A young page wearing a dark tunic with a row of brass buttons let us in and took us to a luxurious waiting room with chairs of dark wood and red leather, the matching table covered with various publications. We were barely seated when he returned to tell us that Dr. Cowen would see us. The page opened the door to a small office illuminated by a tall window. Cowen sat behind a mahogany desk writing on a paper in a folder. Behind him was a bookcase filled with massive medical tomes.
“One moment, please,” Cowen said.
He was one of those men with an abundance of hair everywhere except on his head. There, his black hair, cut quite short, had receded, emphasizing the expanse of light brown skin covering the massive cranium. His black full beard was thick and curly, grew almost to his bottom lip and well up his cheeks, and there was a distinct line along his neck below which he had shaved. His eyebrows were thick and dark, thinning only slightly above the bridge of his nose. I knew he must be under forty, but the partial baldness made him look older. His stern brown eyes rose briefly, regarding us, then he lowered his gaze and wrote something else.
“There.”
He set down an intricately designed fountain pen of wood and silver, stood up and stepped round his desk. His was the usual professional attire: a well-cut black frock coat, black waistcoat, gray-and-black-striped trousers. He was shorter than Holmes and me, only a few inches over five feet, but rather brawny, barrel-chested almost, his hands large and graceful-looking. Fine black hair grew below the knuckles. His expression was carefully neutral.
I extended my hand. “How are you? It has been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.” He gave my hand a quick firm squeeze.
“This is my cousin, Sherlock Holmes. You will have heard of him.”
“Certainly.” They also shook hands.
“Do you have a few moments to discuss the Bromleys and their diamond?”
“Yes, if we must.” He drew in his breath, then gestured at two armchairs. “Have a seat.”
We sat down, but he sat back against his desk, folding his arms. “I suppose Bromley has put you up to this.” He shook his head. “I must tell you I consider it ill-advised lunacy. You will only stoke Alice Bromley’s anxiety and encourage her morbid obsession with the diamond.”
“Do you think, then, that the Indian she saw in the window was imaginary?” Holmes asked.
He jerked his head resolutely downward. “Yes.”
“Curious.”
Cowen’s black brows came together. “Why curious?”
“She said you were uncertain about the reality of the Indian.”
“I didn’t want to worry her.”
I frowned slightly. “Then you think they were hallucinations?”
“Hallucination is a loaded word. Perhaps someone else really was passing by the window. The mind is capable of all sorts of tricks. It can manipulate and distort images. Sometimes we see what we want to see. I do not think she is insane, if that is what you are asking—and you can tell that to Bromley. He worries too much. She will never be a candidate for the madhouse.”
“Just how often do you see Mrs. Bromley?” Holmes asked.
His arms still folded, he raised one shoulder. “Weekly, at least. Her symptoms of late have been exacerbated.”
Holmes’s eyes were fixed on him. “What exactly is wrong with her?”
Again one shoulder rose, then he lowered his arms as he stood, thrust his hands into his pockets and began to pace. “Occasional heart palpitations or tachycardia, attacks of faintness or anxiousness, difficulty sleeping, alternating bouts of diarrhea or constipation—all in all, a general overstimulation of the nervous system which could be classified as either neurasthenia or hysteria, both of which are common in women. There is, unfortunately, no easy cure.” He stopped and stared sternly at us again. “But again, encouraging her flights of fantasy and her wild fears can only aggravate her condition.”
“And I suppose, you dismiss the Moonstone curse out of hand.”
He paused again mid-stride and clenched his fists. “Ah yes, the blasted Moonstone curse! Of all the superstitious ridiculous nonsense! You would think a grown woman in this day and age would be able to set aside, once and for all, such an utterly inane notion. A curse. A curse!” He began to pace again. “I have tried to reason with her, to make her see the absurdity of the whole thing, and she nods, and agrees, and then says she cannot help herself. I cannot understand it.”
“Unfortunately, we cannot always reason ourselves out of our fears,” I said.
“But we must try! It is the only tool at our disposal, the only thing that sets us above the beasts. To persist when it makes one physically ill…” He shook his head again. “No, no.”
“Do you think locking up the diamond in a bank vault will help matters?” Holmes asked.
“I hope so—it cannot hurt. Still, she is so fixated on the idea of a curse… As long as the diamond is hers, she feels she is under its baleful influence. There, you see? Now I am doing it too. She talks about the diamond as if it were alive, as if it were some vengeful object pursuing her.”
“Has this gone on a long time?” I asked.
“Oh yes. She was worrying about the diamond as a girl, when I first treated her. She complained of constant stomach aches.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Let’s see, she was about twelve, and she is twenty-five now, so a good dozen years, shortly after I began my practice. These stomach complaints were a problem throughout her youth.”
“You were her mother’s doctor, too, were you not?” Holmes asked.
He drew in his breath, stopped before his desk and sat back again on its edge. “Yes. And her father’s.”
“Her mother died of laudanum poisoning,” Holmes said. “Do you think it was an accident?”
Cowen’s lips were compressed as he drew in his breath through his nostrils. “No one knows the answer to that question.”
“But you must have an opinion. You were her doctor, after all.”
“Yes, very well, Mr. Holmes. I have an opinion. I do not think it was an accident.”
“Why would she have wanted to kill herself?”
“I see you prefer blunt speech. Very good—because she was miserable. I doubt she and Neville were ever a good match, and as they grew older, the situation between them worsened. She…” A brief bitter smile pulled at his lips. “Alice is her mother’s daughter. Charlotte Blake had the same morbid preoccupation with the diamond and a similar assortment of physical ailments. Neville Blake was ill-tempered and turned more and more to drink. When Charlotte finally refused to wear the diamond any longer, it enraged him.”
“And so,” Holmes said, “after her mother died, Mrs. Bromley became the target of her father’s anger.”
“Exactly.”
“But what of Mr. Bromley? When her father died and she married, did her situation improve?”
“Yes.”
“Your answer has a certain tentativeness, Dr. Cowen.”
He stared at Holmes, breathing slowly through his nostrils. “He’s not like her father. He doesn’t drink or lose his temper. He is all sweetness and light.” This last dripped sarcasm. “I wish I had a pound for each time he has said he only wants what is best for her.”
“Do you think he is being hypocritical?” I asked.
“Damn it, how should I know? And how long must these questions continue? I have work to do.”
Holmes gave me a cautious look. “Not long, Dr. Cowen. And I do appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. We all share a concern for Alice Bromley’s well-being.”
Cowen’s face had flushed, but now the color slowly receded. “We do. We do. Forgive me, Mr. Holmes. It is only… the situation is frustrating.”
“Does Mrs. Bromley take laudanum on a regular basis?” Holmes asked.
Cowen drew in his breath, then nodded. “Yes, between five and ten drops a night. It helps her sleep and keeps her calmer during the day. It is fairly stand
ard in cases like this.”
“Have you considered exercise like long walks and more fresh air, along with a possible stay by the ocean or in the mountains?” I asked.
He stared at me, then folded his arms resolutely. “I am not convinced that would help.”
I hesitated. “It might be worth a try.”
He said nothing, but his look was eloquent. I realized this was a bad way to ease into the next topic. “I know how difficult these cases can be. Mrs. Bromley says her husband has encouraged her to try another doctor.”
“From the very beginning of their marriage.”
“I told her—and Mr. Bromley—that you were a first-rate doctor, and I assured her, that we do not want her to give you up. There is no question of that. You know her better than anyone else, and she trusts you. On the other hand, sometimes a second opinion is useful. Two heads can be better than one, as they say.”
“Oh, so now you want to have a go at it?”
“Actually… sometimes women have questions or problems they are only comfortable discussing with another woman. I was thinking of Michelle, my wife.”
Cowen lowered his hands and slowly rose from the desk, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. “Dr. Doudet Vernier?”
“Yes.”
“Do you… do you have any idea how many patients she has stolen from me?” His voice, by an effort of will, was ominously soft.
“Stolen?”
“Yes. Stolen! I see them for years, and then one day they simply disappear, and later I hear they have gone to see the celebrated Dr. Doudet Vernier, the lady doctor, the one who will understand them—who will coddle all their feminine whims and absurdities. ‘Lady So-and-so has recommended her—you simply must see her—she is so wonderful!’” His falsetto was a poor mimicry of a woman. “I am sick and tired of it! And now you dare come before me, and to my face, ask if she can take away yet another of my patients!”
“I said nothing about taking away—nothing at all! I assured Mrs. Bromley—and I assure you—that it is only a consultation. No one is trying to steal your patient.”
“So you say—and yet I know how these things turn out. One visit becomes two, and then she skillfully wheedles her way into their graces and…”
“Michelle is no wheedler! And she already has more patients than she can handle—she has no need to steal from other doctors!”
“Exactly! She has no need because she has already stolen so many! And what are her credentials, after all? She is a woman, nothing more and nothing less. As for her so-called education…”
“There was nothing wrong with her education—she is a good doctor, one of the best!”
“Is she now? Is she really?” His voice again dripped with sarcasm.
“Yes—and I should know—far better than you. I have seen her at work, and I am not blinded by prejudice.”
“Oh, that is rich! No prejudice, I suppose? As if love has not utterly blinded you!”
“Love has not blinded me! You don’t know what you are talking about!” I had risen to my feet, and Cowen and I both had clenched fists.
“Gentlemen—please.” Holmes had stood as well, and he stepped between us, a hand raised to each of us. “Dr. Cowen, you spoke earlier of reason. Be reasonable in this, and accept our assurances. No one wants to steal your patient. Henry is sincere about that. Mrs. Bromley is dedicated to you, and you to her.”
Cowen had compressed his lips, and you could see his nostrils swell and shrink as he breathed through his nose. Finally he nodded. “All right. Perhaps I was hasty.” He looked at me again. “But I do not have to like this consultation.”
I did not yet trust myself to speak.
Holmes lowered his hands. “I suppose you will be at the dinner party next week?”
“I certainly shall. And I am certain I will be needed. The situation seems perfectly designed to trigger a hysterical outburst: a large group of people all staring at her and the accursed diamond. She has told me she doesn’t like to have it touch her skin.”
“Henry and I will be there, too.”
He looked at Holmes, his lips parting perhaps half an inch. “Oh Lord, are you serious?”
“And Michelle as well,” I said.
He rolled his eyes upward, thrust his hands into his pockets and strode away. “Oh wonderful! Better and better!” He whirled about and yanked out his hands. “I don’t suppose I could convince you that your presence would be counterproductive? Possibly quite harmful, in fact.”
“Mr. Bromley wants to ensure that the diamond is safe,” Holmes said.
“And Alice be damned! Bloody stupid idiot.” He drew in his breath slowly, glaring at us. “Are we done? Are we finally done?”
“Yes, Dr. Cowen, we are done. Thank you for your time.”
Cowen’s breath slowed, and he nodded. His eyes caught mine, looked away at once. “I have paperwork to do.” He looked at me again.
I was still seething, but I said, “No one wants to rob you of Mrs. Bromley, I promise you.”
He was still scowling. “Good.”
I stared at him and extended my hand. I thought he was going to ignore me, but he finally grasped it, gave it a quick jerk, then nodded again and started back round his desk.
“Good afternoon,” Holmes said.
We closed the door behind us. The page looked worried. He led us back to the front door and gave us our hats. Outside, the rain had ended, and the air was cool and fresh. “Let’s walk for a while, Sherlock. I need to cool down.”
We started down Queen Anne Street. The traffic was lighter than on Baker Street or Harley Street, although this time of day plenty of carriages were about, and people had begun to leave their work. We walked for a while, passing the usual assortment: news boys hawking papers, men with signboards advertising various products, and carts overflowing with goods—flowers, sausages, eels, meat pies. Holmes remained silent.
Finally I slowed my pace. I turned to look at him. “Well, that went well, didn’t it?”
He laughed. “I was wary of the interview, but I did not expect quite such a display of ill temper.”
“I’m glad I told Mrs. Bromley that Michelle’s visit would be with Cowen’s knowledge and that I did not add the words ‘with his consent.’ He would never willingly allow the consultation. I was deluded about him. I forget how many physicians, including the very best, are still foolishly prejudiced against women in the profession. But he was irritable even before I brought up Michelle. He was never so touchy when we worked together before.”
“Does Cowen have a wife?”
“I don’t believe so. I recall him saying a dedicated doctor hasn’t the time to spare for domestic attachments.”
Holmes inhaled sharply, in what was almost a laugh. “A rather monastic notion of the practice of medicine, Henry. I doubt you would be capable of such devotion.”
“No, I would not.”
Four
Monday, as usual, was my day scheduled at a charity hospital. The work was a good remedy for my lackluster practice and my tendencies toward idleness and self-pity. There the wretchedness, the malnourishment and ill health of the London poor were on full display. Idle moments were few, and always I was left with the sense of how lucky my lot in life had been. Michelle was also going to be busy. Besides the usual throng of female patients, she was visiting Alice Bromley late in the afternoon. By way of a splurge, we agreed to meet around seven for dinner at Simpson’s.
Around five o’clock a giant of a man arrived in agony, his foot crushed by the wheel of a heavy cart. Opium might be a curse for many, but at the hospital, its potent extracted alkaloid, morphine, was a blessing. An injection soon dulled his pain, and we managed to cut away the boot and stocking. The bruised misshapen foot with its swelling purple toes was a ghastly sight. There was little I could do besides cleaning the skin with an antiseptic. At best, I knew, he would be lame; at worst, infection or gangrene might set in, and the foot would need to be amputated.
His wife arrived just as I had finished, completely distraught, and I spent some time trying to gently calm her. When I finally finished, I hailed a hansom, then sank gratefully back into the seat. My legs and feet ached from standing all day. I could hear the clopping of the horse’s hooves just in front of me, and a sort of muted rumble from other carriages, voices and all the sounds of the city. I felt too tired to even pull out my watch. What need? I knew I would be late, but there was nothing I could do about it. Hopefully Michelle was sitting at a quiet corner table sipping a glass of some fine claret.
I was soon to see my wish realized. George the waiter was a stout ruddy-faced man with a huge red-brown mustache who fitted well with the restaurant’s overwhelming Britishness. He knew Michelle and me, and he smiled and led me upstairs to the main dining room. Overhead, elaborate cut-glass chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling; in winter, at this hour, they would be lit by gas, but the long days of July made this unnecessary. The walls were of dark paneled wood, which along with the thick carpet helped dull the sound. Only the gentle murmur of voices and the click of cutlery could be heard.
My eyes went at once to the redhead in the electric-blue silk dress seated in the corner. A glass of dark red wine was before Michelle on the white linen table cloth, her big hands set on either side of the thin glass stem, her fingers spread apart. Her forehead was creased. She was obviously lost in thought, away in the clouds. In the morning, I had seen her bind up her long hair tightly. By now, the auburn strands had rebelled, loosening, shifting; some had escaped, one curled down over her ear and onto her collar. The brilliant shimmering blue of the dress perfectly suited her. She had a slender neck and a large mouth which, to me, always seemed to call out for kissing. We had been married some three years. The first all-consuming explosions of passion might be done, but I loved her all the more. I was very happy that this beautiful woman seated in the corner was waiting for me.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
She looked up and smiled. “Henry.” She started to rise.
I leaned over to touch her shoulder. “Don’t get up.” I stroked her cheek lightly, and her hand came up and gave my wrist a squeeze. I went to the seat opposite her.
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