Conjurer Read Online Free Page A

answer to your previous question: Yes, I imagine it’s possible he became unpopular with some of those who considered themselves his competitors … perhaps even some who are not American born. My father, as you may know, has had many successful enterprises issuing notes against foreign currencies: Spanish and German specie and so forth. However … however, I don’t believe civilized persons—no matter what nationality—kill one another.”
    The scar on Kelman’s cheek again reddens with emotion. Martha clasps her hands in her lap and shifts her gaze to the floor. When she next speaks, her tone is subdued. “Do you ever work among the poor?” she asks.
    The question seems to take him by surprise. “Among them? As a city official, do you mean, Miss Beale? Or are you referring to service with one of the charitable institutions?”
    â€œAs anything you wish.”
    His answer is slow in coming. “I’m in contact with people of differing means, differing social and economic histories, differing educations.” He pauses and gazes at the sleet-coated windows. “Philadelphia’s police departments, as you know, are many—representing many districts. The night watch, the day watch, the turnkeys, lieutenants, and captains of each division have their hours filled up with larceny, vagrancy, the receiving of stolen goods, threat of riots, bloody competition between fire brigades, and so forth. If there’s a death from unnatural causes, I’m often summoned, Miss Beale,” Kelman concludes, then hesitates again. He hadn’t intended a dissertation on the inadequacy of a decentralized constabulary in an expanding city. He looks at her in her chair, then rapidly glances away. “This isn’t a conversation I would normally have with a lady, Miss Beale.”
    She stares up into his face. “Are ladies then excluded from tragic ends?”
    The thin scar flushes hot; the black eyes flash. “All types and conditions of men—and of women—can meet a brutal death, Miss Beale.”
    She doesn’t speak. She recognizes something deeply personal in his response; and women of her social sphere are strongly discouraged from soliciting private revelations—even from their husbands. “I should like to work among the poor, Mr. Kelman,” she offers in quiet apology. “Not in a policing capacity such as yours, of course, but as an aide … someone bringing a measure of solace …”
    â€œWhat they need is food, Miss Beale.” He speaks the words rapidly and without thought, then attempts to remedy the rashness of the statement. “And comfort, too … I should imagine.”
    A half-smile briefly lights Martha’s face. “You’re direct, Mr. Kelman. An admirable trait. It’s one Father greatly admires.” She flushes again, looks toward the windows again, then returns her gaze to Kelman, attempting a self-deprecating laugh as she does so. “My father forbade me to join a humanitarian mission. Perhaps he, like you, realized my lofty goals would make paltry fare for empty bellies.”
    Kelman is silent. Martha realizes that he’s berating himself for his impulsive speech. It’s something she’s often done herself. “The city sympathizes with you in this time of travail,” he says at length.
    This time she smiles in earnest. “Less direct, Mr. Kelman. But more politic.”
    â€œI hope you understand that my queries into his disappearance are pro forma , Miss Beale?”
    She nods. The fleeting look of pleasure that suffused her face is gone. “If the household staff can assist you in any fashion, Mr. Kelman, they’ll be only too happy to comply” is all she says.
    â€œComply with what, Martha?” The heavy drawing room doors slide open at that moment, causing the fires in the double grates to flare in alarm, and Kelman and Martha to turn in surprise