“Yes, God forgive me, I do.”
“Do you see him often, Howard?”
“No. I suppose he’s forgiven me. He told me so, anyway. But he doesn’t forget. He’s a relentless man and won’t forget a wrong. We—Beth and I—kept inviting him to visit us, and he always refused in his blunt fashion. He informed us he wished to have nothing more to do with Hambledon. Yes, I know he is bitter. My parents do invite Mrs. Ferrier, and she accepts our invitations, but when she has dinner guests of her own, Jon always has an excuse not to be present. He won’t forgive Hambledon—not that I blame him. But what about that new ‘evidence’ you mentioned, Louis? What has it got to do with Jon?”
“To be brief about it, Howard, Campion has declared
a
vendetta against Jon, all very smooth and righteous, of course, and for the good of the town. The plot has been under way for some time. The Senator and quite a number of other people—you’d be surprised—not only want to drive Jon out of town but want to deprive him of his license to practice anywhere. And to subject him to new criminal proceedings.”
“But they can’t do that!” cried Howard. “He can’t be tried again for the alleged murders!”
“No. Perhaps not. But he can be tried for performing abortions, can’t he?” Louis opened a desk drawer and drew out
a
slender piece of linen, stained, and laid it on the desk. Then he opened it silently, and the two other men saw a long curved instrument. “A curette,” said Louis. “For the scraping of a uterus. It is used for legal—and for illegal purposes. It is
a
lifesaving instrument after
a
spontaneous abortion, and it is also used by abortionists. Look at it, Howard.”
With horror Howard picked up the instrument, and then he saw the script on the silver handle. “Jonathan Ferrier!” The priest looked at it and shrank.
“Yes. I’ve talked with Martin Eaton, Mavis’ uncle, at the Senator’s request. I went to Martin’s house. He gave me this curette. He said Mavis had brought it to him—after Jon performed the abortion on her. She told him that Jon had insisted on performing the abortion the night before he left for Pittsburgh. He did not want children. She was heartbroken—”
Howard looked at him wildly, then ran his freckled hand through his bush of auburn curls. His light eyes bulged. “Why, that’s an infernal lie if I ever heard one! I think old Eaton’s lying! He heard the medical testimony of doctors from this very hospital, Louis, and the testimony of doctors in Pittsburgh, that Jonathan was there two, three, days before —” He banged his fist on the desk. “For Christ’s sake, Louis! How could you believe their lies for a moment? Your own surgeons, your own doctors, in this damned hospital, said she had been—aborted—at least forty-eight hours after Jonathan left Hambledon!”
Louis shook his head slowly and painfully. “I know,
I
know, Howard. Calm down, if you please. But why did old Martin—old indeed!—he’s years younger than I am—lie like that?
I
have his solemn statement in this folder. He’s
a
doctor himself. He was here in this hospital with Mavis and he had admitted, before she died, that Jonathan had been in Pittsburgh for several days. I heard him myself while we were trying to save her life. He was distracted. He did say, over and over, when she died, ‘He’s guilty! Guilty as all hell!’ Well, we can put that down to his distraught state. The girl must have lied to him—he was alone with her when she died. That’s the only explanation.”
Father McNulty spoke in
a
hushed and shaken voice, “Nothing in the world, even if he confessed it himself, would convince me that Jon ever had anything to do with that crime, that frightful crime.”
“Nothing in the world, Father,” said Louis, “would convince me either. I know Jon. I’ve hated him more often than I’ve liked him, and wanted to get him off the staff and do him other mischief when he openly insulted me and called me ‘Doctor Bogus.’” He smiled sadly. “But I know him for a good man, even when I wanted to cut his throat.” He hesitated. “The—committee—went to see Dr. Humphrey Bedloe of the Friends’, too. You know old pompous Humphrey. The committee, I might mention, was composed of Senator Campion, Mr. Witherby, and Dr. Schaefer—whom Jon called a butcher and a murderer, with some reason—and a few more prominent citizens who have, to put it kindly, encountered Jon before in some of his less benevolent moods, in and out of the hospitals.
“Well, they went to see old Humphrey and showed him the curette, and he was aghast. He had admitted that he had thrown Jon off the staff, and Board, even before he was tried. He also admitted he had been ‘hasty’ and that he had never really believed in Jon’s guilt. Then they showed him the curette, and he almost had a stroke. He then confessed that he knew someone who had told him that he had seen Jon in town the day the abortion had taken place.”
The large froggy eyes moved from one face to another. “It was on that frail little evidence—though you never knew it, Howard—that Jon was arrested in Hambledon. Humphrey refused to give the name of the man, but when the committee called on him—with his evidence—he blurted out the story. It was Tom Harper.”
Howard glared at him with incredulity. “Tom Harper, who’s dying of cancer, and whom Jon is helping so wonderfully now?”
“The very same,” said Louis, and he told the two men. They looked at him, dumfounded and sick. “Of course,” said the doctor, “it isn’t possible that it is true. I have my own means of information, and I know they went to Tom. There was a rumor that Jon had been very harsh and cruel to him, had driven him from practice, and then had, even more cruelly, gave him a ‘menial’ position as a hired overseer on one of his farms. I see you both know the real story. At any rate, Tom then admitted that he had lied to Humphrey out of envy and resentment for Jon, and he was brokenhearted. They tried to inveigle him into making a false affidavit, I heard. Thelma, his wife, told me. But he absolutely refused, and threatened to go to Jon with the tale.” Louis’ sigh was very deep. “Unfortunately, Tom died at six o’clock this morning, of a massive internal hemorrhage, caused by his disease. So, we have only Thelma’s word that Tom had told the committee that he had lied to Humphrey. The rumor remains of Jon’s ‘cruelty’ to that unfortunate man. If Thelma tries to help Jon, it will be brought out, to Jon’s injury, that he had given Tom and her
a
contract, most generous—amazingly kind and charitable and generous—assigning the income of the farm to Tom, or to Thelma, for life, and Jon also has paid for their children’s education in the future. The committee is already calling that
a
‘bribe to stifle the truth.’”
“Dear God,” groaned Howard. “What kind of people live in this world, anyway?”
Louis was so disturbed that he could not help saying, “Don’t be too hard on humanity, Howard. We—you—are part of it. You will recall the day when Jon told you about your little girl, Martha. I believe you called him a ‘murderer’ yourself. This was dutifully repeated all over the town.”
The priest looked at Howard compassionately. Howard said, “I deserved that I really deserved that. I thought it was the truth. Or perhaps I did not Perhaps I was shouting at the threat to Martha and not really at Jon.”
“We all try to excuse ourselves, myself included,” said Louis Hedler. “I’m sure this is a familiar story to you, isn’t it, Father?”
“Very familiar,” said the priest. “Even in the Confessional, people will try to defend themselves. And even on their deathbeds sometimes.” He had suddenly begun to look much older and wearier than usual. Louis took a sheet of paper out of the folder and studied it “Yes,” he said, and folded his hands over the sheet.
“I don’t know if you know Peter McHenry, Howard, though Father McNulty does. It seems that Father McNulty had practically kidnaped Jon on the River Road one day to bring him to Matilda McHenry—”
Howard sat up very straight in his chair. “I know the McHenrys,” he said. His pale eyes began to sparkle wrathfully, in anticipation.
“Good. Then perhaps you know that Mrs. McHenry was in frail health and had been so for years. Jon examined her, then demanded to examine their child, a little girl of nine, named Elinor, for he was convinced, he said, that Mrs. McHenry’s illness had a psychological basis and not a physical one. Peter objected to Jon examining his child, or even talking to her, but I think Jon insisted—” He glanced at the priest, who hesitated.
“He didn’t exactly insist,” he said. “You must pardon me. The events of that day are painful to remember. It was all so unjust to Jon, and I was the guilty one who cajoled him into seeing the McHenrys. It is true that Peter objected—at first. Then, if my memory is not failing me entirely, he reluctantly consented.”
“Yes,” said Louis. “He told Mr. McHenry that his child was—psychotic—and that she was the unconscious cause of her mother’s illness, though no one, not even the young mother, suspected that. Mr. McHenry”—and Louis looked at Howard piercingly—“was as infuriated as you were, Howard, when Jon told you about Martha. The truth is very hard to accept, isn’t it? At any rate,” he continued, when Howard’s face darkened with heavy color, “they took the child to neurologists in Philadelphia, I believe, and all examining doctors said she was quite normal. Then Mr. McHenry came to me, shouting that Jon was a troublemaker, an incompetent and a cruel liar, and demanding his removal from staff and Board. He was accompanied by Senator Campion and Mr. Witherby. He said his child had not been Jon’s patient at all, had not been called for the child, had insisted on examining her and giving his amateurish opinion—which had caused her parents devastating worry and mental anguish—and acted, in all ways, unethically.”
He lifted the paper on his desk. “Mr. McHenry’s affidavit, sworn to three weeks ago.”
Then the priest spoke through pale lips. “I think Peter will ask for the return of that affidavit, Dr. Hedler.”
“Yes?”
“You see,” said the priest, and there were tears in his eyes, “little Elinor had an episode that even Peter could not overlook. One of the gardener’s boys was teasing her one day, the way boys will tease little girls, and she picked up a scythe and—well, she tried to kill h
im
with it. When her father, who was nearby, tried to take it from her, she turned on him, screaming that he wasn’t her father, that he and Matilda had stolen her from her true parents. She was quite—wild. Out of her mind. She struck at him with the scythe, then when he attempted to catch her, she raced for the house, shrieking that she was going to kill her false mother. Peter ran after her. They caught her at the door, and she was—Peter’s own words—like a demon. Then she collapsed. When she awakened a few hours later, she claimed not to remember the event at all, but Peter says there was something in her eyes, cunning and watchful, which frightened him even more than her violence. He took the child a few days later to the alienist in Philadelphia whom Jon had recommended.” The priest looked down at his shoes. “Dementia praecox, as Jon had diagnosed. Paranoid type. The girl is now confined in a private sanitarium.”
“Dreadful,” said Louis. “The unfortunate parents.” But his voice was a little relieved. He wrote something quickly on the paper. “Perhaps you can induce Mr. McHenry to say he was mistaken in making this affidavit, and to tell the truth.”
“I am sure I can,” said Father McNulty. “He wrote to Jon, I believe, asking his pardon, but Jon never answered him. You know—Jon,” and he looked at Howard. “Very unbending. And proud. Peter would have always repudiated that affidavit, Doctor, if he had remembered it. But he’s very distraught just now, and consoling his wife.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Louis, but he did not sound too sympathetic. He lifted another paper. “A similar complaint by Elsie Holliday. She complains that Jon was not the doctor of her son, Jeffrey, but only a friend. However, she swears, Jon forced himself on the case, insisted on diagnosing it. I am not at liberty to tell you what his diagnosis was, but Jeff did die a short time later in a sanitarium in another state, of the disease Jon diagnosed correctly. It still remains, however, that Jon did examine Jeffrey without permission of Jeffrey’s physicians and under the protest of the mother. She claims that Jeffrey did not give Jon permission, either. Of course, it is a technicality but an unpleasant one, but if the facts are so, it does not reflect comfortably on Jon. But hardly enough to cause the revocation of his license. However, we know the town, and we know Jon’s enemies, who insist on repeating the scandals against him, and this is just one more, such as the Harper rumor, and then the accusation spread by Peter McHenry among his associates before he discovered that Jon was entirely correct. One thing piles on another. It makes for miserable reading in the mass, though individually it means little. Cause only for a reprimand, if that.”
“And all that, on top of what Martin Eaton is now swearing, and the curette, is a lovely story,” said Howard, making a sick mouth.
“Yes. Yes, indeed. Martin’s story and the evidence of this curette is very damning, in spite of what we know to be the facts. I wish Tom Harper were alive to repudiate the rumor, which the Senator and old Witherby heartily believe. Or, at least they pretend to. Incidentally, Old Jonas told me—swore to it, in fact—that Jon had accused him, without proof, and on later examination, of trying to commit suicide. Jon was not present when Jonas was admitted to the hospital. I think he was out of town. Jon is his family physician, however, and returned a day or two later to take charge of Jonas. Now, it was really very reckless of Jon to tell his patient later that he believed him to have attempted suicide. We all know old Jonas. His one terror is of dying. He wants to live forever. I don’t know the true story or what made Jon accuse Jonas of a crime, but that, too, is a sorry tale. It could have serious repercussions, you know, for a physician is supposed to report an attempted suicide. Jon did not.”