“Why, the old dog,” said Jonathan, and shrugged. “Poppycock. He didn’t try to commit suicide. He tried to make it appear that Prissy had poisoned him. What trash.”
Louis Hedler lit a cigar, Howard lit his pipe, Robert lit his, and the priest lit a cigarette. It was quiet now in the big handsome office with the soft lamps burning, and the windows were open and a night wind stirred the draperies. Smoke curled toward the high white ceiling. Jonathan continued to read, muttering under his breath.
Lightning suddenly snaked over the tops of the black mountains, licking them with a forked tongue. The wind rose higher. Now they could hear the thudding of a night train and then its long dolorous wail as it wound through the valley. There were subdued noises in the hospital at this hour, the rolling of a cart, suddenly quickened footsteps, the rapid tap of heels, the opening and shutting of a door, an abrupt cry, a wail, a soothing voice. The priest heard them and Howard Best, but the three doctors were accustomed to these sounds and they did not reach their consciousness.
Jonathan, as he read, was becoming paler and paler and his face narrower and narrower as every muscle tightened in it and elongated. In comparison his black lashes and brows and thick black hair became sharp and vivid. They saw him examine the receipted bills given to Louise Wertner and Mary Snowden. He reread their affidavits. He reread Edna Beamish’s affidavit. He looked up, cleared his throat, and spoke in a very quiet voice.
“These are all lies,” he said. “Every one is a lie. I merely gave the Beamish woman a preliminary examination, told her her condition, and then she—” He paused, and looked from one still face to another. “As for these other women, I don’t remember them at all. I don’t know why they were sent these bills. I—I never touched them. If I had made a compete examination of them, I’d have remembered. The bills—they are exorbitant. I never charge women of that class more than five or ten dollars for a complete examination.”
“They claim abortions,” said Louis Hedler. “Those are higher.”
Jonathan now fixed all his attention on the other doctor.
“I
never performed an abortion in my life. I never used a curette on a woman unless it was absolutely necessary to remove the results of a spontaneous abortion, or to save a life, or for diagnostic purposes. Do you believe me?” He appeared in a state of shock, but now the black eyes were beginning to glint and the livid ridges were appearing about his mouth.
“We believe you,” said Louis Hedler. “If we did not, you’d not be here now. But here is a statement, or affidavit, made to me by Martin Eaton, who died two days ago and was buried today. He made it in my presence, and in the presence of others.”
Jonathan’s hands were trembling more and more so that the paper rattled. He read Martin Eaton’s first affidavit, then reread it, made a slight sound, and read it again. He put it down and contemplated Louis Hedler and the black spark in his eyes was ferocious.
“Eaton lied,” he said. “Or, it may be that he believed Mavis, in spite of all the evidence. He was besotted by her. She was always a liar and a humbug and a fraud. She is dead now, and I wish she had died before I ever saw her.” His voice was all the more forbidding because it was so quiet. “I never used a curette on her, mine or anyone else’s. I wish now that I had really killed her.”
Louis, without speaking, opened the drawer of his desk, removed a covering of linen and laid it down before Jonathan. He nodded at it. Jonathan took the cloth and opened it and his curette lay in his hand. He looked at it incredulously. Louis said, “Martin gave that to me after he made that affidavit. I must admit he gave it up reluctantly.”
Jonathan held it in his hand. He said, “I explained some of the instruments to her. She was always curious about everything but rarely retentive of anything. When I explained its purpose she made a round, imitation frightened mouth and stretched her eyes. Then she cuddled against me. She was always cuddling against—everybody. That was at least two years before she died.” His low voice was suddenly charged with cold violence and hatred. His mouth opened and he choked. “I need a drink,” he said.
“Give Jon a drink please, Robert,” said Louis. Robert went to a cabinet and poured a glass of water for Jonathan and brought it to him. He looked at it numbly, as if it were a hemlock cup, then put it on Louis’ desk. “I didn’t mean that kind,” he said.
“I suspected not,” said Louis.
Jonathan again examined every face in the room. At last he said, “Is there anyone here who thinks I am lying?”
“No,” they said. “No, no, no.”
Louis folded his hands on the sheets of paper. “Kenton Campion is behind most of this, and this I know. He is the one who insisted that I send for members of the State Medical Board. They will be here Tuesday. They will issue an— order—for you to be present for examination. The sheriff will also be present—with a warrant for your arrest, Jon.”
The ugliest smile stood on Jonathan’s face. “I might have expected it,” he said. “I have too many enemies, as you remarked yourself, Louis.” He thought. “Campion. The traitor, the seller-out of his country. It’s quite in character for him. Well, it all comes back to Mavis, doesn’t it? She was the starting point.”
They felt the ghost of Mavis Eaton in the room, like a raucous and exultant presence, even Robert Morgan, who had never seen her and had only heard descriptions of her. Jonathan repeated, “I wish I had really killed her. At least I’d have that satisfaction now.”
“Mavis wasn’t the starting point,” said Louis Hedler. “You were, when you were born. Campion, these women, Martin Eaton, all the others who made affidavits against you, would be guiltless of this perjury if they’d never known you. You were the precipitating element, Jon. Now, wait”—and Louis held up his hand. “I am trying to make something clear to you. I am not blaming you for anything. Campion is a scoundrel and I’ve know it for years. But I’ve never known him to hate anyone as he hates you, and he is a very sound hater. In a way you should be complimented”—and for the first time Louis smiled.
Jonathan said, “So they’ll have their wish. I’ll be tried on the strength of these affidavits and the evidence of these whores, and that will be the end of me. I should have left months ago.” They saw the sudden shine of his teeth between his parched lips.
Louis nodded to Howard Best, who began to take a thick sheaf of papers from his briefcase. Louis said carefully, “Oh,
I
don’t agree with you, Jon. While you were busy making more enemies and antagonizing more people and generally making a nuisance of yourself, your friends, who believe in you, were very busy. Very busy, indeed.”
Howard was smiling broadly. “I’ve given up a great deal of my time to you, Jon, and your predicament. Louis called me and Father McNulty in some time ago and showed us those affidavits, and I’ve been busier than a bee since. Now, read these, and then you may make obeisance to me and perhaps I’ll forgive you for slighting me over the past months. Perhaps.”
Jonathan saw their smiling faces. He was still in a state of shock. He took the thick sheaf of papers and began to read. Louis had prudently removed Martin Eaton’s dying statement.
There was Peter McHenry’s abject apology and new affidavit, which Jonathan hastily read then put aside with bitter contempt. Then he said, “That poor little kid Elinor.” He read Amelia Forster’s “affirmation” closely, and he began to smile, and then he smiled exultantly. “So, that explains the bills! Good old Amelia! I must give her a pension at once. No, we can’t spare her. God bless our Amelia. And the affidavits of my other patients: I see that they thought they were ‘protecting’ me from a false claim of injury to the Beamish bitch. There are times when I begin to hope for human nature, that is, when humanity shows itself, which is very rare.”
Then he read Howard Best’s affidavit of his interview with William Simpson, chief of police of Scranton, and Jonathan swore in delight, and laughed out loud. “So, she was Campion’s little bed-pillow, was she! I ought to have thought of that myself. I can see it all. He sent her to me to involve me, and then to someone else who actually did the abortion. It would be a miracle if we could find that murderer. He might be able to tell me something about Mavis, too.”
“Go on,” said Howard, pleased at the sudden color in Jonathan’s pale face. “You’ve only finished the soup of the meal. Wait for the entrees.”
Jonathan read on. Howard had made another affidavit, attesting to the following affidavits of Louise Wertner and Mary Snowden. He mentioned that he had “persuaded” the young ladies, in the name of justice, to abjure their previous affidavits—which they had made under duress, and to make others which were absolutely true. (Howard neglected to explain, in his own affidavit, that he had visited the girls separately, told them he was an officer of the court—which had sounded terrifying to the unsophisticated girls. He promised them immunity from prosecution, or at least amelioration of any punishment for their being parties to the crime of abortion, and seeking out an abortionist, if they would now swear fully and freely to the truth.)
They did not name the abortionist but explained that they had given the name to Mr. Howard Best, to be opened in a courtroom if necessary, for they feared reprisals.
They testified on separate dates in November 1900 that they had been aborted “of illegal offspring,” and that they were unmarried. They had paid fifty and seventy-five dollars, respectively. They had thought that the end of it, though each had suffered “minor inconveniences” afterward, which were trifling. Then, on July 15th, 1901, the abortionist had called at their residences, had declared that he was “under investigation” by various unnamed parties for performing criminal operations, and that if he were arrested, he would not spare their part in seeking him out, imploring him to be a party to a crime and working on his sympathy. “I,” he had told them, “am a rich man. I may be fined. But you will go to prison for years, and then released only to the streets, where you rightfully belong.”
However, related the cowed and terrified girls, the abortionist had promised to use his influence with “unnamed parties” if they would make affidavits to the effect that Jonathan Ferrier, physician of River Road, Hambledon, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, had performed “these criminal acts” upon them and had extorted enormous fees from them. They were to go to his offices, during his absence—of which they must make sure—and claim to his clerk that they owed those sums of money but had forgotten the bills. They were to ask the clerk to predate the bills—as of the time of the alleged abortions—and then to receipt them. The clerk had followed their instructions “in all innocence and in good faith, believing the stories told to her.” The affidavits then followed. The girls admitted perjury, begged for mercy and for understanding of their plight and their “natural terror” before a man who was rich and certainly powerful and who could do them great injury. They also added that when they had delivered their affidavits to Dr. Louis Hedler of St. Hilda’s Hospital, of Hambledon, they each received fifty dollars from the abortionist “in appreciation of their services.”
A peculiar look had been gathering on Jonathan’s face, which no one present had ever seen before and which they did not recognize. It was a look of compassion and not disgust and anger. It was a look of pity and even sadness. It was almost soft.
“The poor girls,” he said, and stared at the affidavits, his head bent.
The others were naturally startled at this and looked at each other with amused raised eyebrows. Jonathan said, “What can be done about these young things? When the case comes to court—as it must—will the girls go to prison for their part? I don’t want that. I refuse to have it.”
Howard chuckled. “Who said anything about court?”
Then a new and angry light glittered in Jonathan’s eyes.
“I
demand it! I want full exoneration! I want revenge!”
“You shall have it,” said Louis. “But now, here is the
piece de resistance.”
He held Martin Eaton’s dying statement in his hand now, or rather a copy, for he was afraid to trust the original to the unpredictable Jonathan Ferrier. Louis became very sober. “Jon, this is a fearful thing I have here—a copy of a very long affidavit. It is a pathetic thing. It is a tragic thing. In a way, it will affect you more than anything else has ever done in your life, I am afraid, even your arrest and trial. I want you to compose yourself. I want you to read this quietly. I want you to display, for this man, some of the pity you have displayed for Louise Wertner and Mary Snowden, who had less reason to injure you than he. At least, they were under duress, and in fear. This man was under no such. He wrote it in his own hand to right a wrong. He exposed his soul and the soul of someone he loved more than anything else on earth—to help you, and for no other purpose. He admits that he wronged you, and explains why. Now he has rectified it.”
Jonathan had listened acutely, and his eyes almost disappeared under his frowning brows.
“Jon,” said Louis, “there is something else in this affidavit which affects you very close to home, and I must ask you in advance to control yourself and not to go off into one of your wild, uncontrolled, violent rages before us, and to promise that you will keep your peace about the matter until everything else is resolved. If you cannot give me this promise, I shall not let you read this.”
“I promise.” Jonathan’s tone was curt. He was clenching his hands on the arms of his chair.
Louis hesitated. He was very grave. A deep tension rose in the warm room. Lightning flickered at the windows. The hospital was as quiet as death about them.