The Anatomy of Deception

by Lawrence Goldstone

  “You are denying that he despoiled my daughter?” Lachtmann snapped, still refusing to speak Eakins’ name. The intensity of the man, the homicidal ferocity, was physically oppressive. It robbed me of breath. But, at least he was now addressing himself to me and not my companion.

  “Not only am I denying that Eakins was the father of Rebecca’s child, I am also telling you that he had nothing whatever to do with her death. In fact, he cajoled me into helping because he was so worried about her. It was only because of his overriding concern—and that of Miss Benedict—that I agreed to become involved in Rebecca’s disappearance. It was, as it turns out, fortuitous that they asked me, because I have discovered a great deal.”

  “And what exactly have you discovered?” I had stopped him, momentarily at least.

  “I will be happy to tell you all I know,” I said, “if you will answer one question for me first. Keuhn here has been following Eakins for days, possibly weeks. Has he come up with one scintilla of evidence that Eakins has been anything but a friend to your daughter?”

  Lachtmann refused to respond directly to my question. Instead, he said, “Go ahead, Dr. Carroll. Tell me your story.”

  I favored Lachtmann with much the same version as I had given to Eakins and Abigail at dinner, with one extra detail. If Turk was the only culprit in his daughter’s death and he was himself dead, Lachtmann had no incentive to let Eakins and me continue on the loose. He would either turn the Pinkerton man on us, or alert the authorities as to where we had been found. Even if I did not land in prison, Johns Hopkins was unlikely to employ a physician who had been apprehended as a grave robber. Lachtmann had to have reason to let us go, so I added that I believed Turk had an accomplice, someone who may have performed the actual operation from which his daughter died.

  “It was only to spare Miss Benedict … and by association, you,” I concluded, “that we undertook something as harebrained as digging up the coffin ourselves instead of going to the authorities. We decided that if the police became involved prematurely, Turk’s associate would be alerted and have the opportunity to cover his tracks.” I finally felt sufficiently in control to down some brandy. “Mr. Lachtmann, do I seem to you fool enough to risk my career and my freedom on such an act without good cause?” It would be quite an irony if it was only the height of my own stupidity that saved me.

  Again, Lachtmann ignored my question. “Do you have any idea who this accomplice might be?” he asked instead, going to the heart of the matter.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, “but I think I’m close to finding out.”

  Lachtmann eyed me for a moment. I felt like a field mouse being perused by a hawk. “You had better,” he said.

  There was a knock on the door and Lachtmann bade whoever was there to come in. It was the other Pinkerton agent, Keuhn’s associate, the man I had noticed the day that Abigail and I had visited Eakins on Mount Vernon Street. In hushed, respectful tones, the man told Lachtmann that the arrangements for both matters had been completed.

  Lachtmann nodded, wrote some instructions on a piece of paper, handed them to the man, then waited for him to leave. When the door had closed, Lachtmann’s eyes remained fixed on it, as if there were a vision in the oak that only he could see.

  “I have had my daughter removed from that place,” he said in a strangled voice, as if the sound had passed through liquid. “My child will get a proper burial. I suppose I can at least be grateful to you for making that possible. As far as the newspapers are concerned, she will be said to have died in Italy and returned here for interment.”

  I risked speaking once more. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Lachtmann. Please believe that it pained me to find her.” I could see that Eakins wanted to offer his sympathies as well, but was still too frightened of Lachtmann to speak. “I will do anything I can to help you find the person responsible.”

  Lachtmann considered my offer. The self-control of the man was staggering. “All right, Dr. Carroll,” he said softly, “I may allow you to do that. Tell me first what you learned from your examination.” He could not suppress a burr of sarcasm as he spoke the last word.

  I told Lachtmann what I discovered in the graveyard, that his daughter had died from a perforated bowel. The bowel had yet to decompose and evidence of the puncture was clear. I neglected to tell Lachtmann how agonizing it would have been, and that, ordinarily, it would have taken the victim of such a condition days to die. Given the bruising on her upper left arm that I had observed in the Dead House, however, I deduced that, to stifle her screams, whoever was at the table had held Rebecca Lachtmann down and then suffocated her and disposed of the body from Wharf Lane. Although there was no way to determine suffocation as the immediate cause of death from the state of the corpse, it was the only explanation that fit all that I had observed.

  “So who did this?” Lachtmann asked, his anger stoked once more at hearing the cause of his daughter’s death.

  “Abortion is not a simple procedure—it takes a decent amount of skill—but neither is it complex. The location at which it was done would have added a level of uncertainty but, if forced to surmise, I would have to say that whoever performed the abortion was not a skilled surgeon.”

  “Was this Turk a skilled surgeon?” he asked.

  “No. But as I said, I don’t believe that Turk performed the actual procedure. He was far too canny for that. It was one thing to perform abortions on denizens of the waterfront, where any mistake could be easily covered up, and quite another to risk exposure with a member of a prominent family.”

  Lachtmann scowled and turned away. He faced the drapes for some moments before turning back. “All right, Dr. Carroll, you may have bought yourself some time. If what you say is true … if … then you are probably more capable of uncovering this accomplice than are the police. You understand, of course, that in order to have my daughter buried properly, I will have to inform the authorities that I have given instructions to move her and that, in turn, will bring at least some of the circumstances to their attention. I will have to trust in the discretion of the police to keep the full story from public consumption.”

  “Of course,” I said soberly, masking my elation at the reprieve. “But I also understand that, given the presence of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, you will not have to explain to them how you came by your knowledge. They will simply assume that the Pinkertons found out by means of their own.”

  “Exactly,” Lachtmann agreed. His grief remained palpable but, man of action that he was, he had shifted his attention to practicalities. “And, for the time being, I may do just that. If, as you say, you are both innocents … even him …” Lachtmann glowered at the petrified painter. “If events are as you say, Dr. Carroll … and we shall find that out in a moment … if that is so, I have no wish to destroy your career … although I suggest you take better care in your associations. More to the point, if there is someone at large who is responsible, I have no wish to waste my vengeance on you … I am not an animal, Doctor, despite what you may have heard from others … on the condition, of course, that I actually succeed—with your help—in locating this mysterious accomplice to whom you referred.”

  “That seems more than generous,” I said. “I am very grateful for your trust.”

  “Trust?” he snapped. “Please don’t mistake me, Doctor. I don’t trust you in the least. If I find that you have been less than truthful or less than candid … I’ll crush you.” He turned to Keuhn. “Bring her in,” he said.

  Keuhn opened the door and nodded to someone in the hall. A moment later, the second Pinkerton man entered. At his side was a petrified young girl. She appeared to be no more than eighteen, quite pretty, with long blond hair.

  “Lucy!” exclaimed Eakins, his terror renewed. It was the first word he had uttered since we were brought in.

  “Indeed,” said Lachtmann. “Dr. Carroll, meet Lucy Arkwright, Rebecca’s maid, just returned from Italy, although not by choice.”

  The girl’s ga
ze dropped to the carpet. Her hands were clasped together in front of her and she was shaking visibly.

  “Lucy,” Lachtmann went on, “decided that, with her purse filled with my money and a young Italian art student fawning over what he believed was an American heiress, there was no need to continue to follow instructions and remain inconspicuous. The two of them were leading quite a merry—and public—existence. She was, as a result, observed in Rome by an acquaintance of mine. He cabled to ask me if I knew that a young woman was living the high life, passing herself off as my daughter. Keuhn’s associates had little trouble finding her. Now she is back, although her return voyage was likely not as pleasant as the outbound. Am I right, Lucy?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lachtmann,” the girl moaned. “I was just trying to help Miss Rebecca …” Her speech had acquired some refinement from exposure to better society, but betrayed lower-class Scotch-Irish origins.

  “Of course, Lucy,” Lachtmann said soothingly, “and that is just what you are going to do now. You are going to help her by speaking the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First, did my daughter tell you why she wanted you to impersonate her in Europe?”

  “Yes, sir. She said she didn’t want you … anyone to know she wasn’t going to have the baby.”

  “She told you everything, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir. Me and Miss Rebecca was quite close.”

  I anticipated what was coming and ventured a peek at Eakins. The painter was sitting rock still, afraid to breathe. I was frozen as well. The wrong answer to the next questions and we were dead men.

  “So, Lucy,” Lachtmann went on, “do you know who the father was?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was it him?“ Lachtmann once more leveled a finger at Eakins. Eakins gasped at her, his eyes wide, like a rabbit looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

  The girl shook her head. “No, sir. Weren’t Mr. Eakins.”

  Eakins exhaled audibly as Lachtmann stood stunned. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. Quite sure.”

  “Who, then?” he demanded.

  Lucy’s lips barely moved as she whispered, “Mr. Albert.”

  “Albert? Albert Benedict?” Lachtmann had been caught totally unprepared. As had I. Smug, arrogant Albert Benedict. Abigail’s brother. What a cruel, ghastly irony.

  As Lachtmann absorbed this stunning reality, he glanced at Eakins. He had expected to be able to condemn the painter and be done with him right here in his study. “Are you certain?” he snapped at the terrfied maid.

  “Yes, sir,” Lucy replied, quaking. “Miss Rebecca told me.” She glanced at the door and seemed for just a second to be considering making a run for it. “Mr. Eakins here was just trying to help,” she added.

  Lachtmann remained incredulous. “My daughter and Albert Benedict?” he repeated.

  “Wasn’t her doing, sir,” she said, so afraid now that her teeth chattered. “He … he forced her.”

  At that last, horrible revelation, I expected Lachtmann’s rage to explode, but instead he became frighteningly calm. His movements slowed and he spoke to Lucy softly, as he would a small child or pet. I was no Weir Mitchell, but I had sufficient experience with nervous disorders to know that he was more dangerous in this state than before.

  “Did Albert ever know about the child?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes, sir. But he told Miss Rebecca he couldn’t have nothing to do with her no more. That no one could find out. I think he was worried more about his father than his wife.”

  “Did his sister know?”

  Lucy shook her head. “No, sir. Only the three of us—Miss Rebecca, Mr. Albert, and me. She couldn’t have anyone else know. She was so ashamed.”

  Lachtmann took a moment, digesting the information. “All right, Lucy. You can go now.”

  After the girl was gone, Lachtmann looked to Eakins, then to me, then back to Eakins. “It seems as though I may have misjudged you … may have. In any case, may I suggest that after you leave here, I never have occasion to set eyes on you again.”

  Eakins said nothing, but was doubtless thrilled to consent.

  “As for you, Doctor,” Lachtmann said, “our business is not yet done. Your offer to help me find the butcher who killed my daughter still stands. Whoever this mysterious accomplice is, I expect you to help me find him in every way you can.”

  “I said I would,” I replied.

  “If you don’t,” Lachtmann went on, still speaking as matter-of-factly as if we were at luncheon, “I will have an additional chore for Keuhn. You understand my meaning, do you not?”

  I had told my tale and now, it seemed, I would be forced to make it true.

  “One more thing,” Lachtmann said. “Nothing you have heard here leaves this room.”

  With that, Eakins and I were dismissed. Keuhn led us to the door, leering in the way bullies have in the presence of an intimidated foe. As he opened the door to let us out, he said, “Be seeing you again, Doc, I’m sure.”

  Eakins waited until we had reached the end of the street before he breathed. “Thank God.” Then he exclaimed, “Albert Benedict! The worm!” He mused for a moment. “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t give two bits for his life, but a Benedict …”

  “I wouldn’t give two bits for his life in any case,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” Eakins agreed. “If there is any justice.”

  “Someone must tell Abigail,” I said. “She must be forewarned.”

  “It’s three A.M., Carroll. I don’t think it would be wise to go pounding on her door now.”

  “I’ll go in the morning,” I said.

  “Better wait until the old man has left for the bank.”

  After I agreed, Eakins asked, “All that palaver about an accomplice. Another bluff or was it true?”

  “I’m not positive,” I replied, “but, yes, I think it’s true.”

  I was, in fact, reasonably certain that Turk would never have risked performing Rebecca Lachtmann’s abortion personally. While abortion, as I had said to Lachtmann, was uncomplicated—essentially a progressive dilation of the cervix with a series of sounds, each one bigger than the last until the opening of the cervix is a centimeter or slightly larger, allowing for the insertion of a curette to scrape out the lining of the uterus—there was some delicacy required and accidents were common. Still, the perforation I had seen in Rebecca Lachtmann could only have been produced by a novice or an incompetent—or by an extremely skilled surgeon working while under the influence of diacetylmorphine. Perhaps that was the “deal gone bad” to which Haggens had referred when I asked him about the argument in The Fatted Calf.

  “And do you really know who it is?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Just as well,” Eakins said. He turned up the street without saying good-bye. His animal intensity was gone, replaced by the slouch of a prematurely old man. He had survived all manner of attacks on his work and his person, but I was not sure he would survive this. He turned the corner and disappeared. I would never see him again.

  December 22, 1888

  SHE WAS BETTER NOW. SHE still shivered, but the blanket and the fire had finally warmed her. When she had first stumbled into her bedroom, she had been so terribly cold and weak, and the raw ache would not cease. She had tried to undo her dress, but her hands trembled so. It was only then that she realized she was bleeding. She knew not to cry out, but she must have whimpered, because suddenly her maid was there.

  Lucy had taken off her torn dress and soiled undergarments and fetched one of her own dressing gowns, so that there would be no evidence for her parents to discover. It was Lucy who had covered the chaise in old towels, and then wrapped another one around her, assuring her the bleeding would soon stop on its own. Then, she might finally get into bed. It was Lucy who had built up the fire and then crept to the kitchen to prepare a glass of warm milk laced with brandy. And
, most of all, it was Lucy who had held her in her arms as she sobbed noiselessly, listening as the entire horrible tale came pouring out.

  It had all been just as she had imagined, a perfect evening. He had been so attentive, so charming, so vulnerable in his need for her. First, there had been the walk in the garden in the clear frosty night, she wrapped in his coat. So many stars in the sky. He had taken her hand. Then, to talk, to confide, he led her back into the house, and up the back stairs into one of the spare bedrooms.

  But there had been no talk, no confiding—only struggle, pain, and humiliation. When she had begged him to stop, he laughed, and then growled at her in breath sweet with wine that he knew she had done it before.

  CHAPTER 23

  I WAS UNSURE OF WHEN a bank president departed for work, so I waited until ten A.M. to arrive at the Benedict home. I apparently had not waited long enough, however, because when the door opened, it was Hiram Benedict himself who stood in the vestibule. Alone, he appeared even more outsized, looming over me like a grizzly.

  “Dr. Carroll,” he said evenly, “I have been expecting you. Jonas Lachtmann got in touch with me early this morning.”

  Jonas Lachtmann? What would Jonas Lachtmann have told him? Certainly nothing of his daughter and Albert. Was it about me? Did he know about St. Barnabas? Had he told Abigail? I could only find out from her.

  “I am very sorry about Rebecca,” I replied. “I thought Abigail should be told as soon as possible.”

  “Abigail has been told,” Benedict said.

  “How is she? May I see her?”

  “She is distraught. As I am sure you would have expected. And no, you may not see her.”

  “Mr. Benedict,” I said, “I am all too aware that you do not think me a suitable match for your daughter, but we have feelings for each other. I do not think it fair or in Abigail’s interests for you to deny me the right to see her.”

  “I don’t think you fully understand, Dr. Carroll. I am not denying you access—she is denying you access.”