The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

“May we hold back a moment,” Abigail said, touching Franklin’s sleeve. “It’s important.”

  “Not now,” he said as he pulled away and headed toward the door.

  She watched, seething, as he caught up with Sheriff Hunter, who greeted him with a familiar slap on the back.

  She forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. How rude he was to abandon her! But that was not what bothered her most. Time was running out for Ludwik and the twins. She had let things go too long. Yet it appeared there was nothing to do now but wait until she could speak with Franklin later tonight, in the privacy of the bedroom that she assumed they would share. She would confront him with what Lillian had said about Joe’s plans for the twins. She would tell him that she needed his help to save them.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.” The Radcliffs’ elderly maid, Nessa, stood in the doorway carrying a silver tray. Everyone else was gone. “Don’t mean to disturb you, but I thought I’d gather up the empty glasses. Do you mind?”

  “Certainly not. I was just leaving,” Abigail said, though she made no move. She was not looking forward to another night of being forced to listen to the pontifications of these self-anointed saviors of the human race.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Nessa set the tray on a side table next to one of the love seats, remarking off-handedly, “Oh my, somebody forgot this.” Abigail paid little attention as the maid picked up what appeared to be a notebook. “Looks like it belongs to Dr. Whittaker.”

  Abigail snapped to attention. “How do you know?”

  Nessa read from the cover. “Clinical Notes: Case Studies. Dr. Cornelius Whittaker, Director, Eastern Indiana Hospital for the Insane, Richmond, Indiana.” She looked up at Abigail. “Sounds important. I’d best bring it to him right away before he misses it.”

  She had already taken a few steps toward the door before Abigail gathered her wits enough to stop her.

  “Oh, don’t bother with that! I’m on my way into the dining room right now. I’ll take it to him.”

  “But I wouldn’t trouble you, ma’am. Not for the world.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Abigail insisted, rushing over to take possession of the journal before Nessa could make off with it.

  “Why, thank you, Miss Platford,” she said with a smile.

  “Don’t mention it. I’ll take it just as soon as I’ve powdered my nose.”

  The journal tucked discreetly under her arm, Abigail scurried out the door and down the hall to the powder room. Relieved to find it empty, she went inside and quickly locked the door. Leaning with her back against it, flushed with excited curiosity, she opened the cover. She knew it was wrong to be sticking her nose into Dr. Whittaker’s private clinical notebook, but she felt justified by her need to better understand his interest in interviewing the twins.

  The first page was a table of contents, handwritten in a large, backward-slanting scrawl. It was merely a list of names, most likely the patients Dr. Whittaker was currently treating. She was about to flip to the next page when she stopped abruptly.

  Ludwik Rutkowski.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. It had never occurred to her that she might discover such a thing! But there his name was, near the bottom, written in the same bold cursive as all the others. Had Ludwik suffered some sort of mental breakdown? Frantically, she flipped to page ninety-seven. Her heart pounding, she read Dr. Whittaker’s notes, the first dated just a few days ago.

  Case #28

  Diagnosis: Pathological Liar; Pedophilia Erotica

  July 16, 1907

  The patient is a male claiming to be 31 years of age. Identifies himself as “Baron” Ludwik Rutkowski, of Polish birth, though his accent is distinctly British. Brought to EIHI from New York, where he was arrested for embezzlement and fraud. Further inquiry reveals a history of sexual behavior consistent with pedophilia erotica. (Referred by F. G.) Of particular note is his peculiar preference for a pair of conjoined twins (female, approximate age 14) with which he has reportedly engaged in unnatural acts for the past eight years.

  Patient arrived at the hospital with a broken ankle, which he claims was the result of an unprovoked attack by Mr. R., a highly respected philanthropist residing near New York City. He further claims that the conjoined twins were removed from his custody as part of a kidnapping plot. These delusions may indicate additional psychopathologies.

  Other than the ankle and a recent wound at the temple that is healing satisfactorily, the patient’s condition appears unremarkable. He is of average height and weight; reacts normally to stimulus. Exhibits extreme anger and hostility toward his confinement; restraints are necessary. He insists on his identity as Baron Rutkowski; due to his apparent foreign-born status, no records are readily available. However, law enforcement has confirmed patient’s use of several assumed names recently.

  In summary, patient is afflicted with at least two forms of degeneration associated with the psychopathic personality. Studies on this patient will be conducted to determine which treatment methods, if any, yield results.

  Abigail snapped shut the cover of Dr. Whittaker’s journal, unable to read another word, too shaken by what she had learned already. Ludwik in a hospital for the insane! It was worse than anything she could have imagined.

  She had no idea what to think, what to do. But one thing was certain. She could not afford for Dr. Whittaker to realize that his book was missing and find it in her possession.

  She went to the mirror. Her face was blanched. She pinched her cheeks and tried to assume a look of composure. She breathed deeply a few times and practiced a smile. Then she exited the powder room.

  Concealing the journal within the folds of her gown, she passed by the dining room, grateful that the doors were closed and no one would see her heading across the hall to the drawing room. Thankfully, Nessa was still there.

  “Miss Platford! Is everything all right?”

  “Actually, I’m not feeling very well,” Abigail said hurriedly. “I wondered if you’d mind telling Mrs. Radcliff that I’ve gone up to my room. Please apologize for me, and tell her not to worry. It’s only a headache. And here—” She handed Nessa the journal. “I guess you’ll have to give this to Dr. Whittaker yourself.” She glanced behind her, nerves on edge.

  “And Dr. Rome? Should I say anything to him?”

  Abigail hesitated. “Yes, tell him I need him upstairs—right away.”

  Abigail paced back and forth in her bedroom, her mind reeling from the revelations in Dr. Whittaker’s journal. Her first reaction had been not to believe any part of what she read about Ludwik. But the fact remained that Dr. Whittaker was a psychiatrist, an expert. Might he see in Ludwik what she could not? She had proven her gullibility once before; she strongly suspected that Arthur had deceived her.

  She recalled all the things Melilla and Valencia had told her about their guardian—how kind he was, how well he’d cared for them always, how much they loved him. Could they possibly feel that way about a man who had abused them? She began to think it might be a good thing, after all, for Dr. Whittaker to interview the twins on Monday. Perhaps their story would confirm beyond a doubt that Ludwik was not a pedophile. The doctor would be forced to change his diagnosis.

  As for the accusation of fraud, the assumed names—what evidence was there against him? The journal had offered no details except that Ludwik had been arrested in New York. She wondered if Sheriff Hunter had anything to do with it. He and Joe were obviously friendly. Perhaps a word from Joe would have been enough—that and some money under the table. Nothing would ever have to be proven in a court of law. Not with Ludwik safely shut away in the Eastern Indiana Hospital for the Insane.

  But why would Joe do such a thing? Did he want the twins so badly that he was willing to destroy Ludwik in order to get them?

  Anxiously, she glanced at the bedside clock. It had been fifteen minutes since she’d given Nessa instructions to tell Franklin that she needed him upstairs. Why hadn’t he come? She wondered if the maid had mentioned she
was ill. If not, perhaps he had assumed she was merely insisting that they discuss whatever matter had been on her mind in the drawing room. He might well have brushed it off, a bit angrily, and figured she would soon give up and join the others in the dining room.

  The minutes ticked by, and then it was an hour. There was no longer any excuse to be made for Franklin’s failure to look in on her. Exhausted and discouraged, Abigail changed into her nightgown, performed a minimal toilette, and crawled into bed. She propped herself up with pillows and opened a book, but the pages might as well have been blank. Her thoughts kept turning back to Dr. Whittaker’s journal.

  If it was true that Ludwik had been unjustly accused, arrested, and imprisoned in a hospital for the insane, the corruption of it was staggering. Had it all started with Joe Radcliff and his desire to add the twins to his collection of human oddities? Had the eugenicists been willing to cooperate in order to gain Joe’s favor—and his money? Had the sheriff been duped, or did he know all along it was a sham?

  Or could the whole matter possibly be nothing more than an unfortunate misunderstanding?

  There was a light knock at her door. Finally! She jumped up and hurried to open it, certain that it was Franklin.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  The countess was dressed in one of her elaborately embroidered kimonos, her head wrapped in a turban the same color as the yellow sash around her waist. “You don’t usually turn in so early.”

  “I have a headache,” Abigail replied, crestfallen. Of all the people she didn’t want to see . . . “And why didn’t you join the party downstairs?”

  “Ronnie thought I’d be better off not to. She said I might drink too much and perhaps that psychiatrist would have me committed.” She laughed. “But I wondered if you’d like to come to my room for a nightcap. It might even be good for your headache. I’ve always found alcohol to be the best cure.”

  Abigail’s first impulse was to say no. She could barely tolerate Alexandra’s company. But with all the troubling thoughts on her mind, a nightcap might not be such an awful idea. While it was not a habit in which she ordinarily indulged, it was possible that a sip or two might help ease her tension.

  Besides, she still had a certain curiosity about the countess. Perhaps their imagined rivalry had even created a strange sort of fascination. They had never been alone together. What would she be like, face to face, just the two of them?

  “All right, I’ll be over in a minute.”

  She closed the door, immediately wishing she’d not been so rash. There was really nothing to be gained by subjecting herself to a person for whom she had no fondness whatsoever.

  She would not stay long.

  Reluctantly, she slipped on her blue robe with the ivory lace trim and a pair of satin slippers and then ventured into the hall and through the open door to Alexandra’s room. The countess seemed not to notice her arrival; she was gazing intently upon a large canvas atop a wooden easel positioned in front of the windows, faced away from the door. An array of paints and a large palette were laid out on a nearby table.

  “I had no idea you were an artist. Is this a new pastime?”

  Alexandra looked up and then quickly draped a cloth over the canvas. “Oh no, I’ve been painting most of my life.”

  Abigail remained where she was, next to the bed, waiting for an invitation to sit down.

  “That doesn’t mean I do it well,” Alexandra continued. “Though I must say, Joe and Lillian seem to find my work to their liking. Maybe you’ve noticed some of my paintings in the drawing room?”

  Those awful nudes! It had to be. Abigail had always wondered why the Radcliffs would display anything so crude and amateurish as those vile portraits. They must have done it only to humor the countess.

  “The nudes?”

  “Yes, what do you think of them? Honestly.”

  She considered carefully what to say. Alexandra thought nothing of insulting everyone else; why shouldn’t she have a taste of her own medicine? But no, Abigail couldn’t.

  “They’re quite interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Alexandra gave a little snort. “That’s what people often say when they really don’t like something but can’t admit to it.”

  Abigail tried again, this time with a greater effort at sincerity. “There are many painters who simply copy other more famous artists, but you have a style all your own. I find that commendable.”

  “Well, thank you for that.” Alexandra went over to her dressing table, poured two cognacs, and brought one to her guest. Raising her glass, she said, “A toast to my darling Ronnie! Did I tell you that she disinvited me to her brother’s birthday party tonight? Yes, I believe I did.”

  They both took a swallow of the amber liquid.

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Please don’t make excuses for her. She can be every bit as much a boor as any man. But tell me, Abigail, haven’t you always wondered about Ronnie and me? What we see in each other?” She smiled sardonically. “What we do together?”

  Abigail felt the heat spread across her cheeks. “Such things are not for others to wonder about.”

  “Well, I don’t mind telling you. What I love most about Ronnie is her lifestyle, much grander than anything I could afford these days. You see, my late husband, the Count, was not only a philanderer, he was a singularly unsuccessful gambler. As for what Ronnie sees in me, she used to find me entertaining but, sadly, not so much anymore. I believe, in fact, that she’s actually come to despise me. I have an interesting theory about it, that somehow I remind her of everything she hates about being a woman. I suppose that makes me—what do you call it in English? Ah yes, a scapegoat!” She took another gulp. “I would have liked to discuss it with that psychiatrist downstairs. I’m sure he would be impressed with my insight.”

  Abigail was astonished at her outburst. Especially that Alexandra had admitted to not being wealthy; it was the last thing she would have expected of her. “Whatever little tiff you and Ronnie may have had, I’m sure it will blow over by morning.”

  “No, but that’s all right. Who cares about Ronnie! I’d rather drink to you and Frank anyway.” She lifted her glass again. “May the two of you live happily ever after, the prince and princess of beauty—in your beautiful castle, surrounded by beautiful children! Oh, it’s simply too lovely, isn’t it?”

  Her toast made Abigail exceedingly uncomfortable, but to object might only encourage more of the same. Dutifully, she touched her glass to Alexandra’s, thinking what a mistake it had been to come.

  “Tell me, when is the wedding?” Alexandra continued glibly as she turned and walked away, still without inviting Abigail to sit down. “After all, a respectable woman can’t allow an affair to go on forever.”

  Her words seemed an echo of what Joe had said that night standing outside his office—when he had seemed to take such pleasure in insulting her in every way possible.

  Alexandra strolled over to the easel, running her finger along the edge of the covered canvas. “Would you like to see what I’m working on? It was going to be a surprise, but I’m rather excited to show it to you. It may turn out to be my greatest masterpiece.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure Joe and Lillian will be eager to add it to their collection,” Abigail replied, determined not to let Alexandra see how ruffled she was by the entire conversation.

  “Actually, I was thinking of giving it to you.”

  “To me!”

  “Yes, as a token of friendship. It’s only fitting, since you were the inspiration. You and Frank. I couldn’t possibly have found more ideal subjects.”

  It took a moment for her words to register. “Are you saying that you’ve painted a portrait of Dr. Rome and me?”

  “Why don’t you come over and take a look?”

  Abigail hesitated, considering whether to say she’d rather not—that she’d prefer to see it when it was completed and not before. But then, wouldn’t it
be better to know now just how awful it was? Shouldn’t she view it before the countess showed it to anyone else?

  “Has Dr. Rome seen it?”

  “No. I told you, I intend this as a gift for you. It’s only fitting that you should be the first to lay eyes on it.”

  There seemed no way to refuse. She walked over to the easel. With a flourish, Alexandra removed the cloth. “Voila!”

  The portrait was huge, assaulting Abigail’s senses in a bold flurry of form and color. She struggled to organize the images in her mind, to make sense of them. The two figures were entwined in a lovers’ embrace. Lying in bed, the man was seen from the back, naked to just below his buttocks, his legs covered by the sheet. To his left, the woman lay sideways, her leg bent into the curve of his waist. His arms were around her, his head turned to the side, his face mostly obscured by her long honey-red hair. One could argue that they might be almost any pair matching Abigail and Franklin’s general description. Alexandra hadn’t the skill of a true portrait painter.

  But how well she had captured Franklin’s physique!

  “Well?” the countess said, turning to Abigail with a faint smile on her lips. “I’m not finished. But it’s coming together nicely.”

  “You have quite an imagination.” Abigail took another sip of cognac, feeling it burn all the way down. She could no longer ignore Alexandra’s obvious intention to mock her. “An inappropriate one as well. I can’t imagine what would have inspired you to do such a thing. Surely you didn’t think I would want it as a gift.”

  “Really? I thought it might serve as a memento of that first night you and Frank spent together.” She laughed lightly. “The walls in this house are not as thick as one might imagine. But don’t worry about having disturbed me. I relished every minute of it.”

  “Perhaps you were only dreaming. Wishing you might indulge your own desires,” Abigail replied tersely.

  “Dreaming or not, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve worked very hard on this painting.” She took a step back from the canvas, saying, “You know, I just realized what’s wrong with it! It’s the details, Abigail, that make all the difference.”