Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2)

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  “‘LORD, THOU HAST BEEN OUR refuge, from one generation to another.’” Martha recites from Psalm Ninety along with the others, although her mind lies a long way off. What can Thomas have meant by my “good news”? And why his unhappy air? He can’t have forgotten what occurred between us, or is he so overworked that—? The musings are cut short by two simultaneous occurrences. One is the eighth line of the psalm: “Thou hast set our misdeeds before thee; and our secret sins in the light of thy countenance,” which reverberates like a cannon blast through her brain.

  The second is Percy VanLennep’s arrival.

  “YOU!” CROWTHER’S SHOUT SILENCES EVEN those in the farthest reaches of the sanctuary who haven’t yet spotted Dora’s betrothed. “How dare you enter this holy place!”

  “Sir. My abject apologies. I didn’t know … I was visiting my friend”—Martha can see Percy hobbling forward; he looks as drained of blood as Dora’s father did when he first appeared—“Nicholas Howe, here, at his farm in the countryside—”

  “I don’t care how many friends you claim, sir, for you are none of mine.”

  “Please, Mr. Crowther. I didn’t realize what had transpired. I was wounded, you see.”

  By now, all heads are swiveling back and forth, watching Percy’s painful approach toward the man who would have been his father-in-law.

  “Wounded! Well, my daughter is dead, sir! Dead and gone forever. And you not even bothering to show your shameful head.”

  “Mr. Crowther, sir, if I may speak—” Nicholas begins, but Dora’s father cuts him short.

  “No, you may not. And you’re not welcome in this church, either.” The tone has become so enraged, and Crowther’s face such a purple mass of fury, that the priest attempts to interfere. He lays a consoling hand on Harrison’s forearm. Rather than calming the distraught man, however, the gesture serves to catapult him into another violent emotion, and he raises his two thick hands to his face and begins to sob. The noise is as resonant as a howl.

  RETURNED TO HER CHAMBERS, MARTHA stands drained; her mourning dress is half on, half off, her ringlets in disarray after the haphazard removal of her bonnet. Her maid pulls at one of her mistress’s sleeves, then both, then slips the shirtwaist from Martha’s sluggish form before beginning to tackle the many hooks that hold the upper skirt in place. She looks at Ella, who’s sitting close by, idly swinging her legs back and forth while she watches the familiar routine.

  Ella returns the maid’s puzzled glance. “Don’t be sad, Mother,” she says.

  Martha releases a breath that sounds more weary than sorrowful, although it’s grief for the Crowthers that burdens her. “I won’t.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that good people turn into angels when they die?” Ella stops swinging her legs in order to pose this question.

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. Because of what Miss Pettiman said about the ghosts.”

  “Ah, yes …” The tone is devoid of emotion.

  “Well, then, Theodora Crowther is an angel.”

  “Mmmm” is the still-distracted reply.

  Ella looks at the maid, whose brow is now furrowed in concern.

  “You know, Mother, when Mr. Kelman begins looking for my real family, I remembered something to help him.”

  The introduction of Thomas’s name causes Martha’s nearly naked shoulders to curve further downward and her corset stays to creak in their ivory satin pockets. “Did you?”

  “Yes. It has to do with angels. And prayers, too, but not the kind you and Miss Pettiman teach me. I think my real mother must have recited it to my sister and baby brother and me.”

  “Ah …” Martha climbs out of her black skirts, staring at them as they billow downward, although what her mind’s eye sees is not the cascading lengths of crepe nor the Turkey carpet nor the floorboards nor the cabriole legs of the chest-on-chest but the stunned faces at Dora’s funeral as they reacted to her father’s shriek of pain.

  “‘Queen of Angels. Queen of Peace. Pray for me.’ That’s what I remember.”

  “That’s fine, Ella. That’s fine.” As Martha speaks, her thoughts are far from her ward; instead, she decides that tomorrow she must call upon Georgine. Tomorrow midmorning and no later. If the husband was capable of breaking down in public, then what must Dora’s mother be experiencing in private?

  “I’ll write down what I recall, and you can send the message to Mr. Kelman.”

  “Yes, you do that.” Martha looks at the child and forces a smile, although she hasn’t heard a word the girl has spoken. “You do just that.”

  A QUESTION OF MOTIVE

  KELMAN SITS IN HIS OFFICE. Shadows are advancing over the city, throwing a pall of flat gray over the lower elevations while leaving the higher storys bathed in a hopeful glow. Looking through the window, he notes the dichotomy, reflecting upon those who can afford to dwell in the sunny domains of light and air, and those who must live and work in the alleys where the gloom of dusk is a perpetual fact, and the atmosphere choking and rank. The thought is brief, however, and gone with the next tick of the clock standing on his sturdy mantelpiece. He has work to do and no time for introspection unless it pertains to Theodora Crowther’s death—which is fortunate, although he doesn’t yet appreciate how convenient this investigation is, allowing him to relegate Martha and Nathan Weil to the outermost reaches of his brain.

  “Tell me again if you will, Mr. VanLennep, how this curious situation came to transpire. I refer to your departure from the city on the same day your betrothed vanished from her home. The timing is odd, to say the least.”

  “I’ve already detailed my sojourn and its rationale, sir,” Percy declares, more emphatically than he should given the circumstances. “It was happenstance solely that brought me to my friend’s farm. I could have visited any number of other acquaintances, and so remained cognizant of the awful events that transpired here at home. The estate maintains an almost eccentric seclusion from city life. Isn’t that correct, Nicholas?”

  Poor Nicholas nods. He would rather “happenstance” had not involved him in this wretched affair. As he gives his silent assent he also gazes out Kelman’s window, although his eyes regard not the dimming cityscape but an imaginary view of cultivated fields and orchards, encroaching woods, and ancient buttonwood trees melding into the harmonious end of another peaceable day. “I shouldn’t have let VanLennep wander off on his own,” he offers in a faraway mumble.

  “We’ll discuss the wound your friend sustained in a moment, sir,” Kelman tells him while his own eyes narrow as they contemplate Percy. “Callow” is the word that springs into his mind; but Percy is also handsome and debonair, and Kelman can well imagine a sheltered girl like Theodora swooning over such a compelling figure.

  “Someone shot at me,” Percy insists. “It may seem insignificant considering everything else that’s transpired, but it’s true.”

  “I have no cause to doubt you.”

  Percy frowns. He’s not accustomed to this type of interrogation—or any interrogation except by a social peer. “You don’t behave as though you believe me.”

  “Mr. VanLennep, a murder has occurred.”

  “I’m fully aware of that, sir. Miss Crowther was my fiancee, after all. As you can imagine, the shock is considerable. I left Nicholas’s home believing her to be abducted—as your letter indicated, and which was horrible enough to consider—only to arrive in Philadelphia and find her dead. And gruesomely, too.”

  Kelman regards the young man, and two further descriptions enter his brain. One is vain, the other cocksure. Neither is a good attribute—especially in a husband.

  “What can you tell me about a woman called Dutch Kat, the owner of a bawdy house on lower Lombard Street?”

  Percy starts, then hurriedly settles himself, crossing one elegantly clad leg over another. “Is it my life you’re investigating, sir?” he asks; the tone is more belligerent than is wise.

  “Should I be?” is the calm reply.

  “Esta
blishments on lower Lombard are not for the discriminating gentleman,” Percy states, intending to leave the discourse there, then purposely removes his focus from Kelman’s face in order to reexamine the room. It’s a shabby space; its furnishings battered rather than handsomely patinaed with age, its drab color scheme neglectful of the crimsons and greens that complete most gentlemen’s appointments. Percy wonders at such an impecunious and unfashionable choice, and disdain shows in every muscle of his face.

  “No, they’re not, Mr. VanLennep. Which makes me inquire why you frequented one of them.”

  “Who is it that claims I do such an absurd thing?”

  “The owner of the house herself.”

  Percy pauses, more than a little disconcerted. Here he is, newly returned to the city—and at the cost of considerable physical discomfort—only to be attacked by Harrison Crowther in the most public and inappropriate of gatherings, and now to come under scrutiny by the police. “You would take the word of a common slut, sir, rather than a gentleman?”

  “I’ve known Kat a good many years, VanLennep; you, I’ve only just met.”

  Percy begins to bluster; his smooth and pinkish face grows pinker; his pale, soft curls almost quiver upon his head; but the more dire reaction is that his sudden choler increases the throb in his shoulder. “Ouch!” he yelps. “Owww … Nicholas, I fear I may have opened this damnable wound again.”

  Kelman remains unaffected by the young man’s travail. “You didn’t answer me, VanLennep.”

  “Nor do I intend to, sir. My private life is not under scrutiny here.”

  “There you’re mistaken.” Kelman regards Howe, whose glance sidles away again. In the confines of the two rooms that complete Kelman’s private office, Nicholas Howe appears overly large, bumbling, and inept. It’s hard to believe that two such different men could be friends. “I assume your former guest must have discussed some of his romantic escapades with you, Mr. Howe?”

  Nicholas’s oxen eyes grow heavier and more inward-looking while Percy sighs pointedly.

  “Yes, I’m aware of the house to which you refer,” he tries to sneer.

  “Where you habitually request a blond companion.”

  “If I’ve frequented the place once or twice, I certainly cannot be expected to recall the encounters,” drawls Percy. “The type of women found in such places isn’t exactly impressive—”

  “Where you habitually request a blond companion,” Kelman repeats. “If your memory doesn’t serve, the madam’s does. She makes it her business to accommodate and anticipate her clients’ wishes. A blonde—and especially one who appreciates your prowess.”

  “Kat told you that?” Shock and dismay ping through Percy’s voice while Kelman sits back in his chair, watching the spectacle unfurl. Within his dove gray trousers, Dora Crowther’s former fiancé’s legs are jittering as though struck with Saint Vitus’ dance; then the restlessness travels to his hands and finally to his face, which winces in rapid tics.

  “My ‘prowess’? She said that?”

  “Among less delicate observations.”

  “But it’s diabolical that she should be so free with her comments. Or that the girls should—”

  “The women who work there are paid for that type of appraisal, VanLennep. It’s what keeps customers like you returning.”

  Either the steeliness in Kelman’s tone or Percy’s own wilting pride calls a halt to the discussion. He sags while Kelman experiences an unwelcome sense of his own cruelty. VanLennep may be arrogant, but he’s also foolish and too young for his years.

  “I’m not the only blue blood who visits Dutch Kat’s,” Percy finally mumbles.

  “So I was informed” is the thin reply. As Kelman speaks, he recalls precisely what Kat told him. The cream of society, she said, and none of them enjoys being stirred up. For a moment he wonders why she was so free with VanLennep’s name and so secretive with others in her clientele. Could it be that she was purposely exposing VanLennep? But what would be her rationale? Why risk losing a lucrative client? Kelman thinks back, wondering why he didn’t question her motives before, but the thought vanishes as Percy’s querulous voice breaks the silence. With the sound, Kelman’s mood of forbearance ebbs.

  “Are you done with me, Kelman? For I’ve had a long and wearying day.”

  “As have the Crowthers.”

  Percy makes no response other than to drop his gaze to the floor. “You think I didn’t care for Dora, don’t you?” he asks at length. “That I didn’t really love her.”

  “It’s not my business to judge private love affairs, sir.”

  “But that’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re judging me right now and finding me inadequate, just as the parents did—and through no fault of my own. I loved their daughter. She was a sweet girl. Very pretty and lively when she wasn’t under her mama and papa’s stony surveillance. We would have been happy together, I believe. She worshipped the very ground I walked upon, and a man cannot ask for more than that in a spouse.”

  As Kelman listens, he can’t help but compare these lackluster statements with his feelings for Martha. Pretty and lively and sweet! Where’s the man’s devotion? Where’s his ardor or his admiration for anything other than the most superficial qualities? If I were being interviewed, I would have no dearth of compliments: Martha’s compassion, her honesty, her goodness of heart and spirit and mind, her loving soul, her wisdom, her beauty and intellect—The list slams to a halt. And come January, she will be officially betrothed to Nathan Weil. The reminder thickens Kelman’s voice. “What can you tell me about the connection between Kat’s establishment and the ransom money?”

  “Nothing” is the answer. “I wasn’t here—as you’re so quick to inform me.”

  “Precisely. You departed the city on the very day Miss Crowther was found missing. To some, that would seem highly suspicious. In fact, there was originally conjecture that she might have eloped with you—”

  “Eloped! But I was forbidden to see Dora. That horrible father of hers drove me out of the house—”

  “I urge you to be discreet, VanLennep. Mr. Crowther will make a substantial enemy.”

  “Don’t I know that already? And wasn’t Dora cowed by him, too? Didn’t she jump every time her parents grumbled at her? And that daft old aunt always meddling and creeping about.”

  Kelman leans forward. Unlike the now defensive Percy, he has both feet planted squarely on the floor, and the set of his shoulders—indeed, his entire being—appears just as obdurate. “I advise you to take this matter more seriously, sir.”

  “I am. You just don’t believe me—”

  Kelman continues as if Percy hadn’t spoken. “A lady you claim to have loved is dead—”

  “It’s no claim, sir. It’s God’s own truth. Else why would I have been engaged to be wed—?”

  “And your connection to the bawdy house that served as a depository raises unfortunate questions. Do you understand my meaning?”

  “I understand that I’m being wrongly suspected of an affiliation with a monstrous scheme! Dora was to become my wife. Why should I have wished her harm? Why aren’t you offering me condolences rather than formulating ominous inquiries—?”

  “If you seemed more stricken, perhaps I would—”

  “Who are you to divine how I feel? If I’m a gentleman and choose not to wear my heart on my sleeve, that’s my affair. Perhaps you should be concerned about who shot me in my friend’s woods rather than how bereavement affects my—”

  “I’m engaged in investigating a murder, VanLennep—”

  “Well, I might easily have been a murder victim, too—”

  “Go easy, VanLennep,” Howe murmurs in his slow and unwilling tone. “You only sustained a shoulder wound—”

  “And what would have become of me if you hadn’t found me when you did, Nicholas—?”

  “But I did, and so—”

  “But you might not have, if that letter from this fellow hadn’t inspired your search—�
�

  “Gentlemen,” Kelman interjects. He studies his reluctant visitors and is all at once aware that he’ll learn no more of importance from either one, at least not on this particular evening. In differing ways and to differing degrees, both men are so utterly self-absorbed that they make poor witnesses and even more dubious defendants. “You’re free to go,” he announces, but then remains seated in an interrogatory pose, so neither Nicholas nor Percy stirs from his seat. “However, before you depart, I ask that you reflect again on Dutch Kat’s. You needn’t respond immediately, but I want you to consider your past patronage. Is there a girl employed in the house who might have participated in Miss Crowther’s abduction? Do you recall anyone showing particular interest in your future marital situation, or expressing undue curiosity regarding Miss Theodora’s habits—?”

  “Those girls are too simple to—”

  “Hear me out,” Kelman growls. “The fancy house wasn’t picked as a distribution site out of a hat. It may be you were an unwitting dupe who supplied a conniving woman—”

  Percy bolts from his chair before Kelman has time to finish. “I’m not the only man who patronized the place. Go back to Kat and ask her the names of her other clients if you and she are such boon companions, for I won’t be badgered in this fashion, nor made to feel like a pariah by Harrison Crowther, or a ‘dupe’ by you. I needn’t remind you that I have important contacts in this city. The VanLennep name commands respect from our most notable citizens. Now, if you have no further inquiries, I’ll bid you good day.” Then, either sensing he’s gone too far or compelled by an unexpected sensation of personal loss, he concludes with a pitiful “I loved Dora. I did. And I wish none of this awful tragedy had ever transpired. She and I would have been happy together. I would have made a good husband, no matter what you think.”

  THE LETTER BECKY GREY RECEIVES bears no signature, but the hand is both antiquated and florid, the kind of penmanship practiced by the lower type of public scribe:

  Mistress Taitt,

  I am the person you encountered a fortnight past. I admit that I committed a small offense against you by removing from your illustrious self a private piece of property. Many’s the moment I considered returning it, for I am by custom a righteous man.