The Alienist - Caleb Carr [186]
“Mr. Dury?” Kreizler called. Our host stopped and turned at the barn doorway. “This fellow, the farmhand—can you recall his name?”
“Indeed I can, Doctor,” Dury answered. “Guilt has burned it into my memory. Beecham—George Beecham. Excuse me.”
The name struck me harder than had any piece of information that had been revealed thus far, and turned much of the triumphant exhilaration that I’d been feeling back into confusion. “George Beecham?” I whispered. “But, Kreizler, if Japheth Dury is, in fact—”
Kreizler held up an urgent, silencing finger. “Save your questions, Moore, and remember one thing—if we can avoid it, let’s keep our true object from this man. We know almost everything we need to know. Now—make an excuse, and let’s depart.”
“Everything we need—well, you may know everything you need to know, but I’ve still got a thousand questions! And why should we keep it from him, he’s got a right—”
“What good can it do him?” Kreizler whispered harshly. “The man has suffered and agonized over this affair for years. What purpose can it serve, of his or ours, to tell him that we believe his brother responsible not only for his parents’ murders, but for the deaths of half a dozen children?”
That gave me pause; for if, in fact, Japheth Dury was alive, but had never tried to contact his brother, Adam, then there was no way in which this tormented farmer could further assist our investigation. And to tell him of our suspicions, even before they were substantiated, did indeed seem the very height of mental cruelty. For all these reasons, when Dury returned from disciplining his horse, I followed Kreizler’s instructions and concocted a tale about a train back to New York and deadlines that had to be met, using all the standard excuses I’d employed a thousand times in my journalistic career to get out of similarly difficult situations.
“But you’ve got to tell me something, honestly, before you go,” Dury said, as he walked us back to the surrey. “This business about writing an article on cases that have gone unsolved—is there any truth in that? Or are you going to reopen this case alone and speculate about my brother’s involvement by using the information I’ve given you?”
“I can assure you, Mr. Dury,” I answered, the truth enabling me to speak with conviction, “there will be no newspaper articles about your brother. What you’ve told us allows us to see how the police investigating the case went wrong—nothing more. It shall be treated just as you’ve told it to us—in the strictest confidence.”
That brought a firm shake of my hand by Dury. “Thank you, sir.”
“Your brother suffered a great deal,” Kreizler answered, also shaking Dury’s hand. “And I suspect that his suffering has gone on, in the years since your parents were killed—if indeed he is still alive. It is not our place to judge him, or to profit from his misery.” The tight skin of Dury’s face grew tighter as he strained to hold back strong emotions. “I have just one or two more questions,” Laszlo went on, “if you wouldn’t mind.”
“If I have the answers, they’re yours, Doctor,” Dury said.
Kreizler inclined his head appreciatively. “Your father. Many Reformed ministers place little emphasis on church holidays—but I get the feeling he did otherwise?”
“Indeed,” Dury answered. “Holidays were among the only pleasant occasions in our house. My mother objected, of course. She’d get out her Bible and explain why such celebrations amounted to papistry and what punishments those who celebrated them could expect. But my father persisted—in fact, he gave some of his finest sermons on holidays. But I can’t see how—”
Kreizler’s black eyes were positively alight as he held up a hand. “It’s a small point, I know, but I was curious.” Climbing up onto the surrey, Laszlo appeared to remember something. “Oh, and another detail.” Dury looked up expectantly as I joined Kreizler in the carriage. “Your brother, Japheth,” Laszlo went on. “At what point did he develop the—the difficulty in his face?”
“His spasms?” Dury answered, again puzzled