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

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  “So, you’ve got yourself one of the rough ones, do you?” Kat laughs again, the sound bursting out to fill the tiny room. “I guess the fanciest of ladies like yourself are no different from them we dub ‘fancy’ ladies.” She snickers broadly again, tossing her yellowish curls and wriggling smugly on her seat. “Beats you, does he, your fine fellow? Or makes you crawl about naked and wet? Or swallow all sorts of putrid things you’d rather not? Well, I’d show him the door, if I was you, my dear. They can be dangerous, that type; unless you’ve got neighbors, which you would in a house like this, bad things can result. Though look what happened here despite the others.”

  Martha nods. The need to uncover the truth vies with a physical distaste so potent she can feel it on her tongue. “I just want to hear the stories,” she murmurs, her voice so low and slow each syllable stands on its own.

  The statement draws an even louder guffaw from Kat. “Don’t that top everything! So all you’re after is lurid talk. Well, my dear Miss Beale, you should have informed me from the start; there was no cause for the pretense of bastard children and murderous clients. I’m a business woman, I am. And if my conversation doesn’t suit, I’ve got plenty of other females to keep you company: old, young, large, small. You have only to look them over and take your pick. But I must insist on additional funds. Pungent tales don’t come cheap to someone with your fine name—if you understand my meaning.”

  “I’ll supply them” is Martha’s steady response, but Kat shakes her head in disagreement.

  “I’ll take that brooch off you in the meantime, if you don’t mind. Lest you forget my humble manse.”

  Martha removes the piece of jewelry and hands it to the madam, who weighs it in her palm. “For safekeeping,” she says and stuffs it inside her bodice. “Now, oddities … Let me see if these appeal. We have a couple of educated young fellows who like their girls unwashed. Claim they admire the aroma of the piss pot—and require them in pairs, too: two for two, although sometimes they forget the girls and find more pleasure in each other. Then there’s a gent who demands female companions whose hindquarters are as slim as a boy’s, and he’s no more than a lad himself. Most particular he is, and he refuses any with decent bosoms on them. And, of course, the customers who insist upon the young ones, which can be a trying enterprise. What with the need for new product all the time. Although sometimes the girls can be clever and feign virginity—until they begin to bud, of course.”

  Bile rises in Martha’s throat. It’s all she can do not to clamp her hand over her mouth. This is the trade Ella was sold into, she thinks. What parent would knowingly perpetrate such an evil? What kind of woman would encourage it? Martha’s face stiffens in outrage, but she continues the charade, although her tone when she speaks again is husky and rough with effort. “You mentioned gentlemen of breeding, I believe—”

  “Young Mr. VanLennep, is that who you wish to discuss? You do like your stories mixed with a bit of gore. Though I regret to say his tastes may disappoint—”

  “No,” Martha interrupts. What compels her to ask the next question is unclear to her, but the words emerge as if she’d been considering them all along. “I mean older, fatherly types—?”

  “Ah, so there’s where your inclinations lie,” Kat crows. “Indeed I do! There’s Mr. Harrison Crowther and the girl he—” Too late, her fingers fly to her lips.

  “The girl he what?” Martha demands, but Kat makes no reply other than to glower at her visitor. Then her hand returns to the desktop as if all she’d done was dab a bit of moisture from her face.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now, Miss Beale. The hour’s grown too late for reasonable conversation, and I’m likely to utter any silly thing that pops into my head. I’m sure you’ll forgive my rudeness.” With that the madam pushes back from the desk and stands. Although she’s a good head and shoulders shorter than Martha, her weight and heft make her look as forbidding as a bear.

  “What about Crowther’s girl?” Martha insists as she also rises.

  “His poor daughter, do you mean, Miss Beale?” is the cool reply. “Let us ask God to bless the dear child’s soul.”

  “And the father’s, too,” Martha spits back. “Because he’s lying at death’s door even now. And your Mr. Thomas Kelman is with him.”

  JOURNEYING HOME, MARTHA’S FEET ALMOST fly across the paving. Thomas and I must query the madam together, she decides as she leaves somnambulant Lombard Street, then hurries north toward Delancey and Cypress and finally Chestnut Street. If he interrogates her alone, she’ll evade the truth, claim she’s never met Dora’s father, and has no woman in her employ who is his favorite—

  Here her thoughts slam to a stop as she realizes that they’ll need to act quickly lest Kat sequester the girl or attempt some other lie. For a moment, the resolute march also halts while Martha considers returning to Thomas’s apartments to await his reappearance. Then the imagined idleness of such a mission sets her on course again.

  No, I cannot spend my time pacing the floor and anticipating Thomas climbing the stairs. It could be hours before he finishes his official conversations and interrogations. And then, he may waste time chiding me for visiting the madam. I’ll send a footman to find him—either at the Crowthers’ or his own chambers. When we speak again, it will be under my own roof, and it will be as equals. After that we can address Dutch Kat.

  The decision made, Martha proceeds. So intent is she on her deliberations that she fails to notice the sights around her or recognize the smallest sound. If she were being pursued by footpads, they’d have an easy night of it. For despite what she considers her haphazard appearance, her garb is clearly fashioned of the finest materials, and her posture and bearing are those of a lady of wealth and prominence.

  In fact, Findal sees her and recognizes her as Ella’s benefactress. He frowns in consternation. The lady should be home protecting those two children in her keeping, he argues as he creeps forward in Martha’s preoccupied shadow. What’s she doing out here, and who’s guarding her home while she gads the night away? What if my father has sneaked into the house? What if he’s already working this new plot of his?

  IF IT OFFEND THEE

  FINDAL IS CORRECT, BECAUSE HIS father did decide his designs on the Beale children called for a bolder approach. When the boy so rudely challenged him, he made a rapid alteration to his plans. He knew he had no time to spare lest his son regain his senses and attempt to thwart him again.

  Approaching the house, though, Stokes finds it isn’t the sleepy place he expected given the advanced hour and the otherwise slumbering city. Too many interior lamps are glowing; too many exterior ones, as well. He surmises that the mistress isn’t home, but her absence at an hour that’s neither night nor morning strikes him as unusual. Where could she be, and why? And who waits up for her? For Stokes guesses that a mansion this rich and filled with servants wouldn’t settle into dreamland unless all was in accord. Whoever anticipates the mistress’s return will be extra vigilant to the noise of a window sash sliding open or a stranger’s footfall creeping up the stairs.

  Protected by the night’s black shadows, Stokes regards the place and thinks. Damn that son of mine, his brain fumes. How did I beget an ungrateful whelp like him? Who’s he to grow a conscience now? Who’s he to lecture me on good and ill—or have the right to suggest I’m lacking in intelligence and cunning? Then, perhaps more significant: And who will help me slither into that citadel of a home with young Findal missing from the scene? Damn the boy! Damn his eyes. He’ll never be a child of mine again. I’ll find another boy I can trust. A better lad. And he can be my rightful heir. My chosen one.

  Nursing his many wrongs and his equally numerous lost opportunities, and recalling Amor Alsberg’s righteous words of prophecy and doom, Stokes spots a female figure hurrying toward the house, then rapidly entering. He can see a groggy footman standing at attention within the foyer before the front door is shut with an echoing clang. Stokes waits, but the first-floo
r lamps remain lit, and soon the door flies open again, and the same servant rushes off down the street. Not a quarter of an hour passes before the hireling returns, only to be dispatched a second time. “What the devil is this?” Findal’s father curses under his breath. “Don’t these people believe in godly rest at the close of the day? Aren’t they Christian folk?”

  Now he can spot the woman, whom he assumes is Martha Beale, walking through a large room fronting the street. Despite the layers of drapery, he marks the abruptness and determination in the way she paces, which makes it clear to him that she has no intention of quitting her post. She strides to a window, thrusts aside the overdraperies as well as the sheerer undercurtains, and stares at the road, then retreats back into the room only to repeat the activity a moment later. “Damn her,” Stokes seethes. “What’s she doing? Not waiting up in childbirth, that’s certain.”

  As he hesitates, undecided whether to give up his scheme for the night or wait for the contrary Martha to finally retire to bed, the footman returns. With him is a man Stokes recognizes only too well. So, the fine Miss Beale has called in Mr. Thomas Kelman, has she? he thinks. Why would she do that, unless my worthless son exposed my intentions? But how could he have played such a spiteful trick on me already? Didn’t I leave him as limp as the dead? As Stokes rails against his ingrate of a child, Martha and Kelman quit the home, hurrying away down Chestnut Street; and the footman, clearly on his mistress’s instructions, begins dousing the lamps.

  At last, Stokes watches the lights blinking off one by one until nearly all the building lies in stupefied darkness. An exhausted household is an easy one to enter, as he knows. There’s no need for lithe boys or chimney hooks when the servants are too tired to hear anything but their own snores.

  TO SAY THAT DUTCH KAT is pleased to see Martha and Kelman standing on her doorstep would be as gross an overstatement as suggesting a caged sparrow enjoys watching a feline approach its small prison. Fear springs into the madam’s eyes, followed by hopelessness, which is finally replaced by obstinacy and belligerence.

  “More tricks of the trade for you, Mistress Beale?” she demands as her face works itself into a sneer that’s both genuine and uncertain. “Isn’t it time you were abed? For this household certainly is.”

  “Watch your speech when you address a lady” is Kelman’s taut reply. He doesn’t raise his voice, but a threat is evident, and not only in his tone.

  “You been bought and paid for, too, Mr. Kelman?” Kat snaps back. “Just like our other city officials? Well, I wouldn’t set too much store by what this lady of yours says on any subject, if I was you—”

  “That’s enough.”

  Kat is far from finished. “What difference does it make if Harrison Crowther was a customer of mine? This house had nothing to do with his daughter’s death—nor her abduction, neither. If you think Dutch Kat’s at fault, then I’ll argue your companion here fed you misinformation. And she’s not such a lady, neither. She was a-whoring earlier tonight. Or didn’t you stop to question what she’s doing up and abroad in the wee hours of the morning when even the fancy houses are calling it a day?”

  In response, Kelman pushes his way into the now quiescent house, driving Kat out of his path by dint of his determination, although it’s obvious to both women that his hands itch to shake the madam’s insolent shoulders. “Bring me the woman Harrison Crowther kept on your premises,” he thunders.

  “Kept, is it?” Kat snaps while she squares herself against the intrusion. “There’s a lovely word! Do you think I run a house of assignation where gentlemen ensconce their pretty bedmates so as to be exclusively at their beck and call? The ‘girl,’ as you call her, is a top earner hereabouts. Old Crowther isn’t the only one—”

  “Bring her to me, or I’ll close down your establishment.”

  “On what charge, Mr. Kelman? Or can’t a law-abiding citizen ask?”

  “On aiding and abetting a kidnapping and murder.”

  “I’ve done no such thing!” Despite this avowal, a trace of fear has crept into Kat’s voice. “Or didn’t you hear me the first time—?”

  “Then how do you explain your doorstep being chosen for the delivery of the ransom money?” is the measured reply. “Or the fact that both Theodora Crowther’s father and fiance were known customers? From my perspective, it looks as though a nefarious plot had been hatched within these walls.”

  Kat starts to interrupt, but Kelman raises a hand in order to request silence. The gesture lingers, full of fury. “You may bluster all you wish, but I’m assuming that either you or someone in your employ arranged to abduct Miss Crowther from her home. Otherwise, why did you hide the fact that her father was also a client when you were so willing to expose her betrothed?”

  Kat glares at Kelman. Her lips work; she seems about to speak and raises her chin in a show of defiance, then suddenly tosses her head, turning toward the door leading to the front staircase and the remainder of the house. “I’ll fetch the young lady in question,” she states in a tone as contentious as before. “She’s asleep, so it may be a moment or two until she makes an appearance.”

  “Send a servant for her instead,” Kelman says. “I’d rather you and she have no conversation prior to my interrogation of her.”

  “Do you see a servant anywhere, Mr. Kelman? The house is abed—”

  “Yet you answered the door” is the calm reply.

  “I’m the owner, sir. I work longer hours than those in my employ. And this fine lady here kept me up.”

  By way of answer Kelman inclines his head, although his black eyes never leave the madam’s face. “Miss Beale will accompany you. Lest you become tempted to hold a private discourse you shouldn’t. You don’t mind, do you, Martha?”

  Martha nods her assent but makes no further response. Kat’s nostrils pinch at the familiarity, then flare as if several mysteries had been resolved. She seems on the verge of making a lewd remark but thinks better of it, although a sense of superiority remains in her tight spine and upthrust bosom. “This way, miss,” she says. “Mind where you step. Some of our ladies are careless when doffing their garments, or too much in haste to be particular. You may not be accustomed to such behavior, but I am.”

  If Martha wonders how a woman raised in her circumstances could find herself following the madam of a bawdy house in the middle of the night, she’s unaware of posing that question. Instead, she walks in Kat’s wake with footsteps that are as certain as if the situation and path were familiar. The only thing that seems unusual is the smell; in the confined space of the stairway, in the narrow upper halls, there’s such a collision of stale perfumes and dirty hair and female sweat as well as a residual acrid maleness that the air feels almost too thick to breathe.

  “Cat got your tongue, Miss Beale?” the madam cackles.

  “No more than yours” is the composed reply, then Martha says no more.

  “YOU MEAN HE MAY NOT be able to speak again?” is the girl’s first question after Kelman has described the purpose of the visit.

  “If he lives—which is uncertain.”

  The answer generates another little yelp and a fresh spate of tears. The girl looks toward the door through which Kat was banished, then sniffles in a petulant manner that Martha finds both conniving and disagreeable. Every instinct of empathy she first felt has vanished.

  As if she understands Martha’s feelings, the girl ignores her, fidgeting in a dressing gown that is too sheer and too loosely clasped to serve any purpose other than be intentionally revealing. “Well, I certainly didn’t do anything to make him despondent, if that’s what you’re thinking. A nice old gent like that—why would I want to hurt him? And he doing nothing to harm me. Not like some of them others who say all they want is a bit of chitter-chatter and maybe a little tickle, and then end up hitting you when you do as you’re told. He was generous, too, the old gent, though Kat keeps most of our stash.” The girl shifts on her bare feet, wiggling her toes while she twirls the sash of her g
arment around her hand, then unwraps it again before gazing up at Kelman in a sham of wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not suspecting I had anything to do with the other Dora, are you?”

  “The ‘other Dora’?” Kelman stands straighter, his head nearly touching the beams of the low-ceilinged room.

  “The one who died, I mean. The one whose body was found in a coal heap. Kat said the constabulary thought this house was involved with the deal on account of the boy who served us sometimes. Findal, his name was. But you’d know that, I expect, because—”

  “What do you mean, the ‘other’?” Kelman interjects.

  “Well, that’s what the old gent called me, isn’t it?”

  “You’re Dora, too?” Incredulity floods Kelman’s face.

  “No, of course not. Who’d want a commonplace name like that? Even if it were, I would have changed it as soon as I arrived here. What I meant was that’s what the old dear called me—”

  It’s Martha who interrupts. “Harrison Crowther called you by his daughter’s name. When he—?” Revulsion stops the query in her mouth.

  “Well, he wasn’t doing anything except blithering about this and that, now, was he, miss? At least, not always. So where’s the harm if he liked me to call him Papa or wear a blond wig—?”

  “Blond, too?” Martha exclaims as her glance flies to Kelman before returning to the ill-clad girl before her.

  “Blond- or auburn-tressed, what’s the difference? You must be unfamiliar with men’s wants and desires, miss, to carry on so. The old fellow was nice, even when he asked for more than a polite little parley with ‘Papa’—”

  Martha draws in a sharp breath, causing the girl to round on her. The peevishness in her face is gone, replaced by damaged pride that mottles her cheeks a raw red and white.

  “It’s not the first time a gent said I reminded him of his precious little girl,” she insists. “And why not? I’m a petite and tidy bundle, not like some of the other drabs who labor here. Why shouldn’t I be as pretty as one of those toff’s darling kiddies? Though I’d be living a hell of a lot better if I were. Just like you, miss, with your fancy dress and your horrified oohs and aahs about how we working girls earn our keep. It’s my poor luck that he’s gone and poisoned himself. But I guess it’s like the Good Book says about cutting off your hand if it’s doing evil deeds. The old gent must have a powerfully bad secret.”