Silent Witnesses Read online

  He jerked his pencil toward the door, a cold stare fixed to my face.

  'Good day to you, too, Inspector,' I said, and left.

  8

  The Boston Post, Saturday, June 10, 1893

  ANOTHER RAILROAD MURDER!

  On Wednesday, the body of Mrs Elizabeth Hughes was found near the New York and New England Railroad. About three o`clock in the afternoon attention was drawn to a pair of boots sticking out from beneath the elevator of the Boston Wharf Company. Several workers alerted the Boston Police Department, which secured all evidence and sent the body to the morgue to be examined. Mr Hughes is being held in custody for questioning.

  * * *

  When Margery barged into my office, her curls askew and the skin stretched tight over her usually soft face, I knew without her needing to tell me that the police had arrived.

  'I'll be with them in a moment,' I said and turned back to my patient. 'Mr MacArthur, I really cannot recommend ear candling. If you would allow me to extract—'

  'That won't do, Miss.' He shook his head fiercely, a mop of white hair flopping with the movement. 'My father and my grandfather have done it with great success, and my ears are no different.'

  'Honestly, a great mass of earwax is clogging your ear canals. Your hearing is impaired and soon you'll suffer from ear infections. It would take me less than ten seconds to extract—'

  'I cannot allow you to stick that fearful metal thing into my brain, Missus.' He was still wagging his head.

  I sighed. It always ended this way with Mr MacArthur. I recommended a treatment, and he told me that he knew better. 'How is your chest feeling these days?'

  'Splendid!' As if on cue, he produced a horrifyingly deep and rattling cough.

  'You probably don't want me to recommend fresh air yet again,' I mumbled, wondering why he even bothered seeing a doctor if he never listened to an expert's advice. He wasn't even lonely. Several of my elderly patients came simply to have someone to talk to, but MacArthur had what? Fifteen or sixteen grandchildren crowding his house?

  Maybe that's why he insisted on keeping his ears plugged: less ruckus to listen to.

  A knock sounded, and McCurley pushed the door open.

  Irritated, I massaged my temples. 'Inspector McCurley, if you have the audacity to arrive unannounced, at least show the courtesy to wait until my patient has left the room. You could have walked in on a woman in a state of undress.'

  'I was told the patient was male.'

  I smacked the desk. The stethoscope rolled off, and bounced on the floor. 'Well, in that case, count yourself lucky you didn't barge in on an enema! I would have thrown the clyster at your head!'

  If possible, McCurley's expression darkened even further. But he dipped his head and left.

  Mr MacArthur cleared his throat until he had my attention. 'Miss, your language leaves a lot to be desired.'

  I picked up my stethoscope, and bit out, 'Is there anything else I can not help you with?'

  Mr MacArthur frowned, cupped an ear, and said, 'Excuse me?'

  Gods, how I wished to be back in a slum! I inhaled a deep breath, stood, and said loudly, 'The next patient is expecting me.'

  'Oh, yes, of course.'

  I helped him stand and shuffle from my office. Three men were waiting in the corridor. I recognised Sergeant Boyle, who ripped off his hat with one hand, and held out the other. I shook it.

  The third policeman was introduced as the stenographer, Mr Halverton, who mumbled, 'Ma'am,' by way of greeting, and nothing more.

  I called to Margery to bring tea, and led the men into my office.

  'The warrant,' McCurley said, handing me a slip of paper.

  I unfolded it, and read. 'You want to see all my files?'

  'Yes. If you please.'

  I crossed the room to a chest, pulled out the top drawer, and stepped back.

  McCurley motioned to Sergeant Boyle, who heaved out a stack of files, placed them atop the chest, and began rifling through them, while muttering to the stenographer, who scribbled away on a notepad.

  'I need to see your appointment book.'

  I snapped it open, turned it around and pushed it across the desk. We sat down on opposite sides. Slowly, methodically, McCurley leafed through my book, and paused. 'Hattie Heathcote. Amaury family. Interesting.' Then he continued scanning patient names, occasionally making notes.

  I watched Sergeant Boyle dig through the drawer and the stenographer write down all that Boyle pointed out to him.

  'Am I a suspect?' I asked the inspector.

  'Should you be?'

  I couldn't help but laugh. 'McCurley, why is it that you never give a straight answer?'

  He leant back. 'Tell me about yourself.'

  'Are you flirting with me?'

  Boyle dropped a file to the floor.

  McCurley tugged at his collar. 'Where did you study medicine?'

  'At the Zürich University.'

  'Is that how it's pronounced?'

  'Yes. The Germans invented the Umlaut to make the language umständlich for foreigners.' I smiled.

  'And what precisely is umsh…andlick?'

  'German for cumbersome.'

  He didn't even blink. No one ever understands German humour.

  'Why do you have a British name but a German accent?'

  My neck prickled. I kept smiling. 'My father was a British merchant, my mother German. I was born in Germany and spent most of my childhood there. My nanny was German. My father was very busy. Hence my first language happens to be German, not English.' It went against my strongest values to tell lies about my mother, who'd died only days after I was born, and my father who had done everything for me. And who’d been murdered because of me.

  'When did you move to Switzerland?'

  'Around the time I was thirteen or fourteen.'

  'Around the time? You don't know that precisely?'

  'No. I find birthday celebrations a waste of time.’

  'Where did you go after you graduated from university?'

  'Here and there.' I didn't take my eyes off McCurley. Untrained liars avoided eye contact. Their gaze will drift as though ideas are to be found in the air around them. 'Back to Germany, then to Britain, and now Boston.'

  'Where in Germany and Britain?'

  'Berlin and London.'

  He tapped the pencil against his notepad. 'The other day you told me that you don't speak French. But you lived in Switzerland.'

  'There's no need to learn French when one lives in Zürich.'

  'Don't the Swiss speak both languages?'

  'Some do. Although I doubt they'd be pleased should you insinuate they speak German. Swiss German sounds very different from…German German.'

  'Interesting.' He didn't sound at all interested. If anything, he seemed bored. I knew it was a charade. 'Are you widowed or divorced?' he asked.

  The prickling grew worse. 'Widowed.'

  'Tell me about your husband.'

  'I prefer not to.'

  His eyes narrowed a fraction. 'Why not?'

  'Tell me about your dead wife.'

  Boyle and Halverton stopped muttering, scratching, moving. They seemed to cease to exist. Or to be waiting for an explosion.

  McCurley's facade did not slip in the least. It didn't even twitch. In a voice so calm it drove gooseflesh down my arms, he said, 'You seem to be confusing a few things here, Dr Arlington. Allow me to clarify for you. I am the inspector, you are the witness. I ask questions, and you answer them.'

  I watched how his hand curled around the notebook in his lap. Before his knuckles could whiten with tension, he relaxed his fingers.

  'You seem to be confusing a few things here, Inspector McCurley. But I will gladly clarify them for you. This is my practice, not a court. I'm sitting in a chair, not a witness box. You are a police officer, not an attorney. You may ask questions directly related to this case, and no more. And I may choose to answer. Or not.'

  He smiled, as though he'd got all he wanted
or expected to get. 'The second victim was your patient. Why did she come to see you?'

  'She complained of pain in her lower abdomen.'

  'Only that?'

  'It was debilitating pain.'

  'Hmm. Did she speak of her husband? Her children?'

  'As I've already said, I saw her only once.' I cut a glance at the other two men in the room, and crossed my arms over my chest. 'She mentioned private matters.'

  'Go on.'

  'She was…experiencing pain during intercourse.'

  The stenographer didn't twitch a muscle. Boyle, though, blushed violently, and dropped his head as though he wished to hide in my chest of drawers. Hide in my drawers. I nearly burst out laughing.

  'Did she say anything that would cause you to suspect her husband had had a hand in her death?'

  'No. If I had suspected her husband was about to murder her, wouldn't I have come to you before she died?'

  'What did she say about her husband?'

  With every question he asked, with every inch he wouldn't budge, I grew from being irritated, to angry, to furious. I had to hold my voice under tight control so as not to snarl at him. 'She said they had been married for nearly ten years, and that recently she had been experiencing pain. She and her husband talked about it. He was saddened by it, tried to help in any way he could. That doesn't sound like someone intent on killing her.'

  'You would be surprised.'

  'No, I wouldn't. Did you talk to Petey?'

  McCurley slowly sucked in a breath, and I added, 'Did you find someone who understands him?'

  'Are you trying to distract from something? Your patient, perhaps?'

  I rolled my eyes. That seemed to annoy him. 'If your main suspect — or main witness — can't make himself understood, he can't possibly tell you what he saw on the day Mrs Hyde died. By the by, did you notice that both women have a name that begins with the letter H?'

  His shoulders sagged. He looked like he believed I was an idiot.

  'Ask Georgie's mother,' I said. 'She understands Petey's mumbling.'

  'Georgie? The newsboy? How would you know his mother understands Petey?'

  'When I'm bored, I like to play detective.' I winked at him.

  He jerked in his chair. After a moment of consideration, a grin spread on his face, rippling the scar on his cheek and throat. 'You seem to believe your powerful friends can protect you.'

  'What?'

  'One of your patients is Hattie Heathcote. I doubt she comes all the way simply to see a doctor. Is she a friend?'

  'She is. But I began playing detective long before I met her.' That, I definitely should not have said. I wanted to slap myself. The twitch around the corner of McCurley's mouth indicated satisfaction.

  So that was his tactic: abrasion until the wall gave way. And then I did snarl. Not so much because I was angry with him — although I was — but mostly because I was furious with myself. 'You have no talent for interrogation whatsoever. How the deuce did you end up in the detective branch?'

  Boyle sounded like he was choking on something. The stenographer scribbled on undisturbed.

  'You are aware, of course, that you are the only connection between the two victims.'

  'Yes. Me, the railroad, and the letter H. Why do you think that is?'

  He pointed his pencil at me. 'You tell me.'

  Groaning, I buried my face in my hands. 'Not only do you never give straight answers, you avoid asking straight questions. No, I did not kill either of the women.'

  'That wasn't what I was thinking, but thank you for clarifying. I was more wondering whether you had an accomplice.'

  'What for?'

  'Both victims were taller and heavier than you,' he said.

  'I assume they might even be heavier than you. But I'm quite sure you could have strangled them. And so could I.'

  His pupils constricted. Before he could reply, I said, 'By the gods, McCurley, I did not kill them. I merely wish to broaden your horizon. Your killer doesn't have to be a great brute to strangle two women. He could be my size. It's a question of where to strike. Oh!' I sat up straight.

  'Yes?' It sounded like a purr.

  I opened my mouth and snapped it shut. Then I touched the tender spot just below my breastbone. 'Have you ever struck a man right here, below the sternum?'

  McCurley pulled up an eyebrow.

  'Did the toxicologist find poison in Mrs Hyde's organ samples?'

  'No.'

  I smiled. 'Strangulation is a rather slow death. Depending on how practiced your killer is, it might take fifteen seconds to…hum…perhaps two minutes to lose consciousness. Don't you agree?'

  'It might.'

  'And yet, Mrs Hyde had neither blood nor skin under her fingernails. There were no signs on her body that indicated she fought back. Fifteen seconds is a very long time to die and do nothing about it. But if you've ever been struck right here,' I pointed again, 'you would know that a person is unable to move for at least fifteen seconds. Unable to breathe, either. Probably even lose consciousness.'

  'If it occurred as you say, the post-mortem surgeon would have found bruising.'

  'Ah, no. Not necessarily. You see, the diaphragm sits just behind this spot. And there are many nerves right here. The minimum force necessary to cause the diaphragm to spasm is so low that it would not bruise the surrounding tissue. At least not noticeably. Mrs Hyde's body was mangled by a train, and I think that very faint marks of perimortem bruising could have been — in this particular case — discounted by most post-mortem surgeons. What I mean to convey is that it's not in the body mass but in the technique. Your murderer could well be a woman.'

  His gaze drifted to my hands that were grasping my elbows. 'Boyle, Halverton. Give us a moment.'

  Boyle grabbed the stack of files he'd been rifling through. Halverton picked up his notepad and pencil, and both men hurried from my office.

  McCurley bent forward. 'How did this happen?' He jerked his chin toward my hands. I dropped them to my lap. 'The scars on your middle finger are from a knife. Did someone cut off your index finger? Your husband, perhaps? Have you been snapping at his heels, too?'

  I gasped. 'You are asking me what I did to warrant such treatment? Do you believe these two women did something to cause their own deaths? That they provoked a man into killing them? Go to hell, McCurley!'

  Again, he would not answer. But his expression… It turned the blood in my veins to ice. Unspeaking, he slipped a hand into his jacket and pulled out a photograph of a drawing. Pushed it across the desk for me to see. And stopped my heart.

  'Where did you find this?' I breathed.

  'Does it look familiar to you?'

  'Yes. I see that face every time I look in a mirror.'

  'Who drew this portrait?'

  I shook my head. A lie. Another lie. I was drowning in lies. 'I don't know. Where did you find it?'

  'On the body of Mrs Hughes.'

  9

  Margery was in the kitchen, preparing lunch. 'Are they gone?' she asked without turning away from the range.

  I pressed a fist to my heart. Tried to breathe. 'Yes. They are. Would you please send a note to the medical school to inform them that I won't be giving lectures today?' My own voice was a stranger to me.

  She turned. The spoon in her hand clattered against a pot. 'Are they arresting you?'

  'No, of course not.' I tried to look normal. And failed miserably. In that moment, I couldn't have even defined "normal."

  Klara's laughter trickled through the house. 'Where is she?'

  Margery flinched. 'What's wrong? What did the police want?'

  I turned and rushed from the kitchen. 'Klara? Klara!'

  Her giggles came from the front yard. And a deep voice I did not recognise. With my heart in my mouth, I raced to the door and yanked it open. McCurley and Boyle turned in unison, eyebrows raised. Halverton smiled at Klara as she plucked a candy from his palm, unwrapped it, and stuffed it into her mouth.

  I strode up t
o them, and took my daughter's hand. She squeaked. I loosened my grip at once. Doe-eyed, she blinked up at me, her chin trembling. I picked her up and buried my nose in the crook of her neck. 'I'm so sorry, my dear,' I whispered. 'I thought you were a big, strong bear, and I gripped your paw too hard.'

  She sniffed, but immediately recovered from the small shock. I carried her into the house, not turning to answer McCurley's sharp gaze.

  'Have you seen Zachary?' I asked Klara.

  'Dsadsah!' she cried, pointing toward the garden behind the house.

  'Would you like to cook lunch with Margery?'

  She wriggled from my arms, dropped to the floor, and dashed off. Not toward the kitchen, of course, but to the garden.

  We found Zach scraping dirt off a spade near the toolshed.

  'We need to talk,' I said to him.

  He straightened to look at me. His face fell. 'What did the police say?'

  'It appears…' I gazed at Klara who must have sensed that something was wrong, and was clinging to Zach's leg like a kitten to a tree trunk. 'I need to work on…things. There is a…hidden room in the wall by my bed.'

  Zach slowly set down the spade.

  'Just below the candleholder is a sliding panel the size of your hand. When you touch your fingers to the wall below the candle holder, you'll find a notch in the wood. Push it aside, and you'll find a handle. Use it to open a hidden door.'

  'W…whatever for?'

  'To get away should…you need to. There is an old tunnel that was used for smuggling. It leads to a hatch in the floor of a boathouse near the shore. Be careful, the tunnel will be wet. You can unlock the hatch and the door of the boathouse with a key you'll find in a bag with medical supplies.'

  Zach opened his mouth, but I held up my hand to stop him. 'You'll find a revolver and ammunition in the antechamber. Make sure to pack some water and a little food. There are bandages, disinfectant, and a tourniquet in a small bag just behind the door. Some of my tools, needles, and thread.'

  Klara rushed over to me, unsure what this all meant, and scared by the hollow tone of my voice. I picked her up and held her against me. 'Everything is all right,' I whispered into her ear. Then to Zachary, 'I will show you a photograph of a man. If you see him on the premises or in the house, do not talk to him, do not ask him what he wants. Make sure Margery and Klara are on their way through the tunnel. And then…' Kill him, I mouthed. 'Do you understand?'