Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  'The cooks?'

  'No, kitchen maids. The cooks were talking to delivery men. About meat, vegetables, fruits…' He shrugged.

  'The names, please.'

  'Don't know the cooks' names. Never asked. They are new. But O'Toole was there. He delivers meat to the Amauries and the Heathcote's, and…' Towers scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes. 'McCaffrey is his name, yes. He delivers vegetables and French potatoes and the like to the Amauries. And the man with the oranges and pineapples was…’ Towers eyes got stuck at the ceiling beams for a few moments, then he said sheepishly, 'I can never remember if his name is Cow or Crow.' He shrugged again.

  'Who else was in the kitchen?'

  He rattled down a handful of names of scullery maids and delivery men, then went on to describe how he went to see the butler, Mr Grimshaw, to enquire after Hattie's purse. 'I had to wait for half an hour.' Towers puffed up his cheeks.

  'Mr Grimshaw was busy?'

  'He was giving instructions on bouquets and garlands to the flower grower.'

  I felt a prickling rush down my back. 'What was the man's name?'

  'Why, Mr Stone, of course.'

  14

  The possibility that Hattie or Warren — or perhaps both — were lying to me, that they’d had a hand in the murders, horrified me. Towers's statement about Mr Stone having been in the house when the portraits went missing came as a relief. A face I knew. A friendship I did not need.

  But I knew these emotions for what they were: a dangerous, foolish bias. I allowed myself the luxury of wallowing in the false feeling of safety until Hattie's coach turned into Savin Hill Avenue. And when I alighted and shut the door to the carriage, I shut away that bias.

  Because everything was possible.

  Warren could be the killer.

  And so could Hattie.

  As soon as I rumbled into the kitchen, Margery pointed a knife at two messages on the table.

  * * *

  I'm planning to ask a private detective to help you solve the case. I'll call on you later this afternoon to tell you more about the man.

  Warren.

  * * *

  What a stupid idea. But perhaps he could tell me more about McCurley? Whether the Inspector desperately needed to solve the next great murder to keep his post at the Bureau of Criminal Investigation. And if he might be a man who manipulated evidence.

  Or would go even farther than that.

  'Speaking of the devil,' I muttered as I read the second message.

  * * *

  Ms Hacker is feverish and in pain. She is unable to breastfeed the children and insists that your recommendations as to her eating and sleeping habits are to blame. Please come as soon as you can.

  Quinn McCurley

  * * *

  'She is in her room,' McCurley said, and stepped away from the door. His daughter was bawling in his arms.

  'Your note read that she blames me for her illness. I'm puzzled, to say the least.' I set down my bag, pulled off my dribbling Mackintosh, and looked for a hook to hang it.

  More wailing cut through the thin walls. Ms Hacker's boy was as unhappy as was Líadáin.

  'You’ll have to ask her. Give me your raincoat. I’ll hang it for you.'

  I picked up my bag, and he walked me over to Ms Hacker's chamber, knocked, and opened the door without waiting for her response.

  I entered, and the screaming intensified. McCurley retreated and shut the door. Rain hammered against the window of the small room. Ms Hacker was abed, a blanket wrapped tightly around her. In a crib next to her, her boy was waving his tiny fists, hollering himself blue in the face.

  'Ms Hacker?'

  She clapped her eyes open, and focused on me. 'It's all your fault.'

  I sat on the edge of the bed. 'What is my fault?'

  'Well…this!' She pulled down the blanket. Her engorged breasts were straining against the fabric of the nightgown, blue veins criss-crossing her pale skin.

  I rubbed my hands together to warm them up, then touched her forehead. I pulled a thermometer from my bag and stuck it into her mouth. 'When did the fever start?'

  'Yesterday,' she spoke around the instrument. 'We did everything you told us. Mrs Beamish cooks for us. A woman does the washing. I'm eating and sleeping more, and the babes were happy because I had more milk. And then…it wouldn't stop. It just got to be more and more. I was leaking for Heaven's sake. But then…nothing. No milk. Not a drop. But my breasts…got like this.'

  The screaming in the sitting room paused briefly. I heard McCurley speaking to his daughter in a calm, low voice.

  'All right. Open your nightgown, please.' I clamped my hands under my armpits to further warm them before examining her. Her breasts were rock hard. Her temperature was one hundred and three degrees. Too high already. 'I'll be back in a moment.'

  I entered the sitting room where McCurley was walking in circles, rocking his daughter who went from hiccupping to hollering the moment she saw me. 'Where can I get hot water and a towel?'

  He stopped. 'You need to perform a surgery? Here?'

  'Of course not. I need to get the milk flowing. Keep Líadáin ready. I'll also need several pillows.' He pointed me to his bedroom where I fetched the pillows, and then to a corner by the door where I found a sink and a small cooktop. Tea was steeping in a pot. 'That'll do.'

  I brought the pillows to Ms Hacker, and then returned for towel, teapot, and a bowl.

  I helped her sit up and pull the night gown down to her hips. I cushioned her back with a pillow and arranged two more under her arms, another on her lap, while the towel soaked in the hot tea. I wrung it out, and made sure it wouldn't burn Ms Hacker's skin. Then I placed it over her breasts. Every minute or so, I would dip the towel into the hot tea, and place it back onto her breasts. 'Can you feel it already?'

  She grunted. 'I think I'll pop.' She peeked under the warm towel, where milk was trickling from her nipples.

  'Excellent.' I picked up her screeching son, and tucked him under her left arm, his legs curled up against her side. 'Put your hand on the back of his head and hold him like a…'

  'Football?'

  'Yes.'

  We shared a laugh.

  When I went to the sitting room to fetch Líadáin, McCurley seemed reluctant to hand her over. I had no time for that foolishness, but left the door to Ms Hacker's room open for him. I didn't know what arrangement the two had, but I wouldn't lock him out as long as Ms Hacker did not insist upon it.

  I positioned Líadáin opposite Billy. The girl had screamed herself into such a fit that she refused to suckle. I grabbed a nipple, squirted milk into her mouth, and quickly squished her face against Ms Hacker's breast. One last protest, and she began to suckle greedily.

  Ms Hacker hissed in pain, but then she relaxed. 'I feel like a sow.'

  'Is it all right to come in?' McCurley asked.

  I looked enquiringly at Ms Hacker. She only shrugged.

  'One moment,' I said, warmed up the towel once more and placed it back over her breasts, more or less covering everything the two babies weren't hiding from view.

  McCurley stopped near the door. ‘Do you need anything else?’

  'No,' I said. 'You'll want to be in your office.'

  'I have a day off.’ He neither retreated nor moved farther into the room.

  Trapped by social conventions, he couldn't even see his own daughter, because she was attached to the breast of a woman he wasn't married to. In a way I understood that other people found such notions necessary, but I had no patience for it.

  'May he come closer?' I whispered to Ms Hacker. Again, she only shrugged.

  I waved him to a chair nearby. He sat, then stood back up, and moved the chair to the other side of the bed so he could look at Líadáin without staring at too much of Ms Hacker's exposed flesh. His gaze was soft. It nearly shocked me into silence.

  'It was a good thing you called for me,' I said, briefly wondering if I should tell them that this could have developed int
o a mastitis had they waited but a few hours longer.

  But I decided against it. 'What occurred is that the mammary glands learned to produce a greater amount of milk. But too much pressure built up, preventing the milk from coming down. The breasts engorged and got feverish.'

  I kept my eyes on Ms Hacker, watching for signs of embarrassment. But she answered each of my statements with a small nod. So I continued, 'It is all perfectly normal. Every time one of the children has a growth spurt, it will need more milk and suckle more vigorously. The mammary glands will react by producing the extra milk, and then it might happen again that the milk won't come down and you'll get feverish.'

  She frowned.

  I brushed her hand that rested on her son's head. 'Don't worry. You know what to do now.'

  'Tea and towels?'

  'Hot water is enough. I only used the tea because it was already hot. As soon as you feel that your breasts are too full, try to get one or both children to drink. They don't need to empty your breasts. Relieving the pressure is what's important.'

  She nodded, and smiled at the small pile of nursing babies. 'This is comfortable.'

  'Any position that's comfortable for all three of you is good. You can be half asleep feeding them, they won't care. The more relaxed you are, the better. My daughter and I fall asleep that way. Breastfeeding.'

  'How old is she?'

  'In September she'll turn…three.' I croaked the last word, and only then did I recall McCurley's silent presence. He had his eyes on Líadáin, but something told me he hadn't missed a word. Or how it had been spoken.

  'I will leave you now. Call for me should you need me.' I snapped my bag shut and stood.

  'A word, if you please,' McCurley said.

  Once in the sitting room, he closed the door to Ms Hacker's room, and pushed his hands in his pockets. He looked at me, waiting for…what precisely?

  'Yes?'

  'Your fee.'

  'Oh. She paid me already.'

  He regarded me from head to toe, nodded once, and said. 'You are lying.'

  It was a slap to the face. All the pent-up frustration of the past days boiled up. 'You arrogant ass. I didn't come for you. I came for her and the children. Seeing Ms Hacker and the babies happy is all the payment I need today.'

  'I wasn't referring to your fees,' he said softly. There was no coldness, no professional mask in place. At least, I couldn't see one. I found this new version of him terrifying.

  'I don't have time for your games.' I made for my Mackintosh.

  'You lied about your name. And about countless other things.'

  I froze.

  'The problem is… I can't do anything about it. Why would the Chief Superintendent march into my office, lock it from the inside, and order me to stop investigating your past?'

  'I couldn't imagine,' I croaked.

  'I did not mention to anyone that I was searching for you. Or rather, for traces you might have left in Zurich, Berlin, and London. The Chief Superintendent would not tell me why he wants me to stop digging, but he hinted at diplomatic relations with the Crown. Would you care to explain this to me?'

  The Crown? Mycroft must have outdone himself. Or whatever forger he’d employed. And that was twice now. Twice he'd saved my sorry behind. And one day he would demand I pay him back.

  Foreboding clogged my throat. I swallowed. 'Even if I wanted to explain this to you, I simply cannot.’

  'You understand I have a murderer to catch. So far, I see only two possibilities. One, you know the perpetrator, and are protecting him. Two, you know him but you have no idea that he is the killer. Either way, you have information I need. The Chief Superintendent said nothing about not pursuing you for a crime you may have committed on American soil. And I greatly doubt he would dare insinuate such a thing.'

  'I have not committed a crime.' It sounded lame coming from my mouth. Of course I'd committed a crime! Several, even. Back in London.

  'In fact, you have.'

  'Excuse me?'

  McCurley smiled. 'In England, it might be normal procedure to allow any and all village physicians to perform a post-mortem examination whenever they stumble across a body by the roadside. But here, things are handled differently. Post-mortem surgeons are important officers, appointed to make all the medico-legal examinations for the city of Boston. They are medical witnesses for the state. In conducting a post-mortem examination of Mrs Hyde's body without authorisation and qualification, you violated the law.'

  'I am qualified.'

  He shook his head. 'No one appointed you.'

  ‘So? I didn’t even perform a full post-mortem! And why are you telling me this now? Why did no one arrest me after I committed this…' I threw out an arm. 'This trifle?'

  'Because only the appointed postmortem-surgeon and the detective leading the case are permitted to file a complaint. Professor Goodman was pleased enough that you measured the temperature of head and torso more than an hour before Mrs Hyde's body was transferred to him. Thanks to you, the time of death was more accurately determined than the professor could have hoped for. He, however, is only one of the two men who could get you behind bars.'

  We stared at one another, neither willing to budge.

  'Who are you, Dr Arlington?'

  'Go to hell, McCurley.'

  'I'm sure I will. But not just yet. I analysed all the information at hand and came to the conclusion that you do indeed possess considerable medical knowledge. I don't know where or even if you studied medicine. But you do wish to help. You care. Or seem to. It's what collides so substantially with what I know about people who plot and execute a murder. People who do it not to protect themselves or others, but because they crave power over another’s life.'

  I said nothing.

  'However, knowing that you had no problem shooting a perfect stranger in the heart — having seen your cold-bloodedness with my own eyes — I can't help but wonder how many layers of pretence you are wearing. How many lies you've spun.'

  Countless and many more. 'You don't know me at all.'

  He narrowed his eyes. 'Enlighten me, then.'

  'Sod off.' I turned and pulled my Macintosh off the peg by the door.

  Before I could turn the doorknob, he said, 'I know that something terrifies you. I saw it when you snatched your daughter away the day we collected evidence at your practice. I heard it just now as you mentioned her. I promise I won't put her in danger. If you wish, I can offer protection. My instincts tell me that you want to catch the murderer as much as I do. But my instincts also tell me that something is very wrong. If you answer my questions truthfully…'

  I shook my head and pulled open the door.

  '…I will share my case notes with you.'

  15

  I was still seething when I pushed open the gate to our front yard. But when Klara came bounding down the walkway, holding out a wilted dandelion, the anger peeled off me.

  'Is that for me?'

  Mischief glinted in her eyes. She nodded once, grinned, then shook her head and stuffed the flower into her mouth. Giggling, she ran back into the house.

  I followed her in, but then stopped to check the time. Nearly noon. Only two hours left to prepare my lecture on the epidemiology of typhus. I found a chair and put my face in my hands, wondering if I should quit my post at the medical school for women. The effort seemed futile. So many of my students gave up their studies. Most of them were disciplined, talented, and intelligent enough to become physicians. But as soon as some Billy or Tommy asked for their hand, they threw it all away.

  I was wasting my time.

  * * *

  When I returned from the medical school late that afternoon, Margery informed me that that a gentleman was waiting for me in the sitting room. 'Name is Amaury. Handsome young man. Brought flowers.' She said it as if bouquets were routinely used to bludgeon people to death.

  'Where's Klara?'

  Margery pointed under the kitchen table, before retreating and bumping her hip ag
ainst the doorframe in the process.

  I bent down and lifted the table cloth. Klara was surrounded by paper and pens. She had completed a drawing of Zachary's straw hat atop his broadly smiling face, and was working on another with herself and me sitting under a tree and reading a book. She looked up at me and pointed at her newest creation.

  'Good idea,' I said. 'But I must say hello to Warren first. Would you like to come?'

  Her dark curls slid over her eyes as she went back to drawing.

  'All right then. I'll be back soon.'

  As I left the kitchen, I heard her scramble from her hiding spot and follow in my wake.

  Warren sat by the bay window. His long legs were crossed and his hands were lazily twirling a bouquet of wild flowers. The afternoon sun bounced off marguerite petals.

  As I entered, his eyes slid from the garden to my face, and then down to where Klara was hiding behind my skirts.

  He jumped up. 'Oh, hello, young lady!' Theatrically, he sank to his knees and scooted up to Klara. 'May I offer you these flowers, Milady?'

  I looked down at my daughter, who still clung to my skirts, her face half-hidden in the folds. 'Would you like to put them in a vase? Margery can help you find one.'

  She stared at Warren, puzzling over his unusual behaviour.

  'I see that you keep foregoing verbal communication,' Warren said with cheer.

  I threw him a sharp glance.

  'I have a habit of doing the same,' he whispered, and winked at her.

  A heartbeat later, a small hand reached out…and bopped his nose.

  'Oh, your mother loves doing that, too. Only, she's much less charming about it.’ Very gently, he bopped her back. Klara squeaked, jumped at him, and wrung his neck with her arms.

  'Uhmpf. Careful. I need my windpipe uncrushed.' He glanced up at me, mouthing, 'Help!'

  I laughed. 'Just pick her up. She doesn't bite. At least…most of the time.'

  We fetched a vase for the flowers, and a book for Klara, and then sat on the porch with the coffee, milk, and biscuits Margery had swiftly prepared and delivered.