The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [106]
It had all been just as she had imagined, a perfect evening. He had been so attentive, so charming, so vulnerable in his need for her. First, there had been the walk in the garden in the clear frosty night, she wrapped in his coat. So many stars in the sky. He had taken her hand. Then, to talk, to confide, he led her back into the house, and up the back stairs into one of the spare bedrooms.
But there had been no talk, no confiding—only struggle, pain, and humiliation. When she had begged him to stop, he laughed, and then growled at her in breath sweet with wine that he knew she had done it before.
CHAPTER 23
I WAS UNSURE OF WHEN a bank president departed for work, so I waited until ten A.M. to arrive at the Benedict home. I apparently had not waited long enough, however, because when the door opened, it was Hiram Benedict himself who stood in the vestibule. Alone, he appeared even more outsized, looming over me like a grizzly.
“Dr. Carroll,” he said evenly, “I have been expecting you. Jonas Lachtmann got in touch with me early this morning.”
Jonas Lachtmann? What would Jonas Lachtmann have told him? Certainly nothing of his daughter and Albert. Was it about me? Did he know about St. Barnabas? Had he told Abigail? I could only find out from her.
“I am very sorry about Rebecca,” I replied. “I thought Abigail should be told as soon as possible.”
“Abigail has been told,” Benedict said.
“How is she? May I see her?”
“She is distraught. As I am sure you would have expected. And no, you may not see her.”
“Mr. Benedict,” I said, “I am all too aware that you do not think me a suitable match for your daughter, but we have feelings for each other. I do not think it fair or in Abigail’s interests for you to deny me the right to see her.”
“I don’t think you fully understand, Dr. Carroll. I am not denying you access—she is denying you access.”
It was not possible. “Did she say why?”
“She did not need to.”
“I would feel more comfortable if I might hear these sentiments directly from her,” I insisted.
“Your comfort is not my concern. And now, I must bid you good day. Rebecca Lachtmann’s funeral is this afternoon and I have a number of matters that must be addressed before then.” I wondered if Albert would be going to the funeral as well. “By the way,” he added, “I would strongly advise against your trying to attend.”
A moment later, I found myself standing in the street, the Benedicts’ door closed behind me. It had shut with a resonant bang that had a finality about it—I was not being dismissed from a home, but from a way of life.
I needed to see Abigail, to explain, to have her tell me that she would not stand for such blatant disregard for her feelings. She would demand that her father relent. I would see her that evening, after Rebecca’s funeral. Perhaps I would arrive and insist on paying my condolences, or perhaps I would simply wait outside in the street until she appeared. I was not sure how, but I would find a way.
I had scant time to dwell on the issue, however, and as I left for my next stop, the cable office, I saw that the morning had yielded a second unpleasant surprise. I had apparently inherited Keuhn. The Pinkerton man was waiting across the street, at the edge of Rittenhouse Square, making little effort at concealment. His presence was so obvious that it was clearly less to discern my movements than to remind me that Jonas Lachtmann was always close, holding me to my promise of identifying Turk’s accomplice.
As I went to check on my inquiry at the cable company, Keuhn stood directly across the street from the front door. The