A Deadly Fortune

by Stacie Murphy

  I will admit your request came as a surprise. There are already so many in our own city who have suffered, and who have need of our care, it has never been our habit to accept the sort of transfer you propose. But your account of these poor women’s misfortunes touched the hearts of many here, and we resolved as a community to pray for guidance in the matter.

  We believe we have received such direction. Pending agreement of the relevant authorities, we will accept both Mrs. Roark and Miss Mayfield into our community.

  Please forward details of any necessary arrangements soonest, and we will make ready to receive them.

  I remain,

  Yours,

  Mother Mary Benedicta

  Sisters of St. Joseph, Philadelphia

  Andrew smiled as he reached the end of the letter. St. Joseph’s was situated on a beautiful piece of ground in the eastern part of the city, leafy and quiet. They had a well-run school and convalescent home with a fine track record. It was exactly the right sort of place for Jane Mayfield. And Mara Roark could have a real chance at making a new beginning there.

  “Still here, I see.”

  Andrew turned. Harcourt stood in the doorway behind him. He started to rise, but the older man waved him back down.

  “No, no, don’t get up. May I?” Harcourt gestured to the straight-backed chair beside the desk.

  “Of course.” Andrew swept an untidy tower of books off the seat and resettled it on the floor by the desk. The pile teetered until he reached out to steady it with a foot. This accomplished, he turned his attention back to his visitor, who had seated himself and was now gazing around the office with a thoughtful expression.

  “You seem to have relocated quite a bit of the asylum’s library.”

  Andrew looked around the cramped space. Stacks of books sat on every surface. Half a dozen lay open on his desk, and around the room were at least thirty more—closed, but bristling with slips of paper marking passages he meant to read again.

  “I suppose I have gotten a bit carried away,” he admitted with some chagrin. “I keep coming across things I need to research further. When I do, I find there’s yet more to study. And all of it fascinating. But if I’ve inconvenienced the other doctors, I’ll—”

  “No, no, the books are no issue. I’m glad you’re finding them useful.” Harcourt paused, then took a breath and continued. “There is a somewhat delicate matter I must address with you.”

  Andrew straightened at the other man’s tone.

  “I have received several complaints.”

  Andrew blinked, taken aback. “Complaints? About me?”

  “Yes. It seems some of the staff feel you are overcritical of their work. And I understand you have expressed rather vehement disagreement with some of our methods of patient care.”

  Andrew nodded slowly, thinking of Klafft and his barbaric prescriptions. “I have doubts about the efficacy of some of the treatments I’ve seen being used. Many of them seem unlikely to be helpful. Some seem as though they could only make things worse.”

  “You believe you have the expertise necessary to make such judgments?”

  “I do not believe it is a matter of expertise—more of common sense. I do not see how repeated ice baths, for example, could possibly cure a case of melancholy.”

  “But perhaps this is precisely because you lack the necessary expertise,” Harcourt suggested. He forestalled Andrew’s reply with a raised hand. “Your enthusiasm and your concern for the patients do you credit. But you are new to this work, and I must insist you do your best to be mindful of that fact when dealing with the senior staff. I cannot have you countermanding their orders or contradicting them in front of the patients.”

  “I don’t believe I have done any such thing,” Andrew said, startled. “I may have allowed my frustration with Dr. Klafft’s treatments to show on occasion, but—”

  “I am not speaking only of Dr. Klafft,” Harcourt interrupted, “although his many years of experience should certainly entitle him to some deference from you. No, I am referring to your behavior toward Mrs. Brennan.”

  “Mrs. Brennan?”

  “I’m told you berated her before several members of the nursing staff.”

  Andrew chose his words carefully. “I would not say I berated her. But I have been disturbed by her manner toward some of the patients. In my view, she is overly harsh. And I know of at least one instance of her placing a patient in restraints, despite my having deemed them unnecessary.”

  “Perhaps they later became necessary,” Harcourt said, a trifle impatiently. “You must have seen by now how quickly a patient’s behavior can change. At any rate, if she judged it necessary, I see no reason to doubt her conclusion. And as to her manner, I will grant it is not warm. But she is not here to mother the patients. She is here to oversee the nursing staff, and it is a difficult enough job without having her authority undermined in front of them. I take it you understand my meaning?”

  Andrew nodded once. “I do.”

  “Excellent.” Harcourt stood, and the corner of his coat caught the letter on Andrew’s desk and swept it to the floor, along with another sheet of paper—the list of asylums Andrew had made for Ned. Both landed faceup.

  “What are these?” Harcourt asked as he retrieved them.

  “The letter is from a Church-run refuge in Philadelphia,” Andrew said. “They take in widows and orphans, along with others in need. I was one of the physicians they sometimes called in to see to their charges, and I grew to know many of the staff. It’s an excellent establishment. I wrote to see if they might be willing to take two of our patients. The answer only arrived today.”

  Something in Harcourt’s face tightened, and he looked back down at the page. “This is extraordinary,” he said a moment later, looking up.

  Andrew’s smile faltered at the other doctor’s expression. He was incensed, his eyes burning behind his spectacles.

  “I see,” the superintendent began, in a voice so cold it crackled, “that complaints about your arrogance and presumption were not unfounded. The situation is, in fact, more egregious than I had understood. What on earth would give you reason to believe you have the authority to remove patients from this facility? And this,” he went on, holding up the list. “Part of a wider plan? Have you determined which patients will go to these facilities as well? Merely waiting for their answers?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Andrew said. He meant to sound definite. Instead, to his horror, he sounded defensive—a man denying plain evidence of his own guilt. “That list is part of a personal project—nothing to do with patients here.” He tried to explain, but in his haste the story emerged garbled and preposterous.

  Harcourt looked disbelieving and, if possible, even more furious.

  Andrew pivoted to the letter. “At any rate, I assure you, I had no intention of attempting to transfer anyone without your consent. I would never have done so. I was merely looking into alternative situations. I don’t believe the asylum is the proper place for them. The details of their cases suggest—”

  “I do not care.” Harcourt stepped toward him. “It is not your decision to make. You may be a doctor out there,” he said, waving vaguely in the direction of the city, “but when it comes to this sort of work, you are very nearly a trainee. You presume too much. You have neither the experience nor the authority to make major decisions about patient care. You have stepped far beyond the bounds of your appropriate role, and it will not be tolerated.”

  A lead weight dropped from the sky and landed in Andrew’s gut. Harcourt was going to fire him. He’d have to leave the island. He’d never know what happened to his patients. He’d never know if he could have helped them. He’d never have the chance to speak to Miss Casey again, to find out for certain if that had been Susannah speaking through her.

  The last thought nearly brought him to his knees.

  “Please.” The word was a desperate whisper, forced out before Harcourt could go on. “Give me another chance,�
�� Andrew said. “I understand that I’ve made mistakes. But I’ve also been of use here—I know I have. Please, let me stay. I’ll accept whatever conditions you set. I just—” He broke off as Harcourt held up a hand.

  “I will accept part of the blame,” Harcourt said, his tone somewhat calmer. “I failed to set clear boundaries for your work when you arrived. Let me do so now. You may continue to examine patients and note your observations. You may treat minor physical ailments. You may assist the other doctors in their evaluation and treatment. If you have ideas, you may suggest them. But going forward, you will initiate no treatments without the supervision of another doctor. You are not to countermand or interfere in any way with orders given by senior staff. And under no circumstances are you empowered to remove or make plans for removal of any patient from this facility. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. Yes, I understand.” Andrew tried not to sag with relief.

  Harcourt regarded him for a moment. “Mark me. This is your second chance. There won’t be a third.” He turned and strode from the room without waiting for a response.

  * * *

  Hours later, Andrew sank into what had become his customary chair as Tyree poured their drinks. They’d finished his original supply of whiskey some weeks before, and Andrew had replaced it with a new—much better—bottle. Tyree accepted the gift with the unalloyed pleasure of a man who has not recognized an implied criticism.

  “I hear you got a thorough dressing down today.” Tyree handed him the glass.

  Andrew took a grateful drink and tipped his head back against the pliant leather. “I suppose the whole asylum knows about it?”

  Tyree took his seat. “I should say so.”

  Andrew closed his eyes. “Wonderful.”

  Gossip on the island was like smoke in a closed room—with nowhere to go, it recirculated endlessly. He opened his eyes and looked at Tyree, who seemed unconcerned.

  “Don’t worry. It will be forgotten. Something else will happen in a day or two.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” Tyree shrugged. “Most of the younger nurses are stalking that new orderly. Perhaps one of them will catch him. That might be enough.”

  “I don’t understand why Harcourt reacted as he did,” Andrew said.

  “That’s easy enough to explain.” Tyree sighed. “Do you remember my telling you Klafft originally wanted the superintendent job?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s never really come to terms with it. Watch him around Harcourt. Klafft needles him, questions his decisions—including the decision to hire you, I might add. Does everything he can to undercut his authority. It’s subtle, but it’s always there. And it’s not just pettiness. He’s looking for anything he could use to damage Harcourt with the asylum’s board of governors. If it appears he’s lost control of the staff, that might do it.”

  “So what I did—” Andrew began.

  “Felt to Harcourt like an attack on two fronts,” Tyree finished. “A second doctor gone rogue, and giving Klafft more ammunition to boot.”

  Andrew sighed. “I did exactly the wrong thing.”

  “Yes,” Tyree agreed. “What possessed you to do it at all?”

  “Are you familiar with the patients in question?”

  Tyree shook his head.

  “Jane Mayfield is feeble-minded, not insane. There’s no good reason to keep her here, but she can’t take care of herself. Her file says she has a brother somewhere, but there’s no record of him visiting.”

  “And the other?”

  “Mara Roark.” Andrew swallowed the remainder of his drink and told Tyree the story he’d pieced together from the testimony of a half dozen neighbors and Mara’s own tearful recounting. She’d been an only child. She married, and her father got her new husband a job at the factory where he worked. Soon enough, there was a baby on the way. About two months before the birth, an accident at the factory. Father and husband, both lost. The baby came early, sickly and puling, and his mother couldn’t stop crying.

  Mara’s own mother did what she could, but only six weeks later, she was gone as well, the grief and strain too much for her. Mara had worn her best dress—the one she’d worn for her wedding—to all three funerals, because there was no money for black. She went back to the apartment. The rent was due, and she didn’t have it. Probably it would be the workhouse for her, or the streets. She’d opened the gas jets and climbed into bed with her baby. Neighbors smelled it and knocked down her door in time to revive Mara, but the baby was already gone.

  Tyree was shaking his head as Andrew finished. “Puerperal melancholy, obviously. A classic presentation, complicated by the other losses in such close proximity.”

  Andrew nodded. “That was my diagnosis. She’d likely have recovered in time—the literature suggests most women do.” He sat forward and went on in an earnest tone. “As it was, she was quite overwhelmed. Clearly not entirely responsible for her actions. It’s obvious she is still feeling enormous grief and guilt, but she isn’t insane. St. Joseph’s is the ideal place for her. But by going about it the way I did, I’ve ruined any chance of getting Harcourt to agree.” He bounced a fist off the padded arm of the chair.

  Tyree considered. “Perhaps not. I’ll evaluate both of them myself and talk to Harcourt. Going ahead with the transfer might be his best move. It could be made to look like his own idea. If it’s stopped, it will be obvious it wasn’t. Everyone knows the asylum is overcrowded. If another facility is willing to take charge of these women and is qualified to do so, why shouldn’t he let them go?”

  Andrew closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. When he opened them, he found Tyree studying him.

  “You seem quite invested in these cases,” the older doctor said. “And they aren’t the only ones to attract your interest, apparently.”

  His voice was mild, but Andrew shifted under the other man’s gaze. “I’m working with quite a few patients.”

  Tyree nodded. “And often in your office, rather than in their cells or the examination rooms. I believe you’ve even taken some on walks about the grounds?”

  “The ones who are stable enough, yes. The wards are noisy and uncomfortable. My office is less intimidating than the examination rooms. And yes, sometimes I take them outside. What of it?” Andrew tried not to bristle.

  The other man made a calming gesture. “I’m not implying anything improper, but it does suggest a certain disregard for procedure. I also hear you’ve been sleeping in your office.”

  It was true. Andrew had stayed late enough to miss the last ferry more than a handful of times and had been forced to drag the rusty old cot out of the storage closet. He’d also taken to keeping a fresh set of clothes in one of the drawers.

  “The work is absorbing.” Andrew shrugged.

  “Tell me: When was the last time you attended any sort of social engagement?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The theater? Dinner with friends, perhaps? Have you made any friends in the city since you’ve been here?”

  Andrew studied the bottom of his glass.

  “As far as I can tell,” Tyree said, “you spend nearly every waking moment—and no small number of the sleeping ones—here on the island. You’re in the wards before breakfast; you’re at your desk late at night. It’s not good for you.”

  Andrew looked up, stung. “You live here.”

  Tyree sighed. “Yes, and see what it’s gotten me. A pair of rooms and every third weekend at liberty. It’s a living. I’ve made my peace with it. But you”—he sat forward and pinned Andrew with a look—“are far too young to do so. You mentioned that personal circumstances led you to move to New York.”

  Andrew’s heart lurched at the abrupt change of subject. He’d never spoken of Susannah to any of his colleagues. Did Tyree know? Was he the source of Miss Casey’s uncanny knowledge? The palms of his hands tingled.

  “A broken engagement, I believe?”

  Andrew blinked. Twi
n pangs of relief and disappointment hollowed his chest. “My engagement,” he repeated.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but if you’re throwing yourself into your work as a remedy for a broken heart—”

  Andrew barked a surprised laugh. “I’m not pining for a lost love, I assure you. I was the one who ended it. She was… well, it became clear we were ill-suited to each other.”

  Tyree nodded. “Then I applaud your prudence. There is nothing more dangerous to one’s happiness than choosing the wrong marriage partner.” A shadow passed over Tyree’s face, and he sat back. “But my ultimate point remains. You cannot allow your work here to consume you.”

  Andrew nodded, though he knew the admonishment had come too late.

  After a few minutes more, he wished his friend good evening and went back to his own office. He surveyed the stack of unfinished paperwork and decided to leave it for the following day. A tin of hard candies sat on the desktop, nearly empty. They made a wonderful lure for reluctant patients.

  And sticky-fingered orderlies. The last tin had disappeared overnight when he left it on the desk. Andrew tugged on the desk’s right-hand drawer, intending to leave the tin inside. It opened a few inches and then stuck fast. He jiggled it, unable to either open it farther or close it fully.

  Irritated, he braced one hand against the edge of the desk and gave the handle a hard yank. The drawer came loose with a shriek of protest, slid entirely out of the desk, and tumbled to the floor with a loud bang.

  A scrap of paper fluttered free, crumpled and battered and obviously torn from a larger sheet. Andrew reached for it, then froze as his eyes fastened on the words it held.

  Julia Weaver—$250. The number terminated in a ragged edge. It was obvious there had once been more text below, but only the tops of the letters remained. His mouth gone dry, Andrew sank to his knees and listened to the blood pounding in his ears as the implications became clear.

  He’d been wrong. Ned’s sister was in the asylum after all.

  And someone here knew it.