The Anatomy of Deception (29 page)

Eakins shook his head. “No, no. That’s not at all what I mean. We wish him to reveal his activities, not sit for a portrait…. Wait!” he exclaimed, then smiled slowly, looking quite feline. “Of course. You must go as another,” Eakins said.

“As another? Misrepresent myself?”

“As you said, he will not confide in a physician.”

“Impossible. He would see right through me. This is your scheme; you should execute it.”

Eakins shook his head. “I’m sorry to inform you, Dr. Carroll, but I am sufficiently well known that I can hardly go anywhere in this city as anyone but myself. Even in that guise, I am often unwelcome. No. I’m afraid it will have to be you.”

“I expect you have a firm idea of who that alter ego should be.”

“A very firm idea,” said Eakins.

I listened as Eakins told me. “I’ll be back,” I said.

One hour later, I pulled up in a hansom at the Germantown Mission on Wayne Avenue, a wide, tree-lined road just off Fairmount Park. The two-story building with the gold cupola at which the carriage stopped was part of a larger complex that seemed to sprawl across the street on either side. The Germantown Mission, in addition to its ecclesiastical activities, housed an orphanage and a soup kitchen, and provided a number of other services for the poor.

I informed the young man who answered the door that I had come to see Reverend Squires. After a moment in the vestibule, I heard footsteps and soon the Reverend himself made his appearance.

I had formed a picture in my mind’s eye of a tall, glowering fanatic who intimidated society matrons into opening their pocketbooks, but Reverend Squires was instead short and plump with a florid countenance and what seemed to be indefatigable good cheer. He bounced across the floor to greet me. I was heartened. A man more susceptible to flattery would be difficult to imagine.

“Good afternoon, Reverend,” I said. “I’m so lucky to find you in, as I have traveled overnight to see you.”

“Indeed,” replied the Reverend. “And where did your journey begin?”

“New York,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Galen Harvey and I work for the
New York Sun.”

Reverend Squires shook my hand with appropriate awe. Eakins had judged our man well. “The
New York Sun?
And you wish to speak with me?”

“Quite so,” I said. “Word of your good work has spread, Reverend Squires, and the
Sun
believes that the citizens of New York should have the full story.” I sounded very much like a reporter, I decided.

The Reverend apparently agreed. “Well, well,” he said, hardly able to contain his elation. “I would be happy to discuss any of our work here. Is there some specific aspect of our efforts in which you are most interested?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, with a deferential nod. “We feel that your labors on behalf of the poor in obtaining a decent burial are remarkable and noteworthy. In fact, it has been commented that they are unsurpassed. After all, these poor wretches should at least be entitled to their final dignity.”

“Yes, yes.” Reverend Squires nodded, almost dancing before me. “That is so true, Mr. Harvey. They are so often abused in life, why should they also be abused in death?”

“Quite so. And I understand that even after death, paupers are often the subject of hideous medical practices.”

“Yes, yes,” the Reverend said once again, his face now as red as a cherry. “The wretches are butchered, cut up, their insides ripped out and then shoved back in so that they may be stitched up again like a sack of grain.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Sometimes they don’t even get their own parts back.”

“Really?” I said. “I must report that.”

Reverend Squires knit his brows. “You do not seem to be writing what I am saying, Mr. Harvey.”

“It is true, Reverend.” I nodded, trying to form a response, cursing myself for the sin of arrogance. “I have trained my memory to record my interviews. This allows me to give full attention to those with whom I speak.”

Reverend Squires mused on this for a moment. I was fortunate that the man before me so desperately wanted to
believe that the
New York Sun
sought to report on his crusading activities. “Very clever of you, Mr. Harvey,” he admitted finally. “You must be quite important at the
Sun,”
he added hopefully.

“Alas, Reverend Squires, I have not yet the experience to be important, but with essential stories such as this one, I hope to become so.”

“I wish you the best in that regard,” he said.

“Thank you. I understand that you have created an official organization to support your efforts,” I went on.

“Yes, yes,” he replied. “The Philadelphia League Against Human Vivisection. We are trying to end the un-Godly practice of dissecting human beings. We have great support, particularly among those of means, which is gratifying since the wealthy never need concern themselves with such indignities, only the poor.”

“That is highly commendable, Reverend Squires,” I agreed. “It must be a great relief to have an abundance of funds at your disposal.”

“Oh, never an abundance, Mr. Harvey,” the Reverend assured me. “Never an abundance. There is so much work to do, so many souls to care for, that our funds are disbursed almost as they arrive. In fact, I am scheduled to speak at a gathering tomorrow evening at the home of one of Philadelphia’s leading citizens who has volunteered to become a major benefactor. Do you know of Elias Schoonmaker?”

I assured the Reverend I did not. Dinner at the Benedicts’ had apparently gone even worse than the Professor and I had imagined.

“You should meet Mrs. Schoonmaker. She is an extremely distinguished woman. Did you intend to remain in Philadelphia overnight?”

“Alas, no. I must return directly to New York.”

“A pity,” he said. “I was hoping you might witness for yourself the outpouring of support for our cause.”

“I’m sure that everyone in the city applauds your efforts.”

“Oh, no,” he exclaimed with a wag of his finger. “Not everyone. There are those in the medical profession who believe that it is perfectly acceptable to go against Scripture simply to satisfy morbid curiosity.” His features puckered. “The worst is this Canadian … man named Osler….” He pronounced it
Ah-sler
instead of
Oh-sler
. “This Osler dared come to see me, to try to convince me that carving up the dead was part of the advancement of science.” His jaws began to work back and forth at the memory of it. “Blasphemy,” he muttered.

“Quite so,” I replied. “I would like to return to your efforts to serve those who have died without funds for burial. Does your League pay for those burials as well?”

A cloud passed over the Reverend’s plump face. “It is the city’s responsibility to provide services for the indigent,” he said. “Private citizens cannot simply bury who they wish.”

I smiled, with what I hoped was a conspiratorial glint. “Nonetheless, Reverend Squires, I have heard that you have sometimes taken it upon yourself to provide a more dignified service than that offered by the city.”

“Where did you hear that?” he demanded, looking far less jolly than a moment before.

“I would not be much of a reporter if I could not unearth a story. Especially of a man who does God’s work with such zeal. I would, of course, not include any details that might prove embarrassing to you in any article we publish, but the
Sun
would be that much more interested in a man who takes risks for his convictions.”

Reverend Squires was eager to demonstrate that he was indeed such a man. “Of course, we provide burials,” he said. “It is a far more humane alternative than letting the poor be dumped in a hole in the ground.”

“I could not agree more strongly,” I said. “But it must stretch your resources to provide services for so many.”

“It is one of our most pressing expenses. You would be
surprised, Mr. Harvey, at everything that is involved. One must obtain the space at the cemetery—we use St. Barnabas—hire men to prepare the site, obtain suitable transport….”

And bribe Charlie to keep his mouth shut, I thought, but instead I asked, “But how can you possibly keep track of everyone?” I asked. “The task is so laborious.”

“That is true, Mr. Harvey,” the Reverend replied. “But it is imperative that we know where each of these unfortunates has been laid to rest in the event a friend or loved one surfaces.”

“But are not many of those for whom you perform this service anonymous? How then …”

The Reverend smiled broadly. “An excellent question, Mr. Harvey. An excellent question.” And one to which I hoped he had an excellent answer. “Come,” the Reverend continued, “let me show you.”

Reverend Squires led me through the rectory to an office in which two young women were busily working on open ledgers. “We keep scrupulous accounts of everything we do here,” he said, walking to a shelf and removing an oversized journal. He hefted the book to the table and swung it open. “These are the records of this month’s interments,” he told me. “As you can see, every soul for whom we are accountable is identified, if not by name, then by physical characteristics, as is the exact location where the poor unfortunate has been laid to rest.”

“This is most impressive, Reverend.” I turned and smiled at him. “So, then,” I continued, running my fingers down the page. “If for example, you wished to access the burial records for, say, Thursday of last week …”

“That would be here,” the Reverend replied proudly.

“And Wednesday before that?” I asked, so as not to appear interested in one particular day.

“That would be here.”

I had already noticed the listings I wanted—three of the
five were there—but did not ask about them specifically. Instead, I committed the location of the grave to memory—hoping that my recall was as good as I had boasted—and profusely congratulated him on his record-keeping until he had closed and replaced the ledger.

Reverend Squires wanted to show me the rest of the mission, but I told him that I must return home to ensure that the story be submitted to the
Sun
as soon as possible. He inquired as to when I thought it would appear, but I told him that a mere reporter could not make that decision. As he escorted me to my carriage, he was quite insistent that anything, anything I might need to embellish my story, I need do nothing but ask.

Repeating the location of the grave site in my head, I thanked him and assured him that he had given me all that I needed.

By the time I had returned to Eakins’ home, it was already mid-afternoon. Over tea, as I told him of my adventure, I could not suppress the exhilaration I felt in having executed the masquerade with such deftness.

“Have you alerted the authorities?”

“No,” I said. “I had a rather different course of action in mind.”

When I told him the details of my scheme, Eakins cocked his head and barked out a single laugh. “You are mad,” he said simply. “What if we should be found out?”

“We must take every precaution not to be found out,” I replied.

“Why would you of all people take such a risk?” he asked. “You are not personally involved, and have little to gain but quite a bit to lose.”

It would be pointless to reply that I wished to exude more intelligence, strength, and resolve than he, so I merely said, “I wish to help Abigail. Don’t you?”

“Yes, of course I do,” muttered Eakins, “but I have been
embroiled in scandal enough. I don’t wish to add a prison stay to the list.”

“Nor do I,” I said. “But look at it this way. If we are caught and you are incarcerated, the price of your paintings will increase precipitously.”

“That’s idiotic, Carroll,” Eakins snapped, but he actually seemed to be mulling it over.

“There is no other way, Eakins,” I argued. “As you noted, neither of us is immune to Jonas Lachtmann’s wrath nor, I daresay, to that of the police. We must know the circumstances of his daughter’s continued disappearance before they do. If she is alive, the last thing we want is to appear to be involved in a conspiracy, and if she is not, we must be prepared to present them with a full explanation lest we be it.” I shrugged and added, “And just think … you will get to experience realism and truth in a way you likely never imagined.”

“Allow me to withhold my gratitude,” he said. “Suppose I refuse to go along with you?”

“You won’t refuse,” I informed him calmly.

“And why in heaven’s name not?”

“Because Abigail will lose respect for you. And besides, you’re insatiably curious.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But tell me, Carroll, can you be certain you could identify the body as being Rebecca’s—or not—if you saw it?”

“I cannot be certain, unless there was some physical characteristic that would survive two weeks’ interment.”

Eakins thought for a moment. “She had a mild case of rickets as a child,” he said. “I am told that causes bone distortion. Could you identify it?”

“Without question,” I replied. “Even if there is no bowing of the arms and legs, there will be bony spurs on the ribs. I do feel that I should warn you … it will not be like sitting in on an operation.”

After we made our plans, I left the Eakins home and
returned to the center of the city. I purchased the only instrument I would require, an anatomist’s scalpel, from a medical supply emporium on Broad Street, and then repaired to Mrs. Mooney’s to get some sleep before our agreed-upon midnight rendezvous.

I
CREPT DOWNSTAIRS AT THE
appointed hour and, in case she should awaken, left Mrs. Mooney a note explaining that my absence was due to a medical emergency.

Eakins was outside in a carriage; we immediately set out. Neither of us had experience in nocturnal intrigues, so we agreed to err on the side of caution and both of us were as vigilant as possible during the ride to South Philadelphia. Eakins made a number of turns and circles in order to detect anyone who might have been following, but we seemed to be alone on our route. Rather than proceed all the way to St. Barnabas, Eakins stopped about a half-mile away. He tied up his carriage in a quiet part of town where it was unlikely to attract attention, even at such a late hour.