Conjurer (27 page)

It's a wonder anyone can concentrate upon the stage.

“… And Emily herself at Paladino's side in the Moyamensing Prison when he entered his peculiar trance …! And, as if that behavior isn't scandalous enough, continuing to insist upon his innocence, insist he knows nothing of Beale's lot … Why, even the constabulary present attested to uncanny similarities to Beale's voice and posture … Imagine, Henrietta … Just imagine …!”

Her cousin makes no reply to these fevered remarks; instead, her eyes continue to regard Bellini's ill-fated sleepwalker as she treads rhythmically across the gaslit floorboards. In Henrietta's mind the soprano's movements seem to mimic Paladino's; and she thinks back with yearning to the short time past when she truly believed that living mortals could commune with the departed.

“… And to think you had Paladino in your house!” Florence rushes along in another stream of words. “A killer capable of such barbarous …! And I sat at the same table with him … Oh my. Oh my …” Tap goes the fan again. Tap, tap, tap, tap, and accompanying the sound is the frenzied creak of corset stays and taffeta petticoats. “… And, don't you remember, Henrietta … that business about the child's tongue lying on a pillow? What the conjurer pretended to ‘see'? Imagine that he could have committed so heinous an act—and then spoken of it! To us! And in your very house! Doesn't that prove how depraved and conniving he is …!” In her excitement, Florence all but moans, and her undergarments repeat the noisy cry. “… All the same, you mustn't criticize yourself, Henrietta. You cannot be blamed for introducing this demonic character to Emily Durand. Indeed you cannot. And you mustn't feel her low character bears any reflection on those of her acquaintance … But what do you think can be the meaning of this percussion rifle and the hermit? Do you think he could have killed—?”

“Mrs. Shippen, please!” Professor Ilsley cautions in a murmur that rumbles through his long white beard. “Pray, let us save the rest of this conversation for the intermission.”

“Oh!” Florence responds with a small gasp. “I did not intend, Professor—”

“Then let us say no more about murders or percussion rifles or the reprehensible mores of a certain widow until the intermission, madam.”

“Oh!” Florence repeats. Her face, could it be seen in the darkness of the concert hall, has turned very pink. “I simply thought your wife and I could—”

“Mrs. Ilsley and I are devotees of the opera, Mrs. Shippen—”

“As my husband and I are also, sir, I assure you—”

“We will have sufficient time to continue our discussions at the close of the act—”

“Well, yes, of course, Professor Ilsley. I merely thought that—”

“Good. Then let us give our singers the attention they deserve.”

By this time other patrons have begun grumbling, and so Florence Shippen withdraws into the eclipsing darkness of the box's curtains and sulkily watches the legendary star performers, Mr. and Mrs. Seguin, act out the parts of the trusting young farmer and his sleepwalking betrothed, Amina. Florence stifles a heavy sigh while the gas lamps set upon the footboards flicker, illuminating a number of patrons installed in the first row of seats. In the chiaroscuro created by the artificial light, only stray parts of their torsos appear: a man's gloved hand gesturing; the ruddy side of a bewhiskered face; the exposed neck of a lady who wears a dress of russet-colored silk brocade and
point d'Alsace
lace—very
à la mode
, Florence knows. She regards the scene, frowns in escalating impatience, and continues toying with her fan until her husband reaches out a diffident but restraining hand.

She shifts in her chair. The most extraordinary events in her entire life are unfolding while she's forced to sit in polite silence and study a diva feign walking in her sleep—rather than discuss Eusapio Paladino conjuring the spirit of Lemuel Beale, or how the missing man's weapon was retrieved, or what sort of cruel beast could so brutally slay two girls. Florence kicks her little feet against the brocadeclad wall.
Oh, to have dared enter the terrors of the Moyamensing Prison! Oh, to have heard the tortuous cry of “I'm in a watery grave; search for me no more!” Oh, to be as willful as the terrible but fascinating Emily Durand
.

“And the members of the day watch who discovered the hermit are quite convinced they've apprehended Father's murderer, Mr. Simms?” Martha asks, then pauses for a moment only, shaking her head in confusion and disbelief. “But I still fail to understand how they can be certain that such a simple soul—”

Owen Simms interrupts, walking with a show of authoritarian calm to the parlor hearth, the better to view his master's daughter. In his hand is the porcelain cup she recently filled; she remains, as customary, presiding over the silver tea things arrayed upon the table. The subdued supper during which they scarcely referred to the astonishing arrest has given way to a more heated exchange now that the servants are no longer present. “My dear Martha, you and I must rely upon the long experience of the constabulary. If they're convinced they have the man who killed your father—”

“But what does Mr. Kelman say to this notion?” Martha's brow is creased, and her chest feels tight with perplexity and the sense that her father's confidential secretary is not providing the entire story of what occurred. “Because surely such a reclusive creature would be easy to blame …
wrongly
accuse is what I mean—”

“Your Mr. Kelman is no longer part of this investigation” is Simms's firm response.

Martha stares at him. She cannot believe she's heard correctly. “Oh, but Mr. Simms, surely—?”

“Martha, have we not had similar discussions in the past? I must caution you to obey reason and not your heart. Mr. Kelman no longer has—”

“But have you spoken to him?” she asks in growing consternation. “Have you explained—?”

Owen Simms smiles down as he interrupts her again. “You're as stubborn as your dear papa, Martha. I think he'd be pleased to see you so insistent that all proper measures in this inquiry be satisfied. You have a kind heart. He—and I—have long recognized that fact. You fret over dogs taking chill; you worry about overtaxing your servants; you wish to aid the destitute. Naturally, you also desire to spare the feelings of Thomas Kelman … But the truth in this matter cannot be avoided. A half-beast of a man was found in possession of your father's rifle. How could this hermit have come to own the weapon if he hadn't slain your father?”

“But Jacob saw it lying on the rocks when he—”

“Jacob
claimed
to have seen it, Martha—”

“And I believe him, Mr. Simms!” Martha's words are almost a cry, and her body quivers with the desperate need to be heard.

Simms's response is an even-tempered and almost playful “My dear Martha, you'll never be capable of managing a household if you trust every word your servants tell you.”

“But couldn't the hermit have simply found Father's rifle when Jacob came home to report the news?” Martha persists despite her companion's obvious desire that they put the conversation behind them. Or perhaps she continues her argument precisely because Simms doesn't want it. “Isn't that what the prisoner's been insisting? That he never heard of a person called Lemuel Beale, and—?”

“Nonsense, Martha. Everyone in this city knows of your father.”

“But—”

“We must trust the wisdom of the constabulary, Martha,” Simms tells her with some asperity. “If they believe they've apprehended your father's killer, then we, as law-abiding citizens, must accept their judgment.” He graces her with another smile, then continues in the same decisive tone. “Who's to say that the gardener wasn't in league with your father's assassin? Who's to say your father didn't have something of value in his possession when he vanished? Even a few gold coins would be a fortune to a pauper—”

“Jacob Oberholtzer is not a pauper, Mr. Simms; he's an honest and good man.”

Simms puts his teacup on the mantelpiece. It's a supremely self-assured gesture, and Martha finds herself growing not only irritated at it but also strangely frightened. “Well, let us not impugn old Jacob's character—for the time being, my dear. But even you with your loving heart cannot feel empathy for a savage who willfully shot your father. And that man, most assuredly,
is
a pauper.”

“If
the hermit did murder Father, Mr. Simms,” Martha responds forcefully.

“Which we must leave for a jury to decide, my dear. As we must also permit a judge to ascertain how or to what extent Oberholtzer was involved—”

“Or whether Jacob had no part in this, Mr. Simms!” Martha argues. “Other than discovering Father's dogs waiting on the shore.” Even as she makes this vigorous objection to Simms's accusation, Martha feels her defiant spirit beginning to desert her. She forces her gaze away from Simms's face and tranquil hands and returns to the tea set spread before her.

So much has occurred in a mere day's time! Since the discovery of the rifle, her father's confidential secretary has rarely left the house. Instead, he installed himself in Lemuel Beale's study, where he first entered into discussions with the captain of the day watch who found the weapon and then attended to other private affairs—while Martha hovered outside the door, at first anxious lest he find some object of her father's misplaced, and then worrying over the fact that he didn't send for her. Hours of fretful pacing because Simms deemed it inappropriate for her genteel ears to be subjected to descriptions of the half-savage creature who possessed the weapon! Nor did he consider it fitting for her to peruse her father's business correspondences.

So much for my courageous decisions
, Martha now thinks bitterly. So
much for my declaration of autonomy
. She sighs in self-rebuke, but Simms mistakes the sound for one of sorrow.

“You must continue to be brave, my dear Martha. Your father would wish it.”

Martha makes no answer. It's the truth, of course, but how she yearns to be no longer reminded of her parent's dictums.

“Would
have wished
it.” Simms corrects himself. “Because the time has come when we must behave as reasonable folk. Whether the strange creature found carrying your father's rifle had an accomplice or whether he simply acted for his own greedy gain, the fact of the matter remains: Your father is dead and must be properly mourned.”

“Yes,” Martha replies in a leaden tone. She knows precisely to what Simms refers: the rules society has established for a daughter bereaved of a parent. Six months of near-total seclusion dressed in full mourning; four months of semi-mourning, and finally two months in half-mourning. For ten months, there will be no callers stopping by to visit her other than family—of which she has none—or female or older male acquaintances of long standing, the chief one of whom is Owen Simms.

“I propose to make another visit to the Association for the Care of Colored Orphans before I make my retreat, Mr. Simms,” Martha now states in the same heavy and defeated voice. “I feel I've left some hopeful efforts unresolved. I shall journey there tomorrow morning, then return home and order the appropriate black-edged paper and the envelopes and memorial cards.”

“I've taken the liberty to order letter paper already, Martha.”

“Ah …” She stares at the tea tray, but the silver pot and sugar bowl and creamer begin to blur before her eyes.
Already my exile begins
, she tells herself. “You've thought of everything, Mr. Simms.”

“It was the service I provided your late father, Martha. I hope to continue to do so for you.”

Martha glances up at him with her bleak face.
Here's my chance
, she thinks;
here's the moment when I inform Owen Simms that I wish him to quit the house
. But he speaks again before she can craft the necessary words.

“In fact, I hope to one day be of even greater aid … In a year's time, when this period of mourning is passed, I hope that you will consider doing me the tremendous honor of becoming my wife—”

“Oh, Mr. Simms!” Martha is so horrified at this proposal that she finds herself riveted to her chair. “Surely you cannot imagine—”

“You're right to suggest it's too soon to speak of such matters, my dear, but I—”

“No! It's not a matter of—”

“But I feel your father would approve. No, I am certain he would approve, and that he'd also wish me to proclaim myself now in order to assuage your grief—”

“No!” Martha can only repeat. She tells herself she should rise and leave the room, but her legs have turned to stone. “Please, Mr. Simms. Let us no longer discuss this—”

“Not for a full year, naturally. I fully comprehend the awkwardness of acting so hastily, Martha, but as I stated, I hope you'll recognize with what deep affection I regard you, and so gain a measure of solace in your time of trial. Your happiness is all I wish, my dearest Martha … And now I'll comply with your request and not refer to this proposal again until your period of mourning is past—”

“Not then, Mr. Simms. Not now and not then,” Martha states as she finally forces herself to stand. “I bid you good night, sir. We will not refer to this matter again.”

Regaining the safety of her room, Martha flings herself fully clothed upon her bed, staring up into its abundant draperies while her brain whirls around in fury.
A marriage to Owen Simms?
her thoughts rage.
A union with a man nearly my father's age! How could anyone consider such a preposterous idea? How can my father have sanctioned or suggested it? Better death than sharing life with Owen Simms!

And I've already shared so much of my existence with the man
, Martha continues to rail.
Years and years and years of my time upon this earth! Years of obeying both my father and his henchman, being secluded from people my own age, from their pleasures, their confidences, from the young men who might have whispered words of endearment. Owen Simms? No, I won't marry Owen Simms!