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

by Cordelia Frances Biddle

  Martha looks at the girl, who continues to talk on and on to Kelman. The passage from the Gospel of St. Matthew to which she refers is familiar, and Martha recites it in silence …. Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee… And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. When she repeats the final sentence aloud, the girl stares at her with something akin to admiration, then immediately returns her focus to Kelman.

  “Is that all the questions you have for me? Because I’m dead on my feet, and business hours will be here sooner than I’d like.”

  KELMAN WALKS MARTHA HOME. DAWN is only an hour away, and the city will soon be stirring, but for now it remains quiet as if all breath had left it. This same enervated mood has settled over the two who slowly traverse the dusky streets.

  “Could he have killed his own daughter?” Martha murmurs after several moments of silence. This is the third time she’s uttered the same words, and left them hanging in a similar and doleful fashion.

  “I see no motive, Martha. A whore he liked to call Dora and whatever other vile secrets he may have had don’t provide an incentive for murder. Let us also remember that Crowther hired Luther Irwin and was anxious and willing to obey the felon’s instructions.”

  “Yes” is the ambivalent answer. “Although, couldn’t such actions have encouraged everyone to believe that the crime was the work of another person? Stokes, as you have suspected, or—?”

  “What manner of man would invent and then execute such a scheme? Are you suggesting that Crowther concealed his own child in a heap of coal? And then wrote letters to himself demanding ransom for a person already dead?”

  Martha shakes her head. She’s removed her bonnet, and her hair, its plaits and waves too long unrepaired, falls into her eyes. “You’re correct. My hypothesis seems preposterous. No parent could carry out such a cold-blooded plan. Unless—”

  “Unless?”

  “I don’t know.” She brushes the locks away with a careworn hand. “What if Dora’s death were some sort of ghastly accident? Suppose her father went to her room that night, argued with her over something, and raised his hand in frustration. Yes, I know, a distasteful situation. But parents do beat their children… Perhaps he did hit her and she fell. If he then panicked when she didn’t revive—? No, you’re correct, Thomas; I can’t conceive of such callousness. The man was obviously devoted to his daughter.” Martha stares into the dull gray air, then looks at Kelman. “You don’t intend to tell Georgine what we learned tonight, do you?”

  “No. And I think we can rest assured that the information won’t leave Dutch Kat’s house. As far as I’m concerned, she and Crowther’s bawd remain under suspicion for their role in this affair. I don’t yet know to what extent they’re involved, but I will when I discover who orchestrated the scheme. The fact that the father and fiancé frequented the same establishment seems more than coincidental. Who knows what information was coaxed out of those two during—?” Kelman’s words die in his throat. “I apologize. That was indelicate talk. Sometimes I forget you’re not a male colleague in whom I’m confiding.”

  A small smile shoots across her face. “I would rather you view me as something more than a colleague.”

  He stops walking and gazes into her eyes. “Martha, my dear one, my dearest—”

  She puts her fingers to his lips, her smile grown brighter and steadier. “Say no more. Let us savor those moments we recently enjoyed. We’ll have ample time to discuss the future. What transpired in your rooms tonight is enough for now.”

  “I—”

  “No, Thomas. No protests. No speech. Let us revel in emotion only.”

  So they continue on their way until they come to within a block of her house. By now the sky is transmuting itself into the silver-rose of an imminent sunrise while the sound of anxious voices breaks the stillness. It’s Kelman who first notices the noise. “What’s that? Not muleteers engaged in an early-morning wrangle, surely? They have no business in this section of the city.”

  The clamor grows, building into what must be a heated argument, and Kelman and Martha increase their pace until they spot a throng of people gathered near her home. A fire gang is in their midst, the horses pawing and snorting and attempting to rear in their traces while the habitual oaths of their drivers are flung far and wide. At this disreputable hour, the men who compete with each other to subdue the city’s blazes are often drunk, although the same can be said of them midday, too. Something in the middle of the roadway has attracted everyone’s attention, but neither Martha nor Kelman can yet detect what it is. Then she notices her majordomo standing on the front steps and hastens toward him.

  “I shouted out when I heard the man,” he states, obviously distraught. “With you gone, Miss Beale, and the night so peculiar and me awake on account of worrying over your absence—” The words tumble out without a pause for breath. “Of course I heard him. Why wouldn’t I with the house so still? I knew it was a burglary attempt and that someone must have been remiss with the window latches. I didn’t spot the fellow, though. Not inside, that is. But I did see a figure darting away on the house’s east side. A boy was hurrying after him; I did notice that much. Then the fellow hauled off and landed a blow across the lad’s face—”

  “Where are the two now?” Martha asks.

  “That’s him, the man. He’s lying in the street. The fire gang was rounding the corner when he jumped into their path. Oh, Miss Beale, my pursuit must have killed him, I think.”

  Martha leaves the safety of her steps, pushing her way into the jittery throng. Kelman is there already, bending over the figure in the road. “He’s dead” is all he says, then adds a toneless: “It’s Stokes.”

  “Stokes! The murderer?” someone shouts, and this news races through the group.

  “The same.”

  The crowd draws back in alarm as if the dead man could rise up and slay everyone there, and Martha is caught up in their horror and fear.

  “You mean he was in the city all along, hiding amongst us while we were unawares. That’s a crime for you. Leaving honest citizens unprotected.” An anonymous voice screams out this assessment while one of the members of a fire gang disentangles himself from the crowd in order to step forward and address Kelman.

  “A boy chased him down. I saw the fight, even though my mates and I were still far off. My eyes are accustomed to the dark—”

  “Accustomed to the inside of a rum barrel is more like it,” one of his mates scoffs before also approaching Kelman and commencing a similar account. “I took the pair to be father and son, but then the boy threw a stone or brick, so I doubt they could have been blood-related—”

  “And who else would have greater cause for villainous thoughts than kin and kith?” another fireman interjects. “Especially the offspring of criminals. Live by the sword. Die by the sword. Isn’t that what the Good Book tells us?” The man plays to his audience with these comments, which draw nervous guffaws but don’t deter the previous speaker.

  “The lad struck this Stokes fellow in the back, which made him spin around. If I’d been closer, I would have heard the blow; it was that hard. Then the fire wagon came roaring along and the boy rushed at the man and pushed him into its path. At least, that’s how it looked to me—”

  “Where’s the lad now?” Kelman interrupts. The question seems to take the group by surprise.

  “We was so worried about the wounded man. If we’d known it were Stokes, though … I wouldn’t want to say I’d rescued a demon like him—”

  “And the horses, too. We was worried over them,” someone else adds. “They’re trained not to trample folk underfoot and they get edgy and nervous when something like this occurs—”

  The most voluble witness hasn’t finished. “It were no accident, sir. That lad knew what he were doing. He killed that fiend Stokes, sure as sure. He should get a reward for what he did. In
deed, he should.”

  Kelman says nothing. If Stokes is guilty in the slaying of Theodora Crowther, he’s gone to his Maker with his secret intact.

  “Saved the city from a hanging, sir. That he did. And the quicker wicked folk like this demon here are dispatched, the better for us all.” A flurry of hearty agreement greets these observations; then all begin to discuss the case, and opinions, either informed or not, circle among the spectators.

  Kelman stands. The undertaker’s cart will be arriving shortly, but for the moment the road is empty except for the group encircling Stokes’s corpse. Or so it appears. Instead, young Findal hides nearby, watching and weeping in the shadows.

  KEEPING WATCH

  MARTHA PICKS UP THE LETTER, puts it down, taps her fingers upon its soft surface, turns away—indeed, takes an entire step backward—only to return and take the paper in hand again.

  My dear Miss Beale,

  Now that this cruel mystery has been resolved, and the man reputed to have slain my dearest child has received retribution, I wonder if you might consider calling upon me. Your aid in our times of distress was a blessing, and although Mr. Crowther can no longer verbally express his thanks, I wish to extend gratitude on behalf of both my husband and me…

  Martha rubs the page between her fingers, replaces it on the desk, and gazes toward the windows. Of course, she must pay a call upon Georgine. Today. This afternoon, certainly. No. Now. She must visit the bereaved lady now. This very morning. Why else would she have written if she didn’t desire a comforting presence, someone she believes was a friend to her daughter?

  For a moment, Martha considers sending a message to Thomas and requesting that he join her in this mission, but then tells herself it’s the coward’s path. Georgine needs a woman to lend sympathy, not the man who failed to save her only child.

  Martha releases a pensive breath, walks to a window, and looks into the street. It’s been two weeks since Findal Stokes senior met his death on this same spot. Two weeks since she and Thomas interviewed Dutch Kat, two weeks since she climbed the stairs to his lodgings. For a flickering moment, she allows herself to remember that visit. She can recall every sensation induced by Thomas’s caress, and how hot and strong his shoulders felt within her fingers’ grasp. Then the present situation commands her attention and her expression is transformed: Her eyes grow darker and sadder; her mouth sags into a discouraged line. The day is dank and misty, the temperature not the chill of late autumn nor the warmth of Indian summer. It’s weather for an uncertain time.

  She leaves the window, drawing a stern and steadying breath as she walks to the bell pull and rings for her maid. When her mantilla and bonnet are brought, she settles her shoulders for the task ahead and leaves her house. There’s not the slightest hint of joy in her figure or on her face.

  “ARE YOU ACQUAINTED WITH MR. HOWE, Miss Beale?” are the first words Miss Lydia says when Martha is shown into the Crowthers’ withdrawing room. The tragedy surrounding the old lady seems to have left her unaffected, for she’ smiles complaisantly, holding her ear trumpet in anticipation of a lengthy conversation. Georgine isn’t yet present, so the aunt commandeers the guest as her own. She pats the seat beside her as Martha approaches. “Not as handsome a specimen as his forebear Lord Howe, nor as urbane, but we live in a modern world where courtliness counts for little.”

  “I was unaware Mr. VanLennep’s friend was descended from the British general” is Martha’s preoccupied reply. Thinking she hears Georgine’s footsteps in the foyer, she turns away and walks to the door but finds she’s mistaken.

  “When Lord Howe’s army occupied Philadelphia, he held a great celebration. The Meschianza, it was called. All the Tory ladies attended, dressing à la Turque in turbans and exotic apparel. I’m happy to say none in our family were among those invited, as it was a terrible scandal. Some of the scarlet creatures later lost their tresses because of their attachments with the enemy soldiery. I’m glad young Percy has such an illustrious companion, however. I told Harrison he was very wrong about the boy. Not that I expected a reply. That poison my nephew swallowed may not have killed him, but his life is hardly worth living any longer, is it? Forced to keep to his rooms and reduced to no more than dumb show. I wouldn’t wish to continue under those circumstances, would you?”

  Before Martha can think of a reply to this callous assessment, Georgine enters. Dressed in mourning black, her face drawn, her eyes ringed with smudgy shadows, she carries herself with a careful air, as if a nearly superhuman effort at self-control were lurking beneath the crinolines, the chemisette, and the stays.

  “Miss Beale.” Rather than walk forward to greet her guest, she waits, so Martha must come to her. When she takes Georgine’s hands, their needy grip is undeniable.

  “Mrs. Crowther, I’m so terribly sorry for all you’ve suffered. For all you’re continuing to suffer.”

  Dora’s mother accepts the declaration with a grave nod. “I tell myself over and over that God doesn’t visit us with sorrow unless He provides the means for us to bear it, and that I should give eternal thanks that at least my husband survived the calamity he inflicted upon himself… and that… and that our Dora has gone to a better place … but still—”

  Grief threatens to overwhelm her. Georgine draws a shaky breath, gazing around the room as if seeking solace from the many memories stored within it, or even from the inanimate objects that fill each corner and that have made up the whole of her married life. Her eyes rest on a settee, a table, a vase, a mirror shrouded in the black silk of death, and finally the somber walls themselves. The draperies are pulled shut to indicate the family’s bereavement, and so the hour could be late or early, night or time for midday dinner. “But still, I’d like to have my Theodora at my side. And Percy, too, and … and babies… Dora was…” Whatever the mother intended to say, her words fade into a whisper.

  Martha’s eyes fill. “You’ve endured a terrible misfortune,” she finally responds.

  Georgine regards Martha. Misery flows from her as though it were a physical commodity like heat or cold. “Women’s hearts must steel themselves to pain, Miss Beale. If we’ve been blessed with children, we soon come to recognize how fragile their little lives are, and that we parents, try as we might, are often not strong enough or clever enough to protect them. Consider Harrison and his efforts when Dora vanished. Wasn’t he the picture of a doting father, tireless, relentless in his insistence that there would be a happy outcome to the tragedy? Do you remember his determination, and how patient he was with my frailty? Do you remember the enormity of his compassion? I think back and am shamed by my weakness. And I, who always appeared a pillar of strength. I failed my dearest daughter, Miss Beale. I did.”

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Crowther, you did not. There was nothing you could do.” What Martha doesn’t add, but what both she and Georgine now understand, is that Dora’s body had been buried within the coal cobbles soon after vanishing from her home. “You mustn’t blame yourself—”

  “Oh, blame!” is the bitter retort. “You know nothing of the guilt I feel at permitting this catastrophe to occur. Not even guilt! I am condemned.”

  Martha squeezes Georgine’s fingers but makes no reply while her mind’s eye plays an unkind trick, conjuring up the girl at Dutch Kat’s, the “other Dora.” Did I pay the trollop enough? Martha frets. Will she quit the city as I insisted? Or might she and Kat begin to suspect my motives in demanding their silence—?

  The questions are interrupted as Georgine draws her guest closer. “Miss Beale, you’ve been a genuine friend to our family. No mere words can express my appreciation of your solicitude. Come, let me show you Dora’s chambers. They’ve become my favorite spot in the house because they still retain her loving spirit. I don’t believe you’ve ever seen them.”

  “No” is all Martha can manage before Georgine pulls her from the room, then almost marches her toward the front staircase.

  “Georgine! Wait!” she hears, but her hostess answers with a
peremptory:

  “No, aunt. You must remain below.” As if the order were too harsh, Georgine adds a softer “Dora’s rooms were in the back, you know. On the third floor. It’s a difficult climb for my husband’s elderly relative.”

  She says no more but leads the way up the main staircase and into the second-floor corridor, passing numerous shut doors until they reach a smaller rear flight of steps. The pair proceeds in silence: the sounds of skirts swishing over carpets and bare wood and the creaking of risers the only noise. Although that noise seems loud in the mournful space.

  Georgine almost seems not to breathe. Martha knows her own breaths are shallow and apprehensive. She wishes she could be gone and dispense with this grim parade; instead, she moves stoically along in her hostess’s wake. Think of the mother, not the father, she tells herself over and over. She’s the one who requires solace now. Whatever Crowther did outside his home must remain a secret. It has no bearing here.

  When they reach the landing outside Dora’s chambers, Georgine stops. “This is where my daughter died,” she says. “Right there. Inside.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe so, Mrs. Crowther. Surely the abductor—” Martha’s protest is cut short as Georgine spins her large body around until she backs her visitor into a corner. Her face is so contorted that it looks as though the flesh were ripping from the bones.

  “There was no ‘abductor,’ Miss Beale. No Stokes and his felonious gang. No mystery men holding my child hostage. There was only Harrison.”