“Very good of you, Miss Beale. But it’s not to our more recent markers that I refer, rather to those entrusted to us by history: the founders of our nation and so forth. I need not explain what an honor it is to serve on the governing body of a parish that played such a vital role in the birth of America.” While he delivers this discourse, Taitt’s glance roves up into the trees, which are almost wholly denuded and from which dangles an odd assortment of storm-tossed ornaments. A wheeled barrow hangs from a horse chestnut; a broom clings to a holly; a rope still bearing newly laundered table linens wraps around a crabapple; and finally the strangest addition: a lady’s open parasol attached to the uppermost limb of a sycamore as if the tree were holding the handle because it desired protection from the sun.
“My wife has one like that,” he remarks with what sounds like genuine astonishment. “Ivory, the handle is, with a nice bit of jade for ornamentation. Fancy there being another so similar.” He frowns, but the expression rapidly transforms itself into sophisticated ennui. “If I’d known there were two, I might have argued over the price. Indeed, I might not have purchased it at all.” Then he leaves off discussing jade-studded parasols and returns to his companion, gracing her with another flawless smile.
“As I was just saying, children do make a wonderful addition to a home, do they not? It’s unfortunate your father didn’t live to see his own house so happily encumbered. Such a tragedy, his untimely death. And the awful circumstances, too. How you must grieve for him.”
Not one part of this speech seems sincere, but Martha’s response is curtailed as Taitt’s confident words roll forward:
“And what will become of his financial concerns now that he’s no longer there to guide them?”
“I’m managing them, Mr. Taitt.”
“You, Miss Beale? Surely you jest.”
“Indeed, I do not.” Despite an effort at civility, Martha is becoming increasingly vexed. “I admit I have no great love of numbers, and that my father’s genius for foreign specie and his manipulation of bills of exchange on Germany and Ireland is still a new notion to me—”
“If it were not for that detestable Andrew Jackson, and his deregulation of the banking system—!” Taitt exclaims in a jovial shout, but Martha intervenes. The harangue is one she’s heard too often.
“Yes, I know. If President Jackson had left the Bank of United States alone, the nation would not have been thrust into this crippling depression.” The tone is more stringent than she intended, but her companion merely chortles at her discomfort.
“These are not subjects most ladies feel equipped to discuss, Miss Beale.”
“I am not most ladies, sir. My father’s demise may have forced me to embark upon studies that are normally the purview of men, but I’m determined to master them. Indeed, I’ve just informed a senior clerk that I wish to purchase some type of factory or manufacturing endeavor—”
“A factory! Oh, goodness me! And do you intend to work the ledger books, with your fine silk sleeves all covered in spotty ink guards—?”
“And employ people at decent wages,” she continues in the same peremptory vein, “rather than keep them in semi-bondage.”
“The master who embarks upon that foolhardy scheme will go bankrupt in jig time, Miss Beale.” Taitt laughs again, an ample, condescending sound.
“So I was told” is the chilly reply. “But why should that be? And if the owner’s profits are less than desired, what does it matter as long as there’s employment? Or parents aren’t forced to work for starving wages? Or consign their children to the mills and match factories?”
“Ah, my, my, my… You’re as impassioned as my dear wife, Miss Beale. And, I venture to say, nearly as dramatic. But come, I see I’ve offended you. That was not my intent. There should always be kindly souls to weep over the plight of the suffering.”
Martha turns to face him, her eyes so full of stubbornness and wounded pride that the color has turned a flat and stormy gray. She opens her mouth to speak but is saved from uttering words she might regret by the arrival of a second man.
“Mar—Miss Beale. I did not think to find you here.” Thomas Kelman tips his hat, then nearly drops it on the ground. “You are only recently returned to the city, I understand …” The words trail away, leaving him to gaze hopelessly into her face. The stern stare that held young Findal Stokes in thrall is nowhere in evidence, while Martha also undergoes a metamorphosis.
“Yes. Two days past,” she murmurs, then adds a more vigorous “Mr. Taitt, may I present Mr. Kelman. Thom—Mr. Kelman was of great service to me when my father died.” Now Martha’s cheeks are on fire, for she nearly committed the unpardonable sin of calling Thomas by his first name—which she has done, although never in company.
“Anyone would wish to be of service to you, Miss Beale” is Kelman’s heartfelt answer. Then both fall silent. Taitt maintains his superior pose, studying the man and the woman before him as though probing their souls.
“I know you by reputation, Kelman. But I didn’t realize how effortlessly you could tame this argumentative lady. She and I were discussing financial matters and so forth, and her desire to aid the poor and needy—”
“Miss Beale has expressed such opinions to me,” Kelman states before again lapsing into silence.
“You’re a fortunate man to be in her confidence, sir,” Taitt says with another shrewd smile. “I wish you’d explain how you work these miracles with opinionated ladies, as I’m greatly in need of curbing my wife’s lively wit. She was accustomed to a very different model before we wed.” With that he bows. “Promise me you’ll come visit my Becky one day soon, Miss Beale. She’s sorely in need of a companion as iconoclastic as you. Who knows, you might become friends if you knew one another better.” Then he saunters away, a man without a care in the world, although he does pause to glance at the lost parasol before continuing on his path.
Martha and Kelman watch him leave, but their awkwardness only increases, and Martha finds herself fanning her face as if the afternoon’s heat rather than confusion were causing her discomfort.
“We should find you some shade, Mar—Miss Beale,” Kelman says. “The sun is still high, and your costume is heavy.”
“I would rather have you walk me home.” She blanches at both the boldness of this request and that of her tone. “Or perhaps you have other business to attend to?”
“I would be glad to accompany you. Of course I would.”
So begins the journey, although both avoid all physical contact with one another. If they were passing acquaintances, Kelman would offer his arm and Martha would accept the gesture; instead, they walk apart.
“Little Ella is well?” he asks after a moment.
“She is, thank you.”
“And Cai?”
“He’s exceedingly fit, too, although neither wanted to forsake the countryside and return to town. They … they enjoyed your sporadic visits to us, as I did also …”
“Your house is a refuge. I don’t wonder at their sorrow at leaving. I would feel the same.”
“You’ve become a great favorite with the children” is Martha’s whispery reply.
“And they with me.”
Words again fail them, although their footsteps roll automatically forward. What sights they see or whom they pass, neither could describe.
“I do hope your infrequent calls upon us weren’t the result of your work with the police, Mr. Kelman. And that your labors haven’t proven overly arduous.”
“Not arduous. But disheartening, as is so often the case.”
Hearing the despondency in his tone, she cannot help but spin toward him. “Oh, Thomas, I apologize! I should not have broached a painful subject.”
He smiles gently down. “I’m glad to speak with you. I’m always happy to have your opinion and comments, but I’m sorry to say that the suicide of an unknown woman is all too common in our city.”
“A suicide! How awful. And this is what you have been investigating?
”
“It seems my skills are unnecessary. A newly delivered mother cast herself and her infant into the Schuylkill two days ago. A boy from Blockley House witnessed the incident and returned in order to report it. The baby was retrieved; the mother had placed him in a wicker-ware basket. She hasn’t been found. Unfortunately, the boy was alone, and his retelling of the story is imprecise.”
By now, Martha has stopped entirely. “That was the very day I returned to the city.”
“Yes. I considered calling upon you, but—”
“I saw a blond woman wading in the river with a basket that I took to be full of laundry. But there wasn’t only one boy on the cliffs above the river; there were many. And they seemed to know her.”
WHAT FINDAL TOLD THEM
WHEN KELMAN RECROSSES THE SCHUYLKILL the next morning, he chooses the bridge rather than the ferry in order to spend additional time in thought. While his horse trots across the wooden planks, a paddle steamer chugs between its open wharfs, and several small schooners bearing goods transshipped from the Delaware beat against the current. Swifts wing past the vessels at a dizzying speed. When the birds sense themselves too close to the boats or each other, they spin and bank sideways, then sail away over the liquid expanse. In the space between one river-bank and the next, it seems to Kelman that the world is now no longer man’s but nature’s. Except for a few fellow travelers, gone is the noise of the city. Gone the carters’ oaths, the vendors’ cries, the pie men, soup sellers, the quacks purveying curative elixirs, the rag and bone men, the fancy ladies hawking their stale wares.
Hidden stream, he reflects, for this is how schuylkill translates: a Dutch word for a waterway discovered while those earliest settlers explored the greater Delaware. Hidden stream, his brain repeats, and the name takes on a sinister significance as if the river were capable of intrigue. Then the bridge is crossed, and Kelman turns his horse toward the lane leading to the almshouse.
“THE BOY’S GONE DISAPPEARED WITHOUT SO much as a ripple of warning. None of the others lodging with him seem to have been aware of his plans.” As Blockley’s director speaks, he turns away from Kelman and stares out the window. His body maintains the stance of a professional man receiving an official visit, but his tone suggests the fullness of his ire. That and the jittery motion of the hands clasped at his back. His fingers never cease twisting; they look as though they’d like to work their way around a deserving neck.
“He’s run off before, of course. He may return. He may not. It’s no great loss if he chooses to keep himself at large. Like his father, he’s a schemer and as untrustworthy as the day is long. But then most of the children here are. The adults are just as bad. The elder Stokes is gone, too. Looking for work, or so he claimed. We shall see if he achieves his goals this time.” The director pauses, either to take a breath or because he’s considering the veracity of his remarks, and Kelman takes advantage of the silence.
“I’d like to interview the other inmates in the boy’s ward, if I may.”
“It won’t do you any good. They fabricate lies as willingly as they eat their suppers.”
“I understand.” A “sir” is added to this effort, but the word sounds hastily considered rather than deferential. “But perhaps they can solve the mystery of why Findal insisted he was the sole witness to the suicide and the attempted murder of the infant.”
“You’re wasting your time.” The inference is plain. The asylum’s director believes that his own precious hours are being frittered away by a misguided investigation.
“That may be, but the time is mine to use as I see fit. I believe I’ve taken too much of your morning already. I’m comfortable proceeding on my own.” Kelman awaits instructions, but the director doesn’t turn to face him.
“I’ll send for one of the warders to conduct you to the children’s asylum.” Then his voice completes this impolite dismissal with a querulous “The suicide was not a resident of Blockley.”
“I understand, sir.”
“See that you remember it. We have over fourteen hundred residents here, among them one hundred fifty-two syphilitics, twenty-four lunatics, and twenty-three epileptics. I’m sure you can appreciate that this is not an easy populace to control. There are too many malicious rumors in circulation, and I don’t intend to have the citizens of our metropolis troubled by fraudulent tales when they might instead admire our chapel, or our medical library, or the excellence of our apothecary and obstetrical ward. The reports in the penny press concerning the beef contract were most unfortunate. We serve wholesome food here, and are at pains to make certain all of it is fresh and edible.
“As to the lugubrious whispers of body snatching and so forth, they are simply unconscionable. Why, our anatomical colleges must have subjects, mustn’t they? For the betterment of mankind, our surgeons must learn their craft. And how else—?” The speech abruptly ceases. “We who labor here, Mr. Kelman, do our utmost to safeguard the poor wretches entrusted to our care.”
“Naturally.”
At that the director turns, uncertain as to his visitor’s intent. Kelman’s quiet gaze reveals nothing.
THE ASSEMBLED BOYS ARE A ragtag lot, of all ages and shapes and heights. Some have large heads supported by spindly frames; some heads are narrow and pinched; arms are long with wide and bony wrists or short with flapping hands. Their attire displays the same variety although the patches stitched to nearly every article are a constant, as is their pervading scrawniness.
If Kelman could use only one word to describe them, it would be “hungry.” Hungry not only for food but for comfort, pleasure, safety, peace. In the barn-like room in which the boys sleep, these commodities are noticeably absent. Instead, daylight chinks in through sizable cracks in the board walls; the lumpy straw mattresses are bare of covering; no toy nor book is in sight; and the warders loom, sticks in hands and grimaces upon their faces like ogres in a fairy tale. In the heat the room stinks of piss pots and excrement; in the cold of winter, Kelman surmises, the bedclothes would certainly freeze upon the boys’ backs.
“Why did Findal insist he was alone when he spotted the woman and her newborn child?” is the first question he asks. Pity and austerity war in his soul. He has no desire to harm these children, but he needs the truth.
“Oh, but he was alone, sir.” This is one of the taller boys responding. He has a high white dome of a forehead poorly covered by sparse black thatch, and his chest looks as though it were caving in on itself. He stands, or rather hulks, at the rear of the clump of children but is such an odd specimen that he’s easily distinguished. “None of us was up there on that embankment with him.”
“I have information otherwise. A witness described a number of boys accompanying Stokes.”
“Other lads than us here present,” the same boy insists.
There’s a murmur of hearty agreement at this statement, although Kelman is still regarded with apprehension.
“How did you know he was ‘up’ rather than closer to the river’s surface?”
“He told us, sir.”
“But he informed none of you where he was going when he ran away? Or even warned you beforehand?”
“Oh, no, sir. Not a word.”
“Even if they knew Findal Stokes was planning to rob the mayor’s house, they wouldn’t say,” one of the warders insists with a lazy grin. “He was by way of being their leader.”
“Would young Stokes have explained his plans to his father?” Kelman asks and is rewarded by a communal snicker as though each child were affirming that parents are no more trustworthy or amiable than these paid keepers. Unlike the almshouse’s director with his nervous hands, none of the boys make the smallest gesture as they laugh.
“Who was the woman?”
The boy with the prominent forehead and misshapen chest makes no response this time; instead, one of the shortest among them speaks up. “A lady having a baby. Findal said we must come quick if we wanted—” The words halt with a yelp of pain.
“If you wanted?” Kelman presses, but stubborn silence greets the question.
“I can get you an answer,” another warder offers. He’s an obese man with simian arms, and his exposed neck is covered with matted hair that looks like fur. “Like as not, it was mischief they had in mind. This lot always does.” He swings his club into his open palm but is afforded no reaction from his charges. A beating will not pry loose whatever secrets they’re keeping.
Kelman watches the scene and all at once experiences a leaden weariness. What does it matter what the children saw or did? The mother is assuredly drowned; the infant is already in an orphanage. And Findal Stokes, wherever he is, is probably better off without these harsh men to rule him. “No. I’ve learned enough.”
“You should query Stokes senior,” the ape guardian continues as if he were the soul of cooperation. “I can take you to him if you’d like.”
“The director informed me that he was gone. Seeking employment.”
“Seeking the bottom of a bottle, is more like it. Just as he does here. Stone-drunk Stokes. The boy will be the same. You wait.”
Kelman stares. “Strong spirits are permitted at Blockley?”
“There’s not much we can do to keep ’em out. And when we try, they make their own.”
“I see.” Kelman shakes his head and stifles a groan of frustration at a system so flawed.
“And, too, some of them poor wights is took so bad with the mania and deliriums when they come in, it’s only a kindness to let them down easy. Envision all sorts of bogeymen, they do. Monsters with fifteen legs and the like. A tot or two can’t do no harm, especially if it keeps folk in a gentle manner.” The warder grins; the stumps of his teeth are black.
“Yes, I see.” The tone is flat. Kelman turns to leave, but the shortest child speaks up again.
“If the baby dies, will the orphanage guardians cut off its skin and make it into a book?”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 4