“Ooof, what a stink. There’s dead flesh buried here sure as sure. Long buried, too.” She gasps as she nears the submerged hand, but before she can retreat, the crumbly carbon mound shifts, sending a roar down the alley as the lumps begin cascading downward, trapping the girl’s feet and ankles while simultaneously unveiling the purple-white face and body of Dora Crowther.
YOU MUST BELIEVE ME
WHAT WERE YOU DOING IN the alley?” Kelman demands, but the girl and her brother refuse to regard him, keeping their eyes pinned to the floorboards at their feet. In a neighboring room in the Moyamensing Prison, they can hear a man being interrogated. Despite the stout walls of the new county jail, the sounds of shouts and blows have reached their worried ears. Screams, too. Listening, the girl shivers on the wooden bench, and Kelman must repeat the question, raising his voice and speaking with such authority that the elder sibling jolts as if she’s been struck.
“Talking to a gentleman. Just like I told your constable—”
“And his name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Stealing coal is more like it, sir,” the constable tosses in. “Beggars like these.” He’s standing behind the pair’s bench, and pacing back and forth as though they were livestock requiring constant prodding and poking. He has another odd manner, too, which the girl first noticed when he marshaled her and her little brother along Reed Street and up the prison’s exterior steps toward the huge stone portal: He throws his wrists and hands backward as though tossing away bad fish. As the trio passed beneath a wall bedecked with such a fanciful display of battlements, turrets, and high and narrow windows that she considered it might be a painted stage design, she wondered at the man’s peculiar habit and whether its cause was disgust or fear. Not that she said anything, for she was determined to remain as incommunicative as possible. Gabbing with the police was a guarantee of trouble.
“If I hadn’t come running, sir, the entire populace of the dockyards would have swarmed in, pocketed the fuel, and probably trampled the corpse in their greed.”
“We weren’t stealing!” the boy’s ruined face squeaks. “Sister was—” She lands him such a kick to his shin that the words vanish with a yowl of pain. “Tell no one our real names or what we were about in that place,” she’d warned in a whisper the moment the watch appeared and cordoned off the fateful alley. “Let me speak, and you keep silent. If you don’t, you’ll have us both hanged for killing this poor lady.”
“Your sister must be called by something else,” Kelman observes. The voice is quieter now but no less commanding, although pity softens its edges as he speaks to this ugly child.
“Anne, sir,” the girl lies. The sound is bright, defiant. “And this here’s John.”
The newly dubbed John frowns in his crooked manner. It pains Kelman to watch him. “Well, John, my lad. What were you doing amongst those coal cobbles?”
“Looking for magic” is the mumbled reply.
“And how can that be, I ask you, sir?” his sister interjects. “He can be quite daft at times.”
“But you said—”
“Hush your tongue! You see how it is, sir. A poor mite such as him. We wasn’t up to no harm. I told you that, as I told the constable before.”
“John and Anne” is Kelman’s sole reply. “You have no surnames?”
“None that I know of.” She squeezes her brother’s hand until he nods in agreement.
“And no parents?”
“Not at present, sir.”
The reply obviously bothers the little boy, but his sister gives him a fierce look, then adds a definitive “None that we live with, sir.”
Kelman studies her. “Your complexion is darker than most. Darker than your brother’s—”
“It’s on account of my falling into that mammoth coal heap, sir. My clothes is all bemired, too. John kept his distance. Despite his looks, he can use his noggin at times.”
Kelman bends down to the child. “Do you know a boy by the name of Findal Stokes, lad?”
John shakes his head no.
“Or his father of the same name, perhaps? He gives work to small lads like you. And clever ones, too.”
“You see, sister. I told you I was clever—”
But the girl’s steely voice interrupts. “My brother works for nobody, sir. He’s too little, isn’t he? And oftentimes sickly, as well, on account of a misfortune that befell him when he was but a wee thing. I’d be a bad relative if I made him earn his own keep.”
“So the body of the young woman who was discovered buried in the coal was a surprise to you?”
“An awful surprise, sir, as I said. More like a nightmare, really. Imagine, seeing a lady trapped in that unlikely spot.”
Kelman’s dark eyes stare, and this time the girl returns his gaze without flinching or dodging her glance toward the floor or the umbrous corners of the room. The noise in the adjoining chamber has ceased, and an eerie silence has replaced it. The thoroughfares of Reed and Passyunk streets with their carters, hawkers, and rag-and-bone men might as well not exist.
“Perhaps you don’t appreciate the peril you’re in. The young woman you discovered was abducted from her home by a man who runs a band of thieves. Small boys are his accomplices, and for all I know, girls your age, as well.”
She bites back her tears. “We didn’t do nothing, sir. You must believe us. We found that lady, is all—”
“I did, sister. Not you! I was the one who—”
“Hush, boy.”
“But I did, and you didn’t believe me when I told you about the—”
The girl sighs. It’s clear that she would do more if there weren’t two grim-faced gentlemen present. “All right, sir, I will explain why we were in that unfortunate alley. I needed money for our upkeep, and the docks are a good place for a lass like me to pick up a few coins. I’m sorry if I don’t know this other gent you make mention of, and I don’t like John to hear me telling you what I just did, for he’s young and impressionable. But there’s the truth of the matter.”
“Oh!” her brother gulps, “but you said—”
“You see, sir? It were better he didn’t know. But there you have it.”
“And how old are you to be attempting that trade?”
“Old enough, sir” is the resolute answer. “Old enough.”
Kelman’s tight lips curl in distaste and defeat; then he looks over the girl’s shoulder at the constable, who has now ceased his endless parade. “You and your brother certainly made enough noise on account of your discovery. You would have thought you’d witnessed the young lady’s murder.”
“It was the surprise, sir. The surprise, is all.” As she speaks, she can’t help but picture the scene again: the lady jouncing down the coal heap, her white skin swollen and gray, her fair hair full of noxious dust, and her eyes … Her eyes … As she remembers, Anne’s eyelids jitter, and this small tic Kelman notices immediately.
“Do you know who murdered Miss Crowther?” he demands.
“No” is the adamant reply. Then she closes her lips and refuses to say any more.
Kelman signals to the constable. “Take them both away.”
“The lad to be kept in custody, too, sir?”
Kelman nods. The gesture is curt but his expression pained. “Where else is he to go? We can’t turn him out on the streets if we hold the girl for further questioning. Besides, I feel something crucial is missing in this tale—”
“It isn’t, sir! It isn’t,” the girl protests, but Kelman overrides her.
“If the city has been turned upside down hunting for Miss Crowther, Constable, then how is it that two wandering children can happen upon her body—?”
“That’s just how it was, sir. A bit of ill luck on our parts. If we hadn’t ventured into that—”
“Magic!” John crows. “It were magic! Like the prayer Mam liked to—”
This outburst only earns him a cuffing from his sister. The blow is stronger than intended and sends hi
m tumbling backward off the bench and into the wall, where his mouth opens in a wail of pain and protest.
“You’re just like him, you are! Hitting me whenever you fancy—”
“Shut your lips—”
“I won’t! I won’t! I won’t! Like him! Like him. Like him.”
“Who’s ‘him,’ lad? Stokes, is that who you mean?”
“Stop it, brother. Stop it now.”
“Like him. Like him. Like him!” the boy continues to bellow, causing his sister to leap at him, grabbing his shoulders and commencing to shake him into silence. The constable’s flaccid hands dart out to rescue the brother while Kelman just as quickly drags away his sibling.
By now she’s also screaming, but her hands, instead of beating against Kelman or her brother or the constable, begin to strike her own body. “Don’t keep us here, sir. Don’t keep us shut up in this cruel place. I can take care of the lad. I can. Haven’t I been doing it all these days? And don’t send us to Blockley, neither. They’ll separate us, and who knows what evil will befall us in that cruel place.” Her sobs increase until they become a hiccoughing babble. “Queen of angels … Holy Mother … Sancta Dei Genitrix—”
“Take them away, Constable. And feed them something nutritious before you find a place for them to sleep.”
“Not Blockley, sir! Don’t send us there. Please, sir. Please.”
Left alone, Kelman leans against a wall. Weariness weighs him down. Then he rises and slowly makes his way back into the noisome city.
“BUT IT’S THE TRUTH, I tell you,” Percy pants between winces of pain while his friend dresses the wound with a poultice of slippery elm bark and pieces of charcoal crushed from the camp-fire that Percy had either fortuitously or foolishly allowed to burn out on its own. “A man shot me in the shoulder. I saw him take aim. I imagined it was another target he was hunting until I felt the …” Percy grimaces again, then grunts his supreme discomfort. “Must you inflict that awful thing upon me?”
“I must. Until I can get you home, and send for someone more experienced in medical practices than I.”
“Will I die, Nicholas?”
Howe permits himself a wry smile. “Not from this, I don’t imagine.”
“But it’s serious, isn’t it? The hole, I mean?”
“Not as dire as it first appeared. Can you stand, Percy?”
“Oh, I don’t believe so.”
“I’m afraid you must if you want more professional treatment than a hastily constructed poultice.” Howe grasps his friend around the chest and drags him to his knees.
“Oh, Nicholas, no! This is agony.”
“You have no other choice. You must walk with me.”
“Isn’t there a cart you can send for?”
“We’re not in the city, VanLennep, and can’t avail ourselves of servants to dispatch hither and yon. I could leave you and make my way home and return with some means of carrying you, but that effort would take twice as long.”
Percy stares at the grasses surrounding them and at the trees that seem to stretch out interminably: alder, scrub oak, birch, and pine as far as the eye can see. “I simply cannot—”
“You must.” The asperity of this statement is softened only slightly by Howe’s tone. “Now, stand up and let us go. If we retrace my route we have only a couple of hours before we reach the farm’s outer pastureland.”
While Percy struggles to put one foot in front of another, Howe keeps up a steady stream of conversation whose sole aim is to encourage his friend’s forward motion. “It’s not shameful to have accidentally injured yourself. You’re inexperienced and—”
“But I didn’t, Nicholas. A man—”
“Yes, I know. A mystery hunter. Or a would-be assassin, I should say.” Howe’s voice remains jovial, but Percy halts, drawing himself into as indignant a pose as he can.
“A man attempted to kill me. Why you find this a source for jesting is most peculiar.”
“Well, I’m glad he did such a terrible job” is the rejoinder as Nicholas again half pushes, half pulls Percy along.
“You must believe me, Howe.”
“I will.”
“No. Now. You must believe me now.”
“Oh, Lord, VanLennep, don’t you city folk ever tire of existing in a state of heightened drama—?” The query is only partly formed when Howe interrupts his own words. “I forgot. The reason I came searching for you … A letter from an official named Thomas Kelman. Your fiancee has disappeared. Abducted from her home, it would seem.”
“Dora—?” Percy gasps out. “Dora, what?”
“I apologize, VanLennep. I should have been gentler in breaking such disconcerting news. And she may have been found by now.”
“But—?”
“Let us keep walking, Percy. I can tell you no more. Perhaps Kelman’s letter will reveal information you can understand better than I.”
“Oh, but Howe, I must go back there at once!”
“Back—?”
“To Philadelphia. If what this Kelman fellow writes is true and Dora’s missing, then I mustn’t tarry here. Don’t you see—?”
“Percy. A moment ago, you felt unfit to travel to my farm. Surely you can’t be suggesting sailing all the way to Philadelphia. We shall write the gentleman and explain. And as I said, perhaps—”
“No! I must go. Today. At once. Or as soon as we can procure a boat—”
“You’re in no shape for a ride on the river—”
“You’ll come with me, won’t you, Nicholas? Won’t you?”
A MISUNDERSTANDING
AS KELMAN DEPARTS THE YELLOW-GRAY temple to justice that’s Moyamensing Prison he doesn’t pause, as his two young prisoners did, to wonder at its massive columns and epic balustrades, or its central tower and flanking turrets, or even to question how a bellicose evocation of ancient warring Egypt and medieval Europe could have been built in a city whose foundation was the peaceable ideal of freedom of worship. Instead, he ignores the structure and its darker significance and sets his path toward the Crowthers’ home in order to deliver the terrible news that the body of their beloved daughter has been recovered.
The intermittent rain that started the day has resumed, spitting at him in fits and starts while he plunges along, heedless of the drops beading up on his tall beaver hat or dripping from his black coat. At this hour of the afternoon and because of the stormy clouds swirling above, the commerce of the city has slowed and the streets have grown bare of peddlers and carts. Their absence lends the byways an uneasy quiescence, as though a savage beast were lurking close by and none but the foolish and unwary would dare venture abroad.
In fact, Kelman realizes, there is such a creature. Someone who would hide a body in a mountain of coal believing that the weight and pull of the substance combined with its desiccating properties would render the corpse unrecognizable—while that person would also make a handsome profit from the crime.
He clenches his teeth and strides northward, passing Ellsworth Street, League, Kimball, Carpenter, Christian—that name arrests him. Do we learn nothing, his thoughts demand, we humans who claim to believe in the Divine? From one generation, one century to the next, do we merely slither about, snatching what we want, beating down those who stand in our way, hoarding, snarling, hating? Can we never look up into the heavens and cry: Forgive me! I have sinned and will sin no more. I’ve harmed my neighbor, my child, my spouse, and can no longer exist within the burden of my cruelty. I seek atonement. I repent. I, who have granted none in my life, beg for mercy.
But there are no answers to be found to these queries, and so he moves on until he reaches the corner of Fitzwater and Sixth streets, where his footsteps again halt. This was the block where he spent the earliest days of his youth; it was on these pebblestones and cobbles that he learned to walk; it was these slanting windows he gazed up into, hoping to glimpse a happy face, a sense of love or welcome.
First the smells of long-gone cookery flood back: scraped bones or fish
heads boiling in a pot, cabbage, turnips, black bread, and the stinging odor of lye that never fully masked the reek of human excrement. Then come the sounds: his father’s petulant oaths, his mother’s pleading tears. Finally, there’s the watchful silence of “Young Tom” himself, gauging each moment, alert to every nuance of his parents’ quixotic moods. Even when he could scarcely toddle around on his short legs, he knew to keep his back turned toward a wall, and his body out of reach whenever possible.
Kelman stands, lost in time. Is it worse to be a bastard child like my father? Or to know both parents’ histories, and recognize that all their faults and foibles are lodged within you?
The buildings provide no answer, and the alley remains as mute and secretive as it once was. He dusts rainwater from his shoulders, pulls himself back to the present, and alters his plans. He must visit the Crowther household, it’s true, but first he’ll make a detour to the Beale brokerage concern and ask Martha to accompany him. The parents will have need of her soothing presence—as will he. Thinking of her, he smiles for the first time since they parted. The moment is like a ray of sun, wrapping him in light.
“A GENTLEMAN HAS CALLED TO see you, Miss Beale. I informed him that you were busy and asked him to wait in the receiving room downstairs.”
The person making this announcement is one of her father’s older clerks, a man for whom Martha has developed a special trust and empathy, but she knows full well that the present owner of the famed Beale brokerage and banking concern doesn’t fly downstairs like a giddy girl. No, she must bide her time; extend gratitude (though not effusive) for the message; conclude what tasks lie before her; and then proceed (at a leisurely pace) to meet the caller. At least, that would have been Lemuel Beale’s practice—but Martha isn’t her father.
Surmising that the visitor is Thomas come to impart news about the Crowthers, she immediately rises from her desk, then hurries down the circular marble stair that leads to the establishment’s ground floor. Each tap of her heel echoes upward as though she were dancing to a lively tune.
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