The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [98]
“That would be here,” the Reverend replied proudly.
“And Wednesday before that?” I asked, so as not to appear interested in one particular day.
“That would be here.”
I had already noticed the listings I wanted—three of the five were there—but did not ask about them specifically. Instead, I committed the location of the grave to memory—hoping that my recall was as good as I had boasted—and profusely congratulated him on his record-keeping until he had closed and replaced the ledger.
Reverend Squires wanted to show me the rest of the mission, but I told him that I must return home to ensure that the story be submitted to the Sun as soon as possible. He inquired as to when I thought it would appear, but I told him that a mere reporter could not make that decision. As he escorted me to my carriage, he was quite insistent that anything, anything I might need to embellish my story, I need do nothing but ask.
Repeating the location of the grave site in my head, I thanked him and assured him that he had given me all that I needed.
By the time I had returned to Eakins’ home, it was already mid-afternoon. Over tea, as I told him of my adventure, I could not suppress the exhilaration I felt in having executed the masquerade with such deftness.
“Have you alerted the authorities?”
“No,” I said. “I had a rather different course of action in mind.”
When I told him the details of my scheme, Eakins cocked his head and barked out a single laugh. “You are mad,” he said simply. “What if we should be found out?”
“We must take every precaution not to be found out,” I replied.
“Why would you of all people take such a risk?” he asked. “You are not personally involved, and have little to gain but quite a bit to lose.”
It would be pointless to reply that I wished to exude more intelligence, strength, and resolve than he, so I merely said, “I wish to help Abigail. Don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do,” muttered Eakins, “but I have been embroiled in scandal enough. I don’t wish to add a prison stay to the list.”
“Nor do I,” I said. “But look at it this way. If we are caught and you are incarcerated, the price of your paintings will increase precipitously.”
“That’s idiotic, Carroll,” Eakins snapped, but he actually seemed to be mulling it over.
“There is no other way, Eakins,” I argued. “As you noted, neither of us is immune to Jonas Lachtmann’s wrath nor, I daresay, to that of the police. We must know the circumstances of his daughter’s continued disappearance before they do. If she is alive, the last thing we want is to appear to be involved in a conspiracy, and if she is not, we must be prepared to present them with a full explanation lest we be it.” I shrugged and added, “And just think … you will get to experience realism and truth in a way you likely never imagined.”
“Allow me to withhold my gratitude,” he said. “Suppose I refuse to go along with you?”
“You won’t refuse,” I informed him calmly.
“And why in heaven’s name not?”
“Because Abigail will lose respect for you. And besides, you’re insatiably curious.”
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But tell me, Carroll, can you be certain you could identify the body as being Rebecca’s—or not—if you saw it?”
“I cannot be certain, unless there was some physical characteristic that would survive two weeks’ interment.”
Eakins thought for a moment. “She had a mild case of rickets as a child,” he said. “I am told that causes bone distortion. Could you identify it?”
“Without question,” I replied. “Even if there is no bowing of the arms and legs, there will be bony spurs on the ribs. I do feel that I should warn you … it will not be like sitting in on an operation.”
After we made our plans, I left the Eakins home and returned to the center of the city. I purchased the only instrument I would require, an anatomist’s scalpel, from a medical supply emporium on Broad Street, and then repaired to Mrs. Mooney’s to get some sleep before our agreed-upon midnight rendezvous.
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