AS MARTHA WALKS, THE MAN whose message she bears continues to berate his son. For good measure, he also twists the younger Findal’s left ear so hard the boy thinks the flesh will come away in his parent’s hand.
“Owww,” he mutters while tears of pain and fury course down his cheeks. “Leave off, will you? I told you everything I know.”
“The little lad’s crying, is he? Begging for mercy, eh? Beseeching his old da for forgiveness for his manifold wickednesses.”
Findal yelps, but the cry, instead of eliciting aid from the passersby and residents of the unwholesome street called Blackberry Alley, garners minimal response. Steps are taken to avoid the two, or windows are shut, or slop buckets poured out in sour but silent protest. Despite the bucolic name, the small passageway is home to the city’s most transient population. If any here have a memory of fragrant fields and sun-ripened fruit, they keep it secret, just as they keep their histories and their illicit dealings to themselves.
“You’ll not get away so easy, I’m telling you, lad,” Stokes continues as if no nearby person had made a stir. “I might have made a nice profit with those wares you so stupidly squandered.”
“And been hanged as a—”
“Hold your tongue, boy! I’m smarter than that—”
“Smarter doesn’t wind up in the poorhouse,” the son spits back.
“Mind your manners!” Stokes thunders and reaches for Findal’s other ear, but the child flinches away, dodging his head and gritting his teeth when his father gives the captive ear another ferocious wrench. “And haven’t I done all right by you since then? Didn’t I set up a nice little game, and earn us a pretty penny? And don’t you accept a handsome share of the stash? Now, you tell me the truth about where you originally found those treasures, and why you deposited them outside a particular house without informing your father first. Because I don’t believe one word of the feeble story you’ve been feeding me so far.”
“It was to save you, Father—”
“Oh, aye. And next you’ll be telling me the dead can speak—”
“They was on to us. That Kelman and the secret service agent—”
“And why do you think that unfortunate fact occurred? Could it be someone was careless in creeping close to that golden laundry basket—?”
“We shouldn’t have done this thing, Father. Don’t you know all the newspapers are calling you a—?”
“Don’t tell me what we should or should not have done! I had the situation well in hand—”
“No, you didn’t—”
“And now you’ve squandered our last chance. For who’s to believe us if we’ve nothing tangible to prove we can finger the girl’s killer. That portrait was only a start.”
“But we have nothing more!”
“Thanks to you. Thanks to you!” Stokes eyes his son, but instead of dodging his glance away, Findal stares defiantly back. “You know something you’re not revealing. I can tell by that shifty look upon your cunning face.”
“I know nothing other than I’ve already told you, Father.”
“Maybe you watched the lass getting murdered. Just as you watched that woman wading into the river.”
“No, Father. I found only the—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Stokes drags his son closer, twisting the imprisoned ear until the boy’s agonized face is nearly parallel to the ground. “You saw who killed Crowther’s daughter, is that it? And now you’ve got your own conniving scheme working, haven’t you? You were creeping around that night, all by your lonesome the way you like to be. Then you happened upon the lass being hid in the coal cobbles, waited till the killer crept away, pounced, grabbed the goods, and maybe had a look beneath the dead lady’s underdrawers before you came skulking home to your worried parent, pretending to have chanced upon newfound treasure.”
“I spotted the parcel, Father. Just like I said. Only the package, not the lady. And nowhere near the docks.”
Stokes is too caught up in his own theory to listen. “So you’re working your own ploy, are you? And cutting your fond parent out of the profit. Sending a private message to that pinch-hearted banker.”
“No, Father. It’s as I said—”
“Ten thousand dollars, boy, you cost us. Do you know what that could buy? The whole world, is what.”
“I told you, Father; that were a mistake. How was I to know the damned secret service agent was lurking there?” Then Findal ceases pleading and adds a challenging “If I hadn’t been there, you would have been nabbed instead of me. And you wouldn’t have been able to scarper like I did.”
“I do believe I’m squeezing the wrong appendage,” the father sneers. “Maybe twisting something else will aid your memory.”
Instinctively, Findal crouches and his hands rush to cover his private parts. His father breaks into a croaking laugh.
“That’s right. Cover up the silly thing before I have my way with it. You don’t mind pulling at it yourself, do you? As I have no doubt you and that filthy band at Blockley were doing while you watched that woman giving birth—”
“We weren’t! We only happened upon her when she waded into the river—”
“Oh, aye. Certainly you did. And you tried calling her back—”
“We did!”
“Don’t you lie to me!” Stokes rages again. “I know what you were up to. And it wasn’t perdition for her sin-filled soul you were fretting over … Now, tell me what you know about Crowther’s daughter and the loot.”
“Leave off, Father. We’ve earned enough from—”
“You simpleton!” Stokes finally releases his son’s ear, but instead of letting the boy go, the father lands a blow to the side of his son’s head, sending Findal reeling sideways and banging hard into a clapboard wall that then resounds with the attack, which earns the pair a number of hisses of impatience and a few hoarse shouts of “Take it elsewhere.” Those dwelling in Blackberry Alley may be secretive, but like their more elegant neighbors’ their patience finally reaches a limit.
“I’ll take it where I wish and when I wish!” Stokes bawls back. “This here is my boy, my own flesh and blood, and I’ll discipline him as I see fit when he misbehaves.” Then he mashes his face so close to Findal’s that the son’s view consists only of one red-streaked eye and a nose that looks like a strawberry left in a monger’s basket until the fruit has turned pulpy and purple.
“Whoever killed that girl is driving us out of business. If you don’t comprehend that, you’re an idiot as sure as you were born—”
“Forget this, Father. There’ll be other opportunities. Better ones.”
“That’s right, my lad. But not for you and me together. I’m acting on my own now. So let this be a warning. You’re no son to me, nor never will be any longer. I don’t want you trailing after me, complaining you’re hungry or cold or ill shod; and I also hereby order you to keep away from a certain rich lady’s house, for those kids of hers is mine. You may have found that pretty girl, but I claim her for myself. The lofty shall be repaid, boy. Remember that. Evilly repaid.”
By now, through either preoccupation with this ardent speech or fatigue from holding his son captive, the elder Stokes’s grasp has loosened, and Findal leaps away, shouting abuse at his parent. He overestimates his agility, though, and the father makes one flying lunge toward his child that brings them both down upon the cobbles, young Findal’s head clattering like a plate breaking on a stone.
AS FINDAL FALLS, MARTHA RISES, passing with confident steps up to the third floor of a building on Spruce Street, where she raps upon Kelman’s door. The answer from within is gruff, as he’s in the midst of pondering the more elusive aspects of the Crowther case: the involvement of Dutch Kat being a sizable conundrum.
Martha takes no notice of the tone. “It is I, Martha,” she calls back. “May I come in?” It doesn’t occur to her that her presence at this unorthodox hour and in this inappropriate place might take him by surprise, so she’s perplexed by the flurry of
movement within: the sound of chairs being pushed along the floor and of plates and other serving pieces being hurriedly cleared away.
Then the door is flung open.
“Martha. Is something wrong?”
She stands in the entry, seeing him as she did the first time: the thin, expressive scar, the eyes that either reveal more than they should or hide too much, a reservoir of feeling that only the thinnest layer of flesh prevents from overflowing. “No. Nothing. I… I brought a letter Becky Grey received.” Despite her bravado, Martha’s efforts begin to falter. “From Stokes.”
Instead of a reply, Kelman holds the door wider, gesturing her inside as if part of him had been waiting for this moment all along. “I see.” The tone is polite and cool, but his expression is the opposite; every emotion flies across his face.
“Becky tore it in pieces, but she and I glued it together again.” Martha produces an envelope. “You may peruse it now—or later.” She holds the paper, neither relinquishing nor retracting it while her body and brain steel themselves to her task. “In truth, Thomas, although this missive has obvious bearing on your work, my bringing it to you is a ruse—”
“A ruse?”
“Yes. Or, rather, not entirely.” Again Martha hesitates, and again urges herself forward. “The fact is that I’ve come to ask if a misunderstanding has arisen between us. I believed we shared a strong feeling for one another, but now—”
He removes the envelope from her grasp and places it on a table at the center of the small room, although his eyes remain fixed upon her face. “You’ve promised yourself to another. No good will come of this.”
“No. I haven’t” is all she can utter, but he doesn’t heed the protest.
“You’ve promised yourself to Nathan Weil. As is appropriate, given your rank and station. I won’t claim that your choice makes me happy, because that would be disingenuous, but I believe he will be a fitting husband for you, which I could never be; and I wish you—and him—abiding joy—”
“I’m pledged to no one,” Martha interjects with more force. She gazes at him, then away, her glance taking in the Spartan space: the single deal table, the two ladder-back chairs arranged on either side, the window bereft of either wood shutters or drapery as if creature comforts were of no importance. “I’m pledged to no one,” she eventually repeats. Kelman’s response is a nearly whispered:
“This is wrong, Martha. We shouldn’t be alone in my lodgings. Let me examine the missive and then escort you home.” He crosses the floor to the far side of the table, opens the letter, and pulls the paraffin light closer while she shakes her head in disagreement.
“No one, Thomas. I repeat that fact. If you learned of such a rumor, it was unfounded and untrue.”
“How did Mrs. Taitt come to possess this?” is the sole reply to this declaration.
Martha explains, although her thoughts are equally distracted.
“Another scribe,” he murmurs. “Another hand entirely. What can this mean? How many people are involved in this crime? And why did Stokes approach William Taitt’s wife?”
“Thomas, tell me why you believe I’m betrothed.”
Kelman’s frown deepens. He runs his fingers across the letter’s rumpled surface. “I heard the declaration myself,” he says, although his perplexed stare never leaves the words scrawled upon the page.
“And didn’t query me directly?”
“There was no need. Weil spoke and—”
“And you overheard without—?”
“I called at your offices in order to request your aid in breaking the news of Dora’s death to her parents.” Then he adds a muttered “Crowther was sent two messages concerning Dora… then a contradictory and poorly written note arrived with her effects …”
The incipient smile that had entered Martha’s eyes vanishes, and her backbone grows stiffer. “You listened to my private conversation but didn’t make your presence known?”
At last Kelman looks up, and Martha reiterates her question.
“Weil was quoting poetry and whatnot. It was an intimate moment, and I assumed—”
“You assumed.” Martha’s expression hardens; her tone has turned edgier.
“Yes. Yes, I made an assumption.” By now Kelman’s voice is also rising in frustration. “If a gentleman recites love poems about necklaces and bosoms to a lady, what else can be the reason—other than a display of mutual affection?”
“Oh, Thomas!” is the swift retort. “Nathan Weil is the publisher of the book he quoted; I met him only recently, the day you found me at Parkinson’s Palace. He brought me a gift of Tennyson’s latest works, which volume I already owned. It wasn’t my wish that he visited, nor did I ask him to declaim any verses—about necklaces or anything else. You’re too conscientious a person to act in this high-handed manner—”
“And how would you have wished me to behave when I stood in the anteroom, Martha? Should I have interrupted your tête-à-tête—?”
“Yes! If you cared for me and believed I returned your affection; by all means, you should have protested.”
Kelman makes no answer, and Martha also remains silent while the house stirs around them: a fellow resident’s clattering footfall on the lower stairs, the opening and closing of a door, a conversation that carries sound but no audible meaning. It’s as if even the air is waiting for these two to break their proud silence.
“If you truly cared for me, you would have,” she repeats in the same resolute fashion, but the words have scarcely left her mouth when Kelman is at her side, his lips covering hers and his arms clasping her close, holding her so firmly that she couldn’t move away even if she wanted. His hands move to her shoulders, to her neck, to the bodice of her gown while Martha gives in to his embrace, reaching out her own hands to caress his shoulders and head.
Her movements are tentative at first but soon grow bolder; her fingers twine through his long hair, trace his cheekbones and the scar that seems to hold the secrets of his heart. “Oh,” she breathes while the scent of him swells around her: hot skin, hot wool, and something pungent and musky like a forest floor in April or farm fields newly tilled.
“My dearest,” he murmurs as his fingertips brush the curled plait at her neck. “How could you doubt I loved you?”
Martha doesn’t answer the question. Speech pales when compared to what her body and soul are experiencing. Instead, she whispers his name, then succumbs to the wondrous pleasure of being enfolded in a man’s strong arms.
Somewhere a clock chimes; somewhere the watch cries out the hour; somewhere a wagon’s iron-bound wheels echo across the cobbles. She hears the sounds although her sensory perceptions are concentrated on the feel of her skin against his, the heat that becomes one heat, their flesh melding into a single unit.
THE BANGING ON THE DOOR jolts them apart, as the sound of Kelman’s sergeant issues from the hallway. “Sir. My apologies, sir, for rousing you so late. But I must speak with you at once.”
Kelman calls out a response; he leaves Martha’s side and hurries toward the entry, business-like and efficient in a moment, then gazes back, obviously worried about having her presence discovered. She returns his glance with a shy shake of her shoulders.
“Has public scrutiny discovered us so soon?”
Hearing this female sound although unable to identify the speaker, the sergeant on the stair landing grows more abashed. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining, sir.”
Kelman walks to the portal while Martha steps into shadow in order to conceal her identity. For a sickening moment, she imagines that the sergeant has come to summon her because of a problem at home, but then realizes such a thing could never be. No one but Thomas knows where she is. And Becky Grey.
“I’ll come with you,” she hears Kelman tell the man. “Wait for me downstairs.” Then the flame of the sergeant’s lamp flickers out while the exterior door shuts against him; and Martha quits her hiding place.
“Bad news, Thomas?”
The expression he turns to her is so bruised that Martha’s chest constricts in fear. His answer is equally somber. “There has been a suicide attempt at the Crowthers’.”
As he speaks, he holds up his overcoat and hat as if he’s forgotten what the things were for. “I’m afraid I must go there at once. I had intended to escort you home, but with my man waiting downstairs—”
“I require no escort. I found my way here, after all. And don’t worry, I’ll wait until I can steal away in secret.” She tries for a light and competent tone, but the effort rings false; instead, the monstrous word “suicide” opens a chasm between them, and Martha wonders whether it could have been mere minutes ago that their arms were intertwined and their minds focused wholly on each other. “I’ve been so fearful for poor Georgine,” she adds in a subdued voice. “I imagine her mother’s heart is broken. But to try to take her own life …”
Kelman regards her across the spare furnishings of his rooms. “It’s not the wife, my dear one. It’s the husband. It’s Harrison who swallowed poison. Apparently, the surgeon in attendance isn’t certain he’ll survive.”
NOT IF I CAN HELP IT
OIL OF VITRIOL,” THE SURGEON repeats as if Kelman hadn’t heard him the first or even the second time. “Why would anyone choose such an excruciatingly painful substance? There are far easier means of seeking death. If Crowther does survive, which is uncertain, it will take time to repair the extreme damage the caustic liquid did to his mouth and stomach, although I doubt he’ll experience anything approximating complete recovery even then.” The surgeon pauses to shake his head and release an unhappy sigh. He’s an august person, silver-bearded and reluctant to show emotion, so this overt display of his feelings takes Kelman by surprise.
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