Becky’s feet bear her out through her door and down the staircase before she can consider the consequences of her actions. When she reaches the closed door to his study, she doesn’t pause a second but presses the latch and throws open the heavy wood. “William, I must—!”
It’s not Taitt who gazes defiantly back at her, however, but a boy who appears no more than six or seven. His face and clothes are covered in soot, which also bemires the carpet; and the hearth, dormant in the summery heat, looks as though a wind had rushed down the chimney bearing with it the detritus of every fire that had burned within it. In the child’s hands is clutched one of William’s precious leather-bound folios.
Another woman might have screamed or even fainted; most would certainly have fled the place, but not Becky Grey.
“You! Put that down!” The loud rebuke almost makes the boy obey. He wavers for a second. “Sneak down the chimney, will you? And enter my house! I think not!”
She grabs for him, but the child shimmies away, his eyes owlish in amazement that this cumbersome woman would attempt to catch him. “We had thieves like you in London. Nests, they were called. And I won’t have a nest of such odious individuals sneaking in here.” Becky notices that the boy is stealthily regarding the door through which she entered and angles her body to prevent his escape. Every ounce of indignation enkindled during the previous hour energizes her. “I’ve got you now.”
The boy is too wily for her however. With a deft thrust, he hurls the pilfered book at her, hitting her square in her swollen belly, then flies toward a window. Too late, she realizes the sash is open. Despite the knifing pain in her abdomen she hurries after the fleeing urchin, then peers into the night. As much as she looks or listens, there’s no sight or sound of human life. The boy has vanished, leaving only smudged black footprints upon the windowsill and trampled earth below it.
Becky turns back to her husband’s room and gasps at the scene of chaos that greets her. Surprising the small thief, she was so focused upon capturing him that she didn’t realize how thoroughly he’d performed his task. Every drawer is open; every cabinet door hangs ajar. What remains of William Taitt’s library is scattered across the floor; the other costly objects he displayed with such pride appear to be gone. Certainly all the silver is.
“Oh,” she groans, then sinks down upon a settee. If I hadn’t been engaged in histrionics I would have heard the noise earlier. This couldn’t have been the work of one boy, but of a gang: the smallest child to enter through the chimney, the others to wait until the window was unlatched—just as they did in London. Oh, how outraged William will be when he returns home. As he should be … As she justifies her husband’s anger, she realizes that her former fame will be to blame; she will have brought undue attention upon the house, or consorted with unsavory characters.
Then she remembers her lost reticule and the man in St. Peter’s churchyard. She groans again, shutting her eyes until she becomes aware of another unpleasant sensation. There’s a stickiness between her legs that she instantly recognizes as blood. With no practical knowledge of birthing babies, Becky intuitively understands that this is a dangerous sign. She cradles her heavy belly and forces herself to her feet. I’ll ring for my maid and have her send for the accoucheur. Surely my time is not yet come.
With determined steps she crosses the carpet. Her shoulders are straight, her neck held high; she feels she’s acting the part of a queen sentenced to death. There must be a remedy I can consume to set things aright. She strides to the bell pull in order to alert the sleeping staff. Not once does she consider what else the gypsy foretold: that she would be no mother.
BUT WORSE IS TO COME
THEY SAY THE ACCOUCHEUR WAS summoned in the dead of night, and that despite her ministrations, Mrs. Taitt and her unborn child remain in precarious health. When the husband returned home, there was such a commotion—what with the servants running about, and the night watch and constable surveying every window—that Mr. Taitt imagined he’d entered the wrong house. Imagine that, Miss Beale, not knowing your own home!”
Martha makes no reply to the voluble commentary, nor has she for the past seven minutes. Instead, she sips her morning tea, nibbles another piece of now-cold toast, and allows her glance to return to one of the office ledgers she’s been perusing while taking her morning meal. All the while, Miss Pettiman stands before her, as inflexible as a soldier at attention—if a soldier were clad in wide black skirts and a starched apron that reaches from shoulder to shoes. Clasped in the woman’s right hand is a book, which is purportedly the reason for this interview, although she has yet to refer to it, so anxious is she to discuss the spectacular tale of the previous night.
“But imagine a nest of burglars! Like vipers! And climbing down the chimney to make their mischief! They say that when Mr. Taitt examined the scene his wrath was so great that his reaction was to blame his—”
Martha, at last, interrupts. All morning she’s been subjected to the same gossip; her lady’s maid was full of the story—who had it from the cook, who, in turn, had it from the egg man, who’d sworn he’d visited the Taitt household himself. “Miss Pettiman, I would rather not discuss these intimate details. I’m heartily sorry the couple has been thus afflicted, but we do them a disservice by bandying about rumor and conjecture.”
“Oh!” is the tight-lipped reply. “I would never engage in spreading rumors, Miss Beale. I simply mention the robbery as a warning. If the Taitts are targets of such an invasion, then imagine what might befall the daughter of a financier as famed as Lemuel Beale—”
“Do you suggest we block up each of our chimney flues?” Martha almost smiles at the notion but stifles the impulse.
“I fear, Miss Beale, that you are not sufficiently concerned about this matter.”
“I assure you I am. But a city as populous as ours will always have thieves—”
“If you’re not worried about your own safety, madam, you might think of Ella and little Caspar. Anything could happen to them. It’s not uncommon for the children of the prosperous to be—”
“Thank you, Miss Pettiman, I will consider everything you’ve told me. Now, you wished to discuss a certain lesson book? Let us examine it, for I would like to conclude this conversation before I leave the house.” Martha settles her face into a reasonable expression, but the effort isn’t easy. It won’t be enough for Cai or Ella to envision ghosts spiraling through the chimneys; now the flues will be inhabited by real boys with ropes and grappling hooks and souls as black as their sooty faces. “It’s Mr. McGuffey’s Reader, perhaps?”
“Yes. McGuffey’s Rhetorical Guide,” the nursery maid corrects in her loftiest manner. If the mistress finds her servant’s character flawed, Miss Pettiman also believes her employer is imperfect. She refuses to conform to the norm, is careless in her choice of friendships, and, worse, insists on entering the business affairs of men. In Miss Pettiman’s view, women like Martha Beale do not wed because no true gentlemen will have them.
“What is it about the Rhetorical Guide that troubles you?” Martha pushes aside the ledger and her lukewarm tea.
“It’s too eclectic. Young minds need rigor and moral guidance, not poetry and fanciful tales—”
“Ella read one of the stories to me: ‘Little Victories.’ I found it exceedingly—”
“The children should have the primers popular in New England, as well as Noah Webster’s History. They should be studying pious observations and fact, rather than—”
“Thank you,” Martha interrupts as she stands. “I will review your suggestions.”
But Miss Pettiman isn’t easily dismissed. “The present generation is too indulgent when guiding children. Such laxity cannot help but cultivate crime. You and I won’t be safe in our beds—”
“That may be, but let us take care not to express those fears to the children. Their youngest days weren’t easy. I want them to feel they live in a safe and loving place now.”
The nursery maid accept
s the rebuke with eyes grown as frosty as her graying hair. “I’ve taken too much of your time, madam.” She places the offending book on the table, curtsies, and prepares to leave the room, but Martha calls her back.
“Miss Pettiman, I must caution you not to mention the Taitt burglary to Ella or Cai. The best of intentions, which I know you have, can be misunderstood. And if you overhear other servants discussing it when the children are present, please remind them of my wishes. Cai, especially, is harmed by overstimulation of his imagination.”
AS THE DAY PASSES, HOWEVER, and the next and the one following that, it begins to appear that Miss Pettiman’s fears are justified. The Washington Square home of Professor Ilsley and his wife is robbed, as are two neighboring residences. Every penny paper and broadsheet trumpets the reports, sparing no detail of stricken family members, or the value of each lost object. Even the staid Philadelphia Gazette and Commercial Intelligencer devotes two full inches of editorial space to warning its readers about a “dangerous nest of burglars at work in the city.”
But worse news is to come, for the traffic in stolen goods suddenly takes on a human face when Dora Crowther is found to be missing from her home.
“AND NO ONE IN THE household was aware until this morning that your daughter wasn’t in her rooms?” Thomas Kelman sits in the Crowthers’ withdrawing room, ignoring the tea he’s been served as he seeks to understand the calamity that has befallen the family. “What hour was that?”
“It was her maid who alerted us,” Georgine tells him. Her eyes are so swollen they’re nearly shut, and her ruddy face has turned a splotchy, unhealthy white. “She took up the hot water for Theodora’s morning ablutions at half past seven as she always does, and found her mistress gone and a number of her possessions also missing. It wasn’t until later that we discovered this room had been ransacked, as well.” A sob attacks Georgine, but she does nothing to suppress it. Instead, she moans afresh, shifting her considerable weight on the divan, which creaks in protest. Opposite her, on the matching settee, Crowther and his aunt watch in immutable silence, like painted statues of themselves.
“At the risk of posing an insensitive question, is it possible that Miss Crowther decided to leave your house of her own volition—”
“Her own?” Georgine echoes while her husband interjects a nearly inaudible:
“You’re asking if she ran away from her home?”
“Yes, sir, that’s my meaning.”
“Why would she do such a thing?” Georgine demands. “She’s engaged to be married, and to a most eligible young man. A gentleman of her own choosing. A VanLennep, in fact. Percy VanLennep.” Dora’s mother’s voice is verging on the shrill.
Kelman turns back to the husband. “Has her betrothed been informed of the situation?”
“I sent word to his residence, but our footman was told he wasn’t at home. Naturally, I didn’t wish to impart disquieting news in a letter.”
Kelman accepts the information and nods. “That was considerate of you, sir, although I’m afraid the story’s already in circulation. Your servants may be discreet, but your neighbors are probably less so. Additionally, any tradespeople with business near your residence would have queried this morning’s presence of the constabulary.” Then he adds a hesitant “And none in Mr. VanLennep’s household had seen your daughter? Either last night or early this morning?”
“Dora didn’t run away!” Georgine fairly shrieks. “She would never shame us like that! She’s been stolen, sir! Stolen just like the objects that were in her rooms! And this chamber, too!”
“My dear, let us allow Mr. Kelman to proceed with his inquiry. He’s the professional in this matter, not we.”
“But why would Dora run off to join Percy when they’re about to be properly wed? Why would she do such a silly thing? Or are you going to declare that she left our house and also robbed us?” Then Georgine’s head sinks toward her chest. “These people must be stopped,” she murmurs at length.
“I intend to do everything in my power to achieve that goal, Mrs. Crowther” is Kelman’s steady reply. “As will the day and night watches, and our city constables and sheriffs.”
No one speaks for several more moments. The tea service continues untouched; the normal sounds that resonate through a household—the footsteps of upstairs maids, the opening and closing of windows, the airing of bedclothes, the dull hum of the kitchen and butler’s pantry signaling the beginning of luncheon preparations—are absent, as if those homely chores were also left untouched and unattended.
“I’d like to examine your daughter’s chambers, if I might,” Kelman eventually requests, “and speak to the maid who discovered her mistress gone.” He looks to Harrison Crowther for permission, but the man merely gazes dumbly back while his wife, lips curled in disgust, responds:
“That girl is as dull-witted as a newborn calf. She’ll tell you no more than we have already. Mr. Crowther and I have described Dora’s rooms. You need only consider the damage the thieves wrought in this space to imagine what vile work they carried out upstairs.” As Georgine concludes this rant, her husband seems to recall himself.
“I’m sure Mr. Kelman makes the request in order to aid his investigation—”
“I don’t want strangers entering Theodora’s chambers, Harrison!” she cries out, and Kelman marks the dismay the improper use of her husband’s given name causes her. “Mr. Crowther, please. It would be altogether wrong. A young lady, unwed—”
“My dear, if we wish to solve this mystery we must submit to Mr. Kelman’s request. After all, it’s the mayor of our metropolis who dispatched him.”
“But shouldn’t we … shouldn’t we be ordering Dora’s rooms tidied for her return rather than permitting inappropriate people to wander about and ‘examine’ them? Think how upset our daughter would be at the intrusion!”
“All in good time, my dear. And Mr. Kelman is hardly ill suited for the task.” Harrison stands while his wife, his domineering wife, regards him with the meekness of a child, letting her gaze linger upon his boxy form as if she cannot bear to be parted from him for a moment. “Mr. Kelman, sir. If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you upstairs. My wife and aunt will remain below.”
THE CHAMBERS TO WHICH HARRISON Crowther conducts Kelman are not what he expected, and he has visited a great many places where crimes have been committed. True, there’s some disarray: Several drawers in the chest-on-chest jut out at disconcerting angles as if hastily searched; and the doors to the armoire hang open, revealing the airy pastels and laces a young lady like Theodora would favor. The remainder of the scene, though, is calm. Save for the bed the maid apparently prepared the previous evening but that her mistress merely sat upon—and impatiently, too, Kelman surmises, for the bedclothes bear the print of scurrying fingers—the other furnishings appear untouched.
The escritoire with its inkwell and a nicked wooden ruler that must have been a schoolday tool seems ready to receive Dora’s latest correspondence. The washstand with its porcelain bowl painted with pink posies seems to await a pitcher of hot water. The marble mantel is still hung with bits of ribbons, a showy feather from a peacock’s tail, several cartes de visite, and two elegantly penned invitations that are clearly cherished possessions.
Tears begin wetting Harrison Crowther’s cheeks as he stands at Kelman’s side. He does nothing to dab them away.
“It’s not necessary for you to remain with me, sir,” Kelman tells him.
“No, no … I need to be here. Dora would wish it—” The effort at speech fails.
Kelman studies the surface of the chest-on-chest, cataloging what the thieves left behind: a silver hairbrush, but no comb and mirror; an enamel portrait of a young woman who he expects must be Lydia Crowther in her prime, but the armature that held the picture is gone, as are the contents of what must have been a small box of jewelry. Despite the apparent thefts, there’s an orderliness to the apartment that Kelman finds odd. Wouldn’t Dora have fought her abductor? he wonde
rs. Shouldn’t there be a trace of a struggle? Was she simply surprised and overwhelmed, or is there another conclusion I’m missing?
“Miss Crowther’s maid found the room exactly as it is now?”
“Exactly. At least, I believe this is how she found it. When she summoned my wife and me to Dora’s chambers, this was the picture that greeted us.”
Kelman nods in thought, then pauses, measuring his words. “Mr. Crowther, there’s a matter I didn’t wish to mention when we were with the ladies as I felt they would find it too distasteful.”
When the father makes no reply, Kelman continues. “If your daughter has indeed been abducted, sir, rather than perhaps eloping—”
“Not our Dora. She would never—”
“Hear me out, sir, please. We’ll need to return to the ladies soon, and this subject must be broached. Now, if this is a criminal offense, and your daughter was taken against her will, you should expect a message from her captors stating as much. As well as a demand for remuneration.”
“Remuneration,” Harrison echoes.
“Yes, sir. You’ll be instructed to provide monies in payment for your daughter’s return—”
“Oh,” Crowther gasps, but Kelman perseveres as if there had been no interruption.
“You’ll also be warned to keep information regarding the directive private; however, I urge you to contact me at once.”
“Contact you?” The question reveals both skepticism and disbelief.
“Yes, sir. The moment you receive any missive that mentions your daughter.”
“Money for my child,” Harrison repeats in the same dull tone. “Who would be so base as to embark on such a diabolical scheme?”
“Crimes are not committed by godly men, I’m afraid, Mr. Crowther.”
The father falls silent, and Kelman continues his investigation. “Miss Lydia Crowther’s rooms are below these?”
“Yes, directly below.” Harrison stares at his feet, and his face bears an expression of such intense sorrow that Kelman wonders whether the man is wishing his aunt had been the victim rather than his daughter. “The house is really two joined into one. This rear section is older, which accounts for its varying levels and the quaintness of the rooms. My wife and I reside in the newer space.”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 6