Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

  “You’re being mysterious,” Oscar said. “It’s not like you.”

  “Let’s say I’m mystified,” Lambert came back. “Come see for yourself.”

  They followed him to the dead house and down the stairs into one of the storage areas. On all four walls were compartments like sleeping berths in a Pullman car, but tightly spaced. Every one of them would be occupied; there was never any shortage of the dead at Bellevue.

  Lambert pulled at a shelf and slid it open in a rush of cold air tinged with decay and blood. With quick, economical movements he used both hands to fold back the winding sheet. The gaslight threw shadows on the dead woman’s face and made it seem as though she were grimacing.

  “Tell me what we’re looking at,” Jack said.

  “She’s about twenty-five. Hard used, to put it plainly. Gave birth maybe two days ago.”

  Oscar said, “What makes you think this might be a multipara case?”

  Lambert pulled back the sheet to the waist and pointed to the base of the left breast.

  Jack bent his head to look closer. There were three distinct wounds made with something very narrow and sharp, spaced maybe an inch apart, in a row.

  “None of the others were stabbed in the chest,” Oscar was saying.

  “I know none of the others were stabbed in the chest,” Lambert said. “But there’s something about the nature of the wounds. They were made with something like a scalpel and with amazing precision. I’m going to guess that when I open her I’ll find that the left anterior descending artery has been severed. The last time I saw such precise wounds like this was on Thomas Conroy. You remember that case?”

  “At the Slide, yes.” Oscar cleared his throat. “An unusual case.”

  And one Jack remembered very clearly. Thomas Conroy had been murdered in a notorious club, one of the half dozen that catered to men looking for the company of men. Conroy, the favored son of a prominent banking family, had been found wearing one of his sister’s gowns and a good amount of rouge. He had lost so much blood that the artificial color on his cheeks and the kohl around his eyes stood out against his white skin like wet paint.

  “So you remember how he was stabbed,” Lambert was saying. “On the back of each thigh he had a stab wound, no more than a half inch in diameter. Done with something like a stiletto, and perfectly aimed to sever the femoral arteries. He’d have bled out in a matter of minutes.”

  “We’re familiar with the case,” Jack said. “We got a detailed confession from the butcher who did it. How is that case similar to a physician murdering patients?”

  “A master butcher knows anatomy, maybe better than some doctors,” Lambert said. “The point is that the person who killed this woman was an expert in anatomy and knew exactly what to do, without hesitation. As did the person who operated on the multipara victims. I agree the connection isn’t obvious, but I want to pursue this in more detail after the post-mortem.”

  Oscar said, “So your instinct was to bring us in.”

  Lambert nodded. “I would have sent a message to headquarters as soon as I had the chance.”

  “Then we’ll be back if the post-mortem gives you more to go on,” Jack said. “But right now we’ve got Italian sailors to talk to.”

  Lambert began to say something and then stopped himself.

  “Go on,” Oscar said. “Spit it out.”

  “If she’s willing and has the time, maybe you could bring Dr. Savard with you. I’d like her take on this, as a surgeon.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THEY FOUND THE two surviving Italian sailors in the surgical ward. One was picking at the sutures in his neck wound with filthy hands, muttering to himself from the depths of a recent laudanum dose. The other had his head wreathed in bandages. He looked up at them through half-open eyes empty of recognition.

  “Friends and countrymen,” Oscar said, sitting down between the two cots. “Welcome to America.”

  8

  WITHIN A COUPLE days Sophie fell into a morning routine that began when Laura Lee brought a tea tray and took Pip away with her to feed him and let him out into the garden. Almost exactly twenty minutes later Pip was back to keep her company while she got ready for the day, but he would do that from his spot at the window that looked out over Stuyvesant Square.

  Sophie supposed that for Pip it was like watching a play on a stage, one that he never tired of. There were carts, cabs, delivery wagons bringing milk, meat, vegetables, ice, newspapers, and telegrams; children went by on their way to school; nurse-maids walked the paths with toddlers on strings; street sweepers, chimney sweeps, and window washers trundled along the streets with cart and horse, calling out to advertise their services. Pip took it all in, his tail waving like a flag in a strong breeze until Sophie finished dressing and went downstairs for her breakfast.

  This morning Laura Lee gave her a soft-boiled egg, toast, marmalade, and more milky tea.

  She said, “I’m hoping you have got a little time to talk about some things.”

  “Of course,” Sophie said. “Pour yourself some tea and come sit.”

  While Sophie ate she listened to Laura Lee’s concerns about hiring staff and managing household accounts.

  “Laura Lee,” she said finally, “you are in a better position than I am to know what kind of help you need. But there are things you aren’t aware of yet, and they’ll make a difference in your plans for the household.”

  While Sophie talked about what she hoped to accomplish, she watched Laura Lee’s face. Surprise was there, but also excitement.

  “How many students will be boarding?”

  “I think three to start, but not until the charity has been established and all the legal aspects are sorted. Will you feel comfortable managing a small staff?”

  Laura Lee pursed her lips, her gaze shifting down while she thought. “As long as you hire people who don’t mind taking direction from me. Young as I am. And black.”

  “I wouldn’t hire anyone who was uncomfortable with either of those facts. You’ll have the final decision on hiring, anyway. I expect you’ll consult with your grandparents if you’re unsure. Is there anything else that can’t wait until later today? Because I imagine Pip is about ready to jump out the window.”

  “One thing. Granny Lee says I’m supposed to call you Mrs. Verhoeven—”

  “Absolutely not. You cannot call me Mrs. Verhoeven. Unless you want me to call you Miss Washington. Do you?”

  She grimaced. “I wouldn’t like that much. Then what do I call you?”

  “Sophie. Call me Sophie.”

  “What about Dr. Savard?”

  “Sophie.”

  Laura Lee gave her an exasperated grin. “Now you know that won’t suit. What about Dr. Sophie?”

  “When others are nearby, Dr. Sophie. But otherwise, just Sophie. You know your grandmother and my Aunt Quinlan call each other by their first names when it’s just family.”

  She pushed out a sigh. “True. All right then. I’ll call you Sophie when it’s just us two. Dr. Sophie when somebody’s nearby. And to people who show up at the door, who do you want to be, Dr. Savard or Mrs. Verhoeven?”

  “I’ll let you judge on a case-by-case basis.”

  Laura Lee stood up and began to clear the table. “I’m going to make a list of questions about how you want things to work. Maybe if you have got them in writing in front of you I’ll get straight answers.”

  “Possibly,” Sophie said. “But mostly I’m counting on your good sense to keep me out of trouble. Oh and, where are the newspapers?”

  Laura Lee sat down again. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask at all.”

  Because, as Laura Lee related with some reluctance, Conrad had specifically told her not to start delivery of any newspapers until Sophie had been at home a month at least. “He said you shouldn’t be bothered w
ith all that foolishness.”

  It was an issue she should have anticipated, Sophie realized. After the trouble the previous spring, reporters would be paying attention; it was scandal that sold papers and paid their salaries, and some weren’t above manufacturing what they couldn’t discover. She hadn’t thought of it, but Conrad had. A year ago she would have been irritated by the assumption that she couldn’t cope with such things alone, but these days she understood more about her own limitations and could only be thankful for his foresight.

  “That’s probably sensible,” she said finally. “If there’s something I really need to hear about, somebody will let me know. So no newspapers for the time being.”

  Sophie called for Pip and he abandoned his post at the window to come dashing downstairs, more than ready for his walk. He even submitted to the indignity of the harness and leash made for him in Genoa with nothing more than a small sigh.

  * * *

  • • •

  AS SOPHIE CROSSED the street to Stuyvesant Park, Pip trotting at her left, she tried to sort through for herself what should come next.

  A year ago she had been on staff at four different institutions and was called on to consult on a regular basis at other clinics, in part because poor women couldn’t afford the specialists to be found at the better hospitals. Then there was the matter of Weeksville, where she had friends and an open invitation to join the staff of the Brooklyn Colored Hospital.

  Thinking of Weeksville made her remember that she hadn’t yet written to Mrs. Reason, an acquaintance who had become a friend by means of their correspondence while Sophie was in Europe. She had meant to do that immediately, but here it was five days later.

  Just then she realized that she had walked almost to Fifteenth Street and was just across the park from the Women and Children’s Infirmary and the attached Woman’s Medical School where she had done her training. Abruptly she turned on her heel—Pip turning with her as if she had given him a command—and started back. She wasn’t ready yet to run into old friends or colleagues, not after five days, and maybe not after five weeks. Or months.

  That thought was in her mind when she looked up to see a man walking toward her, a doctor’s bag in one hand. He raised the other hand in greeting.

  “Dr. Savard,” said Nicholas Lambert. “Welcome home, and to the neighborhood.”

  Sophie supposed that if she had to run into somebody, Nicholas Lambert was a good choice. He was professional, polite, and friendly, and he had never shown her anything but respect. She didn’t know him very well, but what she did know of the man and physician, she liked. And he was a friend of Anna’s Jack, which must count for a great deal. She inclined her head and offered her gloved hand.

  “Dr. Lambert. Very nice to see you.”

  “I startled you,” he said. “Pardon me.”

  “Please don’t apologize,” Sophie said. “I was just lost in my thoughts.”

  “May I say how sorry I was to hear about Cap.”

  She managed a stiff smile. “Thank you.”

  “I’m some twenty years older, but our fathers grew up on the same street in Bruges and our families were close. I ran into him quite often when he was younger.”

  “I didn’t know,” Sophie said. “But I am always eager to hear stories about Cap before I knew him. We met the summer of sixty-five, when I moved here from New Orleans.”

  “Then we will always have something to talk about. That will be far more pleasant than the subject of our last meeting.”

  He was referring to the Campbell inquest. The violent murder of a young mother was not a subject for a casual conversation in public, but she couldn’t ignore the opening. “It was a great stroke of good luck that you ended up on the coroner’s jury.”

  He glanced down at his shoes, and she was surprised to see that some color had come into his face.

  “I’m glad you think so,” he said finally. “I wish I could have done more.”

  She sometimes dreamed about her time on the witness stand in front of the coroner’s jury; she was angry about it still not for her own sake, but for Janine Campbell, who had been abused in life and death at the hands of men who assumed they knew a woman’s mind. Sophie could not accuse Dr. Lambert of this kind of crime, but neither could she be sure of him. Best to change the subject.

  She said, “Yesterday Detective Sergeant Mezzanotte called with my cousin Anna. I hear you have an interesting case.”

  Doctors learned very early to mask whatever they were thinking, but at the same time they could usually read each other quite well. In his expression she saw caution, surprise, interest.

  “I do. It’s more interesting now that I’ve done the post-mortem. Would you sit, please,” he said, lifting his chin in the direction of a bench. “Just for a few minutes.”

  Sometimes Pip seemed to read her mind, and sometimes he made her mind up for her. He trotted over to the bench, tail waving.

  “I see you didn’t come back from Europe alone.”

  Later Sophie would tell herself that his friendly but unassuming manner had made her want to tell the story she hadn’t yet shared with Anna. There was no other reasonable explanation.

  “The sanatorium was in a small village high in the Alps,” she started. “The journey was very hard on Cap and at first he spent most of his time napping on the open veranda in the fresh air. On the morning of our third day I went to fill the water carafe, and when I came back to sit beside him, there was a little dog on his lap, just covered with muck. Cap was talking to it—to Pip—about the importance of personal hygiene. His tone was very serious, and Pip was clearly listening.

  “I would have stood there to listen, but the housekeeper was just behind me, and the sight horrified her. She wanted to chase Pip away, but Cap wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted that the poor little thing had to be fed and bathed before there could be any talk of what to do with him. And there was something wrong with one of his paws, and that had to be seen to as well.

  “You can guess what happened. Once he had been made presentable and was pronounced in good health, even the housekeeper had to admire him. And so he stayed. And was given the name Pip, because it fits him.”

  “You never found out where he came from?”

  “There were theories. Apparently there had been gypsies in the area in the previous week. When he heard that, Cap decided that Pip had gotten lost and needed a new protector. And then he found a way to test his theory. You speak Dutch?”

  “Flemish. Never Dutch.” He gave a mock shudder.

  This was the first Sophie had seen of a sense of humor. “I take it there is competition between the Flemish and the Dutch?”

  “There is. At the same time I have to admit that the languages are very similar. Why do you ask?”

  “Dutch is very close to German, as I understand it. Do you know the word for gypsy in Dutch?”

  He glanced at Pip, and then back at Sophie, and nodded.

  “Go ahead, please. Say it, to him.”

  With a half smile he cleared his throat and then said the word. “Zigeuner.”

  Pip came to life like a wind-up toy. He sat up on his haunches and began to wave his front paws, barked once, and sat back down.

  Dr. Lambert laughed so heartily that his whole face was transformed.

  She said, “Cap spent hours experimenting to see what tricks he knew. He understands German and French and some English. Possibly other languages Cap didn’t know. Watch.”

  She held up a finger and Pip came to attention, his mouth open in what was very much like a smile.

  “Spazieren!”

  Pip lifted his hind end into the air and walked away on his front paws, circled the bench, and came to a stop in front of them. When Sophie snapped her fingers he went back into a more doglike pose, bowed, and then sat looking pleased with himself.

  “Very
clever,” Dr. Lambert said. “I think you’re right, he must have been trained by someone who had him perform in public.”

  “The important thing to me was that Pip made Cap happy. After that, I couldn’t leave him behind.” She cleared her throat. “It was very nice to run into you, Dr. Lambert, but I should probably be on my way.”

  “But I wanted to talk to you about the post-mortem,” he said. “You were so helpful last year, I thought I could perhaps impose once more. Both the detective sergeants are coming by this morning to discuss the case, and your opinion would be very welcome. With any luck your cousin Anna will join us as well.”

  The sensible thing to do would be to ask for time to consider the proposal, but Sophie’s curiosity was sparked.

  “Let me talk to Anna—I’m supposed to see her very shortly. May I wish you a good morning?”

  He put a light hand on her forearm, just a fleeting touch. “Wait just a minute or two. It should be safe by then.”

  “Safe?” Sophie turned to follow his line of sight and saw that a group of men were gathered at the front door of her new home.

  “Reporters,” Dr. Lambert said.

  The door was ajar, and all the men gathered there had their attention focused downward, where, Sophie guessed, Laura Lee must be standing, her small form ramrod straight and her expression formidable.

  “Your housekeeper seems to have them in hand, but even so she’ll have help soon enough. That man walking toward the house is Mr. Cunningham. Of the Pinkertons. He works for Governor Fish, but he’s very protective of the neighbors too. You see?”

  The reporters were scattering in a way that might have been comical, under other circumstances.

  “I was hoping for a week’s respite, at least,” Sophie said.

  Dr. Lambert hummed under his breath. “That might have been possible, if you hadn’t come home with a dying woman and saved her child as your first act.”

  Sophie felt her jaw drop. “That was already in the paper?”