The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  “That patient that just left, you gave her the maneuver just then? Lucrative little situation that is. Too bad she is getting married.”

  Dr. Whitcraft crossed behind his desk. “The girl has the classic symptoms of hysteria. I am providing her treatment. That is all that matters to me.”

  “Ah yes. Always the professional. Yes, indeed.” Dr. Marplot seated himself most comfortably. “Well, regardless…” He took a breath and stared at his colleague, a twitchy grin beginning at the corner of his lips.

  “You look like you have something to share.” Dr. Whitcraft tried not to betray his eagerness.

  A full grin bloomed on Dr. Marplot’s face. He leaned in with his hands on his knees, and announced, “Dr. Whitcraft, The Lancet is most eager to publish your paper.”

  “Well now, how about that!” He smacked his palm on the desk with delight. After all of the tension and anticipation, his maneuver was finally going to pay off.

  “Yes. It is wonderful for you then, isn’t it? Congratulations are most certainly in order. There is one slight hitch in the matter, however.” He picked up a pen and twirled it in his fingers. “They insist upon having my name attached to it, as well.” He raised both brows and shrugged.

  “Your name?”

  “Yes, but you must let me explain.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but that’s the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. Why on earth would they want your name on a paper that I wrote? Are you joking with me, sir?”

  “Why not at all.” He spread his hands like a vicar at the pulpit. “Calm down a moment and I’ll explain.” He leaned back and took a breath. “So here’s the thing. The boys at The Lancet were absolutely floored when I described what occurred at that demonstration—a paroxysm in only a few minutes? You should have seen their faces. Frankly, if it weren’t for me describing what I saw with my own eyes, not a single one of those fellows would’ve believed your maneuver was even possible…not to mention that it could be taught so easily to the likes of Dr. Chimble.

  “So, when we conferred about your paper, everyone agreed that a scientific milestone of this magnitude should be handled with extra precision, and that amending it to include a perspective of a doctor who saw it performed would provide the necessary credence, you know… the proper point of view.”

  “So what—”

  Dr. Marplot held up a hand. “And because I was there on behalf of the journal, it only made sense that I be the one to do it.”

  Dr. Whitcraft leaned forward. “What the devil would you even say? I can’t have you botch what I’ve spent hours meticulously crafting. You think you’re just going to swoop in and—”

  “If you don’t want me to be involved, simply say so. But if you want The Lancet to publish it, someone needs to contribute a small section about observing the demonstration. If I were the one to do it, I’d probably add a few scribbles about what I saw—certainly nothing that would alter the content; I wouldn’t dream of it. It’s already so well-articulated. But regardless, it would still clearly be your paper and your maneuver.”

  Blood rushed through his ears. He despised having his name on a paper with anyone, let alone this man. Still, he so very much wanted to get it published, and The Lancet was by far the most prestigious journal in London. And what they were asking hardly seemed unreasonable. He sighed and slid his hand through his hair. “I must have the final say, on whatever you contribute.”

  “Of course. Your formal approval would be required for anything that appears in print.”

  “I suppose I have no choice, then do I?” he whispered, sinking back into his chair. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes.

  Dr. Marplot reached across the desk for his hand, and gave it a pat. “Good. Then I’ll get started on it right away. What an honor it will be for me to have even the slightest association with such an important advancement in science.”

  “Yes, well that is very kind.” Dr. Whitcraft flipped open his pocket watch.

  “Dr. Whitcraft?” Miss Faffle peeked into his office. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Gamon is here for me. Is there anything else you need?”

  “No, thank you, Miss Faffle. Go on then.” Her swarthy suitor draped a cape across her shoulders and pulled her toward the front door. Dr. Whitcraft grimaced, and settled his eyes back on his guest.

  “You know,” Dr. Marplot said, “as I begin to craft my section of the paper, perhaps it would prove helpful for me to have a look at some of your early notes. All of those trials and errors. I’d love to get some insight into the process that got you there.”

  Dr. Whitcraft stared at him for a moment. Finally, he said, “Well…I don’t usually make a habit of—my notes are extraordinarily rudimentary, meant only for my eyes.” He paused and then shifted in his seat. “They wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

  “I’m sure you must have something in your records about the maneuver.” He laughed, pointing to the cabinet in the corner.

  “Of course. I have a file that covers every aspect of the maneuver…patient records, diagrams, explanation of the theory. Most of that is already in my paper. I suppose if it would be helpful for you to take a look, then have at it.”

  “I may do that. It was just a thought, really.” Dr. Marplot quieted for a moment and glanced around. “You have a pleasant office here. And you live upstairs? I suppose that might change after our article makes you famous.”

  Our article? He opened his mouth to protest, but startled at the crash of the front door blasting open, followed by a livid Miss Reave. “William? William! You must do something about that deranged woman! She came to my meeting and told me in front of all of my friends that I am to leave you alone. Can you believe the—” She took a breath and froze before offering Dr. Marplot a weak smile. “Excuse me, Dr. Marplot. What a surprise.” She glided her hand across her hair.

  “A most pleasant surprise, indeed Miss Reave,” he replied with a knowing grin as he got to his feet.

  “You must forgive my rather brash entrance.” She knelt to pick up the bag she had thrown, blushing. “But, I am a bit flummoxed.”

  Dr. Whitcraft eyed his colleague as he made his way past and into the reception area. He patted Miss Reave on the shoulder. “My poor dear! How terrible for you! Isn’t Mrs. Anile with you?”

  “Oh…” She walked back to the door and glanced out of the glass, searching. “Ugh, she was right behind me.”

  Dr. Whitcraft stood behind her, studying the passing crowds for an eye-patch wearing matron. He gave up and turned back to his fiancée. “I’m sure she’ll turn up, please, tell me what happened.”

  She looked from man to man, betraying unexpected delight at having an additional audience member to which she could relate her tale of woe. “I was sitting between Julia and Sarah, of course, at our Society of Manners meeting. Julia got up to complain to Mrs. Uppish that Mr. Fustian was telling his filthy jokes again and we could hear every word he said. Before I knew it, that awful Pannade woman took Julia’s place.

  “Before I could tell her to get away from me, she began scolding me…telling me that I needed to stay away from you, and that if I didn’t, she would make a motion to have me expelled from the society, because I didn’t have any manners. Can you believe it? When Julia came back, they started yelling at each other and it wasn’t long before all of the women and some of the men were on their feet, too…shouting the most terrible insults and accusations. Finally, Mrs. Foyce checked the roster and discovered what I had been screaming to anyone who would listen, that Mrs. Pannade wasn’t even a member. They finally threw her out onto the street where she belonged, thank goodness.”

  “Oh my, that is dreadful, just dreadful,” Dr. Whitcraft cried. “I cannot apologize enough. I’ll go to the police tomorrow morning. I have to believe there is something they can do.”

  “Is this that woman from the bushes? She’s still troubling you and now she’s harassing poor Miss Reave? Don’t you both lead such interesting lives?” Dr. Marplot grinned. “I sh
ould spend more time with the both of you.”

  ****

  Dr. Whitcraft scanned the headquarters of Sir Robert Peel’s new Metropolitan Police Force searching for the sergeant in question. There was so much commotion; men in uniform buzzing amongst ne’er-do-wells and upstanding citizens alike. He became mesmerized by a quarrelling couple: a scullery maid and low kitchen servant judging by their garb, both of whom had black eyes and had just been disarmed of their cutlery by an observant young constable.

  “Over there. He’s the beefy chap behind the counter,” an officer mumbled to Dr. Whitcraft again, without looking up.

  He spotted the slouching Sergeant Draffsack at once, posed unattractively behind the counter, picking at his fingernails with his teeth. Dr. Whitcraft approached the man and waited for an acknowledgement. Without receiving one, he began to speak.

  “Sir. I was told that you were the man to speak to about an unpleasant quandary in which I now find myself.” The doctor described his embarrassing dilemma regarding Mrs. Pannade. By the end of his tale, the sergeant’s lips were quivering with laughter.

  “I’m not sure I understand. A lovesick woman isn’t a police matter.” Now that he had stopped laughing, the officer’s tone was blatantly patronizing. Dr. Whitcraft took a breath, having anticipated that this conversation would likely be a difficult one.

  “Sir, I have thought long and hard about coming here, professionally speaking you know, but I have come to the conclusion that law enforcement must be notified. The patient in question is ill. I have made every reasonable effort to handle the situation myself, giving her repeated warnings to respect my professional boundaries, not to mention those of my fiancée. She has disregarded each and every admonition. I do not wish for you to deal with her harshly because her disease has progressed to a point where she is not fully in control of her actions.”

  “What’s she doing that’s so bad?”

  “As I previously stated to that other officer, it started with visits to my office in excess of her regular appointments. She would arrive with gifts: first food; roasted fowl, pies and the like. I believe on one occasion she dropped off a trifle. I don’t know what else. These were all well and good, but then she persisted with more extravagant gifts, things that she had purchased, culminating with a gold pocket watch and fob—”

  “Really?” The sergeant’s doughy face brightened as he glanced at the fob hanging from Dr. Whitcraft’s waistcoat.

  “No, no…not this one. I mean, this one is mine. I returned the watch and fob immediately and instructed her that no such gifts would be accepted. But the gifts and obsessive attention have been easy enough to manage, I suppose, but her behavior has escalated from the excessive to…I hate to say it, but to the rather disconcerting.

  “She follows me around the town, and has even broken into my home, stirring me out of sleep at the most appalling hours of the night, demanding that I see her. This is all bad enough, but now she has taken to visiting my fiancée at her residence and at her social engagements.

  “What I am asking is, keeping in mind her fragile constitution, if perhaps you could speak to her, explain that what she is doing is against the law and order her to stop.” Dr. Whitcraft took a deep breath.

  “That’s a problem isn’t it, because nothing you’re describing is against the law. She can bring you pies and visit your fiancée, or knock on your door at night whenever she pleases. She breaks in, you say? How did she get into your house? Did she break your door, your window?”

  “Well, no. I always lock my door, but she had a key made. I’ve changed my locks, of course.”

  “A key made? Well, she is a resourceful one, isn’t she? If she hasn’t actually broken anything, then frankly, doctor…” He threw up his hands and shrugged.

  “Good God, I have an unstable woman menacing my fiancée, ruining my practice and you are saying there is nothing you can do?”

  Sergeant Draffsack looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose I could have one of my men follow her around, see what she is up to, try and catch her in the act of something.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder. “Someone tell Constable Duffart to come out here.”

  “Splendid,” Dr. Whitcraft said. Finally he was getting somewhere. “That would be very helpful, indeed.”

  “While we wait for Constable Duffart to turn up, I wonder if you could help me, doctor. For the last several weeks, I’ve had this terrible pain in my middle, right here.” He grimaced and arched his back, holding his palm flat against his stomach, which hung in a great puddle of substance over his belt. “Oh, yes, there. Just there, ah.” He stabbed repeatedly with his index finger to indicate the area of concern.

  Dr. Whitcraft sighed. If Mrs. Pannade would leave him in peace, it would all be worth it. He reached over the counter and palpated the officer’s middle.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A diminutive old man in a smart-looking livery and drooping white wig showed Dr. Whitcraft into an empty parlor with a large red couch placed in its center. Excellent, a perfect location to administer the therapy if he deemed it necessary. Now he just needed his patient.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Caxon, was it? Will I have the opportunity to meet Mr. Meecher, or will I just be seeing his wife today?”

  Mr. Caxon appeared stricken, glancing away from the doctor as if trying to settle on just the right words to answer this question. “You’ll have to speak to Mrs. Meecher about that, sir.”

  “I see.” Dr. Whitcraft looked around the room and removed his hat.

  “Can I offer you anything, sir, while Mrs. Meecher makes her way downstairs? A beverage, perhaps?”

  “No, nothing thank—” He didn’t have a chance to finish because Mrs. Meecher blew into the room past her servant, traveling within a cloud of faint perfume. “That’ll be all, Caxon. I don’t want any interruptions, is that clear? Not a sound.”

  She was a good deal younger than Dr. Whitcraft had expected, and wore a dressing gown made up of many layers of sheer fabric, but did not seem the slightest bit modest in front of her manservant. She grabbed a handful of hair that had fallen across her eyes, and tossed it to the side, watching as Mr. Caxon disappeared from the room.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Meecher.” Dr. Whitcraft set his hat on the pianoforte and offered his hand to the smiling young woman. Her eyes sparkled as she lowered herself on the couch. “Your husband and I have been in correspondence regarding your troublesome condition. I assume you are aware of that.”

  “Oh yes. Yes I am.”

  “Apparently I was recommended by a colleague of his.”

  “Oh, I’m not sure about that.” She dragged her hand along the upholstery. She certainly did not seem like the distraught and depressed woman that had been described in her husband’s letters.

  “Shall we get started?” She scooted back and threw her legs up on the couch, exposing her bare feet and ankles.

  “Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Given this is our first meeting, I need to ask you a series of questions to gauge if this therapy is warranted for your case.”

  Her peculiar expression of eagerness vanished at once. She swung her legs back down and planted them on the floor.

  “I have read your husband’s letters thoroughly, Mrs. Meecher, and he assures me that the only treatment that has ever helped abate your symptoms has been the administration of pelvic massage. Is that correct?”

  “Oh yes. That is the only thing that seems to make any difference. I am so terribly sad. Why don’t we just get started?”

  “Well, I cannot rely on the work of other physicians, you see. I must come to a diagnosis myself before I recommend—”

  A barely audible knock vibrated the double doors. Mrs. Meecher’s already-impatient demeanor inflamed into a passion, and she snapped, “Great ghosts, I asked for some privacy! Caxon I told you—”

  “Ma’am, I am very sorry.” He put his mouth between the doors, careful not to look inside the room. “Your husband, Mr. Meecher has just arr
ived.” His voice sounded urgent, and very nearly terrified.

  “What?” Mrs. Meecher shrieked, jumping up and dashing to the window. “Oh my God!” She spun around, pointing at Dr. Whitcraft. “You’ve got to get out! He’ll kill you if he catches you here!”

  He felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t understand, madam. Why would he be upset to see me here? He’s the one who wrote to me and inquired about your condition. He insisted upon these arrangements and paid me for several appointments in advance, certainly he—”

  “No! He never did any such thing! You fool, it was me! He never knew anything about it! Where’s your hat? You had a hat…ah.” She grabbed his hat from atop the pianoforte and jerked it down on his head with both hands. She gripped him under his arm and yanked him toward the back of the room. Dr. Whitcraft opened his mouth to protest, but instead watched stunned as she swung open the cupboard door and stuffed him inside.

  “Ma’am! This will not do!” Dr. Whitcraft shouted. The door shut, leaving him in complete darkness. He fumbled for the knob and found it, but couldn’t escape because the hook and eye at the top of the cupboard’s jamb had been engaged. Through the crack, he watched Mrs. Meecher run toward the window.

  “Just stay in there for now,” she said through clenched teeth. “I’ll fix it so you can leave, but I’m warning you, don’t say a word or he’s liable to give you a good thrashing. He doesn’t approve of strange men being here when he’s away.”

  “Strange men?” Dr. Whitcraft’s voice sounded muffled from within the cupboard. “I am not a strange man! I am a physician, Mrs. Meecher and am acting within the utmost standards of my profession. There is nothing untoward about my technique of—”

  “Oh, now he’s talking to Mr. Caxon,” she wailed, leaning against the window sash. “He’ll tell him everything…Oh! He’s coming up the walk!”

  Clutching her chest, she stumbled to the couch and collapsed, flipping herself over in a most awkward pose. But then, she jumped to her feet, and scanned the room before dashing toward the far wall. She yanked one of the dusty volumes from the shelf, turned and leapt through the air like ballerina, robes sailing underneath her as she parachuted back onto the couch. Breathing heavily, she flipped open the book and rested it on her lap.