The Fall Of White City (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

Evangeline backed out of the kitchen cautiously, keeping her face toward him until she reached the front door. As she closed it behind her, she could hear him wailing Elsa’s name like a funeral dirge.

During the bumpy carriage ride back to her own well-heeled neighborhood, Evangeline enumerated her suspects. The list had just grown longer by one.

Chapter 12—Freddie’s Malady

It wasn’t until late on Friday morning that Freddie was able to disentangle himself from the tentacles of Simpson And Austin to visit the physician who had examined Elsa’s body. After his extended absence on Tuesday afternoon, Freddie could feel his uncle’s benevolent mood evaporating. Getting a chance to interview Dr. Doyle would be a tricky matter since the doctor didn’t keep evening office hours. Without any idea how to fabricate a new excuse so soon after his last disappearance, Freddie decided to use his basic maneuver of sneaking out when no one was watching and then apologize afterward.

Unfortunately, his uncle had taken the precaution of setting a watchdog on Freddie in the person of Aloysius Waverly. Like Freddie, Waverly was a junior associate in the firm, but not possessing Freddie’s advantage of having been born into the right family, Aloysius chose to rise in the legal ranks by toadying for a senior partner.

As Freddie was about to run down the stairs to the front lobby and make his escape, Aloysius caught up with him. Trying to make his interest sound as casual as possible he inquired, “So where are you off to?”

“I thought I’d get a breath of air and, for your information, it is almost lunchtime.”

“A breath of air?” Waverly was incredulous. “It’s pouring outside!”

“Thanks, old man. I forgot my umbrella.” Freddie offered no further information. Instead, he stamped back down the corridor to his office to retrieve it.

Trailing behind him, Aloysius whined, “But what will I tell Mr. Simpson if he should ask where you are?”

Freddie wheeled about suddenly, nearly causing a collision with his colleague. “And why, pray tell, would my uncle apply to you for that information in the first place?”

“Well,
aaah
, I suppose... ,” Waverly fumbled for words. His nose had a habit of twitching for no particular reason, which reminded Freddie of a rabbit. The resemblance to a rabbit extended to Aloysius’ ears which were large, pointed, and, Freddie inferred, could pick up sounds inaudible to other humans.

“Don’t bother to think up a good excuse. You may strain a part of your brain that might be needed to hatch a new scheme to stab me in the back.”

“Why, Simpson, I’m appalled you would think that about me.” Waverly displayed as much injured dignity as he could summon on such short notice, his nose twitching violently all the while.

Freddie stared at him impassively. “Aloysius, just how dumb do I look?”

“Well, there are times when you can be—”

“It was a rhetorical question, for God’s sake!” Freddie cut in before he heard anything too unflattering about the level of his intelligence.

Waverly just stood there in silence, waiting for Freddie to do something significant that could be reported.

“Aloysius, how much would it cost for you to develop a temporary case of amnesia?”

“A what?” Waverly was aghast at the question.

“I’m speaking of a business proposition here. Something to compensate you for your silence in a matter that doesn’t concern you anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know...”

“How does twenty dollars sound?”

“It sounds like a great deal of money.” Aloysius appeared awestruck.

“And so it is. That’s at least two days’ pay to you, isn’t it?”

“A bit more than that.”

“Well, here it is.” Freddie counted the bills out of his pocket. “And you didn’t see me leave, and you have no idea where I am, is that clear?”

“Oh, yes indeed, quite clear.” Waverly grabbed the money eagerly, rubbing his nose to quiet its vibrations.

Freddie waited until the bills had changed hands before saying, “And if my whereabouts today should somehow, accidentally, be reported to my uncle, you can rest assured that he will also hear that you accepted a bribe from me. Is that equally clear?”

Waverly blanched at the realization that he had stepped into a trap. “Agreed. You’ve bought my silence for the day. But it really is a pity.” He paused to contemplate Freddie for a second. “You would have made a fine attorney after all.”

“That’s the limit! I’ve just heard the last insult I’m prepared to accept from you today!” Freddie reversed direction and marched toward the stairwell.

Sadly, Aloysius’ prediction about the weather had been correct. It was pouring when Freddie left the building, and he had never gotten all the way back to his office for the umbrella. Rather than walk the twelve blocks to the doctor’s address, he jumped into the first available cab. The driver let him off in the middle of a quiet street of residential
greystone
buildings. There was a plaque on the door of one indicating that the building contained a physician’s office. In brass letters it proclaimed “Dr. A. C. Doyle—Consulting Physician.”

“I wonder if the consultation ever involves a cure,” Freddie said to himself as he ran up the stairs two at a time. He rapped on the door authoritatively. A young man with a pencil-thin mustache answered the summons.

Freddie announced himself. “Hello, my name is Frederick Simpson, and I’m here to see Dr. Doyle.”

“Certainly, sir.” The young man was unctuously polite. “What time is your appointment?”

“Well, that’s just it.” Freddie scraped his feet a bit. “I don’t have one.”

The attendant sized him up and down to determine if the cut of his clothing suggested a person to whom he could afford to be rude. The fact that Freddie was drenched didn’t make him an imposing figure. “Oh my, that is unfortunate.”

“Young man.” Freddie took great pleasure in using that title which had so frequently been applied to him of late. “Young man, you may tell him that I have been recommended to his notice by a friend of Mrs. Potter Templar and that I have come to discuss a matter which requires a certain degree of tact.”

“Oh, I see.” The attendant’s tone immediately changed to one of deference. “And if I tell him this, he will understand your message?”

“Perfectly.” Freddie spoke with far more confidence than he felt, but he was determined to get past the door before being thrown out on his ear.

“Come in, sir.” The attendant bowed slightly and gestured toward the front parlor, which was used as a waiting room. The curtains were partially drawn even though the sky was almost black outside. Freddie sat down at one end of the room, near the bay window. The only other occupant was an elderly female with a formidable hat seated at the opposite end.

Freddie had learned through sad experience that ladies who wore formidable hats generally possessed temperaments to match their chapeaux. In consequence, he tried to avoid looking her directly in the eye. The lady was not to be so easily dissuaded. Even though he kept his head turned toward the opposite wall, Freddie could feel her staring at him. From the corner of his eye he could see the ostrich plume perched on top of her head bobbing and swaying in the draughty air currents like some feathered cobra. When he couldn’t stand the scrutiny any longer, he turned to gaze in her direction.

The woman used this as a signal to speak. “You’re all wet!”

“Thank you,
madame
, for that bit of news. It is, after all, raining quite hard outside.”

“Well, why didn’t you just get a cab?”

“I did, but if I might direct your attention to the window, you’ll notice that there’s a veritable downpour going on.”

Glancing imperiously out the window, the grand dame declined to comment further on the state of the weather. She changed the subject. “What are you here for?”

“Madame, that’s rather a personal question!” Freddie was shocked at her impertinence until he realized that the woman was less interested in the details of his malady than in having a
segue
to a discussion of her own.

She didn’t wait for a further response before forging ahead. “I’m here for my weak nerves.”

“Nerves?” Freddie was aghast. To himself he mumbled, “I wouldn’t have thought your nerves needed fortifying!”

“Yes, that’s it. Nerves. The doctor gives me a tonic that does the trick every time.”

“Alcohol, I’ll bet,” Freddie muttered, again under his breath.

“What was that? Speak up, young man. I can’t hear you mumbling over there in the corner.”

“I said...” Freddie tried to think quickly but his mental faculties, like his clothing, had been rendered soggy by the weather. “I said, all that rain is a threat.”

“What!” The woman apparently didn’t understand his meaning.

“Yes, well,
er
... you know... a threat to livestock, carried away by flooding, that sort of thing... ,” Freddie ended lamely.

The grand dame stared at him a long time before pronouncing judgment. “You are a very strange young man. Here for weakened mental faculties, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Freddie surrendered completely. “How astute of you to notice.”

Before he was subjected to any further humiliation, the door to the office opened and the doctor emerged.

“Mrs. Parker, please come in.” He glanced anxiously at Freddie. “I’ll be with you shortly if you’d be good enough to wait.”

“Certainly.” Freddie felt a fair amount of surprise. The mention of the Templar name carried more weight than he would have imagined.

The young man passed the time by studying the pictures that were hung around the waiting room. These consisted of tableaux of the great moments in medicine—from prehistoric times to modern. One that particularly intrigued him was a picture of a Greek physician performing surgery on the cranium of a patient who was seated in an upright position and appeared to be smiling euphorically through the whole procedure.

Each succeeding picture presented more outrageous inspiration for someone with a macabre sense of humor, but Freddie’s contemplation of the artwork was cut short when Dr. Doyle returned.

“Won’t you step in.” Dr. Doyle was an impressive figure. In his mid-fifties, his temples just beginning to gray, he possessed an air of graceful self-assurance that must have been quite soothing to his clientele. Freddie inferred that the doctor’s practice consisted mainly of middle-aged women complaining of nervous disorders. The doctor was dressed in a black frock coat and a pristine white shirt. A diamond-and-gold stick pin set off his black silk cravat. When Freddie approached to return the doctor’s handshake, he noted that the older man’s nails had been recently manicured and that his clothing exuded a faint hint of sandalwood. It occurred to Freddie that “ladies’ man” wouldn’t have been an inappropriate term to apply.

“Welcome, Mr. Simpson. I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have? I wasn’t aware that you even knew my name.”

The doctor smiled slightly. “Mrs. Templar and Miss LeClair both called a few days ago to offer an explanation.”

“Oh, do you know Miss LeClair?”

“I knew her father, Armand LeClair, quite well. Met him soon after he first came to this city. He referred several of his wealthy friends to me as patients. Helped me build my practice. I doubt if I’d be as successful today without his assistance.”

“It would appear that intervening in other people’s business is a LeClair family trait.”

“So it would seem.” Doyle laughed good-naturedly. “But only with the best intentions, I’m sure.” He gestured toward a chair. “And now, Mr. Simpson, having made one another’s acquaintance, I invite you to have a seat and tell me what I can do for you today.”

Freddie sat down as instructed and began. “As you already know, it’s about the murdered girl who was found at the Templar House over a week ago. I understand that the Templars asked you to perform an independent examination of the body?”

“Yes. It’s out of my usual line but, given the delicate nature of the situation, I became involved as a personal favor to the Templars. What is it specifically that you wish to know?”

“To begin with, the papers all reported that there was a stab wound in the girl’s back, but they reported very little else. Can you give me any more details of what you found?”

Doyle seemed uncomfortable and hesitated before replying. “This is rather a tricky matter, Mr. Simpson. Truth is such a complex notion, after all. Rather than being all of a piece, it can only be peeled back, layer by layer, like an onion.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that, technically speaking, Miss Bauer was murdered and the immediate cause of death was a knife wound in her back. This is the cause of death reported by the coroner. These are the facts that were released to the press.”

“Shall we start peeling onions now, Doctor?” Freddie asked pointedly.

“Yes, I suppose so. In my opinion, she died of respiratory collapse and heart failure.”

“What?” Freddie sat bolt upright in his chair, all attention.

“As I said, a tricky matter. Was she attacked with intent to kill? Of that I have no doubt. Was she stabbed? No question. But here is where I part ways with the coroner. His medical examiner believes the knife wound was sufficiently deep to cause death. I don’t.”

“Well, then what are you saying?”

“That I was required to delve deeper into the matter to determine the real cause. Superficially, she appeared to have been quite healthy. I doubted she had a weak heart or weak nerves. Fortunately, a small hobby of mine proved helpful in determining the true cause.”