The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  “Stay back or I’ll give you another whack,” Dr. Marplot warned, getting to his knees and waving the upside-down leg in the air like a bat. His crumpled ascot slid to the floor when he got to his feet, and his hair hung limply over his eyes. “You just need to listen to me,” he breathed, trying to measure his tone. “We can write another article…another. I’ll make sure you get the credit.”

  “Have you no shame!” Dr. Whitcraft wheezed, turning over but unable to stand. His left side felt like fire, and exhaustion had settled down on every part of his body. “Wh-why couldn’t you just keep my bloody name on it?” he gasped. “Why did you have to take my patients…and my house, Why?”

  Hearing these words, Dr. Marplot relaxed his weapon a little. He seemed to stand taller, arching his back to display his full height while deliberating over these very relevant questions. A complex series of expressions flashed across his face while he stood there, his fingers loosening and tightening over the leg. Finally, he arched both brows. “Why not?” and a fast smile crossed his lips.

  As if lightning had stricken him, Dr. Whitcraft jumped to his feet and once again tackled Dr. Marplot, the momentum knocking the leg out of his hands, where it sailed well out of play.

  The two grappled with one another for a time, first rolling into the collapsed table, then away from it, one flipping on top of the other and then back again, grunting and struggling all the while. Dr. Marplot managed to land a blow to Dr. Whitcraft’s lower jaw, but Dr. Whitcraft replied by grabbing a handful of the other’s hair and pulling his head up and down like a marionette.

  Dr. Marplot tore himself away, twisted around, and shoved Dr. Whitcraft into the shelves against the back wall. A middle shelf split and showered splintered wood and metal instruments over him. He scooped up each item and threw it as Dr. Marplot crawled toward the exit.

  In search of more missiles, Dr. Whitcraft’s hand found its way to a jar of leeches. Undeterred by the obvious unpleasantness of doing so, he plunged his hand into the jar and hurled leech after leech at Dr. Marplot, grinning malevolently as each hit its mark.

  “You are unhinged! Demented! Do you know that? You’re a demented person,” Dr. Marplot called, but was silenced when a particularly fat ball of leeches smacked him squarely in the mouth.

  One of the doors swung wide just then.

  “Oh my darling, what in the world? What’s happened?”

  At once, Dr. Whitcraft recognized the voice. Buried within a mound of broken wood and medical clutter, he tossed a splinted board away from his face and saw Miss Reave embrace his rival.

  He could only manage a soft, plaintive groan.

  Miss Reave turned at the sound. She squinted at the spectacled eyes watching her from underneath the debris and gasped. She clutched her chest, looking from one man to the other.

  Dr. Whitcraft tried to stand, but in doing so, dislodged the top shelf, and a large clay vessel that had been precariously balanced during the fray finally gave way, landing directly on the doctor’s head and knocking him into a fast unconsciousness.

  ****

  Voices were coming from somewhere. Dr. Whitcraft reached up to touch his forehead and winced. It throbbed terribly. Someone had tied a bandage around his head like a crown. His entire body ached like he had been beaten. Wait a minute, he thought vaguely, he had been beaten. He opened his eyes, but shut them seeing the fuzzy forms of two nurses standing outside the hospital ward door.

  “No, I can’t because Dr. Marplot says we need to watch that man. He’s a danger to everyone in this hospital. That’s why they put him in here I suppose. Did you hear about how he attacked the poor doctor and what he did to that examination room? It’ll take days to clean that up.”

  “I saw it and I’m shocked. Why would anyone want to attack the doctor like that?”

  “No one knows.”

  “Who is he, anyway? Does anyone, know?”

  “No. No one knows that, either. Dr. Marplot says the police will sort it out. He’s probably some kind of fiend, going after famous doctors like Dr. Marplot.”

  “Well, as soon as the police get here, they’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t you think he is handsome?”

  “Who? That man?”

  “No, no. Dr. Marplot!”

  “Oh yes, of course. That black eye makes him even more mysterious and dashing.” She giggled as she walked off, leaving the other nurse alone to return to her desk.

  Panic filled his already over-taxed system. What would happen when the police came? There was no doubt he had assaulted that vile conniver, but in all likelihood, the police would never accept his defense that the wretch had deserved it.

  Oh, and the horror of seeing Miss Reave! He moaned, remembering how she had looked with her arms wrapped around that…that… But he couldn’t let matters of the heart get the better of him now. No, what he must do now is scientifically analyze this situation, take an inventory of this room and the possibilities it contained and then consider each and every diagnosis for this most appalling predicament.

  He was the patient now, dressed in a flimsy gown without his glasses, lying in a hospital ward. It appeared that the majority of the other beds here were empty, except on either side of him. The man on his right was in all likelihood dead. He was rigid, and staring blankly into the ether. What luck!

  The man on his left, however, was awake and stirring. If he squinted, Dr. Whitcraft could see that he recently had a rather large gash on his face mended. Judging by the atrocious scar, however, the surgeon had been woefully unskilled. What a pity, he thought, looking past his feet. His clothes had been neatly piled on the chair at the foot of his bed. Thank God, his glasses were sitting there, too.

  He scanned the room. It possessed a single door, but escape that way seemed unlikely and ill-advised. But there was a large window opposite the door and he could reach it if he could manage to climb up to its ledge, although he had no way of knowing if he was still on the ground floor. But he couldn’t very well escape while the nurse sat at her desk. He had to get her out of this room, if only for a moment.

  She would certainly leave if she needed to summon a doctor. Dr. Whitcraft had never been ill enough to convulse, but he had seen multitudes of patients over the years that had, enough times that he thought he could probably present a very convincing imitation. Decision made, he glanced at his ward-mates, took a deep breath and plunged himself into his performance.

  The nurse, hearing something amiss, looked up from her desk and gasped, horrified to see her patient tormented by such a dramatic fit. She arose and hurried out into the corridor.

  He threw off his coverings and jumped up. On his way to the door, he scooped up the closest chair and jammed it securely underneath the door’s latch.

  “Hey!” the man with the gash exclaimed, sitting up.

  Dr. Whitcraft nodded to him as he hurried past, the cold floor stinging his bare feet with each step. Where the devil did they put his shoes, he wondered as he threw on his glasses. But there wasn’t any time to search, and he struggled to pull his trousers up underneath his gown.

  “What’s going on? Open that door!” the man with the scar demanded indignantly.

  “It’s quite all right, good sir. I am a physician.”

  Someone was pounding on the door. Clearly it wouldn’t be long before they burst through. He threw his waistcoat over the gown, grabbed another chair, and hurried toward the window, but paused, and turned to his unfortunate neighbor.

  “I realize it is not likely that you are in a position to do anything about it, but the surgeon who has tended to your face has done a remarkably poor job with its repair. If it were me, I would go at once to The London Hospital, right over there on Whitechapel Road, and seek the treatment of a Mr. Prinking. He is an excellent chap, educated in Edinburgh if memory serves, and will most certainly restore you. Oh!”

  The door bowed and seemed ready to burst off its frame as a collection of shouting men slammed against it. The doctor aba
ndoned his consultation and scurried to the window. Stepping on the chair, he climbed to the ledge and saw that, thank heavens, he was indeed on the ground floor. The sash slid open with minimal effort. Dr. Whitcraft tossed his legs over the sill, gave a final nod to his astonished neighbor, and escaped like a thief into the streets of London.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dr. Whitcraft’s back was flat against a cold marble façade and his knees were tucked against his chest as he sat on the bare ground. Branches clawed at his face and tore at his bandage. His bare feet were nicked and bleeding from the short sprint from the hospital courtyard.

  With the disinterested populace scurrying to and fro, who would have thought that a battered and barefoot man running down the street with a hospital gown tucked into his trousers and a bandage encircling his head would generate so little attention.

  Regardless, the prospect of creating a spectacle in the busy mid-day streets made him duck into the first spot that offered cover, which had turned out to be the dense mulberry bushes adorning this anonymous public building. From there, he would plan his next move.

  Dizzy, probably from the head injury, it was difficult to get his thoughts in order. He watched the citizenry hurrying past, each soul unaware that their lower halves were being observed from within.

  He wondered if the police would be waiting for him when he managed to get home. There was certainly no reason to believe that Dr. Marplot, that loathsome Mephistopheles, would not have joyfully given them his name. Why wouldn’t he? Why not have him arrested for the wanton destruction of St. Bartholomew’s property not to mention the assault on his eminence, the discoverer of the famous Marplot Maneuver? It was all so perfect! The man had orchestrated the ruination of his life; why not end the whole business by sending him to the pillory, subject to the scorn of the entire city of London.

  He was queasy and put his head in his hands. He wanted to go home and collapse in his own bed. Maybe after some sleep he could figure everything out.

  Dr. Whitcraft awoke disoriented, but still snuggly tucked within the bushes. He had lost consciousness, and was unsure exactly how much time had passed. It seemed to be dusk now, or was that only the fog settling down on the city and obscuring the afternoon sun. Regardless, his entire body ached, and he couldn’t think anymore. He just wanted to go home.

  He patted the pocket of his waistcoat, but wasn’t at all surprised to find it empty. In his rush to leave the office this morning, he had left without his wallet.

  The walk would be too long without any shoes, and the lack of money would certainly be a sticking point in any negotiation for transportation, but perhaps he could at least try. The carriages hurry by. His interest piqued when he saw an ornamented, yet shabbily maintained covered sedan chair held up on either side by two men wearing tattered uniforms. And it was empty.

  In all his days in London, he had never ridden in one of those contraptions, but had seen them buzzing around, here and there. With the streets clogged by carriages and Hansom cabs, sometimes the only way to get somewhere quickly was in a sedan chair because they could dodge through the throngs and navigate tiny streets that were impassible by other, larger vehicles. As fate would have it, the lackadaisical pair and their jaunty conveyance were directly in front of him now.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He crawled out of the bushes.

  Both men seemed unfazed by his sudden appearance. “Y’or in us way,” the taller of the two said.

  “I would like to engage your service. I don’t have any money on me, for I have been the victim of numerous crimes, but I offer you my personal word as a physician that I have money at my home, and if you take me there, I will gladly pay double whatever your normal—”

  “Enough,” the shorter one said, bored. “Where do y’want ter go?”

  “Berkeley Square, Bruton Street, Number 2, if you please. I know it’s not that far, but I can’t very well walk there.” He gestured to his naked feet.

  And with well-rehearsed fluidity, they lowered the sedan chair to the ground; the taller of the two released the grip on his poles and walked around to the front of the booth. He unlatched the door and pulled it open. As he stepped aside, the man made a sweeping motion with his long, thin arm, and in a voice laden with sarcasm declared, “Entre-vous.”

  “Why, thank you.” Dr. Whitcraft stood straighter, smoothed out his filthy waistcoat and climbed in.

  “As you see, it’s been rather a troubling day.”

  The door swung shut, sparing the conveyers any further details of his excessive misfortune.

  The dull operative latched the door and silently resumed his place at the back. Dr. Whitcraft slid his fingers along the handholds, feeling vulnerable inside this box. It was covered in layers of grime and smelled of sweat and onions. The flabby, checkered seat cushion had been worn limp from the backsides of countless prior passengers; and the windows were so distorted and scratched, one could barely see through them at all. The surroundings did little to inspire his confidence as he ascended, and he suddenly remembered the face of a young gentleman he had treated at the hospital several years ago. Hadn’t he been tossed out of one of these things like a rag-doll and broken his wrist?

  But there was no time to reconsider. His two drivers rushed into the street like a team of horses spooked by a gunshot. Slammed forward, and then back again, he found himself crumpled on the compartment’s sticky floor, grasping at anything to steady himself. Up and down, jiggled and juggled this way and that; the ache in his cranium turned into fire.

  He managed to climb back to his perch, gripping the seat edges as he squinted through the scratched windows. If they had been clear, the passing scenery would have been nothing but a bouncing blur. Oh, how much longer, he wondered, savoring a sudden pause while his drivers waited on traffic.

  The trip re-commenced, jarring loose his grasp and tossing him back to the floor. The faster they went, the more helpless he became. He felt like a pair of dice being tossed about in a giant hand, only to tumble out and roll head over heels before finally expiring on the pavement. And then, mercifully, the sedan chair stopped moving.

  He climbed up from the floor and could just make out the rough impression of his townhouse, looking so much like it always had in the dusky pollution of London; he wanted to weep with thanks upon seeing it.

  He felt himself lowered back to earth. One of them opened the door and he staggered out onto the street. It took him a moment to speak. “Gentlemen, thank you. Please wait here. I will be back with your fee straightaway. How much… Oh, I’ll bring it all,” he mumbled, ascending his steps, grateful to see Miss Faffle through the glass, sitting behind her desk as if nothing at all had happened. When he opened the door, she looked up, startled.

  “Miss Faffle, please see to it that those gentlemen out front are paid. Oh, you cannot imagine how happy I am to be home.” With that, three policemen filed out of his office, chatting to one another before turning silent and taking note of the strangely dressed individual presenting himself in the reception area.

  In a singular line of motion, as if it took no thought at all, Dr. Whitcraft was suddenly being transported away, out the door, back down his front steps, past the uniformed troglodytes who had brought him here, and up the street. He wasn’t aware of how fast he was running, or even that he was running. A survival instinct had taken over his being that was so base, so primitive, he was unable to access it with his rational brain and harness it’s power for his own control.

  Miss Faffle had run to the door as he disappeared through the traffic and crowds, closer and closer to the horizon.

  “Doctor? Doctor! It’s all right,” she called.

  Constable Fettle joined her on the stoop. “He’s far gone, that one. Poor devil. If he comes back, tell him no one’s going to arrest him. We’ve got to figure out a way to arrest that dreadful bully, Dr. Marplot. You let me work on it.”

  ****

  “Thank God you’re back!”

  “Oh you won�
�t believe it!”

  “We’ve been waiting—”

  “Corrine sent Lilly to find you.”

  The girls were talking all at once. Mrs. Minnock’s head still felt fuzzy from the champagne she had consumed at the theater. “What is all this?” She slipped her arm from her companion’s grasp.

  “He’s locked himself in your room,” one of them sputtered.

  “He finished all your brandy.”

  “Yes, and then he went into Corrine’s room and found her bottle.”

  “He’s wearing a hospital gown under his clothes, and has a bandage on his head.”

  “Who? What are you all talking about?” Mrs. Minnock looked from one frightened face to another.

  Corrine pulled her aside, and whispered, “Why it’s Dr. Whitcraft.”

  “What?” Mrs. Minnock breathed, certain she had misunderstood the distraught girl.

  “Yes! Dr. Whitcraft! He arrived here in an absolute state, injured and looking for you. I told him that you were out for the evening, but he wouldn’t leave and now he’s gone mad and shut himself in your room. He isn’t answering anyone.” Corrine’s forehead wrinkled with dread.

  Mrs. Minnock pursed her lips for a moment and looked back at her date. This evening’s gentleman was a grumpy old fool from parliament. Gauging from his frown, he was not impressed with the unexpected excitement. He flipped open his pocket watch and glanced at it.

  She stepped back toward him. “Geoffrey, my dear, would you mind terribly if I sent you off with another one of the ladies? An unpleasant situation has arisen that demands my attention.”

  The man’s frown remained unchanged, but he made a “humph” sound before casting a disinterested glance at the other ladies. He turned his mouth under and looked back at her, radiating displeasure.

  Mrs. Minnock thought for a moment before saying, “All right then. How about two? Any two girls?”