NICHOLAS, HOWEVER, ALTHOUGH A FELLOW graduate of Princeton, was less interested in Percy’s travails than in the health of his sheep and cattle. In the years since their classroom friendship, Percy had become an urbane gentleman, and Nicholas the owner and manager of his family’s ancestral residence. Country ways suited him; silence pleased him; simple fare and ample opportunity for rumination and meditation were his necessities.
Percy, with his persistent questions about his future and his preference in brides, with his prattling on about the other young women of his acquaintance—even those of easy virtue—Nicholas quickly found as pesky and tiresome as a bluebottle fly. How could someone who found the ways of elk and bear and fox endlessly fascinating provide advice about which course to follow? Whether to recommend Percy wed Theodora Crowther or not? Or how to break off the engagement if he wished? And what fate would befall VanLennep if “society” deemed he’d acted dishonorably? Nicholas knew livestock, not the hearts and minds of ladies and their parents.
As a result of these mismatched temperaments, not thirty-six hours following Percy’s arrival in Hamburg Cove, he was urged to set forth on another journey: this time toward the wilder inland terrain where Nicholas promised spectacular scenery and abundant wild game to substitute for his friend’s many worries. When the thought of the giantess Georgine proved too terrible to tolerate, Nicholas suggested, Percy need only point a borrowed percussion rifle into the air, and an excellent supper would fall from the sky.
Unaccustomed to such rustic ways, but inspired by the romantic notion of manly and rugged tramping, and provided with a bedroll and basic cookery utensils, Percy left the cultivated fields and pastures of the Howe farm and entered the woods. Coaquan-nock, the locals called it: the “Grove of Tall Pines.” He reasoned his marriage date was many days hence, and he would have ample time to make a decision whether to wed or not, and return without Dora or her parents being aware of his escapade.
NOW, ON THE THIRD DAY into this solitary retreat, Percy is ensconced among the pines and buttonwoods and hickory, and as far from the news of urban life as anyone can be. Purple grackles swoop and argue above him; weasels and foxes scurry through the dense thickets; deer freeze and then cautiously walk on. Glimpsed through the overshadowing trees, the morning sky is blue and clear and high; the scent of earth and wildflower and honeysuckle revives the soul. There are bees; there is birdsong, and the breeze’s lullaby in the uppermost branches of the leafy boughs.
Percy hears none of this lyrical melody, however, for Percy has been badly wounded. A bullet has shattered his shoulder, spraying out so much blood and gristle and bone that his head and upper back are soaked in gore. He breathes, but the breaths are labored; he opens his eyes and sees ants and beetles scrabbling through the wet red soil. He mutters aloud; then even that whispered plea falls silent while the tall pines moan.
I CAN TELL YOU MANY A TALE
A WORD WITH YOU, SIR.” KELMAN’S voice is peremptory; it brooks no refusal or delay. Not that he imagines Luther Irwin would dare snub him, but the man is audacious and cocksure, a contentious new breed spawned by the nation’s financial crisis. He and his ilk remind Kelman less of humans than of dogs chasing after a flock of recalcitrant sheep; they’re all dodges and feints and sly nips to vulnerable places.
“Mr. Kelman.” Irwin neither tips his tall hat nor doffs it; instead, he retains the impudent air with which he departed the Crowther household not one minute past. “Were you strolling by, or did one of your spies inform you that Mr. Crowther had sent for me?”
Kelman makes no reply to the snide remark, although it’s difficult for him to conceal his irritation. “I think you and I had better work hand in hand in this matter, Irwin. A young lady’s life is at stake.”
“And has been for some time, Kelman. However, I must inform you that Mr. and Mrs. Crowther aren’t impressed with your efforts, so a partnership between us isn’t possible. In fact, Mrs. Crowther was just telling me she believed you’ve been both remiss and tardy in your hunt for their daughter, and she had no intention of contacting you—”
“Mrs. Crowther said all that?”
“The lady does have a tongue, sir. Surely she’s allowed to use it.”
“Yes, of course.” Kelman isn’t focused on Georgine Crowther’s complaints but on the fact that her drug-addled state has apparently been lifted. “The lady has been under a physician’s care; combined with her worried frame of mind, it has made her less than verbose.”
“She was talkative enough with me. But then I pride myself on having a way with the ladies. It’s one of the secrets of my trade. Please the wife, and you’ll secure the husband’s business. Now, tell me what you want of me, sir, for I’ve work to do.”
This time Kelman doesn’t disguise his ire. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you, Irwin? I needn’t remind you that an unkind word from me could end your practice.”
“With no centralized police force, I hardly believe that’s possible” is the derisive retort. “Read the penny presses if you want the truth of the matter. According to their allegations—and everyone else’s, too—the city’s gotten too big for its paltry constabulary, and the mayor needs every bit of help he can find. I needn’t remind you, sir, that our elected officials and their minions serve at the citizens’ behest. One vote could put your friends out on the street; and a man like me could occupy your office.”
Kelman studies Luther Irwin: his creaking new boots, the bold weave of his coat, its bright brass buttons, and the damnable hat tilted to one side as if its owner were either defying it to fall or feigning the studied ease of a gentleman. For a second, Kelman imagines knocking the ridiculously shiny thing to the ground, and Luther Irwin with it, but he suppresses the impulse. “A man like you, sir, cannot rise without successful outcomes to your endeavors. I propose we join forces in this instance—”
“I don’t need the aid of an inadequate—”
“If Miss Theodora Crowther is harmed, Irwin, and your agency is the sole enterprise responsible for finding her, you’ll never work again. Never. Do you understand?”
The secret service agent glares while his lips turn upward in a sneer that then quivers with a measure of doubt. “What’s your interest in this affair?” he demands in order to cover his unease. “Are you sweet on the young lady, perhaps? I’d heard tell you’d set your sights on more lucre than old man Crowther has salted away. Miss Martha Beale is who folks are saying—”
This time Kelman can’t help himself. He grabs Irwin’s shoulder. For such a long and elegant hand, it’s surprisingly strong, and Irwin winces under the pressure. “Do not mention that name again. I also advise you to speak well of your erstwhile patrons and their daughter. Now, what arrangement will you have? Do we work together? Or do I allow you to proceed with your dubious practices and risk adding to the problem—?”
“What do you mean by ‘dubious practices’?” Irwin demands as he struggles unsuccessfully to free himself.
Kelman watches the man squirm. “How do you intend to find Miss Crowther? Threaten your informers if they can’t discover where she is? Threaten their families? Cut a wide swath among your felonious friends? Spread largesse and drop hints there is more of Crowther’s ‘lucre’ to come? Or are you in on this scheme in some fashion?”
“I’m a respected businessman, sir. I’ll ask you to remember it.”
“You’re a businessman, Irwin, but ‘respect’ is not the term I would have chosen. Now, what will you have: a joint effort, or certain failure on your part?”
For all his bravado, all his swagger and jeering, Luther turns sulky and defensive in a moment. “I have nothing to do with Dora’s disappearance,” he mumbles.
“Good. Then we’ll work in unison. I suggest you learn to refer to the young lady as Miss Theodora. You may believe you’ve won the mother’s heart, but she doesn’t take kindly to inappropriate intimacies. She can be a veritable tiger when she wishes. Now, tell me what you have.”
&n
bsp; Luther Irwin then proceeds to do so, recounting, albeit sourly, how the under-maid found the daguerreotype wrapped in a letter, how Crowther summoned him, and how he discussed the case with the young woman’s parents—although not Miss Lydia, who remained “secluded in her chambers upstairs”—and finally producing the same missive for Kelman to peruse. “Georg—Mrs. Crowther wanted to keep the portrait.”
“Naturally” is Kelman’s terse reply before he examines the message … ten thousand dollars to be concealed within a basket of discarded ladies’ linen, and left on the front steps of a house at the southwest corner of Sixth and Lombard Streets at seven tomorrow morning. No earlier, and no later. The note attached must read: A gift to be distributed among the poor. Kelman looks up. “I know the address. It’s a fancy house belonging to a madam by the name of Dutch Kat.”
“That’s right,” Irwin says, but the tone remains bitter.
“I wonder what her connection to this situation is, because the address can’t be a random choice.”
“My opinion exactly. Though I can’t see Kat getting involved in any traffic as illicit and complex as this. She’s no longer a young woman—and a fairly simpleminded one at that. I used to believe she was dim-witted on account of her being a Dutchie and not having a perfect grasp of our lingo. Now I’m not sure. She may be as cunning as they come. These Dutchmen are hard to judge, aren’t they? They pinch their pennies and grow jealous of each one you stash away in your own pockets.”
Kelman considers the assessment. It’s clear he’s of a similar opinion regarding Kat’s character, if not of her fellow countrymen’s. “I think it would behoove me to make a visit there.”
“Crowther was insistent that I involve no one” is the hurried answer. “None of my men. Just me. You’ll notice those are the letter’s instructions. ‘No person is to observe said house, nor linger close at hand. To do so will risk your daughter’s life. Be forewarned, or you will not see her alive again.’” Irwin recites the concluding directives from memory, then, surprisingly, waits for Kelman to speak as if hoping that the tall, grave man can supply advice.
Instead, Kelman doesn’t reply for a minute or two. “Ten thousand dollars is a goodly sum to raise in a single day,” he eventually offers. “Or in a lifetime for most men in our city. And I’m perplexed that the number has escalated so rapidly. Yesterday, the price was one thousand dollars. Too little for someone of Crowther’s station. But this is a fortune.”
Irwin ignores this observation. “I’m ordered to return to the house this afternoon and accompany Mr. Crowther to Unger’s bank, where he’ll withdraw the money—as per a letter he wrote and dispatched in my presence. Then I’ll escort him home to make certain no common thief robs him. Crowther and his wife will assemble the contents of the basket themselves, and the husband will bear it to the address indicated tomorrow—”
“Alone?”
“He was emphatic about being viewed as a solitary figure. In truth, there’s scant likelihood that footpads or cutpurses will be abroad at such an early hour. The only company Mr. Crowther may encounter is farmers bringing their produce to market, or the rounds made by other comestible purveyors.”
“I’ll make certain that the most senior members of the watch are laid on,” Kelman says, “but I’ll instruct them to keep their distance.”
“I’m afraid if Crowther spots them, he’ll be exceedingly angry. He told me several times that his only wish was to have his daughter alive and well and residing in her home again. The money, he said, was nothing compared to that desire.”
Kelman releases an uneasy sigh. “He’s playing into their hands,” he states at length. “I fear for the remainder of the populace if such crimes are so easily worked.” After another heavy silence, he adds a pensive “Mr. and Mrs. Crowther have had no news of Percy VanLennep yet, have they?”
“None. I called at VanLennep’s home yesterday and was told by his manservant that he had no notion where his master had gone. The fellow was downright disrespectful. I put him in his place.”
Kelman doesn’t comment on this news, although he made an identical inquiry of the same person and was willingly supplied with a list of VanLennep’s gentlemen acquaintances. These men, Kelman proceeded to write to. Three have yet to respond, but one—a Nicholas Howe—lives in such seclusion that it’s uncertain how often he receives his correspondence. The servant also stated that his master seemed “distracted and not himself” when he departed from his home.
None of this information does Kelman impart. Nor does he tell Irwin that he believes the Crowthers’ second letter had a different author than the first. Instead, he asks an oblique “Did you see the initial missive, by any chance?”
“No, but from the looks of the writing on this one, I’d say our man is a learned fellow.”
“Or a hired scribe—of which the city has plenty.”
“Ah, yes … That could be. That could be.” To cover his gaffe, Irwin poses another question. This time his voice is full of forced conviviality. “So, what do you make of young VanLennep’s disappearing act, Kelman?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Well, Crowther’s dead set against him, it would seem. Not the missus, however. Odd as it may sound, it occurred to me that our Percy could be involved in this peculiar plot—that maybe the young couple ran away to wed in secret because Papa had changed his mind. But it would be a mighty cruel prank they’re playing. Writing the parents while pretending to be someone else.”
“It would be, yes” is the somber reply, and Irwin continues with a blustery:
“I decided my notion was faulty, though. The family was robbed, after all; and in the exact same manner as the other burglaries. So I’m guessing it’s a straightforward matter. The criminals were caught in the act by Dora—”
“Miss Theodora.”
“Yes. By Miss Theodora, who then—”
Kelman interrupts again. “Very interesting, sir, but I must bid you good day. As you previously stated, you have work to do. And I have my own matters to attend to.”
“DON’T KNOW A THING ABOUT her except what our daily gazettes and such like have been reporting. And the fact that she disappeared down a rabbit hole.” Dutch Kat laughs at what she believes is a saucy jest while continuing to regard Thomas Kelman with a professional leer. The practiced expression sags in places, though, just as her full face does. As Luther Irwin stated, the madam of Dutch Kat’s House for Ladies of Pleasure is past her prime.
“I’ve no information on any wayward laundry basket overflowing with lucre, neither. Unless you’re suggesting I look like a laundress—which I sincerely hope you’re not.” Kat chortles heartily again, wriggling her thick shoulders for emphasis. Rice powder clots upon the exposed skin above her bosom, and the smell that envelops her is the cloying scent of too much patchouli applied to little-washed flesh. Kelman is reminded of her earlier boast that a “French gentleman” had told her she was as “ripe as a Holland cheese.” It was obvious she’d taken the words as a compliment and hadn’t considered that cheese can have an offensive aroma.
“But I can tell you many a tale about the great and lesser men in this city, Mr. Kelman,” she continues with a stagy wink. “Many a tale, and not all of them pretty. Or polite and dignified, neither.”
“About Harrison Crowther, do you mean?”
At the name, Dutch Kat turns stiff as a carpenter’s board. The unwitting reaction takes a moment to undo, and unexpected color fills her face—true color, not the painted vermilion spots on her doughy cheeks. “About Percy VanLennep. That’s the gent I meant.”
When Kelman makes no reply, Kat sashays away from his side and calls out to someone hidden behind the heavy drapery that conceals a door leading to the house’s kitchen and larder. “Boy! Bring some refreshment for my guest and me. A little fortified wine. Some preserved fruit, too. The sugared plums. And that box of elegant confections one of last night’s gentlemen presented to our Chloe.”
“Not
hing for me, thank you, madam,” Kelman tells her, which produces a cackle before Kat shouts again for the unseen servant and rescinds the order.
“Madam! I do admire how you say the word. You make me sound like a regular gentlewoman. I’ll have to hire me a carriage and footman next, and order up some of them cartes de visites so I can go a-calling upon my elegant friends—”
“What can you tell me about Percy VanLennep?”
Her gap-toothed grin is replaced by a businesswoman’s level appraisal. “He likes his ladies young but experienced. Appreciative, too, if you get my meaning—”
“So he’s one of your customers?”
“Why else would I know about him if he weren’t?” Kat tilts her head; her once-yellow curls that are now a thatch of gray, citrine yellow, and henna pink clump together like a dusty mop. “You’re thinking he could aim higher, are you, Mr. Kelman? So he could. There are more exclusive properties: Madame Sylvester’s on Wood Street, or Mrs. Jennie Nettleton in that discreet little manse she keeps on Pine. But then he’d be encountering his acquaintances, wouldn’t he? And the fathers of his peers.”
“Like Crowther.”
Again the name works a miracle on Kat. “I wouldn’t know nothing about him. Aside from what I’ve read.”
These statements Kelman recognizes as lies. “Is that a fact?”
“Young VanLennep notwithstanding, my girls don’t service every rich gent in the city. No matter how much I like to boast about their winning charms and graces.” Following this declaration, the madam clamps her lips shut, placing her arms akimbo and planting her feet as if daring Kelman to prise further information from her.
“If I find you’re involved in this affair, madam, it will go hard with you. You understand that, don’t you? Conspiring with kidnappers is no better than committing the act.”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 13