The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [104]
“That seems more than generous,” I said. “I am very grateful for your trust.”
“Trust?” he snapped. “Please don’t mistake me, Doctor. I don’t trust you in the least. If I find that you have been less than truthful or less than candid … I’ll crush you.” He turned to Keuhn. “Bring her in,” he said.
Keuhn opened the door and nodded to someone in the hall. A moment later, the second Pinkerton man entered. At his side was a petrified young girl. She appeared to be no more than eighteen, quite pretty, with long blond hair.
“Lucy!” exclaimed Eakins, his terror renewed. It was the first word he had uttered since we were brought in.
“Indeed,” said Lachtmann. “Dr. Carroll, meet Lucy Arkwright, Rebecca’s maid, just returned from Italy, although not by choice.”
The girl’s gaze dropped to the carpet. Her hands were clasped together in front of her and she was shaking visibly.
“Lucy,” Lachtmann went on, “decided that, with her purse filled with my money and a young Italian art student fawning over what he believed was an American heiress, there was no need to continue to follow instructions and remain inconspicuous. The two of them were leading quite a merry—and public—existence. She was, as a result, observed in Rome by an acquaintance of mine. He cabled to ask me if I knew that a young woman was living the high life, passing herself off as my daughter. Keuhn’s associates had little trouble finding her. Now she is back, although her return voyage was likely not as pleasant as the outbound. Am I right, Lucy?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lachtmann,” the girl moaned. “I was just trying to help Miss Rebecca …” Her speech had acquired some refinement from exposure to better society, but betrayed lower-class Scotch-Irish origins.
“Of course, Lucy,” Lachtmann said soothingly, “and that is just what you are going to do now. You are going to help her by speaking the truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First, did my daughter tell you why she wanted you to impersonate her in Europe?”
“Yes, sir. She said she didn’t want you … anyone to know she wasn’t going to have the baby.”
“She told you everything, didn’t she?”
“Yes, sir. Me and Miss Rebecca was quite close.”
I anticipated what was coming and ventured a peek at Eakins. The painter was sitting rock still, afraid to breathe. I was frozen as well. The wrong answer to the next questions and we were dead men.
“So, Lucy,” Lachtmann went on, “do you know who the father was?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it him?“ Lachtmann once more leveled a finger at Eakins. Eakins gasped at her, his eyes wide, like a rabbit looking down the barrel of a shotgun.
The girl shook her head. “No, sir. Weren’t Mr. Eakins.”
Eakins exhaled audibly as Lachtmann stood stunned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. Quite sure.”
“Who, then?” he demanded.
Lucy’s lips barely moved as she whispered, “Mr. Albert.”
“Albert? Albert Benedict?” Lachtmann had been caught totally unprepared. As had I. Smug, arrogant Albert Benedict. Abigail’s brother. What a cruel, ghastly irony.
As Lachtmann absorbed this stunning reality, he glanced at Eakins. He had expected to be able to condemn the painter and be done with him right here in his study. “Are you certain?” he snapped at the terrfied maid.
“Yes, sir,” Lucy replied, quaking. “Miss Rebecca told me.” She glanced at the door and seemed for just a second to be considering making a run for it. “Mr. Eakins here was just trying to help,” she added.
Lachtmann remained incredulous. “My daughter and Albert Benedict?” he repeated.
“Wasn’t her doing, sir,” she said, so afraid now that her teeth chattered. “He … he forced her.”
At that last, horrible revelation, I expected Lachtmann’s rage to explode, but instead he became frighteningly calm. His movements slowed and he spoke to Lucy softly, as he would a small child or pet. I was no Weir Mitchell, but I had sufficient experience with nervous disorders to know that he was more dangerous in this state than before.
“Did Albert ever know about the child?” he asked her.
“Oh, yes, sir. But he told Miss Rebecca he couldn’t have nothing