Cleopatra’s Dagger, page 29
The boy stirred and leaned his head on one grimy hand, closing his eyes again. What was he going home to? she wondered. If he was lucky, a cold-water flat, perhaps, and maybe even a bowl of soup. And he would consider himself fortunate if there was a bit of meat to go with it, or a slice of day-old bread and a piece of cheese.
She stared out the window at the darkened streets. August would soon slip into September, and daylight seemed to be shrinking more rapidly with each sunset. The boy got off at Houston Street, and the tram continued uptown as a pregnant moon rose over the East River. Heavy in the humid summer air, it seemed to hang over the water for a moment as if it were about to plunge into the dark, swirling depths.
As they approached Kips Bay in the gathering twilight, Bellevue loomed ahead, moonlight glinting on the letters carved into the wrought-iron entrance gate. With its round turrets and towers, it looked like a castle out of a fairy tale rather than a hospital.
The receptionist had trouble at first finding Freddy’s whereabouts but finally directed Elizabeth to the third floor, after informing her with gratuitous solemnity that it was the ward “for the grievously injured.”
When she arrived at his room, Freddy was conscious, though heavily bandaged. His head was swathed in gauze, his nose was swollen, his face bruised and cut. Both eyes were blackened. Elizabeth nearly cried when she saw him. Tom Bannister sat at his bedside. When he saw Elizabeth, Freddy tried to sit up in bed, moaning as he attempted to change position.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said in a weak voice, “thanks fer comin’ t’see me.”
“Oiy, mate, don’ try an’ move,” Tom said. “Gotta save yer strength, yeah?”
Elizabeth remained in the doorway, unsure of her reception. “Hello, Freddy. How is he?” she asked Tom stiffly.
“Doctor reckons he’ll live, if he don’ do noffin’ stupid,” Tom said, with a glance at Freddy, who gave a wan smile.
“How bad are his injuries?”
“Broke a few ribs, an’ his nose, which jes might improve his looks. Busted collarbone. Lotta bruises and bashes, and prob’ly a concussion. Lost a bit a blood, didn’ ya?” he asked Freddy, who seemed to have fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, and his breathing appeared regular, which Elizabeth found reassuring. Tom rose from his chair and tiptoed over to her. “They were worried ’bout internal bleedin’, but so far he’s holdin’ his own,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” she said. “I promised I would report on his condition.”
“Oh, I was s’posed to do that. I forgot.”
“Never mind—I’ll take care of it. Did he say who did this to him?”
“Coupla thugs, he says. Didn’ get a good look at ’em.”
“Not in uniform, I assume?”
“No.”
“It figures. Byrnes would be too smart for that,” she said, turning to go.
“Uh, miss?” Tom said hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“Look, I shouldna’ said wha’ I did. It weren’t yer fault—I was jes angry, an’ took it out on you. It was wrong, an’ I apologize.”
“Thank you, Tom—I appreciate that. We’re all worried. I’ll go send that telegram now.”
“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” Going back into the room, he resumed his bedside vigil.
The hospital had its own telegraph office on the first floor, and after reporting on Freddy’s condition to the Herald, Elizabeth went back to the lobby and followed the signs to the Pavilion for the Insane. As she trod the by-now-familiar route, she heard quickening footsteps behind her. Panic gripped her, and she spun around to see Dr. Jamison loping toward her. Relief flooded over her at the sight of him, and something more than relief as well.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he said, catching up to her.
“Good evening, Doctor,” she said without breaking stride. Every cell in her body rejoiced at his presence, which was precisely why she did not want to reveal to him how glad she was to see him.
“You are here to see your sister?”
“Do you have any news of her?”
“As a matter of fact, I was on my way to check on her now.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
He did not reply immediately, which was in itself an answer.
“What is it?” she asked. “Please tell me.”
“I would rather you see for yourself,” he said as they rounded the corner leading to the patients’ common room.
They found Laura seated in her usual place, the wicker settee by the window, clad in a pale-yellow dress, nearly the same shade as her fine, silky hair. As they entered the room, she was staring out the window, golden moonlight filtering in through the sheer curtains. For a moment Elizabeth imagined it was her mother in the chair, the resemblance between them was so close. Laura turned as they entered, and the blank expression on her face was like the thrust of a dagger.
“Hello, Lolo,” Elizabeth said softly.
Her sister cocked her head to one side without smiling. “You are a vision.”
Elizabeth waited for her to say something else, but she remained silent, shifting her gaze to Dr. Jamison.
“Good evening, Miss Van den Broek,” he said. “How are you feeling this evening?”
“I am flying,” she said in a curiously flat voice. It was as if their presence meant no more to her than the chair she was sitting on, or the cold cup of tea on the table next to her.
“What have you been reading?” Elizabeth asked, indicating the book on her lap.
Her sister picked up the book and studied it curiously, as if she had never seen it before. “Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Egypt.”
“Where did you get that?” Elizabeth asked tightly.
“From a ghost,” Laura said vaguely.
“What makes you think it was a ghost?” Jamison asked.
“All in white, dark as the night,” Laura replied in a singsong voice.
“You mean it was someone wearing white?” Elizabeth asked.
Her sister nodded. “Dressed in white, black as the night.”
“Was it a Negro?” asked Jamison.
Laura shrugged and bit her lip. The change in her affect since Elizabeth had last seen her was heartbreaking.
“The orderlies wear white,” Jamison said. “And so do most of the staff.”
“It’s summer,” Elizabeth pointed out. “A lot of people wear white.” She turned to Laura. “Can you remember who gave you the book?”
Her sister frowned and shook her head violently.
“This seems to be upsetting her,” Jamison said gently. “Might we change the subject?”
“Well, I—”
“It’s not important, is it?”
“It may prove to be very important indeed. Will you excuse us for a moment?” she asked Laura.
“Of course,” her sister replied with a gracious wave of her hand. To Elizabeth’s relief, she seemed to have calmed down.
Elizabeth beckoned to Jamison, then led him into the hallway. Lowering her voice, she told him of the recent killings and their links to Egyptian mythology. He listened thoughtfully.
“I see why you are concerned. I shall conduct an inquiry first thing tomorrow to get to the bottom of this.”
“I cannot thank you enough.”
“Of course you are aware there is a great interest in all things Egyptian these days. It may prove to be merely a coincidence.”
“It may indeed,” she agreed, though the more strange turns of events piled up, the less she believed in coincidences.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Laura was no more forthcoming during the rest of her visit, until finally Elizabeth’s patience wore out. She had never seen her sister so unresponsive; her expressionless face and flat affect were puzzling and exhausting. She seemed only vaguely connected to reality. After about half an hour, Elizabeth agreed with Jamison that it was time to leave.
“I see why you were vague about her condition earlier,” she said as they retraced their steps down the long corridor leading to the lobby. “You did not want to upset me.”
“I also did not want to plant preconceived notions of her behavior that might lead you to treat her differently.” As they reached the front door, he turned to her. “I am quite ravenous. Would you care to dine with me?”
Elizabeth, too, was starving, having given little thought to food most of the day.
“There is a small café around the corner I am very fond of. The owner treats me well, and I would be honored if you would join me.”
“That is very kind of you,” she replied. “But first I must attend to something.”
“May I ask what it is?”
She told him of Madhouse Mary’s murder and the subsequent events. “I want to go down to the morgue. If Viktor Novak is there, he may let me see Mary.”
“A gruesome task, I should think.”
“No more so than what you do every day.”
“Touché,” he said with a rueful smile.
“No doubt you think it is more difficult for me because I am a woman, but I can assure you I am no more fragile than any man.”
“Truly, I do not doubt it,” he said earnestly, and she believed him.
They agreed to meet in the lobby in half an hour. He went to look in on some patients, while Elizabeth left the Pavilion for the hospital wing housing the city morgue. She arrived to find Viktor Novak seated at his desk in the small front room, absorbed in paperwork.
“Ah,” he said when he saw her, “I wondered when you would be paying me a visit. Several of your colleagues—or perhaps I should say rivals—have been here already.”
“What did you tell them?”
“The same thing I told the police. The coroner’s autopsy revealed the cause of death to be drowning—though, as in the other case, there were marks indicating strangulation.”
“But no exsanguination?”
“No.”
“So he strangles them, but not to the point of death.”
“So it would seem.”
“And the Madison Square Park victim?”
“The body was too damaged to determine whether or not strangulation was involved. And no, we have not yet identified her,” he said, anticipating her next question.
“Why strangle them at all, then?” she mused, as Benjamin Higgins strolled into the room, sucking on a piece of licorice.
“Maybe he likes the feeling of power it gives ’im,” he suggested. “Evenin’, miss.”
“Good evening, Mr. Higgins.”
“I’m surprised you have so much time on your hands,” Novak remarked.
The ambulance driver shrugged as he wiped a smudge of licorice from his white jacket, which was snug across his bulky shoulders and muscular chest. “Slow night. What brings you down here, miss?” he asked Elizabeth.
“She is investigating Mary’s murder,” Novak replied.
“Oh, yeah?” He shook his head ruefully. “Terrible thing. Hard t’imagine what goes through the head of a fiend like that.”
“I feel certain these are lust murders,” Elizabeth replied.
The suggestion seemed to mortify Higgins. “What? No—surely not. He didn’t, uh, molest them, did he?”
“No,” Novak replied. “Though in my experience, that does not preclude a sexual motive. No doubt you would like to see the body,” he said to Elizabeth.
“Yes, indeed, if you don’t mind.”
“Right this way,” Novak said, with a glance at Higgins, who plunked himself down in a chair, chewing contentedly on his licorice, which had stained his lips and tongue black.
Elizabeth followed Novak into the room where bodies were stored in refrigerated metal drawers. He approached the one labeled “Mary Mullins” in a tidy, handwritten script.
“Here we are,” Novak said as the drawer slid forward smoothly on its oiled rollers.
Mary looked much the same as she had the previous day, except for the Y-shaped incision on her torso. Someone had taken great care with the suturing—the stitches were small and closely spaced, as if they had tried to mar her milky skin as little as possible. Elizabeth wondered whether it was a sign of respect, or merely a surgical resident practicing his technique on a compliant corpse.
She studied the deathly white skin of Mary’s shoulders and chest, the strangulation marks still visible around her neck.
“Were there any other markings on her body?” she asked Novak.
“There were some cuts and bruises. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Elizabeth pulled a slip of paper from her purse and showed it to him.
“What’s that?” he said after studying it for a moment.
“It’s an ancient Egyptian symbol for water.”
“H-how did you know?” He looked genuinely spooked.
“Can you show it to me?”
Without a word, Novak lowered the sheet to expose the rest of her torso. There, neatly carved into her abdomen, was the symbol Elizabeth had shown him. She looked up to see Benjamin Higgins standing in the doorway, his mouth agape.
“Heaven and saints preserve us. It’s the work of the devil.”
“Actually,” Elizabeth replied, “I believe it is the work of Osiris.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Elizabeth’s visit to the morgue lasted just over half an hour, and when she arrived back in the hospital’s main lobby, Hiram Jamison was already there.
“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” she said, hurrying across the tile floor to where he stood.
“Not at all,” he said, smiling. “But I am quite famished—I do hope you like French cuisine.”
“I can think of nothing better,” she replied, and they stepped out into the night.
The air was still balmy, even though the sun had set some hours ago, and as they walked down First Avenue, she reflected on how, even on a gentle night such as this, terrible crimes were taking place within the shores of this strange, unpredictable island.
Café des Gamins was even more charming than she had imagined, its Continental flavor aided by the French accents of the owners. Hiram Jamison explained that the couple was from Montreal, not Paris, which accounted for the thickness of their consonants and twisting diphthongs. They seemed to regard him as their special pet, and insisted on treating him to a bottle of fine Burgundy.
When the food arrived, he insisted she try a bite of his coq au vin, which was good, but her truite aux fines herbes was even better. Drenched in a buttery lemon sauce topped with parsley, chives, chervil, and tarragon, with roast potatoes and asparagus, it was the closest thing to heaven Elizabeth could imagine.
Her initial hunger satiated, she leaned back in her chair and looked around the café’s cozy interior. Wall gas sconces flickered merrily, aided by the light of a dozen or so candles on the fireplace mantel, windowsills, and tables. The room was decorated in a French farmhouse style, with white lace curtains and bouquets of dried lavender tied up with ribbons in flowered vases. Gleaming copper pans hung on the walls, alongside a few reproductions of Old World masters—Elizabeth recognized a Vermeer, a Rembrandt, and one of Monet’s Haystacks.
Her gaze fell on Jamison just as he looked up from his plate. Their eyes met, and to her surprise, he laughed.
“I was about to apologize for being so absorbed in my food, but I see your appetite matched my own.”
He was right—she had eaten half of her meal in just a few minutes. She felt a blush creep onto her cheeks. “If my mother were here, she would be mortified.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“She so wishes I were more like her.”
“The saddest moment in some people’s lives is the realization they will never really change another person.”
“My mother has not yet reached that level of enlightenment.”
“I have never understood why some parents feel they must mold their child in their own image.”
“It sounds as if your parents avoided that temptation.”
Jamison smiled. “More wine?” he asked, reaching for the bottle.
“Yes, please.” She looked around the room, which had emptied considerably since they arrived. The waiter was serving dessert to the one other couple by the fireplace. “I was wondering if we might talk about my sister for a moment. Of course, if you’d rather not, I entirely understand.”
“I don’t mind at all,” he said, taking a sip of wine. His jade eyes were darker in the candlelight, his skin dusky, and his hair appeared jet black. His complexion was entirely unlike her own, which was probably one of the reasons she was attracted to him.
“Perhaps you would rather take your mind away from your work—”
“I must confess I find my work so absorbing that I am never far from it.”
“Very well,” she said, wrapping her napkin around her fingers, the way her father did when he was preoccupied with a problem. “Do you have any idea why my sister has taken this turn for the worse?”
“Not specifically, but I have been arguing for a different course of treatment.”
“How so?”
“First, there is the overreliance on sedatives that I mentioned before.”
“I entirely agree. But what then?”
“I think we need to make more of an effort as clinicians to communicate with the patient, to get inside their head, as it were.”
“Do you believe you will convince others to try this approach?”
“If I can get the ear of Dr. Smith, I believe he will listen to me. He is the reason I came to Bellevue. I have also long suspected that some madness may have a biological origin. I am not alone in this, of course, though so little is currently known that I fear new treatments may do more harm than good.”
“Do you . . .” She hesitated, realizing she dreaded the answer.
“Yes?”
“Do you believe she can be cured?”
“I have not yet enough experience in the field. But I do think it is possible, one day, to find a more effective treatment for people like her.”
