Dr. Whitcraft gasped in awe at this herculean feat, and for a fleeting moment wondered why he hadn’t thought to hold it like that when he had needed a weapon some months ago.
Just then, the door of the examining room swung wide, revealing Miss Faffle standing frozen in her nightclothes. The sight of the hat stand-wielding debaucher towering above the cowering doctor was too much for her to bear. She let loose a shriek so shrill, so painfully unpleasant, that Mr. Gamon winced, hunching his shoulders to stop the offending frequency from piercing his eardrums.
Whether it was the shriek, the change in posture, or his general drunken clumsiness, it was at that moment Mr. Gamon lost control of the hat stand. He juggled it for a split second, dancing underneath its weight before it slipped through his hands and drove him to the floor like a hammer to a nail.
Dr. Whitcraft rose from beneath Miss Faffle’s desk, arching over to see the crumpled Mr. Gamon. He lay motionless and bleeding, his limp arm draped over the hat stand. He looked like a wounded soldier at right shoulder-arms.
Miss Faffle looked ashen. She stared down at Mr. Gamon with her hands covering her mouth. She and Dr. Whitcraft stood there for quite some time, each lost in their own thoughts as both contemplated the dealings that had led up to this eventuality.
Finally, Miss Faffle spoke up, in an uncharacteristically low and serious tone. “He’s bleeding a lot, doctor.”
“Yes. He is, isn’t he?”
“His nose...”
“I would gather that it’s broken.”
Then Miss Faffle began to cry. “Oh, I’m so sorry! This is all my fault.”
“No, no…now don’t start that.” He held up a hand, trying to gather his thoughts. “We need to get the police here. Eventually he’s going to wake up.”
“Constable Fettle! He’s on duty tonight, patrolling by Piccadilly Circus. I can run and get him! Oh he’s very keen to arrest him, Dr. Whitcraft.”
“You will do no such thing! I can’t allow you to go wandering in the streets, a vulnerable young woman at this time of night.”
“But one of us needs to stay here with him. If I stay and he wakes up there’s no telling what he might try to do.”
The doctor stared at the man on the floor. He could envision any number of things. “Yes…all right. I see your point,” he reluctantly agreed. “You know where Constable Fettle will be?”
“Oh yes. I know I can find him. You need to stay here to treat him anyway, I think he is in trouble there, his nose is—”
“Yes, yes. It looks terrible, doesn’t it?”
****
Dr. Whitcraft rolled the hat stand off Mr. Gamon. He judged that the majority of the man’s bleeding had finally stopped, though his nose was unquestionably broken. It seemed to have spread across the middle of his face like a fanned-out deck of cards, but there was really nothing to be done about that. There were certainly no prizes for beauty in his future. The doctor stood back up and wiped his hands with a handkerchief. Constable Fettle should be arriving soon, and he would just wait and let the man lay there sprawled on his floor.
He grunted as he righted the hat stand, pausing for a moment to inspect its prongs for blood, when out of the corner of his eye he was startled by a figure ascending his steps. It wasn’t Miss Faffle or Constable Fettle. It was, in fact, the unmistakable visage of his tormentor—tall and patrician. Dr. Edward Marplot stood at his front door.
He had wondered for weeks how he would react to the inevitable encounter with this man, always imagining it occurring at a random social occasion or perhaps in the chaos of the city streets. But he had surely never expected him to come calling at his own home.
Seeing him through the glass was enough to make Dr. Whitcraft’s pulse triple. But a second look revealed something new. He appeared changed somehow. The calm, paragon of arrogance looked haggard, his face lined with worry and exhaustion. Dr. Whitcraft’s heart sang at the transformation, but he didn’t dare betray his feelings. Instead, he acknowledged his visitor with a rigid nod.
Dr. Marplot opened the door and stepped in, glancing at the body on the floor. “A patient?”
“He is now, yes,” Dr. Whitcraft replied, trying to mask the myriad of emotions racing through his heart while he walked behind Miss Faffle’s desk and sat down. “To what do I owe this pleasure, doctor?”
Dr. Marplot straightened himself and tucked his hair into place. “Please excuse the lateness of the hour. I was in the neighborhood, you know.” His lips puckered as he spoke. “So, how have you been, doctor?”
Dr. Whitcraft silently considered the man standing before him. Marplot so desperately sought to conceal his agitation, but it was there. Ah, yes. It was most certainly there. “What do you want?”
“Well, now. You are direct, indeed you are. I thought it may interest you to know that as of this evening, my membership in The London Society of Physicians has been revoked.”
“Really?” Dr. Whitcraft struggled against issuing a smile. “That is a shame, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. It is a shame. What I can’t figure out is why.” He stepped closer. “So that’s one wickedness that has befallen me as of late, and while I’m on the subject, here’s a second. The coroner has suddenly made it his business to investigate the deaths of all of my female patients…but curiously only those who died while I was making the treatment of hysteria a priority.”
“Hmm.” Dr. Whitcraft nodded, flattening his lips.
“Yes. Hmm is right. So you can imagine how utterly taken aback I was when a third act of villainy revealed itself…that rather large article in The Gazette, I wonder if you saw it. It delineated every aspect of the coroner’s inquests, details privy to no one but the coroner and myself. Puzzling how something like that could have gotten the newspaper’s attention, don’t you think?”
Dr. Whitcraft blinked, feeling like a boy on Christmas morning.
“And then, let’s not forget the fourth calamity—Mrs. Pannade, with whom I believe you are familiar. Why do you think she has taken it upon herself to inform the fellows at The Lancet that I have been using their offices as a hunting ground to seduce and corrupt married ladies? I cannot even speak of the perverse undertakings she has described. It’s just shocking.” A vein danced at the man’s temple, pulsating as his words grew increasingly loud and agitated.
“And finally, the coup de grace, if you will. I discovered in this morning’s post, that Mr. Boodler has finally concluded that it was my negligence as a physician and not the bloody carriage that killed Mrs. Fussock!” Dr. Marplot took a step over Mr. Gamon and gripped the edge of the desk. “The licensing board has scheduled a hearing, you know, to determine if I should be even allowed to continue practicing medicine! And there you sit! Do you think it would be way off the mark if I were to conclude that perhaps you had something to do with all five of these atrocities? All of five of them?”
Dr. Whitcraft tilted his head down and looked over his glasses at his opponent. “Well,” he said, surprising himself with the cool tone of his voice, “that seems unlikely now, doesn’t it? How in the devil would I have managed to do all of those terrible things?” The question was asked, and it hung in the air for a time before the faintest smile crept across his lips.
Dr. Marplot’s face contorted and he gasped, “I knew it was you! I told Catherine and she said you didn’t have it in you, but I told her! So you think your five-step plan is going to ruin me? Is that what you think?”
An electric thrill charged through Dr. Whitcraft; a sensation not terribly unlike that of being shocked by the voltaic pile, although this effect was instead rather euphoric. Seeing this man so compromised was the fulfillment of countless nights spent agonizing at the ceiling, imagining how he should suffer for his misdeeds. It was all right here, right now, playing out so perfectly in front of him, in his own office where the excitement about his maneuver had begun. Dr. Whitcraft shut his eyes and inhaled a long and satisfying breath. Justice had finally been restored to his world.
Almost.
When he opened his eyes again, they were glimmering with devilish joy, and he couldn’t resist the impulse to offer a word to the man stridently inflating and deflating in front of him.
“I wish you good luck at your hearing, Doctor Marplot. Or perhaps I should call you…Mister Marplot.”
At that, Dr. Marplot lunged at the desk like a man possessed, clearing its contents with one sweep of his long arm, sending Miss Faffle’s trinkets crashing to the floor.
Dr. Whitcraft anticipated the move and jumped to his feet, grinning as he ducked around the desk and sped toward his examining room. But he had forgotten about the body of his most recent patient sprawled on his floor, and in mid-stride, Dr. Whitcraft’s foot lodged under Mr. Gamon’s upper right thigh, propelling him up, over and down, ultimately landing face first into the waiting arms of the unconscious greengrocer.
Dr. Marplot wasted no time crossing around the fallen men. Like all other mischief-minded people in this office, he too grappled with the hat stand. In a flash, he emerged overtop both men, brandishing his weapon like Thor with a lightning bolt. Dr. Whitcraft gasped from the floor and covered his eyes, bracing himself for what was sure to be a fatal blow.
“Dr. Marplot, I presume,” Constable Fettle sang out from the doorway as Miss Faffle peeked over his shoulder. “Why don’t you put that down and take two steps back, so I can arrest you for the vicious assault of those two innocent gentlemen.”
There was a considerable crash when the hat stand hit the floor, splintering three new holes in its brittle wooden planks. Constable Fettle glanced down, probably considering the lengthy repairs this would require, but remembered himself as he looked back up into the shocked face of his culprit.
“The assault of two men?” Dr. Marplot shrieked, positively spasmodic as he pointed at Dr. Whitcraft. “That man there is innocent of nothing! You should arrest him and the other, well I had absolutely nothing to do with that man’s—”
“Yes, look at that poor bugger, his face all smacked in like that. What a pity.” Constable Fettle’s chin doubled as he spoke in a sad and serious tone, although his grin remained constant. “The problem is, Dr. Marplot, that you have three witnesses here that will testify otherwise, don’t you know.”
Dr. Marplot’s eyes searched the ground, stricken. He straightened himself to his full height, and gave a regal tug at his ascot before thrusting his chin in the air. “For the record, officer, I heartily dispute harming that unfortunate individual on the floor, there. I testify that I haven’t the faintest idea who that gentleman is. For all I know, Dr. Whitcraft was in the process of murder when I came upon the scene. That duly noted, I certainly understand the necessity of you taking me into custody so that we may resolve this matter at the police station. I will not do my reputation any further damage by refusing the machinations of justice.”
Miss Faffle dashed to her boss, reaching out with two hands and pulling him to his feet.
“I’m glad to see that we are both in agreement, Dr. Marplot,” Constable Fettle said, having adopted a more professional countenance. He made a sweeping gesture toward the door.
Dr. Whitcraft watched, awestruck by the whole affair, unable to shake the distinct feeling that he might awaken in his bed to find that this glorious turn of events had only been a most wonderful dream.
Dr. Marplot stepped toward the exit, but stole a glimpse back at his rival. Dr. Whitcraft relished the intensity of his searing glare, the wheeze of his accelerated breathing, the lovely shade of umber his complexion had attained—oh, it was all just delicious! He giggled to himself, rubbing his hands together as if preparing to sit down to a holiday feast.
Dr. Marplot broke his stare with a jerk of his chin, gathered himself and proceeded calmly out the door, followed by Constable Fettle.
Dr. Whitcraft and Miss Faffle walked to the door and watched the pair descended the stairs. The two appeared to be in the midst of the most benign discourse, when without warning, Dr. Marplot made a run for it, leading by his right shoulder as he bolted across the street in between passing carriages.
The enraged constable’s shouts could be heard even inside the office. Miss Faffle threw open the door, watching her beau give his best attempt at a chase. But Dr. Marplot’s speed only increased, until finally he disappeared like a phantom into the cold London night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Several Months Later
Dr. Whitcraft looked over his shoulder, wondering what had become of Mrs. Minnock. She had just been there, right next to him, but must have stepped away to speak to someone. Or maybe she needed some air because it was oppressively hot inside of the church.
He slid into a pew in the center of the sanctuary; it didn’t matter where he sat now anyway because someone would surely summon him when the bride was ready to walk down the aisle. Until then, he took a deep breath, smoothed out his trousers, and prepared for what was sure to be a long and ponderous ceremony.
He scanned the rather motley assemblage: a surprisingly good turnout. Most of the guests still milled around, convecting the hot church air this way and that, while others languished in their seats, softening like wax in the humidity.
The pew in front of him was occupied by three dowagers crowded tightly together in spite of the heat, looking like peahens as they gazed sharply over their noses at the crowd. It was difficult not to be mesmerized by their fascinator hats, unquestionably purchased from the same proprietor given the similar corkscrews, danglers and feathers suspended from each.
He looked over his shoulder again for Mrs. Minnock, but swiveled back around when he heard one of them speak.
“My sister is still reeling. Her hysteria has returned and the poor dear is crippled.”
“At least she escaped that criminal’s hands unscathed.”
“Oh, I know! It could have been her lying dead in the mortuary instead of Mrs. Fussock. Clearly, the Lord saw fit to preserve the ones he really cares about.”
“Amen to that.”
“You know, I heard Mrs. Fussock couldn’t be bothered to volunteer at her league’s autumn bazaar.”
“Disgraceful.”
“Incredibly selfish.”
“Mmm. Anyway, my sister told me that they’re never going to catch that terrible man. He’s living under an assumed identity and treating patients at a hospital in Paris.”
“Paris? Well, that’s not what I heard at all. My neighbor, Mrs. Randle, insists her butcher saw him on the stage in Prague, stealing the show in the role of the Count’s gardener in a rather low adaptation of The Marriage of Figaro.”
“Are you talking about Eugenia Randle? Oh, she doesn’t know what she is talking about, and I certainly wouldn’t trust her butcher.”
“Well, you both are wrong. Everybody I know agrees that Dr. Marplot boarded a ship bound for America, of all places, to become a surgeon. Oh, how I shudder to think of the poor afflicted souls in the New World laying helpless in his hands.”
“Here you are,” Mrs. Minnock sang with a smile as she glided along the wooden pew next to Dr. Whitcraft.
“Shh.” He brought a finger to his lips and cocked his head toward the women. She raised her brows and leaned in to listen.
But he didn’t have to listen. He knew the true version of events. After evading the grasp of Constable Fettle on that most glorious evening, Dr. Marplot had managed to return home, clean out his most precious effects, and promptly vanish. Warrants were issued, thorough searches were made at his home and offices, but no confirmed sign of the man was ever detected in London again.
“You know, I heard that girl of his helped him plan his escape, buying tickets, securing passage. She’s just as guilty as he—”
“That’s not what I heard at all. I heard he ran off because of her. He would’ve faced the charges in court but she was such a shrew about the whole matter.”
“Well, you both know of course, that other doctor…her jilted fiancée, the one he tried to murder, what was his name? Dr
. Wit something.”
“William Whitcraft.”
“Yes, him. He’s giving away the bride today. From what I heard, he had the last laugh on her. She came crawling back to him, but he threw her out like yesterday’s stale bread. Good for him!”
Mrs. Minnock winced and Dr. Whitcraft squirmed in his seat.
Miss Reave had indeed appeared in his office, her fair skin more pale than usual, her normally mischievous dark eyes ironed over and lifeless. She sat across from him, murmuring, unable to meet his gaze, never mentioning the disappearance of her new beau, or much of anything else, really. After a time she rose, whispered some kind of nonsense about something or other, and departed from his office in a blur.
Later, he discovered that Dr. Reave had demanded she make a final attempt at reconnecting their relationship, knowing it would be the only way to repair her scandalized reputation. Because that attempt had so utterly failed, however, he elected to have her sent to the Scottish countryside where his dowager sister lived on a remote estate.
Dr. Whitcraft could think of nothing more torturous for his former fiancée than spending hour after hour gazing at the rolling green hills without any parties to dress for, gossip to spread, or trinkets to pilfer. He had been a victim of that scoundrel, but so had she, and she had paid an awful price. He couldn’t help almost feeling sorry for her.
“I heard he’s over her, though,” the fattest one laughed wickedly, fascinator wiggling like antennae as she cackled. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Do you know who Mrs. Brade said that doctor’s taken up with? You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“Oh I know exactly what you’re going to say! He even walks around the city with her!”
A flustered church marm scurried up to the doctor’s pew and leaned over, out of breath. “Dr. Whitcraft, sir, they’re just about ready to begin.”
The three women turned around, mouths agape as he got to his feet and sidled past Mrs. Minnock. He turned back and offered a tip of his hat to the stunned ladies before following the old woman down the aisle.
The Five Step Plan Page 23