The Anatomy of Deception (21 page)

“It is only because your professional reputation is so excellent and that you work with Dr. Osler that we will take no action at the moment and allow you to continue to call on my sister.” Benedict spoke easily, casually, as if menacing potential suitors was a common event. Perhaps it was. “Abigail has, I might add, expressed an interest in you, but she always was susceptible to charm.” Charm? This man thought I had made my way on charm? “If, however, we find that your attentions are motivated by a desire to improve your social or financial position or are in any other way insincere … well, Dr. Carroll, we can make things extremely difficult for you, and we can do so whether you are in Philadelphia, Baltimore, or Constantinople.”

Ten days ago, I would have been overpowered—one of the most dominant families in the city, perhaps the entire nation, had promised to break me unless I behaved exactly as I was told. But I was not the same man as ten days ago. During that period, I had been threatened with prison by Borst and bodily
injury by Haggens, uncovered a murder, and put the work of a decade at risk. While I certainly did not take the Benedicts lightly, the threat issued by Albert seemed rather benign compared to the others.

“Mr. Benedict,” I replied, “I understand your position exactly. Although I can issue all the appropriate assurances of honorable behavior, you would still have every reason for skepticism. I am sure, after all, that the most convincing assurances come from the worst rogues. Your father … and you, of course … will, I know, judge me by my demeanor, not by anything I say.”

I had not expressed the appropriate fealty, but nor had I challenged his authority. A stalemate, if he would allow it. For the moment, evidently, he would, as, without further conversation, he rose. “I will fetch my sister,” he said evenly. “Wait in the sunroom.”

I was escorted by a retainer through the labyrinthine house to a small room at the back whose ceiling and walls were glass. It was filled with greenery and flowers, and the moon was visible overhead. The air was as thick as I imagined the tropics to be. Five minutes later, Abigail walked in. She was once again dressed simply and looked all the more alluring for it. She closed the door behind her and took my hands in hers. We sat in large fan-back wicker chairs.

“Why did you want to see me?” I asked without preamble.

“Is that all you can say? Rather brusque, is it not?”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “It has been an extremely difficult day.”

“Why, Ephraim?” she asked softly.

The use of my Christian name brought me up short, as I am sure it was intended to. “A patient died. Someone I had been attending.”

“I don’t understand how you endure all that death and suffering,” she said. Her empathy seemed genuine.

“Sometimes we can prevent death and alleviate suffering,”
I replied. “Thanks to men like Dr. Osler, we are getting better at both with every passing year.”

“Still …”

“Yes. One never gets used to the tragedies.”

“Was there something special about this patient … the one today?”

“She was a child. Twelve or thirteen, although no one knows for sure. She was very brave.”

“I’m so sorry,” Miss Benedict whispered. “Of what did she die?”

The scene on the river flashed before my eyes. “She worked in a factory owned by the very type of person who has dinner here. Someone who made a great deal of money while girls like Annie were slowly suffocated.”

She pulled back. “That isn’t fair,” she exclaimed. Her eyes began to fill with tears. “That really isn’t fair.”

I could not believe I had allowed such a hurtful remark to escape my lips. Yet the anger I felt was real. “I am sorry. Truly. It was not at all fair.”

Miss Benedict regained her composure but sat up straight in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.

“You are angry, and not simply because of your patient. Are you going to tell me why?”

“Do you know George Turk?” I asked.

“No. Should I?”

“Are you sure? George … Turk.” I repeated the name slowly for emphasis. I refused to be anyone’s fool, not even hers.

“If I said that I don’t know George Turk, I don’t know George Turk. Who is he, anyway?” Abigail Benedict replied, the muscles in her jaw knotting. Her egalitarian sentiments notwithstanding, she was still Hiram Benedict’s daughter and unaccustomed to being cross-questioned.

“He was the man that you went with Rebecca Lachtmann to The Fatted Calf to meet,” I said. A guess, certainly, but one
that fit all the facts. And it was hard to imagine any other reason for them to be at Haggens’ establishment.

Her face changed instantly. The bellicosity vanished, replaced by astonishment. “So that was his name. How did you find out?”

“That isn’t important,” I said. “Why did you go to meet him?”

“I went so that Rebecca would not have to go alone. Thomas accompanied us. None of us knew his name, only that he had been recommended as someone who could help.”

“Who recommended him?”

“I’m not sure. Someone Thomas knows.”

“And did Turk help?”

“I don’t know. He was supposed to come to us but he never arrived. We waited at that revolting place for well over an hour but no one approached us. I wasn’t lying to you. I don’t know the man.”

“Didn’t know. George Turk is dead. He was poisoned.”

“Poisoned? When? By whom?”

“The police are currently attempting to find out. If she did not meet him that night, did Rebecca ever succeed in making contact?”

“Not that I know of, but perhaps she did later.”

“I think it is time that you gave me more of the details,” I said.

Abigail Benedict’s expression hardened once more. “No,” she replied. “I don’t think it is.”

“But why?” I asked. “How can I help if I don’t know precisely what to look for?”

“I don’t think I want your help. I thought I did, but apparently I was mistaken. I do not want the help of someone who does not trust my motives, who sits back smugly passing moral judgments on me, my family, and my friends, who eyes my every action as if I were some bacterium under a microscope. No, Ephraim, Thomas and I will have to muddle through without you. I do hope that you have sufficient honor not to transmit any of what you were told in confidence to others.”

The words hit like a slap. When she made to stand, I leapt up. “Please, Abigail. Sit down. Please.” Her hands remained on the arms of the chair, but she made no further move to leave the room.

“You are completely correct,” I went on. “I have behaved like a fool and a cad. I do trust you … I think I do … but … it is simply …” I felt my breath gush out. “It is simply that I am terribly attracted to you and I fear betrayal.”

“Or perhaps my father and brother are correct. Perhaps you are attracted to our money,” she said. She seemed on the verge of sneering at me and I became desperate to turn her anger.

“Why would you accuse me of that? What cause have I given you to believe such a thing?”

“What cause have I given you to believe that my motives are deceitful?” she retorted. “If you insist on thinking the worst of me, why should you protest when you are afforded the same treatment?”

“I deserve everything you have said,” I agreed, in full surrender. “There is no reason that you should believe it, but circumstances would be so much easier for me if it
were
your money. The sad fact is that I think about you obsessively and constantly.”

She smiled, a soft and beautiful smile. An actress onstage could not change mood so often or so quickly. “Is that how you think of it? As sad?”

“I fear that will be the upshot, at least for me. I can think of no reason why it should end any other way.”

“Can’t you?” she demanded.

“Are you still angry? You have every right to be.”

“If people were held to every stupid thing said out of passion, the species would soon go extinct.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling hauled back from the edge of a precipice. At that moment, I knew that I would do anything to help her, and spewed out those very sentiments.

“I find you very gallant, Dr. Carroll,” she said, “when you
are not being churlish, of course. Perhaps we might try to begin anew.”

“I would like that,” I said.

“Please sit down, then, and let us go on. We must find Rebecca quickly. She may have simply secreted herself, but she may also be ill. It has been two weeks, and I feel certain she would have contacted us if she were able. It has been dreadful, sitting here helpless. I love her as I would a sister. Can you not understand that?”

“Yes, of course I can,” I replied. I placed my hand on hers and she did not resist. “But I need more details.” If my hypothesis for the overall chain of events was correct, the news, I feared, would not be good, but I owed Abigail the truth.

“I cannot provide them until I speak with Thomas,” she said plaintively. “We made a pact and I will not break it. If Thomas agrees—and I’m sure he will—we will tell you everything we know. Until then, I would ask that you act on faith a bit longer.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to live up to the reputation for gallantry with which she had endowed me. “Why was it that you wanted to see me if not to give me information?”

“The situation has become more complicated. Jonas has grown suspicious of Rebecca’s whereabouts. I’m not sure what aroused him but we must be more careful.”

“What is he likely to do?”

“One can never tell. But Jonas is dangerous. He has already killed at least two men.”

“Killed?”

“The first was in California when he was just starting out in business. Jonas did not come from means, you know. He shot a man who had cheated him in a business deal. It was called self-defense, but Father told me that Jonas had paid the local sheriff to give false testimony. Then, just after he arrived in Philadelphia, about ten years ago, a footpad accosted Jonas and Eunice as they were leaving a restaurant. The man had a knife and demanded money. Jonas disarmed the thief
and then beat him to death, right there on the street. The police called that self-defense, as well.”

“And you didn’t feel the need to mention these incidents when you enlisted my assistance?”

“I had no idea that matters would become this complicated. I’m telling you now because I care about what happens to you. I would understand fully if you withdrew.”

“No,” I replied. “I’ll continue on.”

“Thank you, Ephraim.”

We both stood. Abigail moved opposite me, very close. I could feel the heat from her skin and smell the aroma of her lavender bath salts. Her lips parted and we stood for a second looking into each other’s eyes. Then, as if at a signal, we each leaned in toward the other and our lips met. Without breaking contact, she shifted and pressed against me. I’m not sure how long we kissed, but it was blissful and eternal.

I left the Benedict home drifting as if on a cushion of air. This had been a week of remarkable happenings, but none more so than this.

I had never been in love before.

S
INCE SHE WAS SMALL, SLEIGH
rides in
the country had been her favorite winter frolic. Swathed in furs, the rush of the wind against her cheek, the muffled clomp of hooves in the snow, the gaiety of her companions—all pure joy. Pure freedom. Why, then, could she not abandon herself, if only for a few moments? Why must fear intrude, even here?

She had been resolute in her determination to forget. If she willed it never to have happened, it would not have. And so, she had said nothing and shown nothing, not to family, not to friends. She had thrown herself into the season. No one had sparkled more at balls, had shown more wit or enthusiasm for the theater, museums, or exhibitions
.

And then she was late
.

At first, she would not think about it, could not confront it. When she did, the horror overwhelmed her. Private shame might be borne, but public disgrace was unthinkable. Her
position and that of her family would be forever sullied. For the remainder of her life, she would be unable to look anyone in the eye and not see her shame reflected back at her. But worst of all, by far worst of all, was that all this must be endured not for the one she loved but rather for the one she loathed
.

As the sleigh emerged from the wood onto an open field, she looked up at the sun, dulled by a gray sky. Perhaps it would still come. Perhaps she might still bury the incident within her. Yes, certainly. It would all come out right in the end. It had to
.

I
HAD BUILT MY LIFE
on discipline, on gathering data and making decisions only after reflection and analysis. Even after circumstance had thrown me into a maelstrom of intrigue, I had tried to maintain the scientific principles that had brought me success in the past. But love is a glorious compulsion to behave against one’s own best interests, and, if the risks were greater, so were the rewards. To be sure, without fulfillment of the heart, all other success is hollow.

The irony that my only chance at such fulfillment had been created by the murder of George Turk and the enigma of Rebecca Lachtmann did not escape me. What if, after the skullduggery had ended and the mysteries were resolved, I was left with the love of a woman to whom mere access would have been unthinkable before? What a strange and welcome turn of fate.