She climbed over and tucked herself beside him. “All doctors lose patients, yes?”
“Yes, of course. We see dozens of them die, especially in hospital, but what does that have to—”
“Dr. Marplot works at The Barts, yes?”
“Yes, in addition to his practice, but again, I’m not sure what you’re driving at. The only patients who received the maneuver are wealthy women from our private practices. Hospitals are filled with every malady that—”
“Yes, yes…hospitals are horrible places, I know. But what if, someone of importance, someone who people trusted on matters like these, what if this person perhaps concluded that one of Dr. Marplot’s patients died because of this maneuver?”
“Who the devil would do that? I don’t think you understand. It’s not going to kill anyone!”
She shook her head. “You’re not listening. It doesn’t have to. We just need someone who could help us spread the word, if you will, that your Dr. Marplot and his maneuver killed someone. Are you familiar with Dr. Edward Boodler?”
His eyebrows rose. “Of course I’m familiar with him. He’s the bloody coroner. Do you seriously want me go to his office, introduce myself and then bribe him or something, get him to falsify some inquests to frame th-that imposter, that—”
“No,” she said. “You don’t have to do a thing. But, I believe I might have some influence in this matter.” She looked at him with a searing gaze whose import was unmistakable and not to be trifled with.
Dr. Whitcraft opened his mouth to speak, but appeared to think better of it.
“What we need is a name. We need to find the name of some unfortunate soul, a female, to whom he attended during the time when he was performing the maneuver. It is irrelevant how she died. It is irrelevant even if she got the damn maneuver. Those are unimportant details. Just get a name. If you can get more than one, do it.”
****
“It’s there, right up those steps,” Dr. Whitcraft muttered, pointing toward his front door.
“Well, well. What a charming building, William. It’s exactly how you described it.” Mrs. Minnock brushed her hand past his and climbed up the stairs in front of him.
As soon as they appeared on the stoop, Miss Faffle looked up from her desk and gasped. She nearly tripped over her feet sprinting toward the door.
“Oh! Oh, doctor!” She flung open the door. “Thank goodness, thank goodness.”
“Oh…oh my yes. Why thank you, Miss Faffle. Everything is quite all right.” He took a deep breath. “Mrs. Minnock, this is my assistant, Miss Faffle. Miss Faffle, if you please, this is Mrs. Minnock. She is…she’s a dear friend of mine.”
Miss Faffle glanced at Mrs. Minnock and nodded before spinning back to her boss. “I was so worried, Dr. Whitcraft! I didn’t know where to find you. Constable Fettle and I have been…” She paused and drew a hand to her mouth as she stared aghast at his forehead. “Oh! Are you injured?”
The gash on his hairline was visible now that he had removed his filthy bandage. “It’s nothing.” He passed his hand along the raised wound, flinching underneath his own touch.
Miss Faffle inched closer. “Did Dr. Marplot do that to you?” she whispered with much gravity.
He opened his mouth to reply, but only managed to shake his head.
Perhaps sensing his imminent return to despondency, Mrs. Minnock jumped in. “Miss Faffle, my dear, would it be too much trouble for you to run an errand on behalf of your boss? There’s some information he needs to collect. William, why don’t you go into your office and have a seat while I explain to Miss Faffle what we are after.”
He felt dizzy and very much befuddled as he looked into the nervous face of Miss Faffle and then into the serene countenance of Mrs. Minnock. He marveled at the contrast. That woman had it all under control, he thought, feeling himself surrender to her strategies. “Yes, I would love to sit down in my office.”
“Good for you, William. Go on then.” Mrs. Minnock gave his shoulder a gentle push and then turned back to Miss Faffle. In the gentlest of all voices she explained, “I’ll need you to run down to St. Bartholomew’s, dear. In Smithfield. Are you familiar with it?”
****
Dr. Whitcraft was resting his head on his arms when Mrs. Minnock slipped in to his office. She ran her hands along the faces of his books, scanning their titles with a bemused smile, turning and nodding at the stacks of journals on his desk, taking it all in.
“You know, this office looks exactly how I pictured it…papers, books, all crowded together like this. I suppose you know just where everything is, too, don’t you?”
“How do you know that Miss Reave is a…I think you called her a spoiled, capricious young woman?”
Her smile vanished as she sat down in the chair in front of his desk. “I wondered when you would ask.” They sat in silence for a moment, looking at one another.
“Whatever there is to tell me, feel free. It certainly doesn’t matter now.” He looked down at his hands.
“I suppose it doesn’t. Actually I don’t know her, but I know her father, though I doubt he remembers me. Did I ever tell you how I got my house?”
“No.”
“Well, it was after my husband had died, of course. I loved him dearly, but you know that. He was the most romantic man, sailing off to exotic places and then coming home to tell me about his adventures—worlds I could only dream about, you know? I was so young, William. I had never left England.” She paused and turned toward the window. “When the man died he left me with nothing. Not a farthing. And I was from a good family, too, not unlike your darling Miss Reave.
“My parents were gone and all their money went to male relatives I had never met, so asking for assistance was out of the question. Things looked bad for me, very desperate indeed. I eventually found my way to that house on Upper Newman Street that you are so familiar with.”
Dr. Whitcraft stared at her, never having dreamed of asking how it had come to pass that she should be endeavoring in her current profession. Now that he knew, it seemed that some intangible veil had been lifted, and for the first time he saw the vulnerable soul inside of this very strong woman. He was positively intrigued.
“I was perhaps the luckiest woman in London, because without realizing it, I fell into the hands of Mrs. Anne Pettish, one of the rare breed of London procuresses. Rare because she was honest. She took me in, listened to my woes without judgment, without attempting to make me beholden to her through debt or anything else. She didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to do. I stayed with her in that house until I had a new sense of the next chapter of my life. Certainly nothing I had ever imagined, but not all that bad, either. This really does relate to Miss Reave, I promise.
“Mrs. Pettish had managed her affairs quite well, and had been rather prosperous. Eventually, when she retired and left London, she gave me the house. Just gave it to me. It doesn’t cost me anything to live there…but that’s neither here nor there. One of her most loyal gallants was none other than Dr. John Reave.”
Dr. Whitcraft’s eyes grew large. “Really? What do you know about that?”
“From what I hear, I’m sure your Miss Reave would be amazed to know she took her first steps in our front parlor there, right by the fireplace. Her mother was dead and there was some kind of nonsense with her governess, so he brought her on his visits to Mrs. Pettish.”
Dr. Whitcraft shook his head. How he wished he could share this lovely piece of information with The London Society of Manners. Perhaps that collection of self-important hypocrites would toss her out if they knew.
“Toddling around our parlor there is all fine and adorable, but as she grew up she gave that poor man fits. Mrs. Pettish and he spent hours devising ways to handle that girl. William, she has been a coquettish, spoiled brat her entire life. But by far her most grievous transgression has been…how shall I say it—the girl has a penchant for taking things that do not belong to her. Frankly, I’m amazed you never notice
d. Poor Dr. Reave has found everything from money, trinkets, cutlery, and God knows what else in their house. He’s bribed half of London attempting to keep her antics quiet.”
He sank deep into his chair, remembering those instances where small items had turned up missing. A lost fork, earrings from a friend, even Miss Faffle’s locket that her father had given her. When that had gone missing, they had ransacked the entire office looking for it. Had Miss Reave made off with it?
“I-I can’t imagine. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like this?” He felt angry, but he wasn’t sure with whom.
“What business is it of mine who you marry? And you were in love with her, of course. Maybe you still are. No one wants to hear something like that about the woman they are in love with. Who knows, maybe she grew up and quit doing it. What do I know anyway?”
He sat in silence for a time, studying the face of Mrs. Minnock, so familiar and so honest. He reached across the desk for her hand. “You know a great many things.”
She patted his hand, but looked grim. “I promise you. Do not despair the loss of that silly girl. You deserve much better.”
He smiled, but his face settled back into an expression of preoccupied worry. “Well. Given that your expertise knows no bounds, perhaps you can help me with this.” He held up a slip of paper that had been sitting in the middle of his desk. She leaned in to read it over.
“Judge Ingler. Hmm.” She looked out the window again, still holding the summons ordering Dr. William Whitcraft to appear in criminal court to answer to the charge of the destruction of St. Bartholomew’s property.
“This isn’t a surprise then, is it?” She picked up his pen, dipped it into the inkpot, and wrote two names on the bottom of the summons.
Mister Edward Jarkman, Solicitor
Mister Arthur Kelter, Barrister
“Go to Mr. Jarkman’s office whenever you feel up to it. Tell him you want to hire Mr. Kelter as your barrister. Don’t let him pick any other. I believe they’re both located near the courthouse. You don’t have to tell either of them I sent you, but you may need to pay up front. Mr. Kelter’s rather a fanatic on that subject, I’m afraid. He’ll do the job for you.”
****
“Unbelievable! Just shocking, really! Dr. Whitcraft, I’m absolutely floored after hearing that!” Mr. Kelter leaned against the edge of his desk, waving the summons as he spoke.
“Yes, I can imagine that you must be, hearing about that awful man for the first time.”
Mr. Kelter got to his feet and began to pace. “Eighteen women in a single work day? A single day! In addition to other patients as well? And that was before the article was published? My goodness, how much do you charge per maneuver?”
Dr. Whitcraft squinted at this man. “What? My fee isn’t the point.”
“Of course it’s the point; why it’s at the very heart of the matter. It all boils down to provocation then, doesn’t it? That man deprived you of your ability to make a living, which is why you committed the acts in question.”
“That wasn’t the only reason.”
“So, you’re telling me that patients afflicted with hysteria require this treatment every day? Oh, the calculations are astonishing! The remunerations, good God, man! Now, you only have one examining room. What if you had several? How many women could you see in a day, then? Scores! Positively scores! Oh, look! I’ve got gooseflesh just thinking of the billable hours! Look at my arm! My God, your practice is a treasure trove! No wonder you were going to buy that house!”
Dr. Whitcraft drew breath to speak, but Mr. Kelter sputtered on. “Can the maneuver be taught to assistants? Could you open a clinic? Of course all of that would eat into your profits, but still! Still, without any of that, going the way you were. If I’m lucky, lucky mind you, I can see maybe three clients in one day—if any of those damn solicitors send me clients, that is—and then who knows if those dodgers are even going to pay me! Why, most of the time I spend in court is trying to get those ungrateful bastards to pay what they owe. And do you know how much that costs? I don’t want to tell you how much I pay for this building…probably not half of what your current place in Berkeley Square goes for, though! How anyone can anyone afford to do business in this city I’ll never know.”
“What about Judge Ingler! Am I liable to be sent to jail?”
“Jail? Oh, no. No.” He looked down at the summons, and shrugged. “They aren’t charging you with assault. It’s just a property issue. Given that you are a professional man, no record of trouble, upstanding citizen, you know…not to mention you were substantially provoked by a devious fellow professional. The worst of it will be the reading of the charges in court. That’s bound to be embarrassing for you, I’m afraid. If his Majesty’s public prosecutor wants to take you to task, it could get ugly. But jail? Certainly not. I’ll arrange it with the judge. In all likelihood you’ll just have to pay for the damage, maybe a small fine…and let’s face it, you’ve got plenty of money then, haven’t you. How many years did you spend at school? I could kick myself for not getting into doctoring, but I never had the stomach for it. Think of it, eighteen billable clients in one day. Solvent ones at that! Good for you, man!”
Dr. Whitcraft stared at this man. What on earth had Mrs. Minnock been thinking when she sent him here?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dr. Whitcraft escorted the woozy Mr. Larking out of the examining room. The man’s incision had finally stopped bleeding, but lavender semi-circles now darkened underneath his eyes, like ink soaking through thick paper.
“That’s it, Mr. Larking. Right this way.”
Mr. Larking gazed around the office as if unsure which door was the exit. But a slight muddle was normal after such a thorough bloodletting.
“Why don’t you have a seat in here while you keep pressure on that arm. Mr. Larking?” Dr. Whitcraft knelt and inched closer to his face. “Mr. Larking, can you hear me, sir?”
After a moment Mr. Larking nodded.
“Capital.” Dr. Whitcraft stood back up.
Miss Faffle appeared outside on the steps and threw open the front door. She rushed past the nearly translucent Mr. Larking and stopped in front of the doctor. “I hope this is what you wanted, sir,” she exclaimed, gulping a breath of air. Her thin fingers produced a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her dress. “They told me it took the entire week to go through all the records, but I think this is what Mrs. Minnock asked for. No men…no children.”
“Yes. Only the women, if you please, Miss Faffle.” He walked them both back to her desk.
“Well, there was a Mrs. Shardborn,” she read. “She expired due to advanced tuberculosis, in hospital last month.”
“Tuberculosis, hmmm. All right. What else?”
“Then there was a Miss Drizzen. She died in hospital also, of unknown causes.”
“All right. Miss Drizzen. Anyone else?”
“Oh, and then there was Mrs. Fussock,” she said, her forehead wrinkling as she bit her lip.
“Mrs. Fussock? Is that our Mrs. Fussock?” He snatched the paper out of her hands and studied it, appalled.
“Yes, I believe so. What a shame! Her husband was quite wealthy if I recall. He always paid two weeks in advance.”
His eyes narrowed. “That rogue stole her from me!”
“I can’t believe she’s dead,” she muttered.
“She was one of the first women I performed the maneuver on.” He put his hand to his temple, remembering how her symptoms had almost completely abated after the treatments, giving him so much hope and excitement. “How on earth did she die? It doesn’t say here. She was older, but not ill if I recall.”
“Hit by a carriage in the street, straight after leaving Dr. Marplot’s office. That’s what the woman in the hospital told me.”
“What?” Dr. Whitcraft sank in her chair, his heart skipping a beat. “Are you telling me that he gave that woman the maneuver and the moment she left, she was struck by a carriage and killed?”
“Yes. Isn’t that terrible?”
“Oh yes…terrible.” A small grin tickled his mouth.
****
“I’ve got it!” Dr. Whitcraft proclaimed with a flourish as Mrs. Minnock opened her front door. Without giving her a chance to speak, he clasped her arms and kissed her on the lips.
“My goodness.” Stepping back, she laughed, “A kiss in the doorway? Anyone could have seen such a display, doctor. You are a changed man.”
He grabbed her wrist and led her through the entryway into the parlor. When they were both settled comfortably on the couch, and after a quick glance around for potential eavesdroppers, Dr. Whitcraft leaned in and whispered, “Mrs. Edna Fussock. That’s the name. I’ve got two others, but I think that one’s the ticket. Mrs. Fussock, a former patient of mine, mind you, left his office after getting the maneuver, and was flattened by a carriage straight away. So if you could get that Boodler fellow to conclude that the maneuver was simply too powerful for the likes of weary old Mrs. Fussock, leaving her disoriented and vulnerable to misadventure, well, that would be just, just…I mean the poor woman should have been supervised! Foreseeable carnage, I’m afraid, clearly due to his negligence as a physician. Good Lord, it might even be true! Wouldn’t that be a lucky break?” He clasped his hands in delight.
“Not for Mrs. Fussock, I’m afraid.” She raised a brow.
His smile diminished appropriately. “Yes. Yes of course, poor woman.”
“Now that we have a name, things should get rolling rather quickly, I believe.” Her blue eyes glowed with confidence. “All you have to do now, William, is sit back and watch.” She smiled and patted his knee.
Dr. Whitcraft was overcome. He grabbed her up in his arms while fixing the most passionate of kisses on her lovely lips.
“Doctor!” A familiar voice sounded from within the corridor. “How wonderful to see you!”
Dr. Whitcraft looked up, and was at once seized with panic. Mrs. Pannade had just emerged from one of the back rooms and was smiling grandly at him.
He jumped to his feet, not certain if he should tackle his ex-patient or run in the opposite direction. Instead, he elected to hold his ground and shout orders like a general on a field of battle. “Quick! Send one of the girls for the police, straightaway! Mrs. Minnock, block the door. Good Lord Mrs. Pannade, is there any sanctuary of mine that you will not breach? Stay back, woman! Do you hear?”
The Five Step Plan Page 20