The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  Miss Reave looked disheartened, but didn’t argue. She had to know that he was right.

  “Well, there is something else.” Her tone had changed from dejected to mischievous as she gestured to the piece of paper lying on his pillow. “You should be glad I’m not the jealous type.”

  Dr. Whitcraft leaned over and snatched it up.

  “Good Lord,” he whispered.

  The flowery rounds of the feminine script could not have contrasted more with the string of lascivious entreaties penned in this astonishingly inappropriate letter. It was signed with a flourish by none other than his ex-patient, Mrs. Pannade. He looked up into the smirking face of Miss Reave. “Dear God, tell me you didn’t read this.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Oh my.” He swallowed hard and looked back down at the letter, shaking his head. Could Miss Reave even understand such shocking references and suggestions? The thought made him shudder. “I just do not know what to say,” he whispered, bringing his hand to his temple. “How in the devil did she get in here again?”

  “Again?”

  ****

  Mrs. Minnock’s study was shadowy and quiet; the ticking grandfather clock in the hall counted each passing second, loudly enough to be heard over the nervous drumming of Dr. Whitcraft’s fingers. He jumped to his feet and paced the small room, traveling to the shaded window and back, trying his best not to hover.

  “You know, I really appreciate you looking at this. You could have said no, you know. And I can’t think of anybody who has as much knowledge about business as you have. It just gives me tremendous peace of mind to have someone else’s eyes on this. Yes. Tremendous peace of mind.” He sat back down across from the desk. “Is it too dim in here? Would you like me to get you another candle, oh my, but it is so late, I’m so sorry. You probably want to sleep.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Dr. Whitcraft, I can’t concentrate on your books while you are babbling so. Take another sip of your tea. Won’t you even consider having a brandy and water? It will do you worlds of good, you know.” Mrs. Minnock pulled her robe back up over her shoulders as she flipped to the next page of his ledger.

  “No, no. I mustn’t. That wine I had a few weeks back ruined all my data. I still feel guilty.” He took a breath, determined to stay quiet, although the sight of her poring over his books made him slide side to side in his chair.

  He had spent the earlier part of this evening adding and re-adding the columns of numbers, trying to decide upon the prudence of making such a substantial financial investment. At his wit’s end, he had packed up his books and brought the whole lot to his usual appointment with Mrs. Minnock.

  Finally, he couldn’t contain himself. “What do you think? Should I even consider buying that damned house?”

  “Well…” She looked up and leaned back in her chair. “I think this looks remarkable. Your practice is thriving, doctor. You should be very pleased.”

  “Of course I’m pleased…but can I afford it?”

  “I don’t think there’s any question that you can afford both the new house and your current building, but it will require you to keep up this pace. If your practice should drop off for some reason, or if you no longer want to stay so busy…you should think seriously if you want to live under that kind of pressure, to make payments so large. You must be exhausted even now.”

  He waved his hand. “That’s of no concern. But what about next year, and the year after that? One can only imagine how expensive being married is going to be. Miss Reave’s father has set a standard for a rather permissive lifestyle, I’m afraid. She could wreck me if I’m not careful.”

  She frowned at this, but remained silent.

  “Still, I can’t very well go into marriage letting her perceive me as a pinchpenny, either.”

  Mrs. Minnock shrugged and reached for her glass of brandy.

  “The furniture she will demand, the household amenities she will require. I’ve recently discovered that her clothing allowance for a single month is more than I spend on myself in an entire year.” The doctor shook his head just thinking about it.

  “Do not begrudge an eighteen-year-old girl her dresses, Dr. Whitcraft. They are the tools of her trade.” She set the glass back down on her desk. “You, on the other hand, have always been satisfied with a rather austere lifestyle, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve usually just reinvested any profits I make right back into my practice. Keeping a physician’s office modern and adequately stocked is very expensive. But I’m no ascetic. I do allow myself a few personal indulgences now and again.”

  “Like what?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, any medical book, journal, or treatise is fair game for purchase and nonnegotiable. When I began this career, I vowed to keep my scientific knowledge up to date, and it’s not cheap, I tell you.”

  “Research tools are not exactly a personal indulgence.”

  “What? Well, they are for me.” He paused, and looked away. Lowering his voice he added, “And then, of course, there’s the not inconsequential cost of frequenting your corridors.”

  She smiled, picking up the glass again and pointing at his ledger. “Ah yes. I saw that noted under the personal medical expense column. I assumed that’s what the EM stood for.”

  He felt himself redden and glanced down at his lap, exposing a smile. That expense was also nonnegotiable. He looked back up with renewed urgency. “Oh, and I didn’t mention, a colleague of mine, Dr. Vorago—he’s planning on attending a conference about hysteria in Paris, and he’s badgering me to go along, as well.”

  “Oh, Paris! I think you should go, doctor. I think it would do you good to get away.”

  “Actually, I’m desperately keen to attend, but could I afford to go and make that ridiculous down payment?”

  “At this point, Dr. Whitcraft, I believe you could afford whatever strikes your fancy.”

  “You know, I’ve never left England.”

  “Well then, you should go. Most definitely. I wish I could go with you.”

  “Wouldn’t that be pleasant? Well, who’s to say?” He leaned forward and squinted at his upside-down ledgers. “I was considering letting my flat, after I move that is, but with Miss Faffle in such a quandary, I suppose I’ll let her use it, at least until her situation resolves itself somehow.”

  She twirled the golden liquid around her glass. “You are chivalrous, then aren’t you, Dr. Whitcraft?”

  Just then, a scream echoed throughout the house. They looked at each other. Mrs. Minnock jumped up from her desk and hurried around him, the long panels of her robe billowing behind her.

  “What is it?” she yelled at the girls standing in the parlor.

  One of the girls running down the stairs screeched, “It’s Brigitte! Her man, he is dead!”

  “What? Oh my…”

  Dr. Whitcraft dashed around Mrs. Minnock and up the stairs.

  “Show me! Where are they?”

  “In there.”

  He pushed through a crowd of girls into a tiny bedroom, and saw the voluptuous Brigitte on her knees weeping on the floor. Her arms were crossed, barely covering her breasts. An elderly man lay prone atop the bed, naked save for the tightly bound corset encircling his middle.

  “Mrs. Minnock,” Dr. Whitcraft exclaimed over his shoulder, “help me turn him over!”

  They flipped the man and saw his white-whiskered face had contorted into an expression of profound concentration. His lips were just now turning blue.

  Dr. Whitcraft gasped, “Oh dear Lord!” He smacked the gentleman’s unchanging face and shouted, “Dr. Forspent?”

  “Is he dead?” Brigitte wailed from her place on the floor.

  The doctor held his ear to his mentor’s mouth and felt his neck for a pulse. “No…no, thank God.” He tugged at the corset, but the hooks, the eyes, the ties—it was a mystery. “Mrs. Minnock! Help me get this ridiculous thing off him.”

  She jumped on the bed and clawed at the satin u
ndergarment.

  “Dr. Forspent!” He slapped the man’s face as the livid blue rose onto his cheeks. Upon prying the elderly doctor’s mouth open, he saw that his top gums were bare. “Oh, never mind with that. Roll him on his side, hurry!”

  Mrs. Minnock did as requested. Dr. Whitcraft dropped off the bed and onto his knees. He reached into his patient’s mouth and slid his hand in and down, as far as space would allow. And then his fingertips grazed the obstruction.

  “Ah, there it is…” he whispered, perspiration beading on his forehead. He wiggled it and eased it up, feeling the suction loosen as it gave way. Gently, gently he coaxed it out further still.

  “I believe…yes…I’ve got it!” A set of dripping wet porcelain false teeth appeared, clasped in the tips of his crossed fingers.

  Dr. Whitcraft tossed them aside, dropped his body in exhaustion, but rose again quickly to examine his dear professor. He was still unconscious, but his face had begun to regain its normal pallor as the breath of life was once again restored and flowing easily. Dr. Whitcraft dropped his head onto the bed for a moment and then looked back up into the amazed face of Mrs. Minnock.

  “H-he’s my professor. Oh my…”

  “Is everything all right in here?” Another gentleman stuck his head inside the room. He wore an impeccably tailored double-breasted frockcoat layered atop a buff-colored, high-buttoned waistcoat with an ascot fixed in place over his ruffled shirt collar. By all appearances, this gentleman was ready to attend the most civilized of affairs, except there was not a stitch of clothing covering his lower effects.

  Irritated by the interruption, Dr. Whitcraft snapped, “Everything is fine, so please go back to your…Mr. Wedfellow?”

  “Oh, Dr. Whitcraft! Well, how pleasant.” Mr. Wedfellow’s eyes were wandering and red as he swayed in the doorway. The distinctive juniper indication of gin lightly drifted into the room.

  “Don’t worry, Corrine,” Mr. Wedfellow called into the hallway. “There’s a doctor in with the unfortunate man. I’m sure the old fellow’s in good hands then, isn’t he?” He nodded at the scene with much approval and returned to the hall.

  Brigitte got to her feet, still crying. “He told me…he told me to do those things,” she muttered at Mrs. Minnock, stealing an occasional glance at her client.

  “It’s all right.” Mrs. Minnock patted her on the shoulder. “Go put your clothes on, then.”

  “But he’s wearing my corset.”

  “Then, go find another.”

  Brigitte left the room sniffing. Dr. Whitcraft pulled a blanket over his patient and reached up to the man’s neck for a final check of his pulse. Satisfied, he walked to Mrs. Minnock.

  She grasped his elbow. “Are you sure he’ll be all right?”

  “Yes. Just let him lay there. He’ll come around.” They both stared at the unconscious professor. “He looks so old, doesn’t he?” Dr. Whitcraft whispered.

  “He’ll be so proud of you, when he wakes up and finds out what happened.” She reached around the doctor’s waist.

  He stared at Dr. Forspent, imagining the man’s eyes popping open, confused at first but then filling with recognition as he focused on the unexpected presence of his favorite protégé. Frowning, Dr. Whitcraft flipped open his pocket watch.

  “I should be going, probably. Yes. And there’s no need to mention, uh…my presence here this evening, I think.”

  “You don’t want him to know you saved him?”

  “No! Good Lord, no and please don’t tell him. If he sees me here, the poor man will be overcome with embarrassment. And frankly, so will I! Just tell him there was a doctor here who helped him. He may not even ask.” He turned to leave the room, then paused. In the most secretive of voices, he whispered, “Please tell Brigitte, should there be any future…endeavors between the two, make sure the man removes his teeth, you know, before.” He pulled back, grimacing at the vision he had just conjured.

  She grasped his cheeks, tipping his face toward her own. “Thank you,” she whispered and then kissed him. “Oh wait. Don’t you want to take your ledgers with you?”

  “Oh. No, I’ll come get them tomorrow. I don’t feel like collecting them now. Maybe you could go over them again, in the morning, you know, just double-check for me…before I speak to the creditors. Just to make certain.”

  “I’ll be happy to. You know, doctor, you could always stay here.”

  “Oh no. I couldn’t possibly sleep. I need some exercise, something to calm my nerves. Walking home will do wonders for me. I need to get myself back into order, after such excitement.”

  “But it is so late…”

  “There’s no better time. No one will bother me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The night air had cooled and felt crisp in his lungs as he walked through the Covent Garden back toward Berkeley Square. The stars shimmered high above London, a most pleasing scene, the perfect antidote for the recent excitement of the evening.

  It occurred to him that he didn’t have his walking stick should he need to protect himself against potential mischief, but the streets seemed strangely empty on this night, and the walk home was not a long one.

  He enjoyed a leisurely pace gazing at the shuttered shop fronts while contemplating the exhilarating direction his life would be taking over the next few months. The purchase of the new house, the conference in Paris, the imminent publishing of his article in The Lancet; there was so much to look forward to.

  He passed a few shadowy figures warming themselves over a rubbish-bin fire. Glancing sideways at the pitiful characters, Dr. Whitcraft turned down a side street to escape their observation. He pulled his frockcoat tighter around his person and increased the pace of his stride. The moon disappeared beneath the high floating clouds depriving the entire scene of illumination, save for the dim streetlights.

  Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he heard a muffled clattering somewhere behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. There was nothing, of course. His mind was playing tricks, but nevertheless he again increased the velocity of his steps.

  All at once, a force propelled him from behind and slammed him into a shop front. At any moment, he expected to hear the menacing voices of the perpetrators demanding his money and pocket watch.

  “Just take it! It’s in my pocket there. Take it all! Please,” he gasped, waiting for the sharp pierce of a knife blade at his throat. Oh how foolish he had been to walk home at this time of night! He should have just stayed with Mrs. Minnock.

  But it was not a knife that the doctor felt. It was the curious sensation of warm breath on the back of his neck coupled with a deliberately roaming set of hands.

  “No, not in my trousers. My wallet is in my waistcoat…in the pocket, there.” His breath fogged the window as he waved to his right side, afraid that digging it out might be misconstrued. They might think he was reaching for a weapon, after all.

  “It’s not in my trousers, I tell you,” he repeated frantically now that the criminal’s hands had migrated onto his hips. Something was indeed queer about this act of delinquency, and when he turned to confront the malefactor, a hand plunged into the front of his trousers like a terrier after a rabbit.

  At that most startling sensation, Dr. Whitcraft emitted a girlish shriek, instinctually holding his attacker’s arm stiff as he wrestled the devil down and away—preserving himself, as well as his very nearly tarnished honor.

  He found himself on the ground and up against a wall, his trousers badly ripped. His attacker lay in a tangled huddle beside him. When the criminal turned over, the moon appeared from behind the clouds and illuminated the wild-eyed face of Mrs. Pannade. She breathed heavily as she jumped over top him.

  “Dr. Whitcraft! Don’t be afraid. Oh, have I frightened you, doctor? I assumed you knew it was me all the while.” She grinned wickedly and glanced down at his lap.

  “Mrs. Pannade,” he panted, unable to form a single coherent thought.

  “I cannot abide you going
to see that woman when you could have me, at any hour, at any place you wish and for free.” She brought her face startlingly close to his, her gloved-hand stroking his cheek, the other in position to make another go at his trousers.

  “Mrs. Pannade! Get hold of yourself, for God’s sake!” He slid out from under her, flattening himself against the building. Coquettish behavior was a well-known symptom of hysteria, but he had never imagined that it could strike in such a profound way. He would have to record a detailed account of this episode when he managed to get home, for posterity if nothing else. Perhaps this incident would prove to be the catalyst for yet another article in The Lancet.

  “Mrs. Pannade, y-you must take a deep breath. You are in the throes of an hysterical episode, and must try to get your wits about you. You are a married woman and I am going to be married. Harness these impulses and remember yourself! Good Lord! And you simply can’t go around accosting people in the street!”

  “There has been no other way to get an audience with you.” She placed her hands on her hips. “You’ve banned me from your office and forbidden me even to speak with you. What other choice do I have? And since you mentioned your abhorrent fiancée, I must tell you that she has engaged in the most shocking behavior.”

  “She has engaged in shocking behavior?” he shouted, and then paused. In spite of the delicate situation in which he now found himself, Dr. Whitcraft’s attention had indeed been captured. He took a breath and slid himself further away, pulling his ripped trousers together as much as possible. “Mrs. Pannade, if there is something about Miss Reave you wish to share with me—”

  “She’s disgracing you, running around London holding hands with him; that other doctor. I saw it with my own eyes when I followed her to his flat and—”

  “What other doctor?”

  “That awful, pompous Dr. Marplot.”

  Dr. Whitcraft gasped, and a look of utter adoration settled across her features. “So you see?” she drawled, “you must cast that foolish young minx aside and take me instead, oh my darling! I would never disgrace you like that! What a most wonderful life we could have together.” At that, she threw herself atop him once more, peppering his face with kisses and caressing his torso with long and lingering strokes.