Conjurer (13 page)

“A coat all my own?” the girl asks in wonderment. “Even though I be no Susan?”

“Yes. I will stitch a coat for you alone.”

It's only after the two have disappeared that Ruth thinks to question what she's just witnessed: a limping man who can stitch a coat. Can this be the tailor who tricked the warders at Cherry Hill?

Midday has crept into midafternoon, but still Kelman lingers at Beale House. Finished dining, he and Martha make a brief foray into the winter-gray gardens, where they find Jacob Oberholtzer resetting a sackcloth-covered winter frame around a bed of dormant roses. The cause for his additional work lounges at his feet—the younger of Lemuel Beale's two dogs. Tip, the older one, rests nearby, and Kelman is struck by the tranquility of the scene: the courtesy and kindness Martha shows to the gardener, and the respect and goodwill he returns. Above all, Kelman marvels that the man bears the dog no malice but instead gruffly jests while rebuilding the frame. The words are in German, of course, but their meaning is plain. The dog bangs his tail upon the ground in a poor facsimile of contrition, and Martha laughs. With her gloved hand resting on Kelman's arm, she seems life and hope personified.

As they reenter the house, their faces ruddy with cold, Martha, on a whim, decides to show her visitor the home. “You've viewed only the drawing room, parlor, and dining salon, Mr. Kelman,” she says, “but you haven't yet seen the morning room. I believe it's my favorite spot in the house. After that, I'll escort you to my father's study, and the cellars. They were built to the most exacting detail, most important for the storage of wines and foodstuffs. If I were a child with playmates, I would love to hide within them.” Her smile vanishes into embarrassment. Unmarried women do not mention children.

“You have not lived here your entire life, Miss Beale?” Kelman says by way of answer.

“Oh, no. Beale House is new. Previously, we resided solely in town. My father purchased the land seven years ago and had the house built soon after. Prior to that, the area was nothing but forest interspersed with a few sparse farms.”

A shrewd investment given the city's expansion
, Kelman thinks, although he doesn't voice the opinion. Instead, he asks another question. “Do you regret having such a dearth of companions when you're out here?”

The query seems to take Martha by surprise, as if she never deemed it possible to challenge the choices others made for her. “I'm a private person, Mr. Kelman …” she begins, then stops herself and puts her head to one side, thinking. “No, that's not quite correct. I am adaptable. All human beings are, I expect. We modify our expectations to suit our surroundings and the various histories we've been given—or the histories we've come to discover.” She frowns slightly. “But let me show you the morning room.”

“I wonder that you do not stay in your house in town for the time being rather than remaining isolated here. Friendships, even slight ones, provide a measure of solace during times of distress.”

Again Martha hesitates. “Perhaps I will, Mr. Kelman. Although Mr. Simms feels it best that we should reside here. He feels I need solitude and a healthful atmosphere.” She doesn't add that her misadventure at the orphanage was the cause of this hasty decision, and naturally, Kelman doesn't ask.

“But such a remote place must make it difficult for your father's secretary to carry on his numerous business affairs.”

“Mr. Simms is a very dedicated gentleman” is Martha's careful reply; then she raises her jaw as though purposely lifting her spirits and throws open the door to the morning room, allowing a profusion of flowery perfume to come rushing out. “Father permitted me this folly. It's my secret passion.”

Kelman looks about in wonderment. There are tall ferns in baskets, blossom-covered vines trailing along columns, hyacinths in Chinese export porcelain jars spread upon the floor, amaryllis with white flowers, purple gloxinia, a gardenia tree in full and scented bloom, a camellia with rosy petals, and a well-used copy of Thomas Hibbert and Robert Buist's
American Flower Garden Directory
on a settee.

“I'm learning horticulture from that excellent manual,” Martha explains. “It's teaching me all about pruning and repotting, tobacco smoke to combat aphids, and the wisdom of frequent sprinklings and pure air.” She smiles. “I love growing things.”

Kelman follows behind her as she points to the specimens, reciting their Latin names with studied care. “The
Dracaena ferrea
, the Purple Dragon Tree, came from Mr. Pratt's gardens at Lemon Hill. The
Passiflora
did also. He had extensive greenhouses upon his estate. Mr. Buist was in residence there following his training at the Edinburgh Botanic Gardens.”

“It's like being transported to a jungle,” Kelman says. A slight, icy rain has sprung up, tapping the windows with frost while the wind puffs jealously at the panes. The flowers and fern fronds respond with the languid motion of pampered indifference while the heady aroma of petal and fresh leaf increases.

“I've never been to a jungle,” Martha replies, “but, in my imagination, this room is all that and more. It is Eden, I think.”

“It is your refuge.”

“Yes.” The word is the scantest whisper. Then, as if she's said too much, she changes the subject. “But you must be tiring of the distaff side of the house. Let me show you my father's study. He has some fine paintings installed there, as well as statuary.”

“I'm happy here, Miss Beale.”

Martha doesn't reply; instead, she looks at the windows' fogged panes, the day grown a splotchy gray, and the interior lamps reflecting muzzily in the glass, re-creating a mirrored picture of two people that is wavery and vague.

“Perhaps seeing my father's collection will aid your investigation into this peculiar mystery, Mr. Kelman,” she offers at length. “Perhaps there's something of his character that you can discover there … or … or, at the very least, have some concrete personal effect with which to question … I hardly know what I am suggesting … with which to discern whether this man you have heard of may or may not be my father.”

“If we can find the person—or the persons.”

“Of course … if.” Martha sighs in troubled thought, then leads the way from the morning room, retracing the route through the grand, contemptuous house until they reach the foyer and the wide and regal stairs.

There they climb toward the second floor, aware of the creak of the risers, the slow tock of the tall-case clock in the rotunda below, and their own awkward lack of speech. When they reach the landing, the front door bangs open and Owen Simms bursts into the house. His loud voice immediately overtakes them. “This is curious behavior indeed, Martha. I hope what I perceive isn't true, and that you are not conducting a gentleman caller out of the public rooms on your own.”

Martha turns to watch Simms hurry up the stairs. She draws in a slow and steadying breath; her face lifts until her eyes are staring directly down at her father's secretary. “This is my house, Mr. Simms. Shouldn't I be permitted to entertain whom I choose?”

“Within reason, of course, Martha, my dear,” Simms responds with a placating smile. “However, you must permit me to chide you on your father's behalf. And you are no longer a young girl to be so reprimanded.”

“No, I'm no longer young, Mr. Simms. You are quite correct in your assessment.” Despite her level tone, Martha's bravado begins to melt away, and Kelman can see her torn between chagrin and defensive ire.

“Perhaps I should explain the nature of my visit to Beale House, Mr. Simms—lest you misjudge the good intentions of your master's daughter. I journeyed here today to inform Miss Beale that there is reason to imagine her father may yet be living.”

“That cannot be.” The words jump out of Simms's mouth, and he frowns in sudden consternation.

“What leads you to believe that, Mr. Simms?”

“Your own constabulary force concluded that Miss Beale's father almost certainly drowned.”

Kelman regards him. “You're correct, sir; it is the obvious assessment. But you yourself were troubled by the missing rifle—”

“Which was most probably stolen, as you and I have already—”

“Perhaps, Mr. Simms,” Kelman interrupts in a peremptory tone. “Although there may be other explanations we have not yet explored.”

Owen Simms, situated as he is at a less elevated position on the stair, keeps his back to the dark wood of the wall. His equanimity has apparently returned, and he graces Thomas Kelman with a smile that's tinged with melancholy. “Sir, I must protest on Martha's behest—as well as on my own. Continuing to provide hope that Lemuel Beale may still be alive is unkind indeed. Nay, even cruel. Have done, sir, and let his daughter and me mourn.”

“If I believed, unconditionally, that Miss Beale's father was dead, Mr. Simms, naturally I would—”

Owen Simms waves his hand dismissively. His sorrowful expression grows more pronounced. “Enough, sir, of this sham investigation.”

Kelman is not to be dissuaded. “It is my task, Mr. Simms, to see this troubling mystery through to its proper resolution.”

A Confession?

W
ITH DELIBERATE CARE, EMILY DURAND
extracts an egg yolk with a gold spoon. In her ruffled dressing gown, in her lace and watered-silk ribbons, her English pink and Paris gray, she sits as straight as a razor, her hands and fingers equally resolute and firm. Emily never permits silver to come in contact with egg. Nor with peas, nor flower stems, nor excessive heat. Silver is a temperamental substance, as everyone knows. “May I prepare your egg, as well as my own, John?” she asks, and experiences not only pride that her tone is so reasoned and calm but also a high degree of wonderment. It's hard to believe she's become adept at deceit in such a short space of time.

Staring out the window of the Durand family's ancestral home in the countryside of Torresdale to the north of the city, her husband glances briefly at her, then resumes his solemn contemplation of the property outside: five hundred acres that were part of an original land grant from William Penn and have been handed down, eldest son to eldest son, for over one hundred seventy-five years. John loves the place, its thick fieldstone walls, its low ceilings, its Quakerish simplicity, although he knows that his wife doesn't share his enthusiasm, that she far prefers their more fashionable house in town.

“You're unusually quiet this morning, John,” Emily continues in a cheerful voice. “I'd hoped that removing here yesterday might improve your spirits. I know what store you set in country ways.”

He responds at length with a mumbled “Mmmm,” then looks briefly at his plate and the cooling boiled egg before resuming his slow perusal of the garden. A thin, sleety rain is beginning to fall, partially obscuring the garden, orchards, and fields beyond. What holds his rapt attention, Emily can neither see nor imagine. She forces an expression of wifely concern while, unbidden, her thoughts return to Eusapio and the bed they shared not three days past. She sees his abdomen glistening with sweat, feels his fingers clench her hips, hears his breaths panting in her ears.
Aimilee … Aimilee … bimba triste
… She finds herself beginning to smile and immediately takes up her cup of chocolate to hide this dangerous display of emotion. But her hands have a life of their own, and she cannot bring the gold-rimmed porcelain to her lips. “It certainly is inclement weather,” she says as she returns the shaking cup to its saucer.

“It's winter, Emily” is her husband's dismissive reply.

Emily Durand feels her cheeks flush hot, a physical response that has nothing to do with clandestine memories of Eusapio Paladino. Self-righteous anger fills her; her tongue itches to speak, but she clamps her jaw shut until the sensation recedes. She studies the side of her husband's inattentive face and pushes her egg, half eaten, away. She doesn't attempt to drink her chocolate again.

John turns toward her. His eyes are dull and murky, his mouth pinched as though in anger; and her heart suddenly sinks.
I've been discovered
, she thinks with a wild and horrid premonition.
John knows. I've been careless; I've been stupid and wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Oh, how could this happen? How did I permit this to happen! What have I done? What have I done!
She glances away and holds her breath; the pieces of egg she's consumed rise back into her throat; in a moment, she realizes, she'll be forced to run, gagging, from the room. With the greatest of willpower, she returns her anxious gaze to her husband's face, but he continues to regard her with an expression so bleak that she can't decipher its meaning.

“Forgive me, Emily. My reply was impolite.”

Emily's fearful eyes grow wide in both befuddlement and suspicion. “Forgive you, John? Forgive
you
.” She's so astonished at his request that her words jump forth in an uncharacteristic stammer.

“Yes. I was rude just now … when you mentioned the weather. I have much on my mind, however. I apologize if I don't seem myself.” He stands abruptly; and the tea table, set as it is with such a plethora of tiny plates, jam saucers, sugar spoons, egg spoons, bread and butter knives, compote dishes of stewed pippins and preserved morello cherries, a full bowl of Devonshire junket, jingles mightily. “I'll be in the stables, Emily, should anyone wish to speak with me. The new groom has yet to make peace with the gray Thoroughbred mare. I fear I may be forced to replace him.”

“Sorry news.” Emily is scarcely aware of her choice of speech. She continues to gaze in wonderment at her husband. She feels as though she's just escaped a horrific carriage accident, and her brain whirs with a sound like rushing wind. Then, for a bizarre and awful second, she envisions John's large body in place of Eusapio's lithe one, the square Durand face growing red in astonishment at his wife's lewd and unseemly behavior. The image makes her gasp aloud.