The Devil's Making (17 page)

Perhaps this is why I am a prig. I don't want to live through that sort of pain. I don't want to ignore it – to forgive and forget – or whatever Henry would do. Perhaps elder sons take their own way, like him, and younger ones observe and reflect more. When I marry, I have always told myself, it will be someone whom I trust, it will be for ever. How childish, perhaps. And here I am, in love with another man's wife.

11

Mrs Larose received me in a corner of the Hotel Argyle's lobby, which when no guests were about she used as her own sitting room. ‘How nice to see you again, Mr Hobbes. I was just having a glass of wine for my ‘elevenses' – old fashioned of me, I know, but will you join me?' She poured me a glass of Madeira from a cut glass decanter.

It was indeed an old fashioned but respectable custom to have a glass of wine at eleven, accompanied usually by toast, which was not in evidence, besides which it was scarcely past ten. The Irish Rose was somewhat flushed, even more talkative than usual, and obviously nervous.

‘What can I do for you?' she asked. ‘I do hope all my permits and licenses are in order.'

‘Of course. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about something else. As you may know, we still have a number of loose ends to tie up about the death of Dr McCrory…'

‘I knew that was it!' Mrs Larose almost wailed. ‘Oh the poor man. I shall miss him so!'

This was more than I had hoped. ‘You knew him well, then?'

‘Indeed I did. Or at least as well as any patient knows her doctor. He gave me a great deal of help, Mr Hobbes, and now I don't know what I shall do.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it. May I ask if you have been ill?'

‘Nerves, Mr Hobbes. The vapours. Melancholia. Whatever it may be called: a sense of the ineluctable complexity of life. It is difficult for a widow, in middle age – past the half century!' She paused, as if for an interruption.

‘I don't believe it,' I said dutifully.

‘To do the work of both a man and a woman, in managing a hotel through difficult times.'

‘It must be. I admire your courage. So you became a patient of Dr McCrory's?'

‘I did. I went to his lectures and I was impressed by the man. An original thinker. I made an appointment with him, and began a course of treatment.'

‘Excuse me, what was the procedure for making an appointment with him?'

‘I wrote him a note and sent it round by messenger. He sent a note back with an appointment.'

‘And what was the form of his treatment?'

But here the talkative Mrs Larose reached a limit. ‘My goodness, Mr Hobbes, you must know better than to ask such a thing. It is a matter of confidence between a lady and her physician.'

‘Do excuse me. You need say nothing unless you wish.' I should leave the door open, at least. ‘At any rate you found him a competent physician.'

‘I did indeed. A most unusual man. Such a brilliant lecturer too.'

‘You went with a friend to the lectures, I believe.'

‘Mr Hobbes, you have been doing some investigation!' But this did not seem to displease her.

I paused to allow her to fill her glass again, her hand trembling slightly, and to top up my own.

‘Mrs Somerville mentioned to me that she had gone with you on one occasion.'

‘Ah, you know her? Bella is one of my dearest friends. She always stays here when she comes to town. Yes indeed, we went to the Mechanics' Institute together for the second lecture, on Mesmerism. I had already attended the one on phrenology, so I succeeded in interesting Bella in the other.'

‘I don't know much about Mesmerism…'

‘Oh, it is a most fascinating science. You see, there is an animal magnetism in all of us! A vital force. Dr McCrory thought it was something akin to electricity – the force that can be generated from a Voltic pile, I think they call it.'

‘Voltaic,' I corrected automatically.

‘Yes, Voltaic. And in the idea of Dr Mesmer, at least as explained by Dr McCrory, the animal magnetism, or ‘Universal Fluid' – that's another name for it…'

‘Really?' I was as amused as confused by this litany.

‘It becomes blocked in its flow and causes illness. Physical illness, such as palpitations or numbness, but of course nervous conditions as well – melancholy, even some cases of dementia. At least it was Dr McCrory's belief that the task of the physician was not merely to cure the symptoms. No. It was to restore the flow of the vital force, allow the Universal Fluid to regain its natural movement.' She paused, as if stuck in her train of thought.

‘Through animal magnetism,' I said.

‘Exactly. Through animal magnetism.'

‘But how did this work in practice? Was it the Doctor's method to make Mesmeric passes over the patient's body?'

I had studied the copies of Eliotson's
The Zooist
which I had taken from McCrory's office.

‘Well, yes. It's the normal procedure in Mesmerism. Look. Hold out your left hand.' Mrs Larose set down her glass on the little table, and held out her own right hand, in a state of fine tremor, palm outwards and facing me.

I put down my glass and rather awkwardly held out my hand in a similar way, not sure if I should touch her.

‘No, keep it there,' she said excitedly. ‘Merely feel this.'

She approached my palm with her own to within an inch, then withdrew it a few inches. Then she brought it in again, and withdrew it again. She did this a few times, and by the fourth or fifth time I felt a definite tug as she withdrew her hand, as if the palm were attached by an invisible glue, and then a sensation of pressure and warmth when she approached.

‘Now you feel it,' she said confidently. ‘
That
is the animal magnetism.'

She took up her glass again, and I did the same.

‘So Dr McCrory did that?' I asked.

‘Mr Hobbes, you are very persistent. Yes, at the lecture he had us, his audience, face our next neighbour and do just that little experiment. But of course the Mesmeric treatment goes much further.'

‘You would go to him regularly for such treatments?'

‘Once a week, in a course of ten.'

‘For what fee?'

‘It was negotiable. I am not very well off, Mr Hobbes, in spite of what you see.' She swept her hand to indicate the grandiose lobby. ‘At times he was willing, even, to defer payment.'

‘His accounting procedures were informal, I believe.'

‘Indeed so. He told me specifically that he kept no written records – that the nature of his work was strictly confidential. Thus, it was possible to trust him.'

‘Do tell me more about the actual procedure in treatment.'

‘Mr Hobbes! Oh well, you insist. I shall tell you.' Mrs Larose emptied her glass and poured herself another, forgetting mine. For a moment I felt ashamed. I had excited her into a mood of self revelation. ‘First there was a diagnostic procedure,' she said. ‘That involved the usual medical things, of course – listening to the heart and lungs, looking at the tongue and eyes and into the ears – as well as a phrenological examination. It was Dr McCrory's belief that through Mesmerism it might be possible even to effect a transformation in the phrenological configuration – I believe that is the word. He had a rather complicated theory about this, involving the “surtures”, or some such word, of the skull. We were none of us so hardened in life, he said, as we might think. The Universal Fluid could reinstall itself if we allowed it its way. Sometimes I believe he might prescribe a herb or medicine, to aid in the physical relaxation that would enable the vital force to flow. In my case he prescribed an infusion – a sort of tea not unlike valerian – to be taken in the morning before I came for an appointment. It made me feel a little drowsy, but in full control of my mind and senses. Then in an appointment, or a “session” as he would call it, I, the patient, myself I mean, would lie on the settee while he would sit quietly nearby. I would close my eyes and he would ask me to describe my physical sensations, whether I felt light or heavy, drowsy or alert, warm or cold, and so on. He would then ask if I had any problem in life I wanted to talk about. Sometimes I would talk a little, about my financial difficulties, my responsibilities, my dear, dear departed Mr Larose … Then after a while I would hear Dr McCrory's voice telling me to forget all the troubles of life, to let them float out of my mind, and merely to pay attention to my natural physical functions, the rise and fall of my breathing, and the beating of my heart. Oh, Mr Hobbes, do you know, lying there I could feel things that in the daily rush of existence I would suppress? I could feel the beating of my heart, the pulsing of my blood.'

Mrs Larose paused in a sort of rapture. Her eyes were looking at the ceiling and had become glazed.

‘Then the doctor would do magnetic passes over my body,' she went on. ‘I could feel it. He would not touch me, but I could feel the air move over my head, my chest, down over my body and my legs. After a while I could feel currents of the magnetism, the vital force!' She stopped, and lowered her eyes to look at me.

‘And this was restorative,' I said encouragingly.

‘My word, yes! When I left I felt I was walking on air!'

‘And that was the treatment.'

‘Yes. I have told you all. No, not all.' Mrs Larose's lined and powdered face suddenly blushed. ‘I shall tell you, Mr Hobbes. You may find this shocking, but I assure you it was beneficial and almost miraculous.' She closed her eyes. ‘I would be lying there, my eyes closed, like this,' she said in a dreamy voice. ‘Then the doctor would say, or at least he did the first time: “There is a way in which you may receive a
charge
” – that was his word – “a charge of the vital force. Do not be afraid. There is a place in a man where this force resides most intensely, in a sort of Voltic”—I mean Voltaic—“pile. Reach out your hand,” he said, “and
hold.
” I reached out my hand and he guided it very gently then he said, “
hold.
” And I held, and … You know what Mr Hobbes?' Mrs Larose's eyes sprang open, and fixed mine blazingly as she leaned forward and took my hand and squeezed it with hard but warm fingers. ‘You know what? It was electric! Like the sort of shock you get from an electricity machine in a fun fair, only stronger – like a surge of the magnetic fluid which rushed up my arm and into my whole body, buzzing through me!' She let go of my hand but remained leaning forward and staring into my eyes.

‘From what, Mrs Larose?' I said, my heart for some reason pounding. ‘What did you ‘hold'?'

‘You're a man, Mr Hobbes,' she said daintily. ‘As a lady I don't know all the words for these things. His – what do you call them? – his testicules? His testicules, Mr Hobbes. They were electric!'

Mrs Larose sat back in her chair and looked dreamily at me.

‘But you're not saying,' I said cautiously, thinking of the lambskin sheaths, ‘that Dr McCrory had congress with you?'

‘Never! I assure you there was nothing
immoral
about it, nothing whatsoever.' She looked at me serenely, her face composed, Irish-looking in its oval shape and the blue of the eyes, with an expression of self-righteous purity.

‘Thank you,' I said. ‘I appreciate your telling me. So, to sum up, you would declare yourself satisfied with the treatment.'

‘I don't know what I'm going to do without it!' Mrs Larose said in sudden anguish. ‘Should I go to San Francisco, or what? I can feel my nerves coming back on me.'

‘Did Dr McCrory have colleagues in San Francisco?'

‘Not that he mentioned. But it will be a long time before somebody of his calibre – genius I might say – comes to this godforsaken place.' She looked around in sudden anger.

‘Did you meet any other patients, or know who they were?'

‘It was all confidential. I would have never met another patient, nor wanted to.'

‘No one in the waiting room when you came out?'

‘The appointments were at intervals. The Doctor once said that he had to concentrate his energies religiously before an appointment, in meditation, almost like a prayer to the Vital Force. No, the only person I ever saw in the waiting room was Mr Firbanks, the priest – or whatever you call him, I'm Catholic myself – from the new church out on Cedar Hill Road. But I doubt it was for an appointment. The doctor was quite surprised to see him, though he knew him. I assume it was a friendly visit.'

‘No one else? How about Mrs Somerville? Was she also a patient?'

‘I hope not!' Mrs Larose said vehemently, then gathered her composure. ‘I mean, she would certainly have told me if she was. We're good friends and confidantes, one to the other. I know the Doctor visited on Sundays out at her Farm. He started calling there after the lecture … I dare say he liked the society.' Here Mrs Larose seemed definitely miffed.

‘You mean the young ladies?'

‘Oh, I don't think he was
that
kind of person. No indeed. Myself, you know how I saw him? As a priest almost. A priest of life. I only meant he might like the feeling of family, which of course I could not provide. My own children are all grown up and gone and left me.'

‘I wondered if perhaps the young ladies might have been patients of the Doctor,' I said. ‘I've heard the eldest one suffers from melancholia.'

‘Poor Aemilia. She never got over her father's death, poor wee thing. But she'd not go to the Doctor. She's too independent, that one. Anyway,' her eyes narrowed. ‘That's another good man killed by the Indians, the dirty savages. Major Somerville, God rest his soul, though I never knew him. And now they've murdered the Doctor! Tell me, Mr Hobbes.' She leaned forward, her eyes burning. ‘What did the devils do to him? I've heard they cut off his…' She stopped.