He was silent, studying the list. “What about this one here?” he asked after a moment.
“Which one?” I asked, bending down again.
“This E. B.”
My breath caught in my throat. He couldn’t know Mrs. Miner’s maiden name; he had to be guessing. I looked up, right into his probing gaze. “What about it?”
“You don’t suppose that could be Elizabeth Braun, do you?”
“Elizabeth…Braun?”
“Braun’s her maiden name. Didn’t you know?”
I stared at him. Of course I knew, but how in God’s name did he?
“Her family owns Braun’s Meats, around the corner from the Isle of Plenty,” he said as if reading my mind. “I recognized her in court.” He glanced back at the left side of the list. “If she’s in her midthirties now, in 1887 she would have been, what, fifteen or so?” His dark eyes lifted back to mine. “Did the doctor by any chance deliver Mrs. Miner of a baby when she was a girl?”
I didn’t answer, wondering frantically if there was any way to force the cat back into the bag.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “Which, if we accept your theory, means that she had as good a reason as the rest of them to want the doctor dead.”
“It wasn’t her,” I blurted out.
“How do you know?”
I dropped back down onto my chair. “Because all she wants is to find out where her child is. If she killed Hauptfuhrer, she’d be destroying all chance of finding out.”
“Maybe she asked him, but he wouldn’t tell her,” he suggested, grasping the situation with daunting alacrity. “In that case, she’d have nothing to lose by settling an old score.”
“He didn’t refuse! Eliza told me he was in his inner office, getting her proof of the child’s whereabouts, when the intruder came in and killed him.”
He frowned, shaking his head. “She could have been making that up.”
“I’m telling you, she had no desire to kill him. She’s always held herself responsible for losing the baby. Besides, it all happened twenty years ago. If she’d wanted to kill the doctor, why would she wait until now?” A guilty voice inside me whispered a possible answer, but I shut it out. “There are plenty of other people on that list who might have had a reason to kill him,” I insisted. I leaned over and jabbed my finger at the M. B. near the bottom of the page. “Margaret Backhouse’s husband lost his shirt in the copper market. The family is keeping up appearances, but it’s rumored they can’t pay their bills. Maybe Mr. Backhouse was blackmailing the doctor, threatening to expose his adoption business.”
“But if you’re right about the list, Backhouse was a client. If he exposed the doctor, he’d be exposing himself and his child too.”
“If he was facing financial ruin, the risk of exposure might have seemed the lesser of two evils.”
He looked skeptical.
“Or it could have been one of the other adoptive parents,” I said, changing tack. “If the doctor was planning to reveal a child’s adopted status, for whatever reason, the family might have felt compelled to kill him to keep their secret safe.”
He looked back at the list. “Who’s the L. F. next to Mrs. Miner’s entry?”
“Lucille Fiske,” I said, feeling a bit smug.
His head snapped up. “As in the Fifth Avenue Fiskes?”
I nodded. “It seems that Olivia Fiske is Eliza Miner’s long-lost daughter.”
He let out a low whistle. “Did Mrs. Miner know?”
“No, I told you, she never knew what became of her daughter. That’s why she went to see Dr. Hauptfuhrer yesterday. To ask him where she was, nothing more.”
He stared down at the papers for another moment or two before lowering them to his lap.
“All right, I’ve told you everything,” I said. “Now will you help her?”
“I don’t see how any of this changes the facts of the case. There might be others who could have wanted to kill him, but she’s the one who was there. She’s the one they found with blood on her hands.”
“You can’t tell me this list doesn’t mean anything,” I said, snatching it away from him.
“Not by itself, it doesn’t. You’ve got nothing solid to refute Maloney’s version of events.”
“And he has nothing solid to prove it! No witnesses, no finger impressions; all he can show is that she was nearby when the doctor was killed. I don’t know why you’re so quick to assume he’s right. As far as I can tell, he’s a closed-minded bully with little or no interest in determining the truth.”
“Eddy Maloney may be a stubborn son of a bitch, but he happens to be one of the best detectives on the force.”
“I suppose that’s why the other policemen can’t stand him,” I scoffed.
“He isn’t popular because he can’t be bought. His old man was a cop too, one of a handful who wouldn’t take part in the graft. He was murdered one night by a couple of armed thugs who were never apprehended. Eddy’s always believed the cops were behind it. So maybe you can understand why he is the way he is. He does things by the book, and he doesn’t care what anybody else thinks.”
“That’s all very well and good,” I fumed, refusing to feel sympathy for Eliza’s persecutor, “but he’s still rushing to unfounded conclusions. There’s simply no reason to believe that Eliza would attack the doctor in an unprovoked fit of rage.”
His eyebrows rose. “No reason? What about the fact that she’s mentally deranged?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, she’s not mentally deranged! Maloney made that up.”
“There’s no use lying about it,” he said shortly. “It’s right there in the doctor’s file.”
“No it isn’t. Maloney got the idea from some remarks I made—remarks he didn’t understand and used completely out of context. He was just shooting in the dark, trying to make his case stronger for the magistrate.”
Simon was watching me with an odd expression. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“What?”
He sat back. “Elizabeth Miner is in the early stages of dementia.”
I shook my head in exasperation. “Maloney will say anything to build his case, don’t you understand? He is not, however, as far as I know, a physician!”
“Dr. Hauptfuhrer was, though. And he believed she was showing signs of mental degeneration. He said so.”
“Hauptfuhrer said that?” I stared at him. “When? To whom?”
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a sheet of folded paper. “Here. See for yourself.”
Chapter Eleven
“Brady brought it back with him,” he went on, holding the paper out to me. “They found it in Mrs. Miner’s file in the doctor’s office.”
I made no move to take it. “It’s not possible. I would have known…”
He thrust it into my hand. “Go on, read it.”
I slowly unfolded the sheet. It was a handwritten letter dated December 18, 1906, addressed to Dr. George Huntington of Hopewell Junction, New York.
Dear Dr. Huntington,
I recently had the pleasure of reading your monograph on chorea in the Medical and Surgical Reporter. I am writing concerning a female patient of mine who appears to exhibit many of the symptoms you describe. I refer in particular to the spasmodic action of the muscles, together with a failure of sustained attention manifesting in lapses of memory and bouts of melancholia alternating with irritability, which I fear may be the first signs of the mental degeneration you identify as characteristic of this disease.
For reasons I am not free to disclose, it is imperative that I confirm the diagnosis as quickly as possible. I am therefore requesting that you do me the great favor of examining the patient upon your earliest convenience, so that we might have the benefit of your expertise. In light of the unfavorable outcome of the affliction,
I would prefer not to inform the patient of the true purpose of the consultation until the diagnosis is confirmed. Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.
Yours respectfully,
HERMAN HAUPTFUHRER, M.D.
I lowered the letter, feeling as if a sack of oats had just been dropped on my head, and tried to remember what I knew about chorea. William Osler had taken an interest in the subject, devoting a section to it in his Principles and Practice of Medicine, one of our primary texts at Johns Hopkins. That section, however, had dealt mainly with the simple or Sydenham’s form of chorea, a short-term illness that was thought to be caused by an infectious agent and affected chiefly children. It was characterized by involuntary muscle contractions, speech problems, and minor psychical disturbance, such as a formerly docile child becoming cross and willful or prone to crying spells.
Huntington’s chorea was, however, an entirely different form. Although it was mentioned only briefly in Osler’s book, I remembered that it was distinct from the childhood version on several important counts: it was inherited, it came on relatively late in life, and it could not be cured. It was also, if I recalled correctly, characterized by some degree of dementia.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Simon asked.
“I’ve heard of Huntington’s chorea.” Mrs. Braun’s comment that Eliza “wasn’t right in the head” now came hurtling back to me. I’d chosen to believe she was referring to a simple emotional lability in her daughter, caused by unhappy events in her past, but now I had to confront the possibility that she’d meant something much worse. I looked back at the mention of “spasmodic action of the muscles” in the letter, remembering the hand-wringing and lip-twitching I’d observed in Eliza at the start of class. And what about the comments in her clinic report, about her forgetfulness and changes of mood? Could these be indicators of dementia as well?
“You still think she’s innocent?” Simon asked.
I handed him back the letter. Many neurodegenerative diseases were accompanied by mental enfeeblement. While this enfeeblement impeded a person’s ability to function by narrowing the scope of his mental faculties, it didn’t generally lead to vicious behavior. Besides, if Eliza had Huntington’s chorea, she must still be in the very early stages. I didn’t see how her mental faculties could already be so compromised as to affect her moral judgment.
“I haven’t seen anything to support Hauptfuhrer’s suspicions,” I told him. “Granted, she’s experienced some melancholia over the past few years, but melancholia is hardly exclusive to chorea. Where’s Dr. Huntington’s response?”
“There isn’t one.”
“You mean, he didn’t reply?”
“There was nothing in the file.”
“Why then, it’s entirely possible that Hauptfuhrer was wrong!” I said as the air started moving freely through my lungs again.
“It’s entirely possible that he was right too,” he countered with a frown.
“That letter was only written three weeks ago,” I pointed out. “If there’s nothing else in the file, the most likely explanation is that Huntington never had a chance to examine her, meaning that Hauptfuhrer’s suspicions were never confirmed.”
“Hauptfuhrer sounded pretty convinced.”
“But he was no expert on chorea. He could easily have been misinterpreting what he saw or even misunderstanding the nature of the disease. As he himself was clearly aware.”
“Are you saying his opinion doesn’t count?”
“It’s certainly not conclusive.”
“Fine,” he said, returning the letter to his inner pocket. “You’re a doctor. What’s your opinion?”
I hesitated. I couldn’t be absolutely sure at this point that Hauptfuhrer’s suspicions were unfounded. But as Eliza’s only defender, I didn’t feel I could afford to convey the slightest doubt. “Eliza has lost two children under difficult circumstances,” I said finally. “I should think a little melancholia, or even irritability, would be in order. I personally have seen nothing to indicate dementia.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shook his head. “There’s something cockeyed about this whole thing. The way you’re putting yourself out, breaking the law even, to try to clear her name. Why do you care so much? What’s Mrs. Miner to you?”
“Isn’t it possible that I just want to see justice done?”
“You don’t give a tinker’s damn about justice,” he said flatly.
I jumped to my feet, glad for the anger his words provoked, grabbing onto it like a lifeline. “I think I’ve had just about enough insults for one day, Mr. Shaw. If you don’t intend to help Eliza, then there’s nothing more to talk about. If you’ll excuse me…”
He was on his own feet before I could finish. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But I can only speak from past experience.”
I gaped at him, unable to believe my ears. “Past experience? You have the nerve to speak to me about past experience? When you’re the one who—”
The sound of the front door closing interrupted me. Monsieur Henri, I thought, struggling to collect myself. I’d forgotten all about him.
“I’m the one who what?” Simon growled.
A dozen stinging replies leaped to the tip of my tongue. It would have felt good to let them fly, so good after all these years. But I was better than that. Better than him. “I’m trying very hard to forget our past,” I said, biting off the words. “I suggest that you do the same. There are more important things at stake here than our sordid little history.”
“Sordid little history?” he repeated. “My God, you do have a way with words! I couldn’t have put it better myself.” He suddenly stiffened, staring at something over my shoulder.
I turned to see my father standing in the doorway. “Father!” I cried with barely concealed dismay. “What are you doing home?”
“My meeting broke up early, so I thought I’d come home to have lunch with your mother, and see if the new disk for the lung had arrived.” He smiled at Simon. “But I see we have a visitor.” He walked toward him, extending his hand. “I’m Genevieve’s father, Hugh Summerford.”
“We’ve met,” Simon said without moving.
My father stopped, the smile dying on his lips. “Shaw,” he muttered, dropping his hand. Voice dripping with disdain, he added, “The stable boy.”
They glared at each other, tense as two pit dogs straining at the leash.
“Mr. Shaw is in politics now,” I said, locking my arm around my father’s elbow. “He’s a district captain, in fact.”
“A Tammany man,” Father said, nodding contemptuously. “So you finally found a place among your own. I’m glad to hear it.”
I could see Simon’s hand flexing at his side. “He’s here for a wonderful cause,” I interjected, racking my brain for something worthy. My eyes fell on a pair of Mother’s gloves on the corner table. “It’s a…a mitten drive! For the children of all those tunnel workers dying of caisson disease.” I risked a glance at Simon and saw that he was staring at me as though I’d gone completely mad. “He’s asking everyone in the area to pitch in,” I blathered on, quickly averting my gaze. “I told him I was sure we had some spares in the mitten basket.” The purple vein in Papa’s neck, I noticed, had receded slightly. “Why don’t we go check the basket right now, Mr. Shaw,” I said, gesturing toward the hallway, “and see what we can find?”
“I don’t want your mittens,” he said in disgust.
“Well, of course not,” I said with a shrill little laugh. “What could I have been thinking? You can’t very well carry them all back with you, can you? I’ll just go through them myself, then, and send them on later with Mary…” I petered to a halt. The expression on his face could have made a corpse blush.
“Father, that’s not fair,” I chided, gripping his arm. “Tammany Hall helps the poor in all sorts of ways, you know that.”
“Your father wouldn’t know anything about helping the poor,” Simon said.
Father drew himself to his full height, thrusting out his chest. “As a matter of fact, I happen to be on the board of several local charities. I believe I know a thing or two about what the poor of this city need.”
“Charities.” Simon grimaced. “People don’t want to be taken care of like little children. They want to take care of themselves.”
“And you help them do that by plying them with beer and looking the other way when they break the law?” Father asked.
“I don’t tell my constituents what they need. They tell me.”
“Your ‘constituents’?” Father repeated as the vein popped back out over his collar. “I take it you consider yourself their chosen representative?”
He shrugged. “I’m one of the few people they can turn to, until they get their citizenship and the right to vote.”
“Yes, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? To buy the immigrant vote with Tammany favors?”
“Father!” I cried.
“I’m sorry, Genevieve, but I don’t put much stock in self-serving political machines. I happen to believe in organized charities, accountable to the public and governed by law.”
I was never gladder to hear the thud of the knocker on the front door. “That must be Monsieur Henri!” I cried in relief, releasing my father’s arm. I heard the door open and Mary’s murmured greeting. A moment later, a short, round-faced man in pince-nez strutted into the room.
“Mademoiselle!” he cried, throwing his arms wide to embrace me. “I am late! A thousand apologies, but that is the price of perfection.” He kissed me on each cheek before turning to address the two male attendants who were trailing behind him, staggering under their loads. “Carefully, carefully!” he barked at the one carrying my dress. “It is not a sack of potatoes!” He turned back. “I am truly sorry, mademoiselle, but I could not leave Madame DeWitt before I had transformed her from a moth”—he squeezed his thumb and fingers together and then flung them apart—“into a butterfly!”
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