A Deadly Affection (34 page)

“No, miss, I didn't see a soul all night. It was quiet as a tomb.”

“Quiet as a tomb, eh?” I repeated, remembering my desperate cries. “I don't suppose you might have shut your eyes for just a minute?”

His bristled chin jerked upward. “No, miss, I did not,” he answered fiercely.

I waved a conciliatory hand, too spent to wrangle with him any further. “All right, all right. I was just asking. Good day, Mr. Kearny.”

“Quiet as a tomb!” he called after me as I turned and trudged up the street.

I was nearly at the intersection before I thought to wonder why Simon would have come looking for me at the crack of dawn. I hadn't told him I was going to Eliza's. I hadn't even had a chance to tell him about the letter. He couldn't have known I was coming, unless…

I stopped short. Could Simon have written the letter and pushed me into the locker? I remembered what my father had suggested about Simon offering District Attorney Jerome some sort of carrot in exchange for the Saratoga gambling concern. Jerome—the same man who was prosecuting Eliza's case, the man who, according to Father, was thinking of running for Senate and would want a quick conviction to assuage the voting public. I'd already had cause to question Simon's relationship with Maloney. Could they all be in this together somehow, using me as their pawn, trying, if not to kill me, then at least to scare me into turning on Eliza?

I tried to tell myself I was becoming delusional, but it didn't help. I was consumed by the devastating possibility that Simon might really hate me that much. A hansom cab rolled to a stop at the corner. I lunged toward it, calling to the cabbie to hold up. He opened the door and I threw myself inside, feeling as if the whole world had turned against me.

• • •

To my relief, Mary was the only one up and about when I got home, sweeping the floor in the dining room. I tiptoed silently to the stairs and dragged myself up to my room, where I peeled off my damp coat and hat and collapsed onto the mattress. Never had a bed so engulfed me. I fell into a coma-like sleep, only to be awakened what seemed minutes later by an incessant pounding. I dragged the pillow over my head to try to shut out the noise.

“It's eleven o'clock, miss,” Mary called through the door. “Your mother says to ask if you're going to go with her today.”

I heard her as if from the bottom of a deep well. “What?” I mumbled through the pillow.

“She says if you want to go, you'll need to be ready in half an hour.”

I pulled the pillow off my head. “Go where?”

“Calling on Mrs. Fiske.”

I dragged my mind back from the depths, struggling to make sense of her words. It must be Lucille's receiving day—the day when guests from the ball would call on her to thank her and congratulate her on her success.

“Miss?” asked Mary. “Did you hear?”

I sat up. Though my headache was gone my limbs felt weak, and my mind seemed incapable of sustained thought. Amid the buzz of half-formed beliefs and blurry suspicions that were whirling around in my brain, however, one thing stood out with relative clarity: Lucille Fiske had the most to gain from the Hauptfuhrers' deaths. Calling on her with my mother would give me an opportunity to question her again, and perhaps to determine if she had masterminded my recent ordeal.

“Yes, Mary,” I called back. “Tell her I'll be right down. And Mary? Ask Katie to make me a pot of coffee, will you? Tell her to make it extra strong.”

An hour later, my mother and I were being shown into the Fiskes' sumptuous drawing room. Lucille rose from the sofa and floated over to kiss my mother's cheek. “Evelyn, how lovely to see you again. And Genevieve,” she added with a nod. If she was surprised to see me alive, she didn't show it. “Do have a seat, won't you?”

We lowered ourselves onto two stiff-backed gondola chairs as Lucille settled into the deeply cushioned sofa. A polar bear hide stretched across the floor between us, head intact, eyes regarding me balefully. A full-length Sargent portrait on the wall behind Lucille captured our hostess in her famous tiara, wearing an enigmatic smile. She was wearing the same smile now, I realized as we waited for the maids to refresh the teapot and lay more logs on the fire.

“It's been too long since you paid me a visit,” she said to Mama when the maids were gone, leaning to pour the tea.

“I don't do much visiting anymore,” my mother admitted.

“I hope that's going to change. You have a great deal to offer, Evelyn, and I, for one, would like to see much more of you.” Her voice was perfectly modulated, her posture impeccable as she tipped the tea into three gilt-edged cups. In her snug, ribboned bodice and full Oriental sleeves, she gave the appearance of a delicate Chinese doll.

“Did you enjoy yourself at the ball?” she asked my mother, passing her one of the cups.

“Oh my goodness, yes,” Mama replied. “I can't imagine how it could have been any finer. The flowers alone…” She shook her head.

“And you, Genevieve?” Lucille asked, handing me a cup. “Did you find the evening satisfactory?”

“I found it…utterly extraordinary,” I said, taking the tea.

Her smooth brow crinkled slightly. “Are you feeling all right, my dear? You look rather pale.”

My mother turned to peer at me. “Oh no. I hope you're not coming down with something.”

“I'm just a little tired.” I turned back to Lucille. “I didn't sleep very well last night.”

“Thinking about your patients, no doubt,” she said, pouring cream for Mama. “Young women today are remarkable, aren't they, Evelyn? So ambitious and ready to take on the world.” She stirred some cream into her own tea and sat back. “But there's a danger in being overzealous, in Genevieve's line of work especially.”

“What danger is that?” I asked.

She shrugged daintily. “Why, the tendency to become overly involved in the affairs of others at the risk of one's own health.”

I nearly choked on my Earl Grey. Was she admitting that she'd locked me in the cooler? If so, it was a bold thing to do—and yet, it made perfect sense. She'd want me to know that she had done it, to demonstrate the unhampered reach of her will. After all, if she could lock me in a meat cooler overnight with no one the wiser, what couldn't she do? The message seemed clear: accept her bribes and keep my nose out of her affairs, or suffer the consequences.

I glanced uneasily at the gilded French furniture and frescoed ceiling and grimacing polar bear at my feet. Lucille would like me to believe that her wealth lifted her above both law and convention. I didn't want to credit it, but it was my own neck on the block. My cup landed noisily on its saucer, spilling tea onto the table.

“Genna!” exclaimed Mother. “Are you sure you're quite all right?”

“Shall I ring for some ice water?” Lucille asked helpfully.

“I'm fine,” I said, dabbing at the spill with a napkin. “I'm just a little clumsy this morning.”

Lucille held up the pastry tray. “Perhaps a sweet would help.”

Lord, she was cool. I'd never met a woman like her, so determined to get what she wanted no matter who or what stood in her way. I didn't underestimate the damage she could do. And yet, even as she mocked me with her false concern, I felt a thawing in some icy region of my heart at the growing conviction that neither Eliza nor Simon had been plotting against me.

“Aren't those darling?” Mother murmured, leaning forward to examine the miniature cakes, which were decorated in gold leaf.

“Our pastry man thought them up in honor of the Earl,” Lucille said. “You see? It's in the shape of his family crest.”

Mother clucked in admiration. “You've certainly treated the Earl handsomely during his stay. Will he be in New York much longer?”

“Actually, no. He has a hankering to see the far West. The grizzlies and the cowboys, you know; the British can't get enough of them. We've arranged to bring him out in our private train car at the end of the week.”

“You're leaving New York?” I blurted out in surprise.

“Why, yes, on Saturday.”

“All of you?”

She raised an eyebrow at my ill-mannered inquisition but replied, “We'll all go as far as Colorado Springs so that Olivia and the Earl can spend more time together before the Earl goes buffalo hunting with Charles.” She smiled at Mama. “I understand the Antlers Hotel has become so popular with our overseas friends that they've dubbed it ‘Little London.' Just seeing it is reason enough to make the trip.”

But not the only reason, I was sure. It must have been extremely frustrating for Lucille to have her ball come and go with no engagement announcement to show for it. No doubt she'd do everything she could to rectify that omission during their western sojourn.

“The Earl seemed very attentive to Olivia at the ball,” Mother said, as though having the same thought. “Didn't you think so, Genevieve?”

“He struck me as very…courtly.” I replied. “As one might expect of a man his age.”

“Heavens, you make him sound positively rusty,” Lucille said with a tinkling little laugh.

“He is old enough to be her father.”

“Old enough to make a mature and devoted husband, should Olivia choose to marry him,” my mother said, arching an eyebrow at me in warning.

“Do you believe happiness is reserved for the young?” Lucille asked me.

“Of course not. But an older man is accustomed to living life as he pleases and with whom he pleases. My concern is whether the Earl, after so many years of bachelorhood, would be capable of giving Olivia the understanding and support she needs—now, and in the future.”

“My dear Miss Summerford,” said Lucille, putting down her cup. “A husband is not a girlfriend or a priest. Olivia has her friends and family to confide in. A distinguished man like Branard can give her other things: a title, an estate, a prominence, in short, that she could never achieve in a common marriage.”

Whether it was Huntington's chorea or some other ailment afflicting Olivia, I'd heard and seen enough to know that she wasn't well. Was it possible Lucille hadn't considered the possibility that her daughter would soon be too ill to enjoy whatever shallow pleasures a title would confer? Or did she simply choose to live in a world of make-believe, convincing herself that Olivia was going to be all right? “Don't you think that given Olivia's…delicate constitution, something more may be required?”

She eased back against the sofa. “You're a romantic, I see.”

“I'd call myself more of a realist,” I said shortly. “Reality may not always be pleasant, but I believe it should be confronted head-on.”

“Genevieve!” my mother admonished.

“Oh, I don't mind,” said Lucille with a little wave of her hand. “The young are entitled to strong opinions. They have plenty of time to change them.”

“You're very understanding,” my mother said, setting my teeth on edge. I couldn't bear the ease with which Lucille had taken her in thrall.

“Speaking of the young, Evelyn dear, I have a favor to ask you,” Lucille went on, deftly changing the subject. “Sally Courtlandt is having her annual skating party on Friday night. It's gotten more difficult for her to manage, what with her rheumatism, and she's asked me to help round up some chaperones. I thought if you weren't busy, you might like to come. I even have a spare pair of skates, in case you'd like to take a turn on the ice.”

My mother's hand fluttered to her throat. I waited for her to refuse as she always did, on the rare occasions when people still sought to include her.

“I can't remember the last time I was on skates,” she said.

“Good! Then I won't be the only one making a fool of myself,” Lucille said with a smile. “Just tell me you'll come, and my job will be done.”

“All right, I'll come,” said Mother, smiling back at her. “But won't it be too much for you to attend when you're leaving town the very next day?”

Lucille's lips twitched. “To tell you the truth, I wasn't planning on going. We're all a bit wrung out from so much entertaining. Olivia, especially, is feeling the strain, as you might imagine. But the Earl is eager to attend. It seems he's never been on ice skates before.”

“That will make three of us, then, sitting on the ice,” Mother said with a laugh.

Lucille glanced toward the front window as an elegant four-in-hand rolled up to the door. “There's Minerva Penniman,” she said, clapping her hands expectantly. “I was hoping she'd come. I'm not going to let her leave until she's told me how much she's paying her new chef.” She winked at Mama. “I intend to steal him for my next dinner party.”

Mother rose to her feet with a smile. “We'll leave you to it, then.”

Lucille rose beside her and, slipping an arm around her elbow, walked us to the door. “I was hoping you might prepare a preliminary design for the new garden while I'm away,” she suggested to Mama. “That way, we can meet with the landscapers as soon as I get back.”

“I've already come up with a few ideas,” Mama confessed. “I hope you'll like them.”

“I'm sure I will. Oh, by the way, I put in a word with Charles about your husband's mechanical lung. I wouldn't be surprised if he decides to fully fund the project.”

To my amazement, my mother seized her in a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you, Lucille. You've done so much, for all of us. I don't know how we can ever repay you.”

“Don't be silly,” Lucille said, meeting my eyes over my mother's shoulder. “Helping each other is what friends do.”

The sidewalk in front of the Fifth Avenue Hotel was empty the next morning when my electric auto-cab rolled up to the curb, except for a bespectacled gentleman standing just outside the hotel entrance. The man had a pointy white mustache and trim goatee and was holding a medical bag. I guessed from the way he huddled near the door, clasping his hat to his head, that the wind was whipping past the prow of the Flatiron Building with its usual ferocity, buffeting everything in its path.

I leaned out the open front of the cab. “Dr. Huntington?”

He came toward me, lifting his hat from a head of fine, white hair. “Dr. Summerford, I presume.”

I shook his hand. Though his grip was firm, he looked frail to me, as though he'd recently been ill. “Do come up and get out of the wind.”

He stepped up into the vehicle and eased himself onto the worn leather seat beside me. His movements were calm and unhurried, suggesting someone who'd seen too much of life to give the next minute any more importance than the present one.

“I apologize for getting you up at such an early hour,” I said, “but it was the only time I could arrange to have you see Mrs. Miner in private.”

“It's quite all right. I'm accustomed to waking early. I don't like the day to go to waste.”

I smiled, liking him already. “I can't thank you enough for agreeing to see her. It's extremely important that we get a reliable diagnosis. The outcome of Mrs. Miner's trial could depend on it.”

He steadied his medical bag on his lap as the snub-nosed cab pulled quietly out into the light morning traffic. I noticed that his ungloved fingers were long and fine, the sort of fingers one would expect more on a surgeon than on a country doctor.

“Perhaps you could tell me a little more about your patient and the accusations against her,” he said.

After explaining why Eliza had been referred to my class, I told him about the details of her arrest and that the prosecution was claiming she was suffering dementia caused by Huntington's chorea. “Although I don't believe she's showing the symptoms you describe in your monograph, I can't be absolutely sure,” I explained. “That's why I've been so anxious to meet with you.”

“I understand. I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, but I had just returned home when your telegram arrived. I've been in North Carolina, recuperating from a lung condition, and I had to take care of some business before I could leave home again. Let me ask you this: What was it that led the prosecution to suspect Huntington's chorea in the first place?”

“The police found a copy of the letter Dr. Hauptfuhrer sent to you, asking you to confirm his diagnosis of Mrs. Miner. I assume you received the original?”

“Not soon enough to be of any assistance, I'm afraid. It was forwarded to me in North Carolina but didn't reach me until after the doctor's death.”

“You never talked to him about Mrs. Miner, then, or made any tentative diagnosis based on his observations?”

“I never had the opportunity.”

So if Hauptfuhrer had conveyed his suspicions about Olivia to Lucille Fiske, I concluded with relief, he'd done it without any encouragement from Dr. Huntington. “Unfortunately, the detective on the case, a man named Maloney, has convinced himself not only that Mrs. Miner is suffering the mental impairment that Dr. Hauptfuhrer referred to in his letter, but also that it caused her to commit the murder. I'm hoping that your examination will change his mind.”

He nodded. “Detective Maloney came to my home while I was gone. According to my housekeeper, he was very keen on questioning me about Dr. Hauptfuhrer's patient. I contacted him after I received your telegram to let him know I'd be coming to the city to examine her. He's asked me to meet with him this afternoon to discuss the results.”

I supposed I should have known the detective would catch up with the doctor eventually. I reminded myself that if everything turned out as I expected, the meeting could only go in Eliza's favor. “You should know that there's been another murder since then,” I informed him. “Dr. Hauptfuhrer's daughter was decapitated in her home four days ago.”

“Good God!”

“Mrs. Miner was under house arrest at the time, with guards standing watch over the premises around the clock. They've found nothing at all to connect her to the second crime. But the detective is determined to pin that one on her as well. He's fully expecting you to confirm not only that she has the disease, but also that she likely killed both Hauptfuhrers because of it.”

He sighed and shook his head. “It never ceases to amaze me how intolerant people are of what they don't understand. There is no reason to assume that a victim of Huntington's chorea, especially in the early stages, is any more likely to commit a crime than the next person. These people need our help, not our suspicion.”

“So you don't think the disease could drive a person with no previous criminal inclination to commit a murder?”

He turned to look at me. His clear gray eyes were penetrating, but not unkind. “Murderers, Dr. Summerford, come in all shapes and sizes. If a murderer was short, we would not conclude that all short people are murderers. If he had a limp, we would not say that the limp caused the murder. Nor would this disease, I believe, of itself create a murderous tendency in someone who did not already possess it.”

“Have you ever personally known a victim of this type of chorea who did commit a murder? Or any other violent crime?”

“No, I don't believe I have. Which is not to say they can't become physically aggressive in the advanced stages of the disease. I've seen patients push or strike their family members when they're upset. They're like children, you see; they want everything now and are apt to react with a tantrum if they don't get it. But for an otherwise moral and law-abiding citizen to be so transformed by the disease as to intentionally kill another human being?” He shook his head. “It strikes me as extremely unlikely.”

I could have hugged him in relief. Of course, the prosecution could still try to argue that Eliza had struck the doctor with the sword in a fit of temper. But it was immensely comforting to know that the leading expert on the disease had never heard of an afflicted individual going to such extremes.

The light caught the doctor's profile as he turned to cough into his hand, accentuating his sunken cheeks and furrowed brow. I felt a sudden surge of gratitude for his tireless efforts to understand this loathsome disease, thinking of all the stricken people he must have tended to over the years and the suffering he must have witnessed. “I can't imagine what it must be like,” I murmured.

“To have the disorder, you mean? That's what they call it, you know—‘the disorder.' Whole families of them, affected generation after generation. I'll never forget the first time I saw it. I was just a young boy, driving with my father on his rounds, when we passed two women walking on the Amagansett road. They were thin as cadavers, bowing and twisting in the most unnatural way. I couldn't stop staring when my father slowed the carriage to bid them good day. I was horrified when he told me later there was nothing he could do for them. I determined then and there to dedicate my life to conquering the disease.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, it has proved to be a more stubborn adversary than I anticipated.”

We arrived at the Brauns' building a little after seven o'clock, to find Eliza waiting for us alone inside the flat. I introduced her to Dr. Huntington and we all sat down at the small kitchen table, Eliza glancing apprehensively from me to the doctor.

“Don't worry,” he told her. “None of the tests I'm going to perform are the least bit painful or intrusive, I promise.” Pointing to his medical bag, he added with a smile, “This is just for show.” He stowed the bag under his seat, then asked, “I wonder, Mrs. Miner, if you might bring me a glass of water before we start.”

“Of course.” She fetched a glass from the cupboard, then filled it and carried it back to him. I noticed he was watching her closely the entire time.

“Thank you,” he said, taking a sip. “And now, since you're already up, why don't we begin by having you walk back over to the door there, touching your heel to your toe with each step.”

She did as he asked, evidencing no difficulty with the maneuver. “Like that?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Like that exactly. Now, if you would just stand there for a moment with your eyes closed and your heels together. Excellent. All right, you can come sit down.”

When she was seated, he asked her to recite the months of the year, then instructed her to tap her thumbs and forefingers together. He stuck his tongue rapidly in and out, eliciting laughter from his subject, and asked her to do the same. Raising his hat high above his head, he told her to look from his nose to the hat, then spread his empty hands apart and had her look from thumb to thumb. I couldn't see anything unusual in any of her responses, but then, I didn't know what to look for.

Finally, he smiled and sat back. “There. That wasn't so bad, was it?”

“You mean we're finished?” she asked.

“We're finished.”

I sat up straighter in my chair.

“Well, am I…am I all right?” Eliza asked.

“I wish I were in as good health.”

“You mean she doesn't have it?” I asked.

“She shows none of the usual indicators.”

I turned to Eliza and saw my own relief magnified in her eyes. I leaned over impulsively and gave her a hug.

“Does this mean that the detective will have to leave me alone?” Eliza asked breathlessly when I had released her.

“Knowing Maloney, I wouldn't count on it,” I said. “But it should certainly take some steam out of the prosecution's case.”

Dr. Huntington rose and put on his hat. “I'll convey the results of my exam to the detective personally when I see him this afternoon. Of course, I'm only one doctor, but I don't think he'll find anyone to controvert my opinion.”

“I should say not,” I agreed, rising alongside him. Not even Maloney would be foolish enough to insist Eliza had Huntington's chorea if Dr. Huntington himself declared that she didn't.

The doctor retrieved his bag from under his chair, and we all walked to the front door. “Good-bye, Mrs. Miner,” he said. “Please tell your attorney that I'd be happy to testify on your behalf if he thinks it would help.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“I'll walk you out,” I told him. I gave Eliza another hug and then accompanied the doctor out of the building. I practically skipped out onto the sidewalk, so happy I even smiled and nodded at Simon's man on the stoop. He nodded back, tipping his cap.

The doctor offered me his elbow and I fell into step beside him, moving at a much more dignified pace than I could have managed just then on my own. “Are you absolutely certain?” I asked him.

“As certain as it's possible to be.”

“How can you tell? What exactly were you looking for in there?”

“Over the years, I've noticed a number of indicators that crop up in the early and middle stages of the disease. They may not all be present in a particular case, but I always see at least some.”

“What are they, exactly?”

“The most obvious, of course, would be any choreic movements of the hands and feet, along with the typical gait abnormalities and slurring of speech. But if those aren't present, I have to look for more subtle signs. A very low body weight can be a clue, although it's not always present initially. To look for early interference with voluntary muscle movement and balance, I'll ask the patient to walk heel-to-toe across the room, as you saw, or manipulate her tongue and fingers.”

“Why did you ask her to recite the months of the year?”

“If you listen to the speech of a person with this type of chorea, you'll notice that they have difficulty sustaining their vowels. The names of the months include all of the vowel sounds, so I use them for convenience. Recently, I've observed that many of my patients have unusual eye movements as well. Their eyes seem to travel more slowly than normal between objects, making little stops along the way, especially when they're looking up. They also tend to blink excessively, and to move their head along with their eyes when they're tracking something. But Mrs. Miner had no difficulty looking from my nose to my hat or fixing her gaze on an object for an extended period of time.”

“I had no idea there were so many clear signs,” I said, shaking my head, “and I thought I'd covered all the literature. You must think me terribly uninformed.”

“Nonsense, my dear. It's not in the literature. This disease isn't widely recognized, let alone well documented. It's my fault, I suppose. I've always meant to publish more and to share what I've observed. But…” He shrugged. “Life has a way of intruding on one's plans.”

“What about the hand motions and facial grimacing I read about in the reports?” I asked, wanting to be sure we'd left no stone unturned. “I have seen Mrs. Miner wring her hands on occasion. And her lips twitch at times, especially when she's upset.”

“I'd suspect those are more signs of a nervous disposition, possibly a compulsion, than symptoms of this disease, especially the hand wringing. In the early stages of chorea, you're more apt to notice only a general clumsiness of the hands and feet. The writhing movements come later, when the muscle contractions are too severe for the patient to voluntarily suppress.”

I nodded, delighted to cross another concern off my list. “Her mother says she's also prone to forgetfulness and changes of mood,” I added in the interests of full disclosure, “although I can't believe that those things alone would support a diagnosis.”

“I'm afraid that the mental aspects of the disease are even less well documented than the physical ones,” he told me. “It does appear that the range and progression of symptoms vary considerably among patients. But it's a far cry from a lapse of memory to the mental derangement that would induce a person to commit murder. Absent any physical signs, I'd have to assign Mrs. Miner's psychical symptoms to another cause.”