by Sara Donati
Sophie glanced down at her. “Do you remember the day he was born?”
“No. But I remember the story. On our birthdays Mama told us how it was we came into the world. So I told him, and he listened and he smiled a little.”
“A good day, then.” Sophie ran a hand over the girl’s head.
“Yes. Do you think he understands what’s happening?”
Sophie considered. “I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“I think he does, and he doesn’t mind. You know what the worst thing is?”
Sophie couldn’t even imagine answering this question.
Rosa said, “He’ll never tell us where he was or what happened to him. We’ll never know who hurt him so bad that he’s gone away inside himself and can’t find his way out again. I want to know who it was, the same way I want to know where Vittorio is, but I’ll never know, not about either of them. Both my brothers lost and never to be found. Mama would be so disappointed in me.”
Sophie pulled away to look at the girl. “Rosa, from all you’ve told me about your mother, she was kind and loving and generous of spirit. Is that not so?”
The girl nodded, her gaze downcast. “But she made me promise.”
“You promised to do your best, and you did so much, Rosa. You are far harder on yourself than your mother would ever be. I think if she could talk to you she’d thank you. I know she would understand.”
“But I don’t understand,” Rosa said. “I don’t understand why things happened this way. I hate not knowing.”
“Do you know what Uncle Cap made me promise, just before he died?”
Rosa looked at her.
“That I would move on, and live a full life. That I wouldn’t let grief ruin me. It’s very hard, what he asked of me, but I know he asked me because he loved me. He would have said the same to you. Your mama would say the same to you. Will you think about that?”
After a long moment, Rosa nodded. “Because you ask me, I will try.”
“Try for yourself,” Sophie said. “Try because it is your right and your responsibility to make something of your life. Try to live well, for your parents and for Vittorio and Tonino. That is the best tribute you could pay to them.”
* * *
• • •
THAT NIGHT SOPHIE slept more soundly than she had in many weeks, and without dreams.
At dawn she came fully awake, instantly, suddenly, because she had heard something out of the ordinary. She went out into the hall and peeked in at Tonino. The night duty nurse nodded to her in the way of nurses who have nothing alarming to report, and Sophie went on. She had just begun to believe she had imagined the noise when she heard the sound of the terrace door opening and shutting.
At the landing window she looked out over the garden in the soft light of the new day, verdant and damp with dew. The garden was the heart of this place now called Doves, and perhaps for that reason Sophie wasn’t surprised to see Rosa walking there so very early.
Her bare feet left their impression in the grass, and her nightgown trailed behind her like veils. Like ragged wings. A girl who wanted to be an angel, the bringer of miracles and the harbinger of salvation, but who was learning not to expect so much of life, or of herself. There was solace to be had in a sunny garden in late spring. Sophie left Rosa to find it, and got ready for her day.
* * *
• • •
THE MORNING MAIL brought her a letter she hesitated to open. She recognized Nicholas Lambert’s hand, and for a moment considered tossing the envelope into the stove. Or she might hand it over to Jack, who, she feared, had not found a way to tell Lambert that his attentions were unwelcome.
Irritation rose up in her, and in a quick motion she slit the envelope open.
Dear Dr. Savard,
Our mutual friend Detective Sergeant Mezzanotte has made me aware of how inappropriate and insulting the proposals I made to you recently were and how poorly received. Allow me to assure you that I hold you in the greatest esteem and despite what must seem to be evidence to the contrary, my respect for you is without bounds.
I apologize for trespassing on your privacy and causing you such distress in a difficult time. Please be assured that I will not intrude on you in any way without your express invitation, in matters personal or otherwise.
With sincere best wishes and abject apologies I remain,
Nicholas Lambert, M.D.
This was what she had asked of Jack. With this letter Lambert said everything she wanted and needed to hear, and yet, somehow, it felt less than sincere.
Any reasonable person would say that she was being unfair, but in her heart she knew she was not.
46
ELISE SAT IN the coffeehouse without a name—the one she thought of as the Blue Door Café, just across from the Jefferson Market on one side, and Smithson’s Apothecary on the other—and tried to focus on her notes.
She had the day off from class and clinic, arranged by Anna, so that she could sit here and wait. Eventually they would come to say she should cross the street to the apothecary and ask to speak to Mrs. Smithson. While she waited she drank coffee and ate bits of a croissant and wondered why she could make no sense of her careful notes on blood chemistry. Last night they had been perfectly understandable. Now they seemed to have rearranged themselves into babble.
Rain fell steadily, and as always seemed to happen when it rained, traffic on Sixth Avenue was a snarled chaos, as noisy as she imagined a battlefield would be in the aftermath. New York drivers seemed to relish any reason to raise their voices.
She must admit to herself at least that she was nervous, but Anna’s advice had made sense to her and made it possible to think of what was ahead as an assignment. She was to observe Nora Smithson’s reactions. If she was unwilling to engage, Elise had something to show her that might change her mind.
For the tenth time in an hour Elise touched the bag that contained all her books and notebooks and everything she would need if this business ended before five, and she could make it to the forensics group on time. Sticking out of the top was what would look to anybody like an ordinary tea tin: square, five inches high, and two inches on each side. The upper half of the label read Smithson’s Apothecary, Jefferson Market in raised printing, and below that a white square was filled with instructions written in an old-fashioned hand, masculine and clear but faded to illegibility in spots:
The tin gave the impression of having been well used. One corner was dented and the bottom was scuffed. Elise knew that the tin was empty, but if she were to lever up the lid, there would be a strong small of spearmint. Pennyroyal—Mentha pulegium—was a member of the mint family, after all. Scent could be a powerful aid in triggering memory.
Such a simple, ordinary item; no one would guess that it had been days in the creation. A tin had to be selected from the many Mrs. Lee had saved over the years when she traded at Smithson’s, and the original instructions for a digestive tea had to be gotten rid of. The label was soaked off the tin and lemon juice was applied with a fine paintbrush. Then sunshine had done the rest of the job of lightening the old writing.
With a quill pen and ink Mrs. Lee made from Mrs. Quinlan’s recipe, Mr. Lee, whose handwriting was most like the examples they had of the first Mr. Smithson’s, wrote out the instructions three times on scrap paper and then, finally, on the label itself. Finally he had reattached it to the tin, and with such success that it looked entirely at home.
And now here Elise sat pretending to study, hands trembling because she had drunk too much coffee. Her head began to ache as storm clouds slid down and down to huddle over the city. Lightning flickered in the bit of sky she could see to the east.
Storms excited some people, but they made Elise want to crawl into bed. She stifled a yawn, and in that moment Jack Mezzanotte came through the door, rainwater pouring from his hat brim and
off his shoulders. He raised a hand in greeting to the waiter and came straight to Elise.
“I meant to be here sooner,” he said, his gaze drifting across Sixth Avenue and then returning to her. “The rain may work in our favor. More people in the shop, waiting out the storm.”
Elise pushed her plate away and reached for her things. “I’m ready.”
Jack was looking at her the way she herself looked at a patient who was trying to be brave in the face of a painful procedure.
“You can still change your mind.”
“I realize that, but I don’t want to.”
A rumble of thunder made Jack look out onto Sixth Avenue. “It’s raining pitchforks and hammers. Where’s your umbrella?”
Elise looked around herself and sighed.
“Not again.” Jack laughed. “How many is that?”
“Three,” Elise said, tersely. “And as I can’t afford a new one, I can promise I won’t be losing any more of them.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “You’ve got a hood, and umbrellas are dangerous in crowds.”
“Is that why you don’t carry one?” Elise asked.
“Of course not,” Jack said. “I wouldn’t carry one of those silly things for love or money.” And he stepped aside to let her pass.
* * *
• • •
SMITHSON’S WAS A cavernous place with a floor of black and white marble tiles and long counters of polished wood that formed a U shape around the perimeter of the shop. Once inside Elise stepped to the side and paused to look around herself. When she had last been here with Mr. Bellegarde, the gaslight chandeliers had been turned off in preparation for closing, and she hadn’t been able to make out much.
Now she saw that the walls behind the counters were fitted with deep shelving, every inch filled with bottles and jars and crocks up to the ceiling. Below the shelves were drawers of all sizes, each with a white label secured in a brass frame with its contents written in a spidery hand.
The shop was indeed crowded, so Elise took a few minutes to explore and watch the clerks waiting on customers. Sophie had mentioned the ladders that rolled along a track in the ceiling and how tempting they had been to her as a child. Right now a clerk was perched high on one of the ladders, reaching for a box. And it did look like fun.
Despite the crowd of customers there was a hush that reminded Elise of a church or a library, which she supposed was reasonable, given the seriousness of the work and the materials being dispensed. On islands that ran down the middle she examined a display of milled soaps, another of brushes and combs, and finally a whole small island dedicated to books and pamphlets for sale. She rifled through the titles: Sermon on Christian Recreation and Unchristian Amusement. Fables of Infidelity and Facts of Faith. Virtuous Health. Suffering and Divine Healing. The Gospel According to Saint Paul Interpreted for Wives and Mothers. The Population Question. Traps for the Young. Frauds Exposed; Or, How the People Are Deceived and Robbed, and Youth Corrupted. Of the Malthusian Theory. Mortality and Systemic Morality. Faith in the Great Physician.
Elise wondered about the person who had chosen these titles to display and sell. Was it Nora Smithson, or her husband? Extreme religious devotion was something she knew well and could respect, but here was a mind focused with grim satisfaction on pain and punishment. She looked at Frauds Exposed and saw that she knew the author, or knew of him: Anthony Comstock, a man who seemed dedicated to harming women while proclaiming himself a friend to the poor and vulnerable. Last year he had done his best to ruin both Anna’s and Sophie’s reputations and careers. Then she picked up Faith in the Great Physician and turned to the title page.
FAITH IN THE GREAT PHYSICIAN: SUFFERING THE DIVINE
Tolle Lege!
AUGUSTINE DEPAUL, M.D.
1882
J.B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
PHILADELPHIA
“How might I be of service?”
Startled, Elise jumped and almost dropped the book. Her heart was beating with such fury she could feel its echo in her wrists, but she managed a polite smile before she turned.
The clerk gave a merchant’s bow, his head inclined to one side. His manners, his grooming, the cut of his clothing were all perfectly in tune with his role as a clerk in a first-rate establishment.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like to buy this book.” She handed it to him. “And I would also like to speak to Mrs. Smithson.”
Both of his eyebrows climbed high on his brow.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He was trying to hold back a smile. Her request amused him.
“And why not?”
The smile slipped away. “She’s not here at the moment.”
Elise prided herself on her even temper, but his smirk was testing her patience. “That’s odd,” she said. “I saw her outside just a half hour ago. On her way up to the family apartment by the side entrance.”
This was not true, of course, but Jack and Oscar had seen her. She was only here because they were sure Mrs. Smithson was in the building.
The clerk said, “If there’s anything else I can help you with—”
“Yes,” Elise said. Her attention kept returning to the book in his hands, written by a Dr. dePaul. She remembered very well where she had last seen that name. It could be no coincidence.
“I’ll take that book. And I’d like to make an appointment to see Mrs. Smithson at her convenience.”
* * *
• • •
THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY no room in her bag, not even for one slim book. Elise tucked the neatly wrapped packet under her arm to protect it from the rain as best she could, and walked around the corner, where she stopped to catch her breath. Her instructions were to walk east on Clinton Street and keep walking until the detectives caught up with her. The fear was that one of the Smithsons might follow her or watch her from a window.
After a count of three she went on, darting through stalled traffic to cross Clinton Street. She had gotten as far as Washington Square Park when Jack caught up with her, Oscar trotting along behind, huffing and puffing.
Their faces were rain-streaked and their expressions somber.
“Something went wrong,” Jack said. “What was it?”
“Mrs. Smithson wouldn’t see me,” she said. “And there’s something else. Let’s go to Roses, and I’ll show you.”
* * *
• • •
THEY SAT IN the parlor around the low table crowded with newspapers, magazines, a large vase of roses from the Mezzanotte greenhouse, and now one small blue book.
Jack considered the title page. “Tolle lege?”
“Take up and read,” Oscar supplied. And at Jack’s expression of surprise he shrugged. “I grew up Catholic, you always forget. I’ve got Latin tucked away in my pockets still.”
“Dr. dePaul,” said Aunt Quinlan. “Why does that sound so familiar?”
It took Oscar a few minutes to go over the history of the multipara murders and the newspaper advertisements they had collected from physicians who offered their services to ladies who sought to restore nature’s rhythms or remove an obstruction. Anna and Sophie had explained how women sought help when a pregnancy was unwanted, something that hundreds of women did every month in New York city alone. Answering such advertisements was one of the avenues, though not a very reliable or safe one. Poor women used other methods passed down to them from their grandmothers or sought out a knowledgeable midwife; women with money went to qualified physicians who offered comfort and anesthesia.
“One of the advertisements we found last year was placed by a Dr. dePaul,” Oscar finished. “It mentioned Smithson’s specifically.”
“Augustine dePaul must be a pen name,” Aunt Quinlan said. “From the subject of this book, I would think it is a combination of Augustine of Hippo and St. Paul the Apostle.
What do you think, Elise?”
In all matters of religion they turned to Elise, who had the most recent and thorough knowledge. Jack had the sense that she was uncomfortable with this, but she never hesitated to answer.
“That makes sense to me,” Elise said. “Augustine and St. Paul both were very harsh about matters associated with—” She swallowed. “Procreation.”
Her embarrassment made everyone uncomfortable, but it was Aunt Quinlan who rescued her.
She said, “Would the next step be locating this Dr. dePaul?”
Oscar growled a little with impatience about another lead that would most likely take them nowhere except further away from the Smithsons. He was convinced, as Jack was starting to be, that the answers they needed were to be found in the apothecary.
Aunt Quinlan said, “Elise, would you be so kind as to bring me the business directory from my study? I would guess that Lippincott and Company has an office here in the city.”
* * *
• • •
IN THE FIRST bit of luck they had had, the rain stopped just as Jack and Oscar left Roses and started north on University Place. The second bit of luck was that they wouldn’t have to go very far; the Lippincott office was a short walk away on Union Square.
They stepped over a pile of dead rats under a downspout, paused while Jack spoke a few words with his cousin Mario, who was sweeping outside the Mezzanotte florist shop on the corner at Thirteenth Street, and finally Oscar asked the question Jack knew was coming when they were about to cross Fourteenth.
“What’s your guess?”
Jack didn’t need to ask for clarification. They had been working together a long time, so that they sometimes sounded like an old married couple who could finish each other’s sentences.
