The Moon by Night

by Lynn Morris

  Because the hospital was so frantically busy, Cheney simply couldn’t face trying to take Shiloh to see Neil Melbourne and explain to him about her patient. This weighed on her at odd moments, but somehow she knew that the Lord was indeed giving her a “grace period” concerning this. She knew that the time would come when she could speak to Shiloh without worry or hurry.

  Finally, at five-thirty, Cheney and Dev found themselves sitting at the desk at the nurses’ station, staring blankly at each other. It was very quiet and had been for the last five minutes. Cheney said weakly, “I’m afraid to move. I’m afraid if I do, it will jinx us and something will happen, and we’ll have to jump up and go back to work. But I’d really like to fix us some nice hot tea.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said, stretching.

  “You will?” Cheney asked, amazed. Normally Dev didn’t do things like making tea or coffee. It wasn’t that he was arrogant, it was just that he was accustomed to having others do small chores such as that for him.

  “No,” he answered, “but I’ll tell one of the interns to do it. What good does it do to have preceptees if they don’t wait on you?” He rose, his dark eyes twinkling, and went down the hall to find one of the hapless interns.

  Dev returned and he and Cheney settled down to the painstaking work of posting to the patient files. In about twenty minutes, Dr. Gilder brought them a tea tray and humbly asked if he could do anything else for them. Cheney was secretly amused, for she suspected that Dev was deliberately giving the rather spoiled young man such menial chores as this to gently teach him that his wealthy family and his charm didn’t get him nearly as much recognition as Stephen Varick’s continual hard work or Lawana White’s eagerness for learning. Dev thanked him and sent him on his way.

  When they were very busy, as they had been that night, it was almost impossible to make notations to the files while they were dealing with the patients. Cheney and Dev worked seamlessly together, with an almost unspoken mutual comprehension of a complex division of duties for some patients and working together on others. Such easy understanding made the work easier, but it did make it difficult to split up the files and each do half of them. For almost all of them Cheney and Dev had to discuss and contribute to the postings together.

  They kept steadily at it for two hours while the patients finally slept and the attendants rested and the interns kept watch over the critical patients. It had been so quiet and peaceful as Cheney and Dev talked over the patient files that it startled them both when the emergency clinic doors opened and Officer Goodin came in, scattering snow everywhere when he took off his hat and stamped his feet.

  “Good morning,” he said heartily. “It’s truly a beautiful morning. But I’ve always thought snowy mornings were like beautiful women. They’re wonderful to look at, but you’d best not forget that they can freeze your heart too.”

  “So speaks a man who should know, since we’ve seen his wife,” Dev said warmly to Cheney.

  Officer Goodin’s long melancholy face lit up. “Why thank you, Dr. Buchanan, I’ll be sure and tell Bess you said that. It’ll thrill her no end.”

  “Is it still snowing?” Cheney asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, still snowing and already six inches deep.” Painstakingly pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together, he came up to the nurses’ station and leaned across the counter, eyeing the tea tray pointedly.

  Cheney touched the teapot. “So sorry, but it’s cold, Officer Goodin. If you have time, we’ll make another pot. In fact, I believe I could do with another cup or two myself. Can you wait?”

  “Might be, ma’am, but first let’s conduct our business, please,” he said, suddenly all professional police officer. “I have a dead woman, and I’ve already filed with the coroner and notified him that you’ll be doing the autopsy, Dr. Duvall. I hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty.”

  “Why no, of course not,” she said. “You’ve brought her?”

  “Yes. I had her picked up and transported by coroner’s hearse, all according to the book. I told the coroner, Dr. Buchanan, that you’d take custody of the body. You see, I believe she’s been murdered.”

  “In that case isn’t the coroner supposed to do the autopsy?” Dev asked.

  “Yes, sir, normally. But this lady had what you might call some abnormal circumstances,” he said rather mysteriously. “And to tell the truth, I think the coroner was pretty happy not to have to roust himself out in this weather. Anyways, if you’ll agree to do the autopsy, Dr. Duvall, and if you will take custody, Dr. Buchanan, I’d like to go ahead and move her down into the morgue.”

  “Yes, go ahead, Officer Goodin,” Dev answered. “Do you need help?”

  “No, I’ve got the coroner’s assistant driving the hearse, so we two can manage, thank you.”

  “Very well,” Cheney said. “Go ahead and put her in the morgue, and I’ll go see about some tea. When you and Dev get the custody papers done, come to the doctors’ sitting room, Officer Goodin, and we can have a cup of hot tea while you tell me the story. Oh—no, I suppose I’d better come now to determine the state of rigor, so we can estimate time of death.”

  “Never mind, you go on ahead and see to the tea,” Dev said, rising and stretching his arms high above his head and working his head around so as to relieve some of the stiffness in his shoulders and neck. “I’ll go down to sign her in, and I’ll start the autopsy report with state of rigor.”

  “Oh, thank you, Dev. I’ve just got to get up and walk around a little. I feel like I’m made out of rusty metal.”

  Cheney took the tea tray to the storeroom with the small kitchen and found that Carlie was already making tea in the five-gallon samovar for the weary staff. Cheney poured the teapot full and took the tea tray into the lounge. She noticed, with amusement, that all of the food was gone, including the chocolate creams. All of the dishes were cleaned and stacked, the silverware neatly wrapped in napkins at one end of the big table.

  She wondered if Shiloh had done all that. He had come back in once during the night to see if she could take a break to see Sean and Shannon and the pretty snow, but she had been attending to the baby at the time, so he had just whispered to her that he missed her and then slipped away. Cheney stood at the big windows, staring at the falling snow. I wonder…if I keep on working the way I have been, excluding Shiloh and even neglecting him…if I’ll lose him.

  She knew that Shiloh wouldn’t stop loving her, but it was undeniable that as their careers had diverged, their closeness had diminished. Though she had laughed, his joke about not seeing her as often as he used to before they were married haunted her.

  Officer Goodin came in, again stamping his feet and brushing snow from his overcoat. He had a bundle wrapped in brown paper, and he carried it to the table where he and Cheney sat down to tea.

  “As I said, there are some special circumstances about this poor lady,” he said without preamble. He slowly unwrapped the parcel. “Do you recognize this, Dr. Duvall?”

  “Why, of course. It’s one of our coveralls,” she answered in surprise. “You mean the dead woman was wearing it?”

  “No, she was carrying it,” he answered slowly. “I need to tell you the whole story from the beginning, but first I wanted to know if you can tell whose coverall this is. I mean, do you all have your own?”

  “No. We stock them, and the doctors use them as needed,” Cheney answered. “We have them made in the three most common men’s sizes, and we usually order six of each size. I have mine made to order, and when Dr. White came as an intern, I ordered two coveralls for her. I can tell you that this one is one of the men’s, but I’m afraid there is no way to connect any coverall to a particular doctor.”

  “They don’t wear them home? Or maybe take them home to launder?”

  “No, even Dr. White and I leave ours here, and the hospital laundry cleans them. But I have to say, Officer Goodin, that they do get out the door, sometimes, by accident. Why, once I had a very trying shift, and
I was halfway home before I realized that I had kept on my coverall. And they probably get stolen too, along with everything else that isn’t nailed down.” She smiled sadly. “When you brought poor little Geraldine in last weekend, Dr. Pettijohn told me she was wearing a petticoat made from a St. Luke’s bed sheet. It happens all the time.”

  He sighed, fingering the coverall, feeling the quality broadcloth and the fine stitching of the embroidery. “I had an idea that this wasn’t going to link up to anyone in particular, but it sure is funny, the story about it.”

  “Please tell me. It is extremely curious.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, there’s a pawnshop down on Greenwich Avenue, the pawnbroker by the name of Mike Beasley….” Officer Goodin told Cheney the story—as told to him by the pawnbroker—of the pretty foreign lady who came into his pawnshop to sell her clothes and how she had carelessly sold the baby carriage but wouldn’t sell the doll at any price. He told Cheney that the woman asked about St. Luke’s, but couldn’t understand directions in English.

  “So she thanked him and left. She stopped just outside the shop like she didn’t know where to go. She stood there for a few minutes, just looking around, kind of lost. Then a couple of toughs barged into her, and she stuck her nose in the air and marched off. Mike watched to make sure the toughs didn’t follow her, and they didn’t. She went up the street and around the corner, and Mike thought that was that.”

  “But it wasn’t?”

  “No, ma’am. Mike closed up last night at nine o’clock as usual. Now understand that the shop is on a corner with an alley between it and the next building. There’s a side door on the alley, which Mike only uses to move big stuff into the shop, like stoves and pianos and such, instead of coming in the front door through all the junk he’s got piled up sky-high,” the officer said dryly. “But generally the side door stays locked, and Mike comes and goes from the front door. So when he left last night, he went out the front door.

  “Well, he came in this morning, walking up the street, passing the alley. He looked up the alley this morning, same as he always does, and this morning there’s a blanket of fresh new snow, and there’s an odd lump right by his side door. He goes to see about it and finds the foreign lady, dead. Her head had a big lump on it and a lot of blood.”

  “How was she positioned?” Cheney asked.

  “She was sitting up, just like she was alive and had sort of sat down to a picnic. She was sitting ladylike, with her knees bent and her legs tucked under her neatly, as ladies do. You understand, do you, Dr. Duvall?”

  “Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” she answered. “What about the money?”

  “Gone,” he said. “Not a cent on her. The coverall and the doll were right by her, and the coverall was still folded neatly, like Mike had seen her fold it and hang it over her arm. Her cloak was gone. It was one of those full billowing things with the hood and the tassel.”

  “A mantle,” Cheney said.

  “Yes, that’s it, a mantle,” he repeated carefully.

  Hesitantly Cheney asked, “You do believe him, Officer Goodin? This Mike, the pawnbroker?”

  He thought long and hard before answering. “I’ve studied about it, surely have. I’ve got to say I believe him. He’s not above buying goods without checking too close on where they’ve come from, but I don’t think he’d do murder. His story rang true. You know how you can tell when people are telling the truth if you listen hard enough and watch them?”

  “No,” Cheney said, smiling, “I don’t, really. But I suppose that’s why you’re the policeman and I’m not.”

  He smiled his characteristic mournful smile. “Maybe so, ma’am, but I’m hoping that lady will tell you her story, you see. You’d be her best bet, I know. That’s why I particularly wanted you to do her autopsy, Dr. Duvall. Because you’re her last and best hope of hearing the last story she’ll ever tell.”

  Twenty-five

  Another Snort of Pretend Laudanum

  Cheney still hadn’t “heard the lady’s story” by ten o’clock Saturday night, for there had been no time to do the autopsy. She and Dev had each taken a four-hour sleep break at the office that morning, but by the afternoon the emergency ward was busy with more influenza victims, more sprains and bruises and broken bones from accidents during the snowstorm. And, of course, with thirteen patients in the hospital and four of them—including Baby Girl Cranmer—classified as critical, everyone had been very busy all day. All of the interns had stayed at the hospital, taking turns sleeping in one of the cubicles. Mrs. Flagg had to take a day off. She had been working from ten to fourteen hours a day for the entire week. She called in Kitty Kalm and set up two teams of attendants: Kitty and Timothy, and Carlie and Miss Nilsson, to work three rotating eight-hour shifts on Saturday and Sunday.

  Cleve Batson sent word that he was much better and could work. But Dev sent back a stern rebuke for him to stay in bed—and isolated—until Monday. Cheney remarked to Dev, “Perhaps I should have taken Dr. Pettijohn up on his offer to work a shift or two this weekend. I mean, it was my on-call weekend anyway, so it doesn’t make any difference to me, but I know you and Victoria had several things planned this weekend.”

  He shrugged. “I consented to take the post of chief physician and chief of surgery. In circumstances like this, it’s my responsibility to make it right if there’s a problem with the staff physicians.”

  Cheney reflected that Victoria seemed to always accept her disappointments with Dev’s hectic schedule with perfect aplomb. And so, for that matter, does Shiloh. He’s an angel about all of it. But does that mean that it’s right?

  She had had no more time for such philosophical musings, however, because the steady demand from patients and walk-ins went on relentlessly all day and into the night.

  At ten-thirty she was doing an extra meds round on the women’s ward when the meds cart ran out of laudanum. She hesitated, considering taking care of it herself, but then decided it was more efficient to get Carlie to do it. The hospital purchased laudanum by the case, each containing four five-gallon carboys. Carlie poured it up into the hospital’s distinctive cobalt-blue square-shouldered eight-ounce bottles and stocked the wards and supply carts. Cheney knew that Carlie could find the laudanum faster than she could and could also probably get a couple of dozen bottles poured before she could gather the empty bottles and the funnels.

  Leaving the meds cart outside of Cassandra Carteret’s private room, she hurried down the hallway, only to see Dev coming to meet her. “I’m out of laudanum on the men’s ward supply cart,” he said. “What about yours?”

  Cheney shook her head, and Dev turned to fall into step with her. “I’m out too. I decided that Carlie can get us resupplied faster than I can, so I thought I’d get him to do it, and I’ll cover the emergency patients until he returns. You know, Dev, it certainly seems to me that we’re using an awful lot of laudanum. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve noticed it too. I thought I’d speak to Victoria and make sure that we’re not buying an inferior quality to save money.”

  “I already asked her, and she said that St. Luke’s is buying the best quality drugs available from a pharmacological supply house in Canada. Even though we buy in bulk, we still pay about the same price as small quantities from apothecaries here. But their product is superior, and they do have quantities of just about everything available to ship immediately. Victoria said she had learned this from Dr. Baird in San Francisco. After many years of searching for the most economical and efficient way to supply St. Francis Hospital, he found that this company in Canada is best overall.”

  “She would know,” Dev said, frowning. “Then there must be a reason for the increase in usage, but I doubt we’ll have time to figure it out tonight.” They walked into the emergency hall, where eight of the twelve cubicles were occupied. Carlie was changing the sheets on one of the unoccupied beds. Cheney explained to him what she needed.

  “I can do that, Dr. Duval
l,” he said eagerly. “Do you want me to finish making up this bed first?”

  “No, Carlie, Dr. Buchanan and I will take care of it.”

  “We will?” Dev said blankly as Carlie left.

  “It’s about time you learned how to do hospital quarter corners,” Cheney said sternly.

  “It is?” he said helplessly.

  Just then Officer Goodin loomed up in the doorway, his flat hat piled with fresh powdery snow. “Carlie told me I’d find you here. I’ve brought in two, Dr. Duvall, Dr. Buchanan, if you wouldn’t mind seeing to them.” He spoke with unusual impatience, and Cheney noted his lack of a greeting, which was very unlike the respectful policeman.

  “Two more bodies, you mean, Officer Goodin?” Cheney asked in a kindly manner.

  “No, two more idiots,” he rasped. “One crook and one policeman, both bloomin’ idiots.” He looked up the hall and motioned impatiently. A grumpy-looking older man dressed in a cheap flashy suit came stumping down the hall, holding his right hand with his left. Behind him limped a young policeman, occasionally pushing the man in front of him.

  “The first idiot is Alfie Emmett, better known as Alfie the Pocket—just take a guess why,” Officer Goodin said, clapping an iron hand on his shoulder, pulling open the man’s very roomy sack coat to reveal four large pockets sewn into the lining. One bit of a gold watch chain was hanging out of one pocket, and like a striking snake Officer Goodin snatched it away before the man could move. Holding it up and swinging it like a metronome, Officer Goodin growled, “And the poor sop who lost his watch never knew what hit ’im, I can tell you that. Sit down there, Alfie, on that bed, where I can watch you.”

  The young policeman looked like he was about nineteen years old. The silver wreath on his cap with the silver NYC centered in it was polished to a high shine, as were his ten silver buttons and his badge. His knee-length regulation frock coat was spotless and pressed, but his breeches had tears at both knees. One of his knees had split into a gaping, profusely bleeding wound. As he sat on the other bed, he grimaced with pain, then glared at Alfie, who assumed a look as innocent as a lamb.