Conjurer Read Online Free Page B

as though caught in some clandestine act. Owen Simms strides into the room. “I’m Mr. Beale’s confidential secretary. I was in town attending to his affairs; if not, I would have been here to greet you sooner.”
    â€œAnd I am Thomas Kelman.” Kelman nods politely, although his eyes remain observant and impassive.
    â€œMr. Kelman has been dispatched from the mayor’s office, Mr. Simms—” Martha begins.
    â€œYes, I know.” Simms doesn’t sit; instead, he walks to the fire beside which Martha sits, warming his hands behind him while he continues to regard Kelman. “I’ve heard your name mentioned before now.” He glances briefly at Martha before resuming his speech. “The local day watch searched the shore and woodlands exhaustively. I fear that no trace of Miss Beale’s father was found.”
    â€œI’m aware of that fact, sir. There was also mention of a missing percussion rifle?”
    â€œâ€˜Stolen’ might be the more appropriate term, Mr. Kelman. And by the very gardener who purported to ‘find’ Mr. Beale’s effects—”
    Martha interrupts. “That’s conjecture only, Mr. Simms. And quite unfair to poor old Jacob.”
    Simms regards her in an avuncular fashion, then lets that indulgent glance travel to Kelman. “Miss Beale has an exceedingly kind heart, as you must have noted.”
    Martha inadvertently bites her lip but doesn’t otherwise respond. “It’s not kindness, Mr. Simms,” she insists at length, and then turns to Thomas Kelman. “I simply do not believe Jacob would steal from my father.”
    â€œHe’s a fortunate man to have your trust, miss.”
    After another hesitant pause, Martha speaks again, her words now clearly articulated and assured. “I asked the captain in charge of the day watch if he would send members of his force to areas further down the river—”
    â€œMartha, my dear, I—and many others—have already explained the situation to you,” Simms interposes. “Further down the river are the separate communities of Gray’s Ferry and Southwark, each with their own day and night watches. The captain to whom you spoke has no jurisdiction there—”
    Lemuel Beale’s daughter ignores the interruption. “Mr. Kelman suggested that Father might have met with some … some malicious intent.” She glances up at Kelman in appeal. “And he does have jurisdiction, do you not, sir? You can order a search in those other parts of Philadelphia, as well as in the nearer forests, can you not?”
    â€œOh, Martha, let us be reasonable,” Simms interjects. “Your father isn’t hidden in some hermit’s cave. Nor has he been deliberately dispatched, as your visitor may have attempted to imply. Believe me when I tell you that I know far more about your father’s worldly affairs than you. He has no mortal enemies; his methods have always been above reproach. Painful as it is, we must accept the obvious evidence we have: the falls in terrible torrent, a stumble upon the rocks … We can only pray that his end was quick.”
    But Martha doesn’t heed this plea. “Will you help me find my father, Mr. Kelman …? Living or not, as may be?”
    We can only pray , Martha thinks as she clambers into her canopied bed that night. As sacrilegious as the notion is, the idea of prayer as solace and solution brings not one speck of relief. Besides, what should I pray for? she asks herself. Should I do as Mr. Simms suggests, and beseech God to grant that my father’s demise was mercifully swift? Should I not beg for a miracle instead? Or yearn that Father be immediately restored to his home? Or perhaps I should wish that he’d never gone hunting in the first place!
    Martha shuts her eyes, although not in piety. Instead, she’s willfully closing out her thoughts as she moves her toes