Silent Witnesses Page 16

  I'd had only two hours of sleep before we trudged through the tunnel back to our house. Zach carried a sleepy Klara. Margery eyed the ceiling for fat spiders, keeping her lantern aloft to singe away any and all webs that dared get in our way. I asked them to wait outside the antechamber while I unlocked the secret door to my bedroom, revolver cocked and ready to put a hole into whoever dared attack from the other side.

  The house was empty and quiet.

  I waved the others forward, and went to check all doors and windows for signs of an intruder, but found nothing.

  'Breakfast,' Margery announced with a huff, and set to work.

  We gathered around the table, a little stiff with sleep, and clasped the cups of coffee as though the brew could resurrect our spirits. I inhaled the aroma and said, 'I'll quit my lecturing post.'

  'Hmm,' Margery answered. 'You don't seem to have the patience anyway.'

  Zach snorted. ‘Surprised you kept it up that long.'

  Open-mouthed I looked from Zach to Margery, and dropped my gaze back into my coffee cup. 'I used to be good at it. But I can't bear watching all those girls dropping out as soon as a wedding looms at the horizon. As though higher education means nothing but mental gymnastics. Gah!' I slammed my hand on the table.

  Klara also cried, 'Gah!' and hammered the table with both hands.

  'Sounds like a good idea,' I said, and drummed a rhythm.

  My daughter laughed and drummed along. Zach whistled a tune, and just like that, the fears the night had brought blew away.

  Before we were done eating, Mr Cratchitt delivered two letters with the morning mail. One was from McCurley and contained the first few names of Ms Munro's clients, asking if I knew any of them. I didn't, but wondered if McCurley ever slept. He must have questioned her late the previous night.

  The envelope contained something solid. I tipped it onto my palm. It was a key. A note was attached to it:

  * * *

  If you need to talk to me, but don't wish to be seen at the police station, come to my home. This is a key to the house. Also: We need to make a list of potential victims. Former and current colleagues, acquaintances, friends, and patients. Send a note whether you have time to meet with me tonight.

  Quinn McCurley

  * * *

  The second was from Warren.

  * * *

  Come as soon as you can! You won't believe what I found!

  Warren.

  * * *

  'Gods, Warren. A tad more drama and mystery is exactly what I need right now,’ I mumbled and slipped both notes into my pocket, told Zach to find Georgie for me, and Margery to send in the first patient.

  Around noon, just after Mrs Cratchitt had left with the newest addition to her family tucked into the bend of her arm — a son who'd shot into the world after only ten minutes or so of labour, and, as her husband has predicted, delivered entirely without my help — Georgie showed up in the frame of my office door. His chin was dotted with blueberry jam. He chewed on what suspiciously looked like one of Margery's muffins.

  I bade him sit, and placed a nickel on my side of the desk. 'Do you know the tenants or owners of the boat houses by the Glass Works?'

  With a grimy finger, the boy swept remnants of jam from his chin into his mouth. Then he wiped his hands on his trousers and gave me the names of six men. None sounded familiar to me. I wrote them on a piece of paper.

  'I keep wondering who Mrs Hyde's lover might have been. Have you heard any rumours?'

  His nose began to turn red as his gaze dropped to the nickel. He produced a small cough and said, 'He was a masher, that one. Heard he had pots of money. Fat lot of good it did her.'

  'Who told you that?'

  'Freddie. One of me chums. Said the bloke was a smarmy piece of work.'

  'This Freddie, does he know the man?'

  Georgie shrugged. 'Freddie likes telling stories, he does.'

  ‘Has anyone else mentioned Mrs Hyde's lover?'

  'Nah. But everyone talks about the Railway Strangler. Everyone and their dog says they've seen him.'

  'Do you believe any of it?'

  Georgie rolled his eyes and shook his head. 'Can I have another muffin?'

  I pushed the nickel toward him. 'I want to talk to Freddie. Can you ask him to come today at…' I checked the time. 'What about the two of you come at six. Margery will have stew and fresh bread ready.'

  Georgie snatched the nickel and pocketed it. Then he tugged at his ear. His tongue darted out to catch a crumb that was stuck to the corner of his mouth

  'Tell Margery to give you two more muffins. Oh, and Georgie?'

  The boy screeched to a halt in the doorway.

  'Could you take a message to Pemberton Square and another one to Beacon Hill?'

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, I went to see Warren. A maid admitted me and took my hat and jacket. I was worried about my new bicycle, but the sun wouldn't set for another three or four hours, so it should be comparatively safe. Even though it was chained to exactly that lamp post that had treated my old bicycle with so little regard.

  'The master will see you shortly,' the maid said, and indicated a chaise longue in the parlour.

  I thanked her, and went to a large window to peek out into the street. Entering Beacon Hill was like taking an excursion back in time. Warren lived in a part of town into which one could not enter without a thorough examination of respectability, where wealthy families occupied an entire house apiece, and musicians, painters, authors found accommodation in old lodging houses. It was the only quiet part of Boston, removed from the noises of steam engines and dense traffic. At night, the cobbled streets and narrow alleys were thrown in flickering gaslight from old-fashioned lamps.

  I always felt a bit removed from real life when I entered those streets. But the illusion was wiped away as soon as I stepped into Warren's house, which sparkled with modern appliances.

  I turned when I heard footfalls. Warren and Owens entered the parlour, the former bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement, the latter composed and entirely unruffled by whatever had occurred.

  'Liz!' Warren rushed up to me, snatched my hand and tugged me toward Owens. 'Listen to this.'

  Owens cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. He seemed to grow a little discomfited. The corners of his mouth turned down. 'I must apologise, Dr Arlington, for any misfortune that my silence might have caused. What I did was only with the best of intentions. You see, Mr Amaury and his friends often play pranks on one another, and so I did not think anything amiss when I saw Mr Crocker place a small booklet into Mrs Heathcote's purse. I did not wish to spoil the fun. And after all, he did not take anything from her, but rather gave her something. Had I known he had, in fact, torn two pages from her diary, I would have told Mr Amaury at once.'

  I felt the pain before realising that my nails were digging into my palms. 'Uriel Crocker put a booklet into Hattie's purse, you say?'

  'Indeed. It was on Friday, June 2, just before everyone left the house. Except Mr Amaury, who remained at home, that is.'

  'Can you describe the booklet?'

  'It looked just like the ones Mr Amaury uses for his drawings.’ Owens's gaze slid to Warren and back to me. 'Mr Crocker did not strike me as nervous. He slipped the booklet into Mrs Heathcote's purse as she was being handed her jacket and hat by one of the maids, and then he made a joke. He did not appear to be meaning any harm.'

  I managed a nod, and a 'Thank you, Owens,' before finding a seat and putting my backside on it.

  After Owens left the parlour, Warren sat down next to me, and huffed, 'This is not good. Not good at all.'

  'I'll talk to Uriel.’

  'That'll be difficult. He took his wife and children to Cape Cod. Two days ago, according to his housekeeper.'

  * * *

  I barely made it home in time for supper. Margery stood behind Freddie and Georgie, her arms akimbo and chin lifted as she watched the boys scrubbing their hands
, nails, and arms up to their elbows. She produced a satisfied grunt and jerked her head toward the table. They didn't need telling twice.

  Klara eyed the new arrivals with curiosity as they shovelled stew into their mouths with an enthusiasm that didn't even fade on a third helping. Margery was happy enough, and so were the boys. When one pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle a burp, I said, 'Let's go to my office for a moment.'

  They shuffled through the door, Georgie aloof, with his hands in his pockets, and Freddie somewhat nervous, his glance bouncing from floor to ceiling and wall to wall.

  Once everyone was seated, I took in Freddie, who was scooting about on his bum. 'Tell me what you know about Mrs Hyde's lover.'

  All colour drained from his face. 'I know nothing.'

  'I see. Why did you come here, Freddie?'

  'Free supper.'

  Georgie glared at his friend, elbowing his side. 'You lied to me, you pig!'

  Freddie muttered, 'Sorry, Ma'am,’ and stared at his boots.

  'Hum.' I leant back in my chair, wondering what it was that was making the boy so nervous. Surely, this cloak-and-dagger operation to get a free serving of Margery's stew wouldn't gnaw on his conscience all of a sudden? 'I assume you are both clever enough to know that others have heard you talking about Mrs Hyde's lover, and that you’ve seen his face. Should word of that reach the killer, you will be in great danger.'

  Freddie turned white as a sheet. Even Georgie was struck.

  'Catching the killer rather sooner than later will remove said danger. You do know that, yes?'

  The boys looked at each other, and then Freddie mumbled. 'Don't know the gent's name. Just that he always wears these ridiculous, old-fashioned cravats.' He drew a finger from the base of his throat up to his chin.

  'Describe him as best as you can,' I said.

  'Dark hair, dark eyes. Always dressed nice, except for those horrid high collars without the wings. And the yellow neckties, er…I mean scarves. Or whatever.' Freddie shrugged.

  'How tall is he? Is he fat? Skinny? Does he walk with a stick or without one? How old is he?'

  Freddie blew up his cheeks. 'He's old. Like…your age.'

  Georgie elbowed him again.

  'What?' squeaked Freddie, and scooted farther away from his friend. 'Normal figure, I guess. Bit on the heavy side, maybe. A head taller than Mrs Hyde. And he walks with a stick. Like all the gents do. But his has a funny knob. Looks like a head of a dog from afar. Made of silver, I reckon.'

  * * *

  I was exhausted and trembling with tension when I slipped McCurley's key into the locked front door. Three flights of stairs had me huffing when I reached the landing to his apartment. I knocked, and he opened a short moment later.

  One glance at my face, and he announced he would make strong coffee.

  To my surprise, the window of the sitting room was ajar. Ms Hacker was sitting by the table, mending a shirt. Upon seeing me, she retreated to her chamber. I checked the time. A few minutes past eleven. I felt like I hadn't slept in days.

  'Coffee will be ready in a few minutes,' McCurley said. 'Sit. I have news.'

  'I have news, too.' I placed my briefcase onto the table, sat down and rubbed my burning eyes.

  We went through names of my former colleagues at Harvard Medical School, but I couldn't pinpoint anyone who might be in particular danger from the Railroad Strangler. My friends, the Freaks, were an entirely different matter. They were potential victims as well as suspects. When I talked about Owens' observations, McCurley fell silent. He moved the coffee grounds around in his cup, and clinked the spoon against the rim.

  At that moment, Líadáin woke with a cry. McCurley went to his bedroom and returned with his daughter. He sat, and bounced her on his lap. Her blue eyes were large and curious.

  I continued, 'And then there's Freddie, one of Georgie's friends. He claims to have seen Mrs Hyde with her lover. He describes him as dark haired with dark eyes. He was well dressed, but wore old-fashioned collars and neckties. He had a walking stick with a silver dog's head as a knob. The man was about my age, he thought, but he wasn't sure. Adults all look old to children. Normal figure, perhaps a bit heavy, and a head taller than Mrs Hyde.'

  'Does this description fit Mr Crocker?'

  'No. Uriel is lanky. He has fair hair and blue eyes. And I've never seen a walking stick or old-fashioned clothing on him.'

  Slowly McCurley nodded. 'Which does not exclude him as a suspect. Mrs Hyde's lover isn't necessarily the killer, and Mr Crocker could have worn a wig, and a false beard and glasses, when he visited the photographer.'

  'Yes. But there is no connection between Uriel and Harvard Medical School.'

  McCurley paused, sniffed at Líadáin's bottom, and decided it was time to change her nappy. I watched him undress the child, and said, 'May I take a quick look at her hips?'

  His hands froze.

  'If she has hip dysplasia, she will have problems as soon as she starts walking.'

  A brief nod.

  I picked up the half-naked baby, sat on the floor with my legs outstretched, and placed her on my thighs. I tickled her belly button until she giggled.

  McCurley began pacing the room. 'Explain the procedure to me,' he said, his tone overly authoritative.

  Too tired to wonder what had changed his mood so suddenly, I braced for yet another session of policeman versus suspect. 'To examine a small child's hips, one flexes her legs, gently compressing her hips posteriorly as they are circumducted. A displacement of the femur signifies dysplasia.'

  'Excuse me?' he shot at me.

  'Stop running about like a like a rooster with its tail on fire. You are distracting me.' Líadáin gifted me a gummy smile and stuffed a fist into her mouth.

  McCurley growled with frustration. 'I want to see how you deal with pain inflicted on your daughter.'

  Stunned, I looked up. 'You think I'm hurting her? How can you even… Just look at her, will you? She's smiling.'

  He raked his fingers through his hair, and sat on his haunches by my feet, his gaze stuck to my face. 'When the physician set her bone, he hurt her so much that she passed out screaming. He fancied sounding the expert, so that no one could understand him and question his judgement. Is that what you are trying to do?'

  I dropped my head. My hand settled softly on Líadáin's stomach. She waved her arms and burbled. 'I am so sorry,' I said to her, and then to McCurley, 'Sit here, next to us, and I'll explain what I'm doing. I won't hurt her. I promise.'

  After a pause, he moved to my side.

  I began flexing Líadáin's legs again. 'Do you hear the click when I do this?'

  'Yes. That sounds…bad.' He scanned his daughter's face for any signs of distress. But there were none.

  'That's the ball slipping out of the socket,' I explained. 'You will notice that she doesn't feel pain when that happens.' I rolled her hips from one side to the other, which seemed to entertain her greatly. She squeaked in delight.

  'In a newborn, the hip joint is mostly cartilage which is gradually replaced by bone during the first year. The ball component of the joint grows faster than the socket, and the correct development of the hip depends on the ball remaining in the socket. In a typical case of hip dysplasia, the socket is underdeveloped, not holding the ball properly fixed. And it keeps slipping out. But this here…feels different. Only the right hip joint is affected, and severely so. And the femur…I can feel where the fracture was.' I looked sideways at McCurley.

  His fingers were digging into his thighs, and his jaw was clenched. He flexed his hands and said, 'Will she be limping?'

  'Perhaps slightly. But not because her leg was broken. What I think happened is that no one checked whether her hip was damaged. Bones of newborns are soft and easily broken. The collarbone, for example, is prone to fracture during birth. Your daughter’s thighbone has healed properly. But her hip joint needs attention. How was she splinted? With her legs spread?'

  McCurley shook his head. 'With her kn
ee bent and thick bandages around the length of her leg.'

  'Nothing that held her thigh fixed at an angle?'

  'No.'

  'Hum.'

  'Can anything be done?'

  'Well, if I were to listen to my colleagues, I would insist on a hip brace. And Líadáin would give us an earful for using such a horrid contraption on her. It forces the legs apart and bends them at the knees. Very uncomfortable. Let us first try something gentler. Pass me the nappies, please.'

  He did as asked, and I showed him how to fold them so that her legs were farther apart.

  'And when you lay her down to sleep, make sure her femur isn't displaced. I'll show you how. Give me your hand.'

  I brought his hand to Líadáin's thigh, and showed him how to flex and fold her legs, to wiggle her bottom and roll her hips. I pressed my fingertips on top of his, led them to her hip joint and said, 'This is how it feels when the ball is in the socket. Do you feel this groove? It's very narrow.'

  He nodded, all his attention on his daughter.

  'Now we will dislocate the hip.' I flexed and compressed her hip gently. McCurley's hand twitched when we heard the dull clicking sound of the femur displacing. 'Feel her hip joint. Do you notice the difference?'

  'It's…remarkable. Can you put it back in, please?' He looked nearly desperate.

  I smiled and said, 'You do it. Flex her knee like this, very gently push at the femur in this direction — yes, like this — and straighten her leg. Do you feel how it slips back in?'

  McCurley's expression switched from concerned and pained, to beaming. The brilliant smile changed the entire man. It left me dumbstruck. Our physical proximity became awkward.

  I placed the baby into his lap, brushed off my skirts, and went back to the table with my scattered notes. 'I need a few hours of sleep before I think about…well, everything. Is there a way to contact the Cape Cod police to find out where Uriel Crocker and his family are staying?’

  McCurley was putting clothes on his daughter. He paused, then said, 'It might not be a good idea to contact Mr Crocker. It would give away what we know. I'll give an official statement to reporters tomorrow morning. I only hope it doesn't provoke the killer into murdering another woman.'