The Anatomy of Deception (37 page)

“I cannot pretend to agree, Dr. Osler,” I insisted, “but I do, of course, respect your judgment and will accede to your wishes.”

The Professor placed his hand on my shoulder. “And I respect your loyalty and your honor, Ephraim. More than you know. If I thought we could help Farnshaw, I would move mountains to do so. But even you must see that, at every juncture, your involvement has made matters worse, not better. You have uncovered more evidence in this affair than has Borst. Without you, Halsted’s secret would have been safe, Farnshaw would be free, and no one would be the worse for it.

“Every time you tried to loosen the knot, you succeeded only in making it tighter. It is only by good fortune that you pulled back before it strangled Halsted. Now you want to attempt the same thing with Farnshaw. I say no. I say let his parents hire the best lawyer in the city, or their own private detectives, or whatever the rich do when one of their own is in trouble. If Farnshaw is innocent, professionals are much more likely to prove him so than a well-meaning but clumsy amateur.

“Ephraim,” he intoned at last, “come to Baltimore and be a doctor. That is where your brilliance lies.”

There was little to say. I agreed to do as he asked, and left.

I did, however, have two more days.

I arrived at the Benedict home just before five. It was earlier than I had said, but circumstances had altered my schedule. Standing at the front door, I felt the familiar tightness in my stomach that always preceded seeing Abigail. As I had neared her home, I became conscious how terribly I missed her. How desperately I craved the solace of her embrace. Doubts as to her feelings for me, or even of her truthfulness, no longer mattered. I wanted her to be with me always, loving me the way I loved her.

I heard the latch disengage from the inside. How different this sound from that of the padlock on the police wagon. When the door opened, I found myself face-to-face with the Benedicts’ emaciated butler.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Carroll,” he said in a servant’s monotone, “I’ve instructions not to admit you.”

“Instructions from whom?”

The butler did not answer, but began to close the door. Purely by reflex, my right arm shot out and pushed the door back open. The butler looked astonished. In his world, someone forcing their way into a house was as unique a phenomenon as witnessing an active volcano.

“You must leave,” he gasped. “If not, I will call—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” I growled. “You will fetch Miss Benedict and you will do it now.”

The butler’s head began to swivel back and forth as if on a spring. “I cannot …”

“It’s all right, Martin,” an unexpected voice said from up the stairs. “Let Dr. Carroll in.”

“Abigail!” She stood at the head of the stairs in a black silk gown.

“Hello, Ephraim,” she said in tones as mournful as her
garb. She descended the stairs like a magnificent butterfly, seeming to waft rather than walk and, when she reached the bottom, took my hand, but did not kiss me.

Without speaking further, she led me through the house to the sitting room, the same one in which she had showed me the portrait of Rebecca Lachtmann. Not only had that painting been removed, but so had Eakins’ depiction of the rowers. Two smaller, nondescript still-lifes now hung in their place, leaving a dark halo on the buff wallpaper around each, as if the Benedicts had wished to provide a reminder of the disgrace that had sparked the change. Abigail bade me to take a chair, but I could not sit.

“Abigail,” I began, “they tried to keep me from you. I know that you would never—”

She put up her hand. Her movements were graceful, deliberate. “Ephraim,” she said softly, “in one hour I am leaving for New York with my parents and Albert and Margaret. From there, we are sailing for Europe.”

“Europe?” I echoed, stunned. “How long will you be gone? How can I reach you?”

“Father has planned an extensive tour of the Continent. There is no date for our return. And he has insisted that our itinerary remain secret.”

“But what about us?”

Abigail did not drop her gaze or alter her expression. “I treasure our time together, Ephraim. Truly I do. I have deep feelings for you. But circumstances have overtaken both of us. I cannot bear to remain here with the memory of the horrible fate that befell my friend so fresh in my mind. I ache terribly. I need time and distance so that my soul may heal.”

My throat had gone completely dry and I felt my heart tripping against my ribs. “What about my soul?” I whispered.

“I’m sorry, Ephraim.”

“I thought you loved me.”

“I said I have feelings for you. I never once said I loved
you. I have never loved any man. I’m not convinced that I ever will.”

“But the night in the studio … the portrait …”

“Lovemaking is not the same thing as love, Ephraim.”

“It was to me.”

Abigail sighed. “It isn’t my fault, Ephraim, that you made me into something I’m not.”

I felt desperation, as does a patient who has been just told that he is terminally ill. How many times had I watched one of them grapple with this news? There must be something to say, something to do, each thinks, something that will alter the diagnosis, something to inject a glimmer of hope. I wanted to beg her, accuse her, charm her, plead with her, berate her for enticing me to fall in love with her and then abandoning me. Before I could do any of that, however, she spoke once more.

“When you came by yesterday morning, I was too aggrieved to see you and, to be honest, extremely distressed that you ignored my wishes. How could you possibly have made that grisly visit to the cemetery?”

“You begged me to help.” I heard the shrillness in my protest. “To find out the truth about Rebecca. If I had not gone … done what I did … you never would have known.”

Her face was beautiful, implacable. “I know now that sometimes it may be better to have a terrible truth withheld. I will never be able to look at you again without being reminded of poor Rebecca’s coffin being dug up and opened in the dead of night.”

“Perhaps after some time away …” I mumbled.

“Quite some time, I’m afraid. Simply put, Ephraim, I do not expect to return anytime in the near future, so it would be pointless to pretend there is any potential for us. You are an exceptional man and I have complete confidence that you will find the love and fulfillment you seek with another. Although I have no right to make such a request, I ask for
your indulgence and understanding. I hope that one day you will be able to think of me with fondness rather than rancor.”

A stunning emptiness came over me, as if I had been hollowed out, followed by a horrible pain—searing, tearing through me. Never to see her again, never to touch her, hear her voice. The helplessness, the sense of loss, was crushing. This was, surely, a death, how Halsted must have felt when he realized that his destiny had been totally wrested from his control.

“Then there is nothing …”

“I’m sorry,” she said, but looking on her face, so placid, so utterly unaffected, I knew at once that she had been regretful before, that I was not the first man to sit across from her with dashed hopes and smashed dreams. I was surely not the only man who found her to be the most alluring woman he’d ever met, not the first to fall in love with her. Eakins, I now knew, was in love with her, too. Every man she met, I expected, was prone to the same fate.

While she loved none of them in return.

Then, suddenly, as with Monique, I saw Abigail for the person she was. Beauty without soul. All her passion went on her canvases. There was none in the person herself. It was she who was truly hollowed out.

There was nothing more to be said. I stood to leave.

“There is something I’d like you to have, if you want it,” she said.

“What is that?”

“The portrait. I’ve had it wrapped for you. If you don’t want it, I’m going to have it destroyed. I’ve already done that with Rebecca’s painting. I want no reminders.”

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Abigail rang and instructed Martin to bring the package. He soon returned with a parcel wrapped in cloth and tied with string.

She stood and faced me. “Good-bye, Ephraim.”

I couldn’t speak the word. I mutely took up the package and walked past her out of the room. As I passed into the vestibule, Albert was standing at the top of the stairs. I stopped and our eyes met. I considered confronting him for his perfidy, but I realized that he felt no more responsibility for Rebecca Lachtmann than the butcher surgeon Burleigh had felt for Mr. Whitbread. For a moment, we stared at one another and then, without the hypocrisy of false pleasantries, I left the Benedict home for the final time.

When I arrived home and placed the painting in the hall, Mrs. Mooney asked what it was. When I told her, she fetched a knife and, without uttering a word, cut the string binding the cloth. When the painting was unwrapped, she leaned it against the wall and stood back to examine it. She placed her right index finger to her lower lip and cocked her head back and forth, never taking her eyes from the canvas. Finally, she emitted a long breath, slowly shook her head, and retired to prepare me a light supper.

As I examined the portrait for myself, I also was not as taken with it as I had been earlier. What had appeared strong and indomitable in Abigail’s studio seemed now to be only mean and self-absorbed. I looked carefully to see if Abigail had altered the painting in any way, but there was no evidence of change. Perhaps it was I who had changed.

Simpson arrived precisely on time. She was wearing a maroon dress, once again plain but not unfashionable. She stood at the threshold for a moment before entering. She was not alone.

“Samuel,” she said, looking down at a boy of about eight standing next to her, “please say hello to Dr. Carroll.”

The boy stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a mop of soft brown hair under a small cap and was dressed in knickers and a wool jacket. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said.

Simpson stood across from me with hope and challenge. “Ephraim, I would like you to meet my son.”

“Samuel,” I said with a smile, suppressing my astonishment. “This is indeed a pleasure. I’ve wanted to meet the son of such a fine doctor as your mother.”

“You knew about me then, sir?” asked the boy. “I’m supposed to be a secret from the other doctors … except Dr. Osler, that is.”

“I didn’t know,” I said, with a glance at his mother. “But I should have suspected.”

Samuel smiled. He was a fine-looking lad with an open and intelligent face. “Mother says that you’re very smart … and a good detective.”

“Did she? Well, I’m not sure she’s correct, but I’m terribly flattered.”

Mrs. Mooney had appeared at my side, as beamingly maternal as if one of her own grandchildren had appeared. “Why don’t I take Samuel in the kitchen so that you two can work?”

After they had departed, Simpson said, “We agreed to be honest with each other.” Before I could reply, she saw the portrait leaning against the wall. “Did she do that?”

I replied that, yes, Abigail Benedict had painted it.

“Doesn’t look like you,” Simpson remarked.

“It’s not supposed to,” I answered. “It isn’t supposed to be realistic.”

“No,” said Simpson. “I mean that it
isn’t
you. It’s somebody else with your features.”

I found myself relieved and pleased that Simpson had seen it so.

“Well, Ephraim,” she said abruptly, “let’s get to work.”

“Before we begin,” I said, “please tell me about Samuel.”

“I’m sure you can guess most of it,” she began selfconsciously, but also with relief. “I was born near Pittsburgh …”

“I thought you were native to Philadelphia.”

“No. I moved here just after Samuel was born. I became pregnant at sixteen by a man who claimed to love me but who then abandoned me when he discovered my condition. My
father and mother railed at me, called me godless, and insisted I either publicly confess my sins to their congregation and then give up the baby, or leave their home. I chose the latter.

“You know all too well what choices are available to a woman who finds herself in my situation. I, however, decided to create an option of my own. I moved to Philadelphia and cajoled a ‘home for fallen women’ to take me in—that’s what Croskey was at the time. While the women who lived there watched my baby, I worked at whatever employment I could find. I studied at night. I eventually registered at the university. I completed my studies about the time Dr. Osler arrived. He had a reputation for progressive thought, so I sought him out and asked him to allow me to study medicine under his auspices. He agreed without hesitation. What I am today is the result.”

“So it was you who created the settlement house?”

“I and a number of others.”

“Samuel is a fine boy, as I am sure you know,” I said. “You should be immensely proud. But why bring him here tonight?”

“Living a lie is fatiguing,” she replied simply. “I wish to stop.” She eyed me carefully, wary of any false gesture or response. “But we should get to work now.”

“Wait,” I said. “There is something I want … need … to tell you. I need you to know about my father …”

For twenty minutes, I told Simpson of my past with relief but not trepidation, while she listened with sympathy but not judgment. When I was done, she smiled shyly, thanked me for my trust, and then said simply, “Now let’s find something to save poor Farnshaw.”

I was buoyed. With her help, I felt, for the first time, that I might find my way through the thicket.

Since I had already been through the materials, at least cursorily, I examined the journal while Simpson familiarized herself with some of the more common techniques of encryption. Even when we engaged in individual tasks, we worked together, as if at the autopsy table, two students of science applying logic and method to unravel an enigma.

“If Turk employed an exotic cipher, I’m not all at sure we can penetrate it,” she concluded, “but if not, since we are able to form a solid hypothesis as to the subject matter that he wished to hide, we may be able to work backward to set us on the road to a solution.”