City of Darkness (City of Mystery) (20 page)

6:10 PM

“Whoever can that be?” Geraldine
murmured, heading for the front door since both Gage and Emma were involved in
a raucous game of charades.  She pulled hard on the oaken door, which tended to
stick a bit, and swung it open to reveal the thin, elegant frame of John
Harrowman, swathed from head to foot in his black broadcloth cape.

“Darling,” Geraldine exclaimed.  “Do
come in.  We’ve having a sort of impromptu party and Leanna will be so
delighted to see you.”

“I’m forgiven for canceling our
theatre plans, then?” John asked, his voice attractively husky from the night
air.

“Yes, of course.  The girl isn’t that
petty,” Geraldine said, showing him toward the parlor.

“I have it, I have it,” Leanna was
saying.  “It’s ‘Bird in a Gilded Cage.’”

“At last,” Emma said, sinking to the
couch.  “I thought none of you would ever guess and I would be forced to
attempt to act out the word ‘gilded.’  Why, hello doctor,” she added, looking
at the door with surprise.

“Hello, Emma, Leanna, Welles, Gage,”
John said, advancing into the room and shirking his cape.

“Do you know my nephew, Tom?”
Geraldine asked.

“Thomas Bainbridge.  Your reputation
precedes you.”

“As does yours,” Tom said, extending
a hand.  “Or at least it does if you’re John Harrowman.” Leanna glanced at her
brother nervously, hoping no teasing was forthcoming, but Tom stopped there. 
“At the risk of stating the obvious, we’re playing a game or two, hoping to
take poor Trevor’s mind off his troubles.”

“And his promotion as well,” John
said, turning to Trevor.  “I was reading the evening edition of the papers
intently, as of course was all of London, and was gratified to learn you’ve
been named chief detective on the Ripper case.  There must have been many
changes since you and I spoke on the matter last night.  But it is a wonderful
thing that you have been granted just the post that you most desired. 
Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Trevor said stiffly. 
“But I’m afraid Tom is right.  My promotion has led to my troubles and I’ve run
here to Geraldine’s home for comfort.  I’ll be leaving in a second, though. 
It’s the evening shift for me from now on.”

“Of course, crimes of the night,”
John said, and his eyes fell on Leanna for the first time.  He raised his brows
questioningly.

“Would you care to play charades,
with us, Doctor John?” Emma asked. “And we have a custard about to come out of
the oven.”

“I would be a fool to leave such stimulating
company,” John answered.  “Yes, by all means let’s play and speak of nothing
important.”

“Come, John, do pull up a chair and
say you will be on our team,” Leanna said quickly. “Someone must help Emma and
I even things up.  Aunt Geraldine has the concentration of an infant and so far
the men are trouncing the ladies most thoroughly.”

“Well we can’t have that, now can
we?” John said.

6:50  PM

Forty minutes later, warmed by the
custard and the steady flow of conversation, Trevor found himself seated across
from John Harrowman at the chess board, while Tom lay stretched across an
armchair smoking.  The ladies had ventured off and the room was silent save for
the occasional crackle of the fire and Tom’s enthusiastic inhalations on the
pipe, a ritual he performed with such gusto that Trevor suspected he was a
beginner at smoking. 

Trevor glanced at his pocket watch. 
He had told Davy he would meet him at seven-thirty to begin rounds and it was
nearly seven.  He should have left some time ago, not let himself be drawn into
a game of chess, and in fact he was not even sure if the game was going well or
not.  John was an enigma; he made his moves quickly and with little apparent
forethought, while Trevor was in the habit of lengthy consideration.  Trevor had
taken the first three pawns, a setback John bore with such cheerful equanimity
that Trevor suspected these minimal early losses were part of some overall
strategy.  Or perhaps he didn’t care about the outcome of the game at all, a
thought which gave Trevor pause.  He had always viewed chess as a type of
mental war and was incapable of playing a casual game.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?”
he inquired.  He had waited until the women were out of earshot.

“Feel free to ask anything,” John
said.

“Have you heard of a woman named Maud
Mitford?”

John raised his chin, all the
complacency out of his face.  “How the devil would you know Mad Maudy?”

“One of the women we interviewed
mentioned her.  I take it she’s an East End midwife?”

“Midwife?” John said with a sharp
exhalation. “It’s stretching matters a bit to refer to Maud Milford as a
midwife.  She performs abortions.”

“Oh,” Trevor said.  He was shocked,
but he tried not to show it.  John made a careless move, exposing his bishop,
and Tom put down his pipe and sat up a little straighter.

“Mind you, my objections aren’t
moralistic,” John said.  “The vast majority of those babies are better off
never being born, although perhaps I shouldn’t express such a belief to a man
of the law.  My complaint with Maud is that she is untrained, stubbornly
ignorant, and refuses to observe even the most rudimentary rules of sanitation.  
Half of the desperate women who come to her don’t live to see another day,
killed either by her scalpel or by the nearly inevitable infections which
follow.  Of course, women who are determined to have an abortion know the risks,
but they haven’t much place else to go.  Certainly no reputable midwife or
doctor would attempt one.”

Trevor took John’s bishop.

“And it isn’t just the working women
of Whitechapel,” John went on distractedly.  “I’ve always suspected Maud’s
knife was behind the death of a young debutante last year, a girl from the very
best of families, who found herself in need of Maud’s rather unique specialty.
By the time she arrived at a proper hospital the gangrene was too advanced to
treat.”  John shook his head, trying to clear the memory.  “A spectacularly
horrible way for a sixteen year old girl to die.”

Tom stood up, frowning, then went to
pour himself another brandy. 

“Seems like the sort of mistake that
would put her out of business for good,” Trevor said with surprise, for he couldn’t
recall the case making its way to Scotland Yard.  “The girl’s family took no
interest in who might have done this to their daughter?”

“Not likely to pursue the story too
far, were they?” John said, and his mouth twisted in disgust.  “The socially accepted
story is that the girl died of consumption and Mad Maudy goes free to turn her
scalpel on her next victim…  My God,” John said, looking up from the board as
comprehension finally dawned.  “Are you suggesting she’s a suspect in this
Ripper business?”

Trevor shrugged.  “She was seen in
the vicinity of two of the killings.  From what I gather, she is large-framed
enough to pass as a man with the right clothing a bit of a fake facial hair
added.”

“She wouldn’t have to add much,” John
said.  “She has half a mustache as it is.”

“Yes, I get the impression she’s
rather masculine.”

“Hardly begins to describe it.  I’ve
always felt she hated her own sex, that there was a deliberate cruelty behind
her carelessness.  I’ve offered her some of my instruments, some training…if
she’s going to ply her trade she should at least have that much.  But each time
I’ve been rebuffed.  Evidently the high mortality rate of her practice does not
distress her.”  John looked down and made another bad move.

“Hates her own sex?” Tom repeated,
entranced.  “Do you mean she hates them for being feminine, for having
obviously attracted a man, which she could not?  Or do you rather mean she’s a
puritan of sorts who hates them for being pregnant and uses her tools to punish
them for their sins?”

“More of the latter,” John said,
impassively watching Trevor take another of his pawns.  “It sounds ridiculous
to say she’s an abortionist who hates women who have abortions, but -”

“No, not ridiculous at all,” Trevor
cut in.  “When you remember the sort of psychology we’re dealing with.  I must
make it a point to call on this Maud.”

“Have a drink first,” John advised. 
“But there’s another thing, something which makes me doubt she’s your Ripper. 
You’ve stressed how skillfully the dissections were done and I doubt poor Maud
could take out an ovary cleanly if you offered her diamonds.  And the Ripper
writes rather elaborate messages while I’d imagine Maud’s literacy is limited
at best.”  He casually moved a knight and Trevor stared down at the board, thinking
of the letter which had come to the Yard, with its poetic meter and neat
penmanship.

“Both good points, but I’ll visit her
nonetheless.  It’s a shame you’re going back to school so soon, Tom.  I know
Gage means well but he’s elderly and, let’s be frank , a bit odd.  I’d feel
better if there were a young man in the house with Geraldine and the girls.”

“You don’t honestly feel upper class
women are in danger?” Tom asked.  “I mean, here in Mayfair…”

“No, no, you’re right, such a thing
is unlikely,” Trevor said, moving his rook. “Paranoia is a natural outgrowth of
my job.  You’re confronted with the very worst society has to offer and you see
it hour after hour, day after day.  After a while, the whole world begins to
look dangerous to you.  Everyone’s suspect.” 

“I’ve had the same problem with
medical school,” Tom said cheerfully.  “I’ve developed the symptoms of half of
the conditions described in my textbooks already.  Rashes and tremors and
headaches, the lot.  Did that ever happen to you, John?”

“Hypochondria and paranoia are
diseases of the educated mind,” John said, taking Trevor’s rook.  “At least
that’s what I tell myself for comfort, since I’m rather prone to both.  It
takes a certain level of imagination to concoct dangers where none exist.  Or
perhaps Trevor’s right and this is all just the natural outcome of the
professions we’ve chosen.  When you work with the diseased and the criminal all
day, they become your reality.  You begin to look for those same traits in
yourself.”

“I think I want to be a doctor…” Tom
said slowly, looking up at the ceiling, “but there are days when I wonder if
I’m more like grandfather, destined for the laboratory. The thing is, I’m not
sure I could bear losing a patient.  Even if someone were old and sick, perhaps
I would torment myself, always thinking there must have been something else I
could have done.  I suppose you get used to death, though, do you not?”

“Don’t turn death into the enemy,
Tom,” John said, looking at the chess board.  “If you do, you will lose every
game you play.”

“But as a doctor, surely you –“

“As a doctor I can do no more than
forestall the inevitable conclusion of a rigged contest.  Death is the end we
all march toward…. rich and poor, old and young, the healthy and the infirm. 
All I can do is keep it at bay for a year or a decade, more if the patient is
lucky.  But death isn’t such a bad thing.”

Tom frowned at the ceiling.  “I
should think it’s the worst thing.”

“Ah…but if we were immortal, how
cruel would we be?”  John asked, as Trevor confidently advanced his queen. 
“Fear of death, and what comes after, is all that keeps most men from even
deeper depths of depravity than those we currently navigate.  If we all lived
forever, we would have no fear of God.  Perhaps no need of God at all.  Immortal
men would become their own gods, and I suspect that, given such power, we would
be neither just nor merciful.  Do you agree, Trevor?”

“A month ago I might not have,”
Trevor said.  “But given the events of late I too am beginning to wonder if
there’s such a thing as innate human decency.  And next month at this time I
may be more cynical yet again.”

“I take it you aren’t predicting a
rapid conclusion to the investigation,” Tom said, turning to look directly at
Trevor.

“Well we’ve got it narrowed down  to doctors,
sailors, butchers, the Poles, the Turks, the Greeks, the Jews, Mad Maudy, the
Duke of Clarence, and a man of medium height who’s wearing a hat.  So, no, I think
it’s safe to say I don’t predict a rapid conclusion to the investigation.” 
Trevor slumped back in his chair and rubbed his eyes.  “You’ll have to forgive
my tone.  I’m exhausted and it’s all just beginning.  I shouldn’t have come
here today, I should have gone home to rest.  But I can’t seem to sleep.”

It was true.  Trevor had been up
before six that morning to brief the bobbies beginning their rounds, and then
there was a whole new gaggle of suspects in the cells to interview.  Well, to
call them suspects was stretching the point.  Everyone on the force, no matter
what their ranking, was so determined to find the Ripper that the jails were
full of vagrants, drunkards, prostitutes and their customers, and men whose
only offense was the imprecise crime of “looking suspicious.”  He and Davy had
gone through them one by one, filling more sheets of papers with their endless
notes, and then broken off about three.  Trevor had urged the boy to go home
for a few hours of rest before they took up again at nightfall.  But he had found
himself unable to take that same advice himself.