A Deadly Affection (20 page)

Her mouth worked silently as she pulled at the misshapen sweater. I sensed the one thing we hadn't talked about, the most important thing of all, hovering in the air between us. Mrs. Braun may have kept Joy's birth and adoption a secret from others all these years, but I guessed it was affecting her own perceptions of what had transpired in the doctor's office.

“I know about Eliza's baby,” I said. “The one Dr. Hauptfuhrer took away. Eliza told me.”

Fear flared in her eyes. She shrank back in her chair, reminding me of a sow bug scurrying from the light.

“Just because the doctor took her baby against her will twenty years ago doesn't mean she killed him,” I said firmly.

“They found her there, with that sword,” she said, her voice shaking, “and the doctor dead at her feet.”

“Someone else could have attacked him while she was waiting.”

She shook her head. “I saw how agitated she was that morning. I could feel it in her. And now you say she might have this disease…”

“You mustn't give up on her!” I drew a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “We haven't even established for certain that her father was a carrier. I want to contact your husband's family next, to find out if there's any history of the disease among his relatives.”

“His family lives in Germany, I don't know where. I've never met them.” She started pushing herself up from the table as the knocking at the front door grew louder.

This was undeniably a setback. But I couldn't let her see my disappointment. “We can still have her examined by an authority on the disease,” I insisted.

She drew herself erect. “And if he says that she's sick? What will you do then?”

“I don't know,” I conceded. “I'll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.”

She frowned down at me. “I know you think you can help, Doctor. But what's done is done. There's nothing anyone can do now.” She started for the door.

“We have to try!” I said, following after her. “We can't just sit back and do nothing—”

She abruptly stopped and turned, silencing me with an upraised palm. “There is a time to fight,” she said sharply, “and a time to accept. It's in God's hands now. Just let it be.”

• • •

I trudged down Second Avenue, feeling as though I were towing a sack of bricks behind me. I seemed to be the only one, with the possible exception of Reverend Palmers, who was inclined to believe that Eliza was innocent. Was Mrs. Braun right when she said there was nothing I could do to help? Was I, as Simon had suggested, allowing my guilt to blind me to the truth?

Unfortunately, obsessing over the question didn't bring me any clarity. Turning my mind to more concrete matters, I stopped at Fessenden's Pharmacy on Seventy-Seventh Street to pick up some medications I'd ordered for Mrs. Petrikova. I'd read about a new consumption treatment showing promise in Berlin, a mixture of eucalyptus, sulfur, and charcoal that I was hoping might offer the ailing woman some relief. Arriving at the tenement flat a few minutes later, I showed Mrs. Petrikova how to warm the Sanosin mixture in a dish over a spirit lamp and breathe in the fumes to ease her pain and coughing. With the assistance of Fiala, who'd stayed home from school to help meet the family's weekly production quota, I also instructed her on the safe use of digitalin for her palpitations, writing down the proper dosage and showing her how to check her pulse to be sure she didn't take too much. When we were done, they all saw me to the door, thanking me warmly, Fiala most profusely of all. I promised to return with more supplies in a few weeks, for although I didn't expect to cure Mrs. Petrikova, I did think I might at least stave off the inevitable, and make her a little more comfortable in the interim.

From there I continued by streetcar to the medical library. Since there was nothing more I could do for Eliza before her meeting with Simon the following morning, I was planning to use the rest of the day to put a dent in Professor Bogard's paper. Though I found it difficult to concentrate, I forced myself to stay with it, stopping only for a quick lunch at a nearby tearoom. When the streetlights came on outside the library windows, I'd managed to cobble together the professor's outline with sufficient supporting research to call the thing a first draft.

By the time I crawled into bed that evening, I was nearly dead with fatigue. I must have fallen into a very deep sleep, for the next thing I was aware of was a tapping on my bedroom door and Mary's voice asking if I wanted Katie to save me some breakfast. When I asked her the time, she informed me that it was nearly half-past nine o'clock.

I bolted upright. I was supposed to meet Simon at the Tombs in thirty minutes. The last thing I wanted was to give him a reason to renege on his promise. I staggered out of bed and, ten minutes later, with my belly empty, my skirt askew, and my hair in a lopsided pile under my hat, rushed headlong out the door.

The stone facade of the New York City Prison loomed up ahead on my right behind a thick, two-story perimeter wall that separated it from the bustling streets of the municipal district. Although still referred to as the Tombs because of an earlier incarnation's resemblance to an Egyptian mausoleum, the current prison more closely evoked a medieval French château, with curving walls, picturesque cones and spires on the roof, and an aerial bridge that connected it to the criminal courts building. I hurried through the massive columns that framed the entrance, praying that Simon would still be there.

To my intense relief, I saw him immediately, chatting with a guard at the gate. I paused inside the door to catch my breath, taking the opportunity to observe him unawares, struck again by how comfortably he wore his adult body. It didn't surprise me that the Tammany machine had found a place for him. He was the kind of man people wanted to be around—to give their loyalty to, even—because his self-assurance made them feel safe. But I knew, as others might not, that he would always put his own interests first. I had to keep that knowledge foremost in my mind as I navigated our uneasy truce on Eliza's behalf.

He looked up and saw me at the door. “You're late,” he said, sauntering over.

“I know. I'm sorry.” I held up the abandoned newspaper I'd found on the El as a sop. “Look at this.”

He scanned the front page with a frown.

Pointing to one of the headlines, I recited, “Prominent Financier Found Dead in Fifth Avenue Home.”

He looked up, his face blank.

“It's Thomas Backhouse!” I said. “Remember? His wife's initials were on Dr. Hauptfuhrer's list. They're saying he killed himself because of financial reversals.”

“So?”

“Well, don't you see? Thomas was obviously desperate for money—desperate enough, I should think, to try to blackmail Hauptfuhrer. Perhaps he tried to collect, but Hauptfuhrer wouldn't pay, and he killed him in a fit of rage. Afterward, he was so distraught that he took his own life.”

“That's an awfully big ‘perhaps.'”

“It's entirely plausible,” I insisted.

“Not as plausible as Mrs. Miner killing Hauptfuhrer in a demented rage.”

I was stung to hear him say it. I looked down at the newspaper, trying to hide my disappointment. The hope that Simon would help Eliza, I realized now, had been the one thing sustaining me in recent days. “I don't understand,” I said, looking back up at him. “I thought you were going to keep an open mind. If you've already decided she's guilty, why are you here?”

“I don't think the woman should be punished for doing something she couldn't control. If she's mentally unhinged, I can try to see that she goes to an asylum instead of to prison.”

“Are you saying that's the best she can hope for? To be locked away in an insane asylum for the rest of her life?”

“I can't change her condition,” he said with a shrug.

“Well, I've been reading up on her supposed ‘condition,'” I retorted. “You might be interested to hear what I've learned.” Pulling him over to a bench near the wall, I related everything I'd learned about Huntington's chorea, explaining that it was an inherited disease and exactly what this meant. “But what's interesting about this particular disease,” I finished, “is that it can't skip a generation as other inherited diseases often do.”

“So Mrs. Miner can't have this disease unless she got it from one of her parents. Is that what you're saying?”

“Correct. And although Mrs. Braun is certainly frail, she's not exhibiting any of the symptoms described in the literature.”

“What about the father?”

Choosing my words with care, I replied, “He died years ago. In an accident. He was never diagnosed with any disease.”

“Is there any reason to think he might have had it?”

I hesitated. So far, I'd only shared my concerns about Mr. Braun with the Reverend and Mrs. Braun. I was sorely tempted to keep those concerns between the three of us. With Simon watching me so closely, however, I found this impossible to do. Reluctantly, I related what Mrs. Braun had told me about her husband's “drunken” walk, angry outbursts, and increasingly slurred speech. “So it is theoretically possible that he had it,” I conceded, “without anybody realizing.”

“Poor bugger,” he muttered, sounding all too ready to believe the worst.

“But it's also entirely possible that Mrs. Braun was correct, and his problems were brought on solely by the drinking. Or that he did have the disease but didn't pass it on to Eliza.”

He said nothing for a moment, staring out into space. “So the thing keeps getting passed from one generation to the next,” he mused aloud, “with no possibility of a cure…”

I could almost see little wheels turning in his head. “What?” I asked when I could stand it no longer. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm just wondering if you might have put your finger on the real murderer after all.”

“Thomas Backhouse, you mean?” I asked eagerly.

He shook his head, apparently still working something out.

“Who, then?”

He turned to face me squarely. “Let's say, for a minute, that you're the son of a tenant farmer,” he said, his voice suddenly edgy with excitement. “Imagine you go out in the world, and through luck and cunning and a bit of head-knocking, you manage to build yourself a nice fortune. You find yourself a fancy wife, get yourself a fancy house, buy yourself whatever your heart desires. There's nothing you can't have—except the child your barren wife can't give you.”

He paused to be sure I was with him, then continued, “Now let's say that through more luck and your growing connections, you manage to adopt said child—a daughter—in secret. You give her everything money can buy—clothes, tutors, travel abroad—turning her into someone better than yourself, who can take her place at the top of the heap with apologies to no one. And then, when she's finally ready, you play your trump card. You find a titled bachelor willing, for a price, to make her his wife. An earl, no less, to give your darling the crown she deserves and show the world how far you've come.

“And now further suppose,” he went on, lowering his voice ominously, “that just weeks before the marriage agreement is signed and sealed, the doctor who procured your child comes to inform you that this flower on which you've lavished so much care, this bearer of your grandest dreams, could have a hideous and incurable disease.”

I leaned slowly back against the wall. Of course; if Hauptfuhrer believed that Eliza had inherited the disease, he would have worried that her daughter had inherited it as well.

“A disease which,” Simon continued, “should she have little earlets, could very well be passed on to them. Suppose this doctor insists he has a duty to tell not only the daughter, but also her prospective bridegroom of this unspeakable possibility. What do you suppose you would do?”

I stared at him. “Are you accusing Charles Fiske of murder? You might as well accuse…the president!”

“You said it yourself—the people on that list are just the kind who'd expect to get away with murder. And Fiske's the most powerful of the lot. I don't see him standing idly by while someone trumpets it about that his daughter is damaged goods.”

“You just don't like him because he's rich,” I scoffed.

“I don't like him because he's a heartless bastard who'd as soon run a working man over as drive around him.”

“I agree his treatment of the unions has been far too harsh, but you can't assume he's capable of cold-blooded murder just because of that.”

“And you can't assume that just because he throws a few of his millions at charities every year and has drinks with your dear old da at the club, he isn't.”

I supposed he was right. I had no reason to assume Fiske was any less capable of murder than the others on the list.

“It would explain why the doctor was so eager to confirm that Mrs. Miner was sick,” he insisted. “He'd want to know before there was an official engagement, to give the Earl a chance to bail out without embarrassing himself.”

Though I would have preferred to come up with a less prominent and intimidating suspect than Charles Fiske, what Simon said was making sense. And it was a relief to hear him considering someone other than Eliza for a change.

“There's another thing,” he said. “I had a look at Dr. Hauptfuhrer's appointment book. They collected it for evidence.”

“How did you—” I stopped, realizing it was pointless to ask. “And you discovered something?”

“The initials
L. F.
were written in on the Friday before the murder.”

“Lucille Fiske,” I murmured, feeling a tingle run down my spine.

“I didn't make much of it before, but if the scenario I described happens to be true, it could be significant.”

“You think the doctor met with her to discuss his suspicions?”

“It would fit. Let's say, for argument's sake, that Huntington responded immediately to Hauptfuhrer's letter and examined Mrs. Miner over the next week or two. Assume he confirmed that she was sick and told Hauptfuhrer so. Or maybe he didn't examine her, but Hauptfuhrer was so worried about the Earl proposing to Olivia, he decided not to wait for confirmation. Either way, Hauptfuhrer might have passed on his suspicions to Lucille Fiske that Friday, insisting that they had an obligation to inform the Earl. She would have told Charles, who had the weekend to decide what he was going to do about it. On Monday morning, Charles could have gone to the doctor's office and killed him.”

“But wouldn't he have tried to talk to Dr. Hauptfuhrer first and persuade him to change his mind?”

“Maybe he did but was unsuccessful.”

“Or maybe,” I said slowly, “Hauptfuhrer contacted him on Sunday with even more bad news.”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Eliza telephoned Dr. Hauptfuhrer on Sunday evening to say she was coming to his office the next day to ask about her daughter's location. The doctor might have called the Fiskes to find out how they wanted him to handle it.”

“Even better,” he said with a nod. “So now the Fiskes have to worry not only about the doctor spoiling their daughter's marriage prospects, but also about the natural mother showing up on their doorstep if he tells her where her child is.”

We stared at each other, both taken aback, I think, by the way the pieces were fitting together. “How do we determine if there's anything to it?” I asked.

“Well, you could start by finding out where Charles Fiske was supposed to be on the morning of the murder.”

“Me? How on earth am I going to do that?” I asked, aghast at the thought of snooping in Mr. Fiske's private affairs. What if our suspicions were somehow found out, and we were wrong? It made me dizzy just thinking about it.

“I thought you were friendly with the Fiskes.”

“I see them on occasion.”

“Will you be seeing them anytime soon?”

“Well, I'm going to their ball on Saturday.”

He shrugged. “There's your chance.”

“For what?”

“To ask around. If I were you, I'd start with the servants. They can be very informative if you put it to them right.”

“Good Lord, I can't possibly go around questioning the servants! What would people think—” I stopped, conscious of his scowl.

“Ask or not, it makes no difference to me,” he said shortly. “You're the one who's convinced that Mrs. Miner is innocent.”

I thought of Eliza's terrified face in the detention cell, and the promise I had made her that things would be all right. “Supposing I did ask around,” I said, “and discovered something suspicious. What would happen then?”

“Well, then I might be able to persuade the DA to postpone Mrs. Miner's grand jury trial, pending further investigation. Jerome's stubborn, but he won't want to waste his time on a worthless indictment. I'd bet he'd be willing to wait a little longer while the boys at the detective bureau took a closer look at Fiske's involvement.”

“Maloney won't like it. He's convinced he's already got the killer.”

“If Jerome wants him to follow it up, he won't have any choice.”

It was an enticing possibility. I supposed no harm would come from asking a few questions at the ball, so long as I was discreet. “All right, I'll do it,” I said, getting to my feet. “And now I think it's time you met Eliza.”

• • •

We presented the passes that Simon had procured for us to the guard at the gate and were waved through into the crowded inspection area. Morning visiting hours were in full swing, and the room was crammed with people speaking a babble of languages. Leaving Simon at the end of the men's queue, I joined a long line of women and proceeded slowly toward the females' room. Once inside, I was patted down by an assistant matron, told to turn out my pockets, and directed to a table where my bag was thoroughly searched.

Simon was waiting for me when I emerged, accompanied by a clubfooted keeper. We followed the keeper out of the main building into a brick courtyard, where a group of male prisoners were playing medicine ball despite a reading of ten degrees on the giant wall thermometer. To our right, I could see the covered stairway leading to the “Bridge of Sighs” that brought convicted prisoners over from the adjacent courthouse, named in an era when hangings still took place in the prison yard. Shivering in my thick woolen coat, I hurried across the courtyard behind the others into a low building in the rear that a sign identified as the Female Prison Annex.

A matron in a heavy blue shawl sat at the front desk, registering two new prisoners who were still wearing their street clothes. The keeper gestured toward some empty chairs against the wall, told us to wait, and clumped back out into the yard. The blast of cold air that blew past me as the door swung shut behind him did nothing to diminish the institutional odor of stale coffee and urine that permeated the air, making me close my mouth and contract my nostrils in a vain attempt not to breathe it in.