Constable Fettle sat on the edge of Miss Faffle’s desk, his stubby legs dangling above the floor, his brows arched over rounded eyes. Miss Faffle, in a reception room chair, leaned forward and clasped her hands together under her chin.
There sat Mrs. Minnock, behind Miss Faffle’s desk looking like she worked there. She leaned back with her arms relaxed and draped across her lap. A serene smile rested on her lips.
When he moved forward, all the players got to their feet, probably in anticipation of hearing the details of a humiliating courtroom ordeal. But the doctor remained silent as he walked past his assistant and her beau. He crossed behind the desk and embraced the knowing Mrs. Minnock.
He held her, a growing ache in his throat as he pulled her head under his chin and scooped her fair hair through his hands. He squeezed the soft ringlets between his fingers, fighting the tears blurring his eyes. “Thank you, thank you,” he whispered, hugging her tighter each time he repeated the words.
Miss Faffle and Constable Fettle exchanged puzzled looks, not quite certain what to make of this extraordinary display of affection, so uncommon for Dr. William Whitcraft.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Miss Faffle had been on her hands and knees most of the morning, scrubbing away at the dotted blood trail winding its way around the office, like the flight pattern of a bumblebee.
The morning’s first customer had been a construction worker, who’d arrived cupping his bleeding hand as he made his way to the reception desk and back to a chair, then to the desk again before entering the examining room, touring around a bit and finally depositing himself on the table for inspection.
Dr. Whitcraft had been delighted to pry an amazingly long wrought-iron nail out of the man’s palm.
Now it was quiet again, and the doctor sat in his office with the door open, listening to the wet scuffing of Miss Faffle’s labors.
“The floor is in bad shape, Dr. Whitcraft. Constable Fettle thinks the whole lot should be replaced, but I suppose that’d be rather expensive.”
“I am sure it would be, Miss Faffle.” He flipped a page of The Lancet.
“He also said he can fix those worn spots, if you like, by replacing some of the planks when he is off duty.”
“Your Constable Fettle fixes floors?”
“Oh, yes. He always wanted to be a carpenter, you know, but his father made him go into police work. He was a terrible bully. Look at how the wood is splintering under the examining table here.” She picked up a rather large chunk of the floor and showed it to him. “It’s worse behind my desk, where the hat stand pierced it. Well, you remember that. Isn’t there a spot in your office, too?”
“I suppose.” He glanced over his shoulder at the ugly hole under the stairway, certain that one day a neighborhood cat would use it as an entrance from beneath the building. He stood for a closer examination. It was a disgrace for a doctor’s office to have such a pitiful looking floor. He knelt, wiggling his fingers into the cracks between the boards, wondering how many planks Constable Fettle would have to replace, but startled suddenly when a whole board lifted up in his hands, like the top of a jewelry box. He blinked, breathless as he stared into its dark compartment. It was filled to the brim.
He dropped to the floor and sat there for a long time, pondering it all while remembering the prophetic words of Mrs. Minnock. Was that woman always right?
After he regained himself, he called, “Miss Faffle, do we have a bag of some type?”
“What kind of bag do you need, sir?”
“A big one. And I believe I may have found your locket.”
****
Constable Fettle was tucked behind Miss Faffle’s desk on his hands and knees, hammering—again and again and again, rattling the office walls with every stroke. Dr. Whitcraft tried not to look up from his desk, certain his trembling shelves would snap off on the very next beat and send his collection tumbling to the floor.
“How much longer?” he shouted out his open door.
The hammering stopped, and after a moment Constable Fettle appeared in his doorway looking like a happy-go-lucky day-laborer rather than an enforcer of the law. He sputtered something unintelligible, smiling past the nails clenched in his teeth.
“Pardon me?” Dr. Whitcraft asked.
He spit the nails into his hand. “Should be done in a jiffy. A few more whacks should do it, then I’ll get started in the examining room. If I still have time today, I’ll prepare the area there under your stairs.”
“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” Dr. Whitcraft replied. He had thanked him yesterday when he agreed to repair his floor, and then a half-dozen more times already today. He knew lavishing him with praise was unnecessary, however, because the officer would have done just about anything if it meant he could spend the day chatting up Miss Faffle.
He commenced reading, wincing as the hammering began again. After five or so minutes, peace settled over the office and a shadow crossed his desk from the doorway.
“Miss Faffle, would you mind terribly getting me a glass of water?”
“May I come in for a moment, William?”
He looked up, startled. Miss Reave stood in his doorway. She looked like a specter, the sunlight streaming in from behind, illuminating her pale yellow dress with a glowing golden outline. He stood up to greet her, his body numb. She inched forward, her skirt brushing the floor as she moved. She hesitated before finally allowing herself to sit.
“I wanted to stop by,” she began, “I haven’t seen you, and I wanted to say how awfully sorry I am, that this has all turned out so badly.”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. This has all turned out so badly? He gritted his teeth, turned and walked to the cabinet. He knelt and reached into the bottom cubbyhole, while Miss Reave continued speaking absentmindedly.
“You know, I believe you and I were mismatched from the start. Different priorities, different expectations for our lives.” She paused, perhaps waiting for him to speak. After a moment, she continued uneasily. “Things aren’t going that well for him, either. Several inquests have been opened on some of his former patients. One in particular is very troubling. They are making accusations about the safety of the maneuver. He’s had to hire legal representation and is quite upset.”
He returned to his desk, stiffly holding a Hessian bag. When he dropped it, it jingled and clattered. Miss Reave ignored the gesture and waited for him to respond. Finally, he spoke through clenched teeth. “He’s upset, then, is he?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” She blinked at him, the perfect picture of innocence. “If word gets out about the inquests, or that the maneuver is dangerous…it would be a disaster. That is part of the reason I came here today. To apologize, of course, but also to warn you. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they begin calling on you next.”
“Why would they call on me? It’s the Marplot Maneuver, after all.”
She tilted her head and a small smile spread across her lips; the familiar coquettish expression was back into play. “Oh, now William. You certainly performed your share of them, didn’t you? Edward explained to me how it was really his work with anatomy that led to the discovery of the maneuver. You only cobbled the pieces of his research together and—”
“Is that what he told you?”
She raised her eyebrows and set her jaw. “He told me the truth.”
“Well, now…I see, I see.” His respiration quickened. “Was it the truth that made you come into my office and steal every last reference of the maneuver from my cabinet?”
“I didn’t steal anything!” she cried. “I merely collected the information he needed for the article.”
“The one that didn’t have my name on it?” he shouted, leaning forward.
“Oh, William.” She forced a brittle laugh as she shook her head. “You have always been so jealous of him. You know you were the one who tried to use his work for yourself.”
“That is a lie!” he shouted again. “The man is a soulless, maniac
al…” Grasping for additional epithets, he stopped himself. Her dark eyes, the depths of which had so often bubbled over with girlish excitement when he had squeezed her hand or stolen a kiss from her cheek, were now shallow and cold, staring at him with utter contempt. An ache rose in his chest, and he strained a laugh, or was he choking back a sob when he shook his head and muttered, “I can’t understand it. How in the world did he convince you to believe him and not me?”
Her forehead wrinkled and she looked away. She turned back, eyes colder than before. “You know…” She tipped her head lower. “He told me you’d say that—that you’d accuse him of being the treacherous one. He even said that if you claimed it was your maneuver, then I should ask you how you came up with it. So I’m asking you, William. If it wasn’t his research that inspired you, then how did you discover the maneuver?”
Several moments passed while he turned this question over in his hands like a puzzle. Dr. Marplot knew he wouldn’t dare, couldn’t possibly ever answer that question honestly, especially if it had been asked by Miss Reave. The editor of The Lancet’s chess column had just put him into checkmate.
“Why the devil are you asking me that now?” he whispered.
Her lips contorted into a self-satisfied smirk. “He said you would never tell me…and it’s painfully obvious now why. Because you stole it from him, William.”
Anger flashed inside of Dr. Whitcraft that was so white hot, so profound, he wanted to lean in and shout directly into her face, I didn’t learn it from your precious new love, my darling sweet. I learned it from Mrs. Elizabeth Minnock, London’s most famous procuress, the woman who I have been seeing for years who is superior to you in every way one woman can be superior to another. That’s who I learned it from! Those words would have flown out of his mouth if he didn’t check himself and bite his lips shut.
“Regardless of who came up with the silly thing,” Miss Reave continued impatiently, “I think you, better than anyone else, know that the profession needs the maneuver, and that it must be defended no matter who performs it. I am certain if you told those inquest people of its value, and that it is perfectly safe and could never harm anyone, all this unpleasantness might just go away.”
Dr. Whitcraft put both hands on the bag, pulled the string tightly over its opening, and spilled its contents on to his desk.
Miss Reave’s smile vanished into a thin-lipped look of horror. Spoons, hair clips, silver baubles, inkpots, any variety of pilfered trinkets were all on exhibit in front of her, like a table at a gypsy bazaar. He watched her face, making sure his own was expressionless.
“Would you care to claim any of your souvenirs, my dear? Better do it soon, because there is an officer of the law in the next room. Or better yet, perhaps I should save all this for your father.”
She jumped to her feet. “I don’t know what you are implying with this display.”
“Maybe the floor boards in his office are loose, too. So why don’t you take them, take them. I gave Miss Faffle back her locket, in case you miss it, but the rest are yours. Have at them.”
She stood in front of him, mouth agape before slowly bringing her lips back together. For the first time, her eyes looked desperate. She whispered, “Please don’t tell Papa.”
“If you ever, ever come back here again and speak to me on behalf of that devil, I will expose all this nonsense to your father. I may even tell him about your inappropriate dalliances with that charlatan…and me for that matter!”
“You and I never had any inappropriate dalliances!”
“He doesn’t know that, does he?” Her eyes grew wider still. “You think he was tough on your governess? Why don’t you wait and see what happens after I’ve finished talking to him!” In his heart, he knew he couldn’t possibly tell such appalling untruths to her father. Never in a million years. But it felt so wonderful to see the look of sheer terror on her face.
“What do you want me to do?” she muttered, eyes dancing over the collection of items on his desk.
“I want you to get out, my dear.” He shoveled the clutter back into the bag. “And take all this nonsense with you.”
****
Mrs. Minnock was nearly trampled by Miss Reave fleeing out the front door holding a large brown bag in her arms.
“Oh my! Was that…” she started to ask Miss Faffle, but it was Dr. Whitcraft who stepped out of his office.
“Yes, it was. It was.”
“I can see it has been an exciting morning. Hello, Miss Faffle.” Seeing Constable Fettle on his hands and knees in the examining room, Mrs. Minnock called, “Oh, and hello there, Constable Fettle.” He glanced up from his sanding and waved. She turned back to the doctor and placed her hand on his wrist. “Are you all right, William?”
He grasped his temple. “Frankly, I’m not certain.”
“I believe this should do wonders for you. Have a look.” She handed him a large bundle of documents. He was not particularly in the mood for reading any more, but glancing down at the lacy script, several words jumped right off the page.
Subject of Inquest: Dr. Edward Marplot.
“How wonderful! How did you get these?”
She smiled, but said nothing.
“These are official?”
“Of course…I thought you might want to see.”
He giggled. “Oh Miss Faffle! Miss Faffle, I need you to do an errand for me.”
Miss Faffle scurried around her desk past a woman slumped in the corner chair, surrounded by a semi-circle of crumpled shopping bags.
“Good Lord,” Dr. Whitcraft whispered, noticing the woman for the first time. “Mrs. Anile? Mrs. Anile. She’s left, you know.”
But Mrs. Anile did not respond or even stir when Miss Faffle had flashed past.
He sighed as he turned to Miss Faffle. “I’ll need you to bring these documents to a Mr. Understrapper, down at The Gazette. He should be expecting them…and oh, wait a moment, I have another letter for him, too, on a different matter.”
He disappeared into his office and then came out again, carrying an envelope. “Please take this to him as well.” He grinned at both ladies as he walked toward Mrs. Anile. “I believe it’s going to be a lovely day after all!”
Miss Faffle was about to put her hand on the front doorknob when Dr. Whitcraft’s dispirited voice stopped her. “Oh…oh good Lord. Miss Faffle, wait a minute.”
He pulled his hand back from Mrs. Anile’s neck and glanced distastefully at Mrs. Minnock. He breathed a long and most profoundly defeated sigh.
“Miss Faffle, can you make another stop…before The Gazette? We’ll need someone here from the coroner’s office, then.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dr. Whitcraft picked up the oil lamp and was about to ascend his staircase for the evening when he heard an urgent knock on his front door. Irritated, he put down the lamp and walked into the reception area. The unkempt form of Mr. Gamon stood atop his stoop, swaying and pounding on the door with an open hand.
“What do you want?” he shouted at the slovenly greengrocer.
Mr. Gamon furrowed his considerable brow and pantomimed for the doctor to open the door. He sighed, imagining this man likely wanted to discuss the rather pointed letter he had sent to Mr. Understrapper some weeks ago regarding the unclean condition of his grocery.
The journalist had done a splendid job at taking the details of his letter and running with them publishing a most shocking three-part series detailing the numerous violations of public trust perpetrated on his hapless customers.
But it appeared Dr. Whitcraft was about to pay the price for his civic-mindedness. Dread filled his heart as he approached the door. Mr. Gamon was even more disheveled than usual. He was hatless and his thick brown hair was matted and mussed, and his apron was a filthy palette of produce smears. And, he was making greasy handprints all over the glass. I’ll have to remember to have Miss Faffle clean those off in the morning, he thought while fumbling with the lock. He cracked opened the door and a
t once smelled a combination of fermented fruit and alcohol.
“Sir, I have no business with you.” The doctor went to shut the door. But Mr. Gamon was nimble and put fingers in the crack, prying it open just enough to slide in his foot.
“Oh, is that right? I should flatten you right here, you stodgy son-of-a-bitch! You made it your damn business. You’re like an old woman, writing letters of complaint to the newspaper. Why’d you do it? I’m out of business until I make the repairs and clean up my place.”
Dr. Whitcraft pursed his lips. “I should expect so. As a servant of the public health, I believe I have done each and every one of your unfortunate patrons a service in seeing that you clean that disgrace up.”
“The only reason you did it is because of that whore who works here. She’s the reason your patients left you, you know.”
“Sir, remove your foot at once! I’ll not stand here and listen to the drunken ravings of a filthy beast such as yourself!”
At that, Mr. Gamon’s brutish face distorted with fury and he threw himself through the front door, growling as if to confirm the doctor’s diagnosis. Dr. Whitcraft stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet while gauging the situation. He had the distinct feeling that he was about to be thrashed, and right in his own reception area.
“I’ll squash you like a bug, you effeminate prig,” Mr. Gamon proclaimed, staggering toward the doctor with his fists waving. “How are you going to mend yourself when I break your knees, then…eh?”
Mr. Gamon grabbed the hat stand by its base with both hands and heaved it off of the ground.
The doctor dove behind Miss Faffle’s desk and peeked out as Mr. Gamon managed a few heavy steps forward. He wore a most repulsive and triumphant grin.
Then, in a singular act of dexterity and skill, Mr. Gamon fixed his stance with trembling knees and tipped the hat stand on its side, grabbing it with evenly spaced hands like a weightlifter. He elevated it high above his head.
The Five Step Plan Page 22