She was silent for a long moment. “He wouldn’t ask me to do anything silly?” she asked finally.
“Professor Bogard would never do anything to compromise the dignity of his subjects. He’ll just put you into a very relaxing trance state and ask you questions about your past.”
“I don’t know… I really don’t see the point.”
“For Joy’s sake,” I urged. “The worst that can happen is you’ll have a pleasant rest and get to say ‘I told you so.’” I heard the soft, slow release of her breath.
“All right,” she said. “For Joy.”
• • •
I knocked loudly on the professor’s front door. His elderly housekeeper opened it, carrying a broom in one hand and a worn slipper in the other. “Miss Summerford!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know the professor was expecting you.”
“He isn’t, but something urgent has come up, and I need to speak to him right away. Could you tell him I’m here?”
“Why, I don’t know if he’s even up yet,” she said, sounding peeved. “The poor man didn’t get in last night until after dinner.”
“I’m sorry to disturb him, but the matter really can’t wait.”
Her lips pursed in disapproval, but she stepped aside to let me in and went muttering down the hall to fetch him.
Ten minutes later, the professor rounded the door into the parlor, buttoning up his waistcoat. I nearly swooned in relief at the sight of him.
“Good morning, Doctor!” he greeted me jovially. “You’re out bright and early. I commend you on your dedication.” He bounced toward me on the balls of his feet, palm extended. “Let’s have a look, then, shall we?”
I stared uncertainly at his hand. “Oh! You mean the paper,” I said as understanding dawned. “Yes, of course, but I have a rather pressing problem I need to discuss with you first.”
He frowned. “You finished it, I hope?”
“Yes, Professor, the paper is finished. The problem concerns a patient of mine, the one I told you about just before you left…”
“You brought it with you, then?” he interrupted.
“The paper?” I asked, struggling to keep the exasperation from my voice. “It’s right here.” I yanked it partway out of my bag to show him.
“Ah, excellent,” he said, relaxing his brow. “I knew I could count on you.” Leaning toward me, he confided with a wink, “I just found out they’ve made mine the lead address at the conference.”
“That’s wonderful, Professor, but if you don’t mind, this really is quite urgent…”
The housekeeper bustled in, carrying a Wedgwood plate stacked with chocolate-covered pastries.
“Mrs. Whelan, I see you’ve been to Dean’s!” cried the professor, rubbing his hands.
“I knew you’d be missing your profiteroles while you were away,” she simpered, lowering the plate onto a table between the parlor chairs. Casting me a reproachful look, she added, “If you can’t get a decent night’s rest, at least I can be sure you start off your day with a solid breakfast.”
“My dear Mrs. Whelan, whatever would I do without you?” said the professor, bending over the plate with relish.
I could have sworn the old woman blushed. “I’ll bring the tea the minute it’s ready,” she told him, scurrying out of the room as fast as her bowed old legs could carry her.
“You have to try one of these, Doctor,” the professor said, turning the plate to inspect each cream-filled pastry. “They bake them fresh, three times a day.”
“I’ve already eaten,” I replied, nearly choking now on my impatience.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” He finally selected one and took a bite, sighing in contentment.
“About Mrs. Miner…” I began.
“Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” he asked, gesturing toward the parlor chairs. He settled himself into one, pastry in hand, while I dropped onto the seat across from him.
“Now then,” he said at last. “What is it you wanted to tell me?”
I didn’t need any further prompting. In what I hoped was a coherent torrent, I filled him in on everything that had happened over the last two weeks. His expression gradually changed from polite interest, to concern, to outright alarm, his enjoyment of the profiterole seeming to decline in direct proportion to the length of my story.
“Good heavens,” he muttered when I was finished, lowering the unfinished pastry to his knee.
“I realize that as my supervisor you should have been advised of Eliza’s arrest right away, but I didn’t want to discuss it in front of Professor Mayhew.”
“Well now, I don’t really think we can call me your supervisor,” he said quickly. “After all, we’ve barely discussed this patient’s case until now.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I did want to tell you sooner, but you left the day after it happened. I’ve told you everything now, though. And there’s still a chance we can turn things around.”
“We?” he repeated, eyebrows raised.
I leaned toward him. “I thought you could hypnotize her, so we can find out who Olivia’s father is.”
“Oh dear,” he said, drawing back. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? I know you could do it. Remember that boy in my class who was terrified of geese? You helped him recover a memory of being chased by one as a child and cured him of his fear.”
“I meant that I don’t know if it would be wise for me to become involved. Not now, with the conference coming up.”
I frowned at him. “I don’t understand. What difference does the conference make?”
“A man in my position is expected to adhere to a very high standard of conduct,” he answered stiffly. “It wouldn’t do to be seen as aiding and abetting a murder suspect.”
I felt a chill run down my back, so real I almost turned to see if the front door had blown open. I couldn’t believe he’d let fear of public opinion stand between us, not when I so clearly needed his help. “You mean, you don’t want to damage your reputation,” I said slowly.
“You needn’t take that tone with me, Doctor. I should think you’d be concerned about your own reputation. As a woman, people are expecting you to make mistakes. I can’t imagine why you’d want to give them fuel for the fire.”
“You think I made a mistake with Eliza, is that what you’re saying?” I asked, hearing the shrillness in my voice but unable to control it. “You believe that she’s guilty and that I’m somehow responsible?”
He sighed. “From what you’ve told me, I don’t see that anyone really knows what happened. That being the case, I think the wisest course would be for you to remove yourself from the controversy.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“You’ve done your duty and told the police everything you know. I don’t see that anything more is required of you.”
“I can’t abandon Eliza now.”
“She isn’t your responsibility.”
“She has no one else! Her own mother believes her case is hopeless. Her lawyer hasn’t seen fit to meet with her yet except to claim his fee, although her grand jury trial is scheduled for next week. I’m the only one who seems the slightest bit interested in trying to prove her innocence. But I can’t do it alone. Please, Professor, I need your help.”
His gaze dropped to his pant leg. “There’s no guarantee that she would reveal the information you seek under hypnosis,” he said, brushing off a crumb. “Besides, I don’t have the time. Not with the conference coming up.”
“It would only take an hour or two,” I pleaded. “We could go right now, and you’d be back before lunch.”
He looked up. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly, “but I can’t.”
I thought of all the times at school I’d stayed up late to meet his urgent research deadlines, or set asi
de my course work to help him with some little crisis he couldn’t manage on his own. I’d done it gladly, eager to help, proud to be part of his team. And now, the one time I asked for his help, he refused me. I felt hot tears stinging my eyelids, and blinked them away.
His face brightened. “There is a young doctor I know, however—an experienced hypnotist, just over from France. I believe he trained with Charcot at the Salpêtrière. I can give you his name. I’m sure you’ll find him quite capable.”
“There’s no time to get someone else. Besides, how can I ask Eliza to trust someone I don’t even know? I don’t want some stranger, Professor. I want you!”
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said curtly, “but we can’t always have what we want, now can we?”
I stared at him in mute dismay. So that was that. He really wasn’t going to help. “I should go, then,” I mumbled, pushing myself up from the chair in a daze. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, getting to his own feet. “You know I’m always happy to give you the benefit of my advice.” He rocked up on his toes, patting his waistcoat, his good humor restored now that I was leaving and taking my problems with me. “Be sure to keep me abreast of things. And don’t worry overly much. I’m sure everything will work out in the end.”
His cheap assurances made me want to gag. I lifted my bag over my shoulder and started for the door.
I was nearly through it when he called, “Genevieve, wait!”
I stopped, my heart hitching in my chest. Thank God, he’d come to his senses. Of course he wouldn’t abandon me when I needed him most! He’d only needed another moment to consider. I whirled around, ready to forgive him everything.
He held out his hand. “You forgot the paper.”
I heard a strange rushing noise in my ears, as if all the air were being sucked from the room. I had the odd sensation that I was growing lighter and higher, expanding into space. The professor looked different from this vantage point, as if I were viewing him through the wrong end of a telescope: smaller somehow, and less assured. I noted the slight sheen on his brow, and the uncertain smile on his lips. Suddenly, it dawned on me: the professor needed me. He needed me. I squeezed my elbow over my book bag, experiencing an unfamiliar frisson of power. I had tried appealing to his heart, and to his conscience, and gotten nowhere. Perhaps it was time for another approach.
“Actually,” I said slowly, “now that I think about it, the paper isn’t quite ready. There are a number of improvements that should still be made.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I really couldn’t hand it over in good conscience.”
He wiggled his fingers. “Just give me what you’ve done so far, and I’ll make do.”
“Make do?” I raised my eyebrows. “That hardly seems good enough, does it, Professor? After all, there’s your reputation to consider.”
He slowly lowered his arm. “What are you up to, Genevieve? Are you telling me you’re not going to give it to me?”
“Oh, I’ll give it to you. As soon as I’ve had a chance to give it the proper attention. Right after this other pesky little matter is cleared up.”
“It seems I’ve underestimated you,” he said sternly. “I didn’t know you were capable of blackmail.”
“Neither did I,” I replied. “But then, as you once told me, we never really know what we’re capable of until we’re pushed to it.” I could smell my bridges burning, but I didn’t care. Overcome with a strange but exhilarating giddiness, I added, “Of course, if you absolutely can’t wait, I’d be happy to recommend someone else. There’s a librarian I know, a very competent researcher. I’m afraid she knows absolutely nothing at all about your topic, but in a pinch”—I winked at him—“I’m sure you’ll find her very capable.”
I caught a gleam of reluctant amusement in his eye. “I take your point, Doctor.”
“Do you?”
“If your point is that I can’t afford to take you for granted, then yes, I do.”
“You’ll help me then?”
“I don’t appear to have a choice. But if I’m going to become involved in this woman’s defense, I must at least insist that you take notes of our session. There may be something in it that I can use for my next paper.”
“Fine. As long as you don’t reveal Mrs. Miner’s identity.”
“Agreed. And I have to be back by noon. I have an appointment with my publisher.”
“I wouldn’t dream of keeping him waiting.”
He stepped past me to the call box. “I’ll have Wilson bring the motorcar around.”
The housekeeper rushed in with the teapot as we were starting into the hall. “But, Professor,” she wailed. “Your tea!”
“Can’t be helped, Mrs. Whelan,” he told her with a sigh, glancing wistfully back at the profiteroles.
Hoisting my book bag over my shoulder, I took hold of his arm and led him out the door, leaving the housekeeper gaping in our wake.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fifteen minutes later, we were standing at the door of Eliza’s flat. On the ride up, I had explained more fully the details I was hoping to confirm through hypnosis. Although the professor’s pride had still been piqued by my heavy-handed persuasion tactics, his natural curiosity—and, I suspected, the prospect of publishing a case analysis of a suspected murderess—had eventually risen to the fore, and by the time we arrived at the shop, he’d mapped out a rough strategy for the session. Since the identity of Olivia’s father seemed to be the information Eliza least wanted to divulge, the professor had decided to work in reverse chronological order, beginning with the baby’s birth and moving back to the time of conception, exploring the issues I had touched on as we progressed.
Eliza opened the door and greeted us nervously. I introduced her to the professor and followed them both into the flat, watching as the professor put his considerable charm to work. Before we’d even reached the front room, he had Eliza eating out of his hand. Just as he’d had me doing all these years, I realized now.
Eliza settled self-consciously on a worn sofa in front of the windows, while I pulled two chairs around to face her. “You needn’t be afraid,” the professor assured her, his eyes twinkling as warmly as old St. Nick’s. “The trance state is simply a place between sleep and wakefulness—not so very different, really, from a daydream. While you’re in it, you’ll have access to memories and feelings that lie outside of your conscious awareness. Your conscious mind will still be present, but it will be watching from the wings, as it were.”
“You won’t ask me to do anything silly?” she asked, apparently still harboring concerns on this score.
He smiled. “That would be a waste of both of our time, don’t you think?”
“Or anything I wouldn’t normally do?” she added.
“As I said, your conscious mind will still be watching. It won’t permit you to do anything at odds with your values or beliefs.”
“So what do you say, Eliza?” I asked encouragingly. “Are you ready?”
She took a deep breath. “I suppose.”
“Perhaps you’d like to rest your arms on that pillow,” the professor suggested.
She moved a crocheted pillow from the corner of the sofa to her lap and folded her arms on top of it.
“Are you comfortable?”
She nodded.
He turned to me. “Ready, Doctor?”
I centered my writing pad on my lap and placed my inkwell on the sofa table in front of my knees. “Ready.”
“Then let’s get started.” Unclipping his pocket watch, he lifted it by the chain and held it in front of Eliza’s face, slightly above eye level. “Mrs. Miner, I want you to keep your eyes on my watch,” he said as he started swinging the chain. “Try not to pay attention to anything else except the sound of my voice. Don’t worry ab
out any noises you hear from the street or any thoughts that come into your mind. Just fix your entire attention on my watch as it moves back and forth, back and forth before your eyes…”
Eliza sat stiffly upright with her hands clasped on top of the pillow, her eyes moving dutifully to and fro with the watch.
“Remember that you are under no one’s control,” the professor went on, “but are a willing participant on this journey into the pleasant state of deep trance. You are allowing Dr. Summerford and me to guide you into this state to retrieve helpful information from your past. You may speak or move or interrupt us at will, whenever you desire.” His voice was slow and lulling, his body still save for the slight motion of his fingers on the chain.
“Now, feel your body begin to relax. Be aware of your breath as it moves in and out, deeper and deeper into your lungs, staying in contact with my voice as you follow the watch moving back and forth, back and forth, steady as the beat of your heart.” His voice droned on, smooth as melted beeswax. I could see Eliza’s face begin to soften, her shoulders droop a little more with each pass of the watch.
“As you follow the watch, your eyes may begin to feel heavy,” the professor continued. “They may feel so heavy that it’s an effort to keep them open, but try to keep them open if you can, enjoying the pleasant sensation of heaviness as you follow the watch, keeping your eyes open even though it feels as though there are weights on your eyelids, pulling them down, making it harder and harder to keep them open.” Eliza’s eyelids, I noted, were slipping gradually lower as he spoke. “Your eyes are now so tired that it’s difficult to see through them,” he said as her eyelids started fluttering. “They’re so tired and heavy that you may feel you have to blink. Your eyelids are so heavy that you can no longer hold them open.” Her eyes blinked a few more times and slid shut. “Your eyes are closed.”
He lowered the watch to his lap. “Now, notice as the heaviness in your eyes seeps down your face, into your nose and your cheeks and along your mouth and jaw, releasing any tightness that lingers there…” He went on in this manner for several minutes, moving Eliza’s attention gradually down her body, until the rise and fall of her chest was nearly imperceptible. My own eyes were now at half-mast, my breathing as slow as if I’d swallowed half a box of Hoffman’s Drops. The world seemed to contain nothing but the professor’s soothing voice.
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