The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  Mrs. Minnock had gotten up now too, but instead of blocking the door, she crossed the room and gently took Mrs. Pannade by the hand. “It’s all right, William. Catch your breath and sit down, if you please. Mrs. Pannade and I have become acquainted. For the time being she is a guest in this house.”

  Mrs. Pannade nodded. Though clearly distressed by the doctor’s words, she still managed a grateful glance at Mrs. Minnock. “Oh yes, she has been amazingly hospitable to me.”

  Dr. Whitcraft couldn’t sit; he couldn’t even speak. The collision of his disparate worlds was simply too much to digest, so he stood dumbfounded, mouth agape as he looked from woman to woman.

  Mrs. Minnock sensed his distress and went to his side, picked up his hand, and led him back toward the couch. “It’s quite a story then, isn’t it? May I enlighten the doctor, Mrs. Pannade?”

  “Oh, yes, by all means.”

  “Well, it seems that after you left us last week, Dr. Whitcraft, one of the girls discovered Mrs. Pannade lurking in the hedge beneath my window. We don’t usually have much doings with the police, so I went out and spoke to her myself. Seeing her dreadfully agitated state, I couldn’t let her wander back home in the darkness, so I asked her in, to maybe chat with her and get to the bottom of why she has been following you about. We talked for hours, didn’t we? Like old girlfriends who had known each other for years, we talked about everything; we laughed and laughed. I finally told her the truth about her husband, which has proven to be most liberating, don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” Mrs. Pannade agreed, now tucked into an armchair with her legs kicked up on an ottoman. “I thought it was me! Imagine all that time when I thought there was something wrong with me.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Mrs. Minnock turned to the doctor. “Frankly, Dr. Whitcraft, I don’t think she ever had hysteria. I think she just needed to get away from that ridiculous man. Look at her! She’s positively glowing.”

  Amazement still stamped on his face, Dr. Whitcraft was indeed surprised to see that Mrs. Pannade bore little resemblance to the deeply troubled woman he had met in her parlor all those months ago. Her skin radiated color, her eyes were bright. She wore a fashionable, yet understated gown. She even looked attractive!

  “After we straightened out that business, I had a long talk with her about how she must quit following you around. I told her that she was doing herself no favors, and making you absolutely mad in the process.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Dr. Whitcraft.” Mrs. Pannade cast her eyes into her lap. “I don’t know what got into me. You’re a dear man, but I’m not in love with you. I guess I’ve never known what being in love actually meant. I am especially sorry about accosting you in the street like that and destroying your trousers.”

  “You what?” Mrs. Minnock turned to her friend, shocked. “What did you do to his trousers?”

  She gave a shy shrug. “I certainly didn’t mean to rip them so badly.”

  An astonished smile spread across her face, and Mrs. Minnock spun back round to the doctor. “You never told me about that!”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “After that unpleasantness here with Dr. Forspent on my way home. I thought I was being robbed, you know. You should have seen…I nearly got arrested.”

  Mrs. Minnock threw her head back and laughed, then rested her cheek on the doctor’s shoulder while she regained her composure. “What Mrs. Pannade needs, more than following you around, more than hysteria treatments—is a fresh start. Rattling around in that old house of hers with that absurd man was doing her no good, so she agreed to stay here with us. She’s been a perfectly lovely houseguest.”

  “How long have you been staying here?” he asked, not knowing what to make of this peculiar arrangement.

  “It will be a week tomorrow. I find all the girls to be so cheerful, not to mention that some of the most interesting men I have ever met come through those doors. What fun it all is!”

  “You’re not bothered by…the ladies…their romantic—”

  “Actually, I find it all rather intriguing.” She sat on the edge of her chair and furrowed her brow. “Not at all what I imagined one of these places to be like.”

  “Hmm.” The doctor was at a loss. “Does your husband know where you are?”

  “I heard he’s gone to Amsterdam, and frankly I don’t care what he knows.”

  He looked at the two women, both so pleased and at home. There was really nothing else to say about the matter. He should be relieved that this peculiar episode with Mrs. Pannade appeared to have been resolved, but oddly he felt a trifle sad. As he watched her chat with Mrs. Minnock, it was indeed a little bittersweet to have lost such an enthusiastic devotee.

  He sighed and glanced down at his lap. Then he said, “You know, Mrs. Pannade…you were right—about Miss Reave, that is.”

  The two ladies looked at Dr. Whitcraft sadly, and for a time everyone was quiet.

  “William, Mrs. Pannade has had some very inspired ideas about the handling of Dr. Marplot,” Mrs. Minnock said.

  “I see.” He stirred in his seat at the mention of that malevolent sham-artist.

  “She’s already gotten the wheels in motion to have him thrown out of The London Society of Physicians, writing the most inspiring letter vouching that he caused her hysteria with the maneuver. And didn’t you say you wrote to The Lancet, as well?”

  “Oh yes!” Mrs. Pannade’s eyes danced at the remembrance. “I penned the most detailed accusation. I told them I was lured to their offices on the pretense of his interviewing me about my hysteria, but instead, he cornered me behind a locked door, trapping me helpless and alone, plying me with his flowery assurances, and a modicum of gin, before proceeding to…” The thrill of this revelation became too much. Mrs. Pannade’s face reddened. She jumped up from her chair and slid herself onto the couch next to Mrs. Minnock. She cupped her hand around her mouth and proceeded to whisper the remaining details of the fabricated episode in to Mrs. Minnock’s ear.

  As she listened to her friend, Mrs. Minnock nodded with intense concentration. A half-smile crossed her lips and she laughed, but as the lengthy explanation continued, her face went blank. Then her jaw dropped open, and she gasped, pulling away from her friend. “Good gracious, Mrs. Pannade! Did you really write those things?”

  “Why yes!” She threw her head back. “Yes, I did!”

  Mrs. Minnock’s eyes betrayed a combination of alarm and amusement. “I would guess that your rival’s days at The Lancet are numbered, Dr. Whitcraft.”

  “How sweet!” He sat up in his chair, unable to conceal his delight. “That was very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Pannade. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Oh, well, it is the least I could do after all of the trouble I’ve caused,” Mrs. Pannade said, blushing demurely.

  Dr. Whitcraft’s smile melted. “You know…I happen to know that the dastardly fiend has been up to some nonsense at The Barts. I’m not in the position to report it myself, but I know he’s been doing surgery—unlicensed surgery—stepping in for some fellow called Mr. Looby and showing off to anyone who would watch. If that information fell into the hands of the hospital administration…”

  “Oh! I’ll write them tomorrow and tell them! How wonderful!” Mrs. Pannade clapped her hands.

  He envisioned his nemesis’ face when the administration demanded to know why he had been using unsuspecting patients as props in his own audacious medical show. The sweet simmer of revenge tickled his fancy enough to make him giggle at the thought. “Yes, Mrs. Pannade, I’ll jot down a few notes for you, so the facts will be correct.”

  “That’s something to look forward to, then, isn’t it? Who wants a drink?” Mrs. Minnock asked with a smile.

  “Oh I do!” Mrs. Pannade stood and walked toward the decanter. “Doctor, let me get you a brandy and water.”

  ****

  The luncheon recess was almost at an end. Dr. Whitcraft stopped his tapping foot as he sat in the back of the court
room amongst the spectators. Officers milled about and the barristers in their white wigs looked bored as they chatted with one another, waiting for the action to resume.

  He spotted Mr. Kelter when he arrived, but the man had since disappeared and was presumably in negotiations with the judge. Dr. Whitcraft squeezed his knees together and took a breath. The humiliation of having his offenses enumerated out loud in front of all of these people would be almost too much to bear, but Mr. Kelter had assured him that he would do his very best and attempt to spare him that horror.

  He wondered which spectators were defendants, because he seemed to be the only one here who looked at all distressed. Most sat calmly, daydreaming or whispering to one another. One woman was even doing needlework. Mr. Kelter had told him that some people actually paid to sit in these seats so they could watch the drama of the English justice system unfold in front of their own eyes.

  Ah, and there he was now, hastily advancing toward him from a large wooden door in the back of the courtroom. Hope piqued in Dr. Whitcraft’s heart; the man appeared to be very pleased. “Good news there, doctor.” He sat down. “Your case has been removed from the docket. You won’t have to appear in open court at all.”

  “Really? That’s brilliant! How in the world did you manage that?”

  “I must say that Judge Ingler was very receptive to putting the whole thing aside. Very receptive, indeed.”

  “Thank heavens for that!”

  “You’ll have to pay eighty pounds or so to The Barts, which is perhaps a little more than we’d expected. It seems an artificial leg was damaged in the row, and the amputee, a Mr. George Twitchel, I believe, is unhappy with the way it handles and is demanding a new one. Still, the judge is being rather sympathetic and has agreed to waive your fine, so that makes up for it, I suppose.”

  “Yes, of course! Well done! This is so much better than I’d hoped!” He inhaled a large and satisfying breath as he slumped in his chair, feeling suddenly better than he had in days.

  “There is one thing, though. He agreed to spare you the courtroom appearance, but he would like to have a word with you in his chambers.”

  Dr. Whitcraft frowned. “A word with me? About what?”

  Mr. Kelter shrugged. “He wouldn’t say.”

  “You’ll be in there with me, of course.”

  “No. He was adamant about that. He wants to see you alone. One of the officers will come to get you when he is ready. Once that’s over, you’ll be free to go. I’ll wait out here with you, if you like.” He patted Dr. Whitcraft on the knee and drew in a large breath as he glanced around the courtroom. And then his eyes narrowed malevolently.

  “Oh, why if it isn’t Mr. Lorel. Look at how he struts over there. I need to have a word with that swindler. Just a moment, please.”

  When Mr. Kelter stormed toward him, Mr. Lorel’s face dropped. It fell further when the barrister administered a rather animated rebuke.

  Dr. Whitcraft sighed and looked at the floor. What the devil was he supposed to say to the judge, he wondered uneasily. Perhaps he would apologize for his profoundly unprofessional behavior. That must be what the judge wanted, to force him to be contrite in person.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation, but are you Dr. William Whitcraft?”

  He turned and saw a young gentleman, rather pasty in appearance, looking keenly at him.

  “Yes.”

  The man rolled his eyes, and cursed under his breath. “They’ve taken you off the docket. There goes my story. Now I have nothing!”

  Dr. Whitcraft’s mouth went dry. “You are you a journalist, sir?”

  “Yes, yes. My name is Colin Understrapper. I’m with The Gazette. Someone gave me a tip that you would be humiliated in open court today—a doctor on trial for attacking an illustrious rival. It would have been a rather sensational story, but now…”

  Dr. Whitcraft’s head began to throb. “I don’t suppose you would care to tell me who gave you this tip then, would you?”

  The gentleman squinted. “I never reveal my sources, especially when they are such important members of the—” The man stopped, perhaps realizing he had said too much.

  Dr. Whitcraft felt dizzy. That malignant snake was still at it. Would that disgusting man ever quit tormenting him? If Mr. Kelter hadn’t saved him, there would have been an article in The Gazette detailing his courtroom chastisement for all of London to savor. How horrific!

  He spun around, his passions inflamed once again. He crossed his arms and muttered under his breath. How ill-timed his apology to the judge would be now that he wanted to go after that swine for round two. Then an idea occurred to him. He turned back as the journalist got up to leave.

  “So, Mr. Understrapper was it? You never reveal your sources, is that correct?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, then. I believe I may have a story for you.” Dr. Whitcraft’s lips curled into a smile at having said the words out loud. “It involves a most despicable act of medical negligence committed by a prominent doctor. His misdeeds have not escaped the notice of the coroner, I believe. It should be quite an interesting case.”

  “Oh, someone died?” Mr. Understrapper’s face lit up and he dropped back down, pulling his chair closer.

  “Most certainly. If I get you the details, would they be at all useful?”

  “Oh yes! When can you get them to me?”

  “Oh, it won’t be me, but I’d look for something in the next few weeks.”

  “William Whitcraft?” A dull-looking hulk of a man in an officer’s uniform approached the pair.

  “Yes, sir.” He got to his feet, but turned to Mr. Understrapper. “Keep an eye out for them. I’ll look forward to reading your article.”

  “Thank you, doctor!”

  ****

  Dr. Whitcraft forgot all about his fortuitous meeting with Mr. Understrapper as he sat in front of the judge’s heavy oaken desk and smoothed out his trousers. The judge faced a wall of treatises—his cascading black robes and his wiry white wig made him seem inhuman as he plucked a volume from the shelf. He turned around, and without the slightest acknowledgment of his visitor, sat and solemnly cracked open the stiff leather binding. He wrinkled his nose, licked the tip of his index finger and began flipping through page after page.

  Dr. Whitcraft squirmed. The anticipation was terrible. He couldn’t help wonder if this silence was some kind of a test. Perhaps the man wanted him to speak up…perhaps he should just blurt out a profession of regret. Perhaps not. He had almost convinced himself to say something when the judge looked up and sighed. “Doctor William Whitcraft, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.” He sat up at attention. “Sir, may I begin by apologizing to his Majesty’s court?”

  “Oh, never mind that nonsense.” The judge waved his hand. “I need to ask you a favor, Dr. Whitcraft.”

  “Oh…well, of course.” He searched the man’s face. “Are you ill, sir?”

  “I suppose I am, in a sense. How perceptive of you, doctor.” The judge’s eyes looked tired. He hesitated for a moment before he went on. “I understand you’re quite close with a Mrs. Minnock.”

  Dr. Whitcraft sat stunned, not having the vaguest notion of the appropriate answer to this question.

  The judge continued blandly, as if discussing the weather. “Yes, well, I know you are. I am also an acquaintance of hers. Er, not so much of hers, but rather, one of her apprentices, if you understand.”

  Dr. Whitcraft nodded with his mouth agape, and finally managed to echo, “One of her apprentices.”

  “You must tell Mrs. Minnock that I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Please! The moment you leave this building.” His eyes grew glassy and his hands trembled. “She must convince Missy to see me again! Missy! Do you know her? The lovely, young, auburn-haired Scottish lass.”

  He shook his head, too startled to imagine the faces of Mrs. Minnock’s girls.

  “Oh, she’s a flower! A fawn in the springt
ime of her life. The very picture of youth and vigor…exquisite fair skin and the most dainty touch.” The judge spoke dreamily, as if he had forgotten that someone was listening.

  Dr. Whitcraft trembled now too. “Sir, I’m not sure what you want of me.”

  “To say that I’m fond of the girl would be a substantial understatement. Look. Have a look at this.” With shaky fingers, the judge opened his drawer, pulled out a charcoal sketch, and handed it to Dr. Whitcraft.

  Oh God, he realized it was Missy, sitting on the swing that hung from the linden in the back courtyard. Her head tossed back and her long hair undone and blowing behind her, kicking her legs in the air, naked as the day she was born. He nodded at the drawing with wide eyes. “That’s, uh…that’s quite something, sir.”

  “Watercolor is more of my forte, but regardless...” He took the drawing back and gazed at it. “The reason I am telling you this is because as of late, all my overtures to the girl have gone unrequited. She will not see me. I’ve begged Mrs. Minnock to speak to Missy on my behalf, but she says she doesn’t get involved in these matters, which I thoroughly understand. But I pled with the woman to make an exception. Finally, finally she assured me that if you didn’t have to appear in open court, and if I made the disposition of your case as easy on you as possible that she would put in a word.” He set the drawing down. “For God’s sake man, for all I know, Mrs. Minnock told Missy to stop seeing me until your case was disposed. Perhaps this is all a ploy on your behalf to get at me, and frankly it has worked! So I’m telling you now, doctor, make damn sure Mrs. Minnock keeps her end of the bargain! Do you understand? I am a desperate man!”

  ****

  “Ah, and there he is now!” Constable Fettle proclaimed.

  Dr. Whitcraft closed his front door, still reeling from the knowledge that the most traumatic chapter in his life thus far was by all appearances at an end. And what a strange ending it was. He blinked at the three apprehensive faces staring at him.