by Sara Donati
• • •
ON HIS WAY home that evening Jack put some effort into swallowing his irritation and bettering his mood. Hours spent pursuing one man, and they had nothing of value beyond Graham’s letter to his superiors: he was gone away to address a serious issue regarding his family, and might be gone ten full days.
At Bellevue the director’s secretary had been far more forthcoming and even seemed to delight in telling them what she knew of Neill Graham. He was oddly quiet and very reserved, according to Miss Asby, and even rude on occasion.
“I am on good terms with all the students,” she told them, running her hands over a waist cinched so tightly that Jack wondered if she had to wait to eat until she got home and could unlace her corset. “On very good terms. Friendly, even, with some of them. But very proper. I am never indiscreet, but I do consider myself a good listener, and some of our students will sit right here”—she pointed to a chair beside her desk—“when things are especially hard and talk to me. It is grueling, the study of medicine, far more challenging than people realize. I try to provide comfort, but only within professional bounds, you understand. This has been my habit for the six years since I began to work for the director, and no one ever complained. Just the opposite, I assure you. Until Dr. Graham.”
Her color rose as she spoke his name.
“He told the director that I was flirting with him. Me, Mabel Asby, flirting! But my sterling reputation saved me, and the director dismissed Dr. Graham’s groundless accusations.”
“You are fortunate in your employer.” Oscar said this with all seriousness, but Jack could hear the thread of amusement in his tone and elbowed him.
“I am fortunate,” Miss Asby said, nodding. “My hard work and dedication has been rewarded, but then the director is the very best of men. The very best. He told me—”
She paused to look around herself, and continued in a lower voice. “He said, ‘Miss Asby, I don’t know what I would do without you. Don’t concern yourself about Graham, he’s a weak sister.’”
The last words were almost whispered.
Oscar’s brow rose in feigned shock. “Did he really?”
“Yes, he used that phrase. To be honest I didn’t really take his meaning, so I asked my brother, and he explained. Dr. Graham gives in too easily.”
Jack lowered his tone to match her own. “To what?”
“Why, to a stronger person. He is afraid of anyone with superior judgment and unable to resist their blandishments. He recognized in me the stronger personality, and it made him so anxious he had to find a way to diminish me.”
Very satisfied with this characterization, she folded her hands. “Now, you wanted to see Dr. Graham’s file?”
She showed them into an empty office where they could take their time reading through the documents.
There were reports from Graham’s instructors and professors, all of which described him as a serious, dedicated student. He had considerable natural talent and showed real promise.
Beyond reports and grade sheets was a single letter in Graham’s extremely neat hand and his application to the medical school. It was concise and provided no personal information beyond the fact that he had graduated with honors from Columbia College and wanted to dedicate his life to medicine.
Oscar went back to ask Miss Asby if anything might be missing from the file.
She sorted through the papers, frowning. “It does seem rather thin, doesn’t it? I’ll have to ask the director, when he returns. I will send word to you at police headquarters, if that will serve?”
Oscar assured her that it would.
* * *
• • •
HEADED HOME, JACK wondered about Neill Graham. All this time they had considered him a viable suspect in the multipara murders. The fact that he had disappeared just at the time they found another victim—a possible victim, he corrected himself—might mean that they had been right to keep him under surveillance, or it might mean the exact opposite. Instead of a guilty party, he might be in danger.
Jack couldn’t explain even to himself why it felt to him as if this could be the case, but it sat there like a ball of lead in his gut, and would not be moved.
* * *
• • •
THE NEW YORK EVENING SUN
CRIMES AGAINST NATURE
MRS. GEORGIA SHAY
Our readers responded with horror to the story of the unnamed young matron of good family and fortune who last summer lost her life at the hands of an unidentified abortionist. In fact, trusted physicians tell us that such operations take place regularly. They are only revealed to public scrutiny when the practitioner missteps and causes the mother’s death.
In the spirit of educating the public, and most especially young ladies, we will make a concerted effort to bring such cases to the attention of our readers.
Two days ago Mrs. Georgia Shay, widowed since her husband was lost at sea in 1881, disappeared from her home on Thirty-fourth-str. Yesterday Mr. Lionel Hanks, her brother, a professor at Columbia College, reported her missing at police headquarters. Police inquiry established that Mrs. Shay had been admitted to St. Joseph Hospital and was there recovering from an illegal operation that resulted in serious injury from which she may not recover.
Mrs. Shay has refused to name the person who operated on her and cost her both health and reputation.
12
THOUGH SHE HADN’T been away for very long in the greater scheme of things, all the entrenched rules for paying social calls had slipped Sophie’s mind, an oversight with real repercussions. She was a new widow and dressed in the expected dark colors and fabrics appropriate for her status, but she had not thought to have a mourning wreath hung on the front door; neither had she put out a carefully worded notice to say that she was not yet receiving visitors. Even Conrad, who had anticipated her smallest need, had forgotten to make public Sophie’s wishes about callers.
Generally a widow was given a year to refuse visitors without causing insult, but the calling cards now displayed on the table in the foyer made it clear that she had left a loophole that neighbors were putting to good use. While she was out visiting with Aunt Quinlan, three of them had come to call.
Which meant that she would have to return the calls and allow these same strangers to extend their condolences and, more awkwardly, pry for information about her plans. Stuyvesant Square had its fair share of the morbidly curious and socially inept, but she would have to sort out who belonged to which category before she knocked on any doors.
This question was still in her mind when Laura Lee came to say that Mrs. Minerva Griffin had come to call.
The grand matron of Stuyvesant Square had, in Laura Lee’s telling of it, sailed in, settled herself in the parlor, announced that she preferred coffee to tea, with milk and not cream, honey and not sugar, and demanded an accounting of what kinds of biscuits and cake were to be had.
It was one advantage of growing old, Aunt Quinlan was fond of saying: you could dispense with the social niceties. The question was whether Mrs. Griffin had ever had social niceties to start, but there was no way to avoid the visit without giving offense.
Sophie checked her hair in the mirror, tucked and tidied what she could, and asked Laura Lee to keep Pip in the kitchen.
* * *
• • •
MRS. GRIFFIN WORE a heavy black brocade gown embroidered with jet beads. At least thirty years since her husband died, according to Conrad, but Mrs. Griffin would never surrender her widow’s weeds for as long as she lived. With her was a maid who was surely no older than sixteen, a girl who was just coming into womanhood and was not comfortable with that fact. She was pale almost to the point of anemia, with lines bracketing her mouth that spoke of pain. Sophie was curious about her, but of course Mrs. Griffin didn’t think to introduce her servant. In fact, she sent the girl off to
sit in the kitchen. At least Laura Lee would feed her.
“Normally,” began Mrs. Griffin, “it would be your place to call on me, but you are newly widowed and new to the neighborhood both, and so I have made an exception.”
She had come to impart knowledge, she told Sophie, and saw no reason to delay.
As Mrs. Griffin described the neighborhood, house by house and family by family, Sophie kept her expression politely attentive. She reminded herself that she had just been wondering about the neighbors whose cards were on display in her own foyer. Mrs. Griffin might be cantankerous and condescending, but she also could provide some useful perspective.
She started off with dead Mr. McGregor, a wily old Scot who had left his very good house to the ne’er-do-well grandson who managed one of the boxing clubs in the Tenderloin. Around the corner from the Friends’ Seminary and opposite St. George’s rectory was Wiley’s Saloon, a place she, Sophie, the Widow Verhoeven, should make every effort to never cast eyes on. Neighbors to be avoided included Dr. Cox, who was a sawbones of the worst kind; Mr. McNulty, who entertained women of loose morals at all times of the day and night; and Mrs. Frank, who talked to herself in quite strident tones and scolded her husband so harshly in public that the man must wish himself deaf. Mrs. Griffin had a lot to say about Mr. Hummel, who lived at the other end of Sophie’s block: a partner in the law firm Howe & Hummel, notorious pettifoggers, who had just recently stepped forward as the legal representatives of seventy-four women taken up in a purity raid.
On the other hand, Mrs. Griffin would herself introduce Sophie to Mrs. DeClerck, Mrs. Haywood, and Mrs. Webster; to Father Maes at St. Giles; and to those she should know at St. George’s, St. James, and the Friends’ Meeting House. If Sophie would send Laura Lee to see Mrs. Griffin’s own housekeeper, she would learn what she must know about greengrocers, butchers, fishmongers, oystermen, and every other kind of merchant necessary to the proper running of a household.
Just when Sophie thought she would have to plead a migraine to escape, Mrs. Griffin finished with her welcome speech, looked pointedly at her empty coffee cup, and said, “I want to tell you something about your husband.”
When Sophie had poured and added milk and honey, Minerva Griffin smiled for the first time. Ever, in as far as Sophie could remember.
“Cap was a wonderful boy, sweet but wickedly clever. I envied his Aunt May, who had the raising of him.”
“I knew Aunt May,” Sophie said, some softness coming into her tone.
“She talked about you, with great affection. She loved having children about, and she told me more than once that the three of you—Cap and your cousin Anna and you—that you three were what kept her young. But what you must know is, if he hadn’t been so ill, I would have told Cap not to marry you.”
With all the calm she could muster Sophie said, “If he hadn’t been so ill, I wouldn’t have agreed to marry him.”
Mrs. Griffin inclined her head, a regal affirmation that set Sophie’s teeth on edge. “Then we understand each other. So now I must hear about this charity you’re going to start.”
Because she had no other option, Sophie explained how and why and what, answered questions, and then tried not to look surprised when Mrs. Griffin made an unexpected offer.
“This project of yours will be a tricky one,” the old lady said. “Not the money, that won’t be an issue. But having your students board here. Some won’t like it and a few of those may put themselves in your way. When that happens, I hope you’ll turn to me. You’ll need introductions, and I’ll help where I can.”
Given this generous offer, Sophie realized that she would have to ask Minerva Griffin to sit on the board of directors. Conrad never tired of reminding her that political connections would be just as important as practical and academic ones. She made the offer, and then was equally surprised, relieved, and affronted when it was declined.
“I’m not who you need on your board of directors, but I can give you names of people you should consider.”
Mrs. Griffin was offering her a kind of social sponsorship that could not be bought or coerced or traded for. It was more than Sophie had expected and almost more than she wanted. As valuable as it was, there would be a price to pay.
The old lady was watching her closely, waiting, her expression calm but curious.
“Thank you.” Sophie said it with all sincerity, and to her surprise, it seemed to be all that Mrs. Griffin wanted.
“Now where is that girl of mine,” she said, her voice gone hoarse as she twisted around toward the rear of the house. “Cokkie! Cokkie St. Pierre!”
“I’ll go,” Sophie said.
“No, sit right where you are,” Mrs. Griffin said. “She should be listening, waiting for my call.” She wagged her head from side to side. “She’s a sullen one, but then so was her mother. If she doesn’t mend her ways I’ll send her over to you. You like cheeky servants, seems to me.”
The choice was to let this go unchallenged, or face a half hour of a lecture about her failings. Sophie pressed her mouth together hard, and silently hoped Cokkie St. Pierre would find the fortitude and patience she would need to survive in Mrs. Griffin’s household.
13
ON HER FIRST Sunday in the house on Stuyvesant Square, Cap’s cousins Bram and Baltus came to call just in time for breakfast.
“Tell us Laura Lee takes after her grandmother in the kitchen,” Bram said.
“Be specific,” said his twin. “Mention hotcakes and sausage and biscuits and gravy.”
Laura Lee set a Sunday breakfast table that did not disappoint, and in return the twins expressed their admiration at great length. They were as full of enthusiasm and good humor as ever, as devoted to Sophie as they had been to Cap. The twins were as rough-and-tumble as puppies when they were among friends and family, but they had joined Conrad’s law firm and were proving their mettle.
“I find it hard to imagine you two actually practicing law,” Sophie told them. “Has Conrad added a bullwhip to his office furniture? How exactly does he manage to keep you at your desks?”
They were delighted to be teased, and returned the favor manyfold. After telling her stories of their week, each more outrageous than the last, and quizzing her about her health, her habits, where she took her exercise, and what friends she had seen—all while winding up Pip to a frenzy that had him zooming through the house—they got to the purpose of their visit.
She must, they argued, come out with them. Cap had written and charged them with amusing her. A widow could ride through Central Park without giving offense—or at least, they reasoned, not to anyone who need concern her. They could watch the thoroughbreds taking exercise at Jerome Park, or go to the oyster barges at the foot of Perry Street to feast on Crisfields, as the season was drawing to an end. Or was she interested in a steam yacht jaunt around Long Island? And when she politely declined all these suggestions, they made it clear they would be back with others, and soon. In the end she was almost as pleased to see them go as she had been to see them arrive and laughed to herself while she got ready to walk to Waverly Place.
She had just stepped out the door when she saw Dr. Lambert turning in through the gate.
He smiled up at her. “I see I’ve timed this visit badly. May I try again tomorrow?”
Sophie, flushed with equal parts irritation and confusion, managed only a small smile. “Of course,” she said. “If you like. We are neighbors, after all.”
* * *
• • •
SOPHIE STOPPED FIRST at her Aunt Quinlan’s to be fussed over, sitting in the parlor with Anna while Mrs. Lee insisted on feeding her another lunch.
“Go on now before Mrs. Lee decides you are still looking hollow,” their aunt said. “Go admire Anna’s house. She’ll claim she doesn’t mind one way or the other, but don’t believe her.”
* * *
• • •
JACK HAD BOUGHT the neighboring house soon after he and Anna married. Sophie and Cap had already been away, but letters from home had detailed every stage of the purchase of the house, run-down and in need of improvements of all kinds, and the month-long project that involved dozens of workers—most of them Jack’s cousins—until he found it satisfactory.
Twenty-two Waverly Place was smaller than Aunt Quinlan’s home, but it was larger than most single-family houses in the neighborhood. The house was built of sandstone, and the front door and shutters had been painted a glossy evergreen, as were Aunt Quinlan’s. But their aunt’s doorway was topped by a stone lintel carved with lilies and angels, while Anna and Jack had a simple house number.
“Auntie wants to summon Mr. Casavecchia,” Anna said. “She thinks our lintel should be carved into a mass of flowers, given the Mezzanotte family business.”
“And you object?”
“If it makes her happy to put the stone carver to work, I don’t mind. Jack likes the idea.”
“I’m quite excited to see what you’ve made out of the place,” Sophie said as they reached Anna’s front steps. “I think of it as it was when we were children and Mrs. Greber asked us to come in, do you remember? Stale cookies and cold tea—”
“And the house smelled of rancid butter, I remember. I think I can dispel those memories. Pip looks to be quite excited, too.”
It was true. He was shivering, his whole body as taut as a violin string.
“I forgot to tell you,” Anna said. “Mrs. Cabot has a dog. A friend for Pip, when he comes to Waverly Place. They’ll have the run of the gardens, Roses and Weeds both.”
