on the rocks when he—”

  “Jacob claimed to have seen it, Martha—”

  “And I believe him, Mr. Simms!” Martha’s words are almost a cry, and her body quivers with the desperate need to be heard.

  Simms’s response is an even-tempered and almost playful “My dear Martha, you’ll never be capable of managing a household if you trust every word your servants tell you.”

  “But couldn’t the hermit have simply found Father’s rifle when Jacob came home to report the news?” Martha persists despite her companion’s obvious desire that they put the conversation behind them. Or perhaps she continues her argument precisely because Simms doesn’t want it. “Isn’t that what the prisoner’s been insisting? That he never heard of a person called Lemuel Beale, and—?”

  “Nonsense, Martha. Everyone in this city knows of your father.”

  “But—”

  “We must trust the wisdom of the constabulary, Martha,” Simms tells her with some asperity. “If they believe they’ve apprehended your father’s killer, then we, as law-abiding citizens, must accept their judgment.” He graces her with another smile, then continues in the same decisive tone. “Who’s to say that the gardener wasn’t in league with your father’s assassin? Who’s to say your father didn’t have something of value in his possession when he vanished? Even a few gold coins would be a fortune to a pauper—”

  “Jacob Oberholtzer is not a pauper, Mr. Simms; he’s an honest and good man.”

  Simms puts his teacup on the mantelpiece. It’s a supremely self-assured gesture, and Martha finds herself growing not only irritated at it but also strangely frightened. “Well, let us not impugn old Jacob’s character—for the time being, my dear. But even you with your loving heart cannot feel empathy for a savage who willfully shot your father. And that man, most assuredly, is a pauper.”

  “If the hermit did murder Father, Mr. Simms,” Martha responds forcefully.

  “Which we must leave for a jury to decide, my dear. As we must also permit a judge to ascertain how or to what extent Oberholtzer was involved—”

  “Or whether Jacob had no part in this, Mr. Simms!” Martha argues. “Other than discovering Father’s dogs waiting on the shore.” Even as she makes this vigorous objection to Simms’s accusation, Martha feels her defiant spirit beginning to desert her. She forces her gaze away from Simms’s face and tranquil hands and returns to the tea set spread before her.

  So much has occurred in a mere day’s time! Since the discovery of the rifle, her father’s confidential secretary has rarely left the house. Instead, he installed himself in Lemuel Beale’s study, where he first entered into discussions with the captain of the day watch who found the weapon and then attended to other private affairs—while Martha hovered outside the door, at first anxious lest he find some object of her father’s misplaced, and then worrying over the fact that he didn’t send for her. Hours of fretful pacing because Simms deemed it inappropriate for her genteel ears to be subjected to descriptions of the half-savage creature who possessed the weapon! Nor did he consider it fitting for her to peruse her father’s business correspondences.

  So much for my courageous decisions, Martha now thinks bitterly. So much for my declaration of autonomy. She sighs in self-rebuke, but Simms mistakes the sound for one of sorrow.

  “You must continue to be brave, my dear Martha. Your father would wish it.”

  Martha makes no answer. It’s the truth, of course, but how she yearns to be no longer reminded of her parent’s dictums.

  “Would have wished it.” Simms corrects himself. “Because the time has come when we must behave as reasonable folk. Whether the strange creature found carrying your father’s rifle had an accomplice or whether he simply acted for his own greedy gain, the fact of the matter remains: Your father is dead and must be properly mourned.”

  “Yes,” Martha replies in a leaden tone. She knows precisely to what Simms refers: the rules society has established for a daughter bereaved of a parent. Six months of near-total seclusion dressed in full mourning; four months of semi-mourning, and finally two months in half-mourning. For ten months, there will be no callers stopping by to visit her other than family—of which she has none—or female or older male acquaintances of long standing, the chief one of whom is Owen Simms.

  “I propose to make another visit to the Association for the Care of Colored Orphans before I make my retreat, Mr. Simms,” Martha now states in the same heavy and defeated voice. “I feel I’ve left some hopeful efforts unresolved. I shall journey there tomorrow morning, then return home and order the appropriate black-edged paper and the envelopes and memorial cards.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty to order letter paper already, Martha.”

  “Ah …” She stares at the tea tray, but the silver pot and sugar bowl and creamer begin to blur before her eyes. Already my exile begins, she tells herself. “You’ve thought of everything, Mr. Simms.”

  “It was the service I provided your late father, Martha. I hope to continue to do so for you.”

  Martha glances up at him with her bleak face. Here’s my chance, she thinks; here’s the moment when I inform
Owen Simms that I wish him to quit the house. But he speaks again before she can craft the necessary words.

  “In fact, I hope to one day be of even greater aid … In a year’s time, when this period of mourning is passed, I hope that you will consider doing me the tremendous honor of becoming my wife—”

  “Oh, Mr. Simms!” Martha is so horrified at this proposal that she finds herself riveted to her chair. “Surely you cannot imagine—”

  “You’re right to suggest it’s too soon to speak of such matters, my dear, but I—”

  “No! It’s not a matter of—”

  “But I feel your father would approve. No, I am certain he would approve, and that he’d also wish me to proclaim myself now in order to assuage your grief—”

  “No!” Martha can only repeat. She tells herself she should rise and leave the room, but her legs have turned to stone. “Please, Mr. Simms. Let us no longer discuss this—”

  “Not for a full year, naturally. I fully comprehend the awkwardness of acting so hastily, Martha, but as I stated, I hope you’ll recognize with what deep affection I regard you, and so gain a measure of solace in your time of trial. Your happiness is all I wish, my dearest Martha … And now I’ll comply with your request and not refer to this proposal again until your period of mourning is past—”

  “Not then, Mr. Simms. Not now and not then,” Martha states as she finally forces herself to stand. “I bid you good night, sir. We will not refer to this matter again.”

  Regaining the safety of her room, Martha flings herself fully clothed upon her bed, staring up into its abundant draperies while her brain whirls around in fury. A marriage to Owen Simms? her thoughts rage. A union with a man nearly my father’s age! How could anyone consider such a preposterous idea? How can my father have sanctioned or suggested it? Better death than sharing life with Owen Simms!

  And I’ve already shared so much of my existence with the man, Martha continues to rail. Years and years and years of my time upon this earth! Years of obeying both my father and his henchman, being secluded from people my own age, from their pleasures, their confidences, from the young men who might have whispered words of endearment. Owen Simms? No, I won’t marry Owen Simms!

  In her outrage, Martha pounds her fists against the satin coverlet and rakes at the eiderdown with her still-shod feet. Never Simms! Never, never! No matter how much my father may have desired the match. No matter how many times in the months ahead Simms seeks to craftily remind me of my “dear papa’s” wishes. I will be the mistress of my fate. I’ll rule my own house, and demand that Simms leave it. I will not listen to my father’s dictums or wishes any longer.

  I’ll never obey him again. And I’ll never, ever permit Simms to make another mention of this odious matter.

  Then the fury of these emotions dissolves into panic. Oh, Thomas! Martha thinks. Oh, help me! Help me! She gazes upward while her body becomes increasingly inert, seeming to grow heavier and less mobile by the moment until she feels she’s sinking down into the mattress, down through the floor, plummeting into the suffocating earth. Oh, help me, her heart cries as she tumbles into tortured sleep.

  But, oh, what dreams rise up to trouble her there. She sees the little orphan boy succumb to a convulsive fit, but his face is then replaced by that of Eusapio Paladino in his own trance-like state. “Search no more!” the necromancer calls while his handsome features grow fishy and gray and his flesh turns soft and putrid. “I’m in a watery grave. Let me rest. Let me rest here in peace.” The voice sounds like bubbles in a brook, then the bubbles grow louder, gushing a grim crimson red as Lemuel Beale’s percussion rifle explodes. Martha spins away in horror at the sight and finds herself suddenly awake, lying cold and uncovered, her petticoats twisted and bunched beneath her and her corset jabbing at her ribs.

  “Martha, my dearest,” she hears Owen Simms murmur. “Your dreams have been worrying you again. Forgive me for entering your chambers without your permission, but I couldn’t permit you to so torture yourself. I’ve brought a sleeping draught with me—so as not to disturb your maid. Take it, I beseech you, my dear. My dearest girl … You must have your rest …” Then she feels Simms’s fingers touch her neck, holding her in place while she drinks the milky and cloying liquid.

  The Shambles

  “MAR … MISS BEALE … I STOPPED at your house and was told that you … I apologize if I’ve disturbed your—” Kelman calls out these halting words, then abruptly ceases his clumsy effort as he doffs his hat and bows while intently studying the threesome walking down the street toward him. Martha appears greatly changed; she steps slowly forward with a rambling and indecisive gait and looks so pale and languid as to seem ill. Beside her is a shorter woman with an open and jovial face, and between them trudges a little boy whose skin isn’t fully white or fully black. Neither the child nor the other woman appears aware that Martha Beale is not herself.

  “I was told I might find you at the orphanage … Again, my apologies if I’ve interrupted your outing.” Kelman continues to regard Martha with a penetrating gaze, but she merely looks lifelessly back. “Are you quite well, Miss Beale?”

  “Mr. Kelman.” Martha fixes him with a vapid stare; she neither smiles nor offers her hand nor responds to his question. Instead, she turns sluggishly toward her companions, covering a yawn with her hand. “May I present Hannah Yarnell, and a pupil whom she named for Caspar Walne, the physician who devotes so much time to the children.” As Martha speaks, her tone remains flat and emotionless as though Kelman were the most causal of acquaintances. “Hannah, this is Thomas Kelman, the gentleman who initiated the search for my father.”

  “I have disturbed your walk” is Kelman’s perturbed reply.

  “Miss Yarnell and I are journeying to the Shambles on Second Street,” Martha says in the same dull tone, “where I intend to purchase oranges for the children. We’ve heard that a ship arrived yesterday carrying a cargo from Spain. Oranges are certain to be among the ship’s fare.” Then she adds a bleak “As you must have surmised, Mr. Kelman, this is my last excursion for some time.” She pauses. What she wants to speak about is Jacob Oberholtzer and the savage man she feels is being wrongly charged with her father’s death, but all she hears clanging in her ears is Owen Simms’s methodical words of argument. The truth in this matter, Martha, cannot be avoided … Then she continues the rebuke with her own woeful self-critique: And who’s to say that I am right in my intuition, and the remainder of the logical world wrong? I, who have so seldom been right or wise or prudent or clever.

  “I do thank you, Mr. Kelman,” Martha finally manages to say aloud, “for your aid and support. And I apologize if my father’s secretary was overbrusque in his treatment of you.” Here, she stops again. Owen Simms, she thinks, I cannot possibly be wed to Owen Simms! I will not! Indeed, I will not! But instead of betraying that fierce sentiment, she murmurs a reasoned “Mr. Simms’s greatest desire is to see my father’s death resolved. Sometimes that wish causes him to seem high-handed and rude.”

  “I was glad to be of service” is Kelman’s courtly reply, but he observes Martha closely as he speaks. This is not the same woman who ardently sought his counsel. It’s not the person with whom he’s shared a private meal or walked in the garden or strolled among hothouse flowers. This is a Martha Beale in form but not in fact. Kelman is about to continue in a more probing manner when Hannah’s small charge suddenly throws his hands skyward as if asking the tall man to pick him up.

  “You seem to have made quite an impression, sir,” Hannah tells him. “Our Cai is not a demonstrative child.”

  “May I carry him for you, Miss Yarnell?” Kelman bends down to the child. “That is, if you will permit my company on your excursion.” Again he looks searchingly at Martha, but it’s Hannah who replies:

  “We would be delighted to have you join us, sir,” while Martha merely removes her mute stare from Kelman’s face and gazes unseeing at the street beyond. Marry Owen Simms? her mind cries out. That I cannot
do!

  Along the cobbled streets that border the open-air market building known as the Shambles, dray horses stand puffing and blowing in the cold; crowded among them are butchers’ wagons hung with venison, mutton, and pickled hams; fishmongers’ carts; country buck-boards full of potatoes and cabbages packed in straw; oyster sellers’ flat barrows piled with seaweed; wood crates containing live fowl and rabbits; and two-wheeled handcarts stacked with loaves of bread. Dogs and cats slink between the many large and small wheels, keeping wary eyes on the restless hooves of the horses while all manner of young people race in and out of the vendors’ stalls: shopkeepers’s boys sent on errands; ragtag brothers and cousins dodging from one patron to the next, begging for the chance to carry a parcel, find a hansom cab, or garner a stray coin or two. Some of the children wear long white aprons; some sport adults’ high hats announcing their masters’ trades; some have jackets; some do not. Those without not only appear sicklier and colder, but their faces and postures bear the unmistakable stamp of isolation and ostracism.

  Martha stares at the noisy scene and feels her stomach contract in pity, although her sluggish brain seems incapable of forming words with which to express what she feels. So she doesn’t look at Hannah or Kelman but simply plods ahead, wading stiffly through the trampled rushes that line the dirt-and-stone floor until she reaches a fruit vendor where she finds the promised oranges.

  “These just arrived, madam,” she’s told by the dark-suited merchant. “Sevilles for marmalades, sweet Chinas for eating, and Maltese whose flesh is as red as blood … They’re extra, they are, the Maltese. Greatly favored by European royalty, I’m told.” The man is sizing her up while he studies her companions. The tall woman he recognizes as “quality,” but he’s not certain how to gauge the ranks and relationships of the others.