Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

  She said, “Cameron took everything from her, but she went on working for him. When the palsy in his hands was too far advanced he kept seeing patients, talking to them, maybe examining them, but she carried out all the procedures. And one day something happened. Something snapped.”

  “You mean Janine Campbell?” Jack asked.

  They had assumed—but could not be sure—that Janine Campbell had been the first of the multipara cases.

  “No,” Anna said. “By that time they had developed a procedure, a way to bring in women who wanted an abortion. There must have been at least one other case, a first case, where her anger got the upper hand.”

  Jack turned toward her. “And Cameron just went along with it? Why would he?”

  “Because he liked it.”

  Jack closed his eyes. “I don’t know if we can get enough evidence to charge her. We get closer to the truth and further away from it at the same time. One thing at least—”

  He turned to smile at her. “Now the letter Neill Graham wrote makes some sense. He said a family emergency had come up, something he hadn’t anticipated. I’m thinking he found out that his sister had started up again with her project, and wanted to stop her.”

  “But she stopped him instead?” Anna thought about this. “It makes sense, but we may never know. I don’t think she’s capable of giving a direct and truthful answer to anything.”

  “Maybe not,” Jack said. “But we won’t give up yet.”

  57

  OVER THE NEXT few days their lives returned to something akin to normal. Jack and Oscar went back to chasing clues, interviewing everyone who had any connection to the apothecary or Cameron’s medical practice. Nora Smithson went back to overseeing her clerks and maligning Sophie at every opportunity despite the pending civil trial, Anna returned to her patients and surgeries, and Sophie to her plans for the preparatory academy and now, in addition, a children’s hospital.

  On a still summer evening while Anna sat with Sophie in the pergola, she raised a subject that could no longer be put off.

  “We made no mention of your wedding anniversary. Auntie thought we should take our cues from you on that.”

  “I’m glad you took her advice,” Sophie said. “I wanted solitude, and she understood that.”

  In Sophie’s place Anna imagined she would have wanted the same, but it still felt wrong, somehow, to simply let the day go by without remembering Sophie and Cap together on the day they married.

  “While we’re on the subject,” Sophie said with a grin that did not bode well, “your wedding anniversary and your birthday were both ignored. I have to say that it was clever of you to get married in a way that would minimize fuss.”

  Anna’s dislike of being the center of any kind of attention was legendary. Now she flicked her fingers as if to shoo away something irritating buzzing around her head. “We haven’t forgotten our anniversary,” she said. “There was just too much going on, but we plan to go out for a meal, Jack and I. As soon as we both have an evening free.”

  “Do you really imagine you’ll get away with that?” Sophie bumped Anna’s shoulder.

  Anna pulled a face. “I hoped I would. So tell me then, what have they got planned?”

  “There’s talk of a party. Mrs. Lee is going to build you a mile-high cake. According to the girls, of course. You are making the face that means you’re going to object.”

  “Of course I object,” Anna said. “It doesn’t feel right, Mrs. Lee to go to so much trouble. But you know what we could do, we could have a catered supper. Here, if you like, or at Roses. Nobody fretting about the butcher or the stove heating up the house. No pots to scrub or dishes to wipe.”

  They took the idea to Aunt Quinlan, who found it so delightful that soon she and Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Cabot were discussing caterers, and the whole affair was out of Anna’s hands. And she was happy to let others set the menu, pick the caterer, and make all the arrangements, as long as they didn’t invite the whole neighborhood. Sophie put her foot down on one issue: they would not allow her any part in the preparations, but she insisted that the bills should come to her.

  * * *

  • • •

  ANNA WOKE QUIETLY on the day of the party and watched Jack combing his hair in front of the mirror, one corner of his mouth turned down as he concentrated. “You look like a pirate when you don’t shave,” she said. “Off to see the diGiglio brothers?”

  He came to her and leaned in. “And me with a surgeon for a wife. Sure you don’t want to shave me?”

  His kiss was quick and absolutely inadequate. She grabbed him by a suspender and pulled him down to take her due.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “Why don’t you take the day off and we can go sit on the beach? It’s warm enough.”

  “Too late to escape to Long Island, Savard. Don’t begrudge them their party.”

  She sighed and dropped her head. “All right, I surrender to the unavoidable.” Her yawn was so wide that her ears popped. And then she blinked hard, because tears came to her eyes without warning.

  “Hey,” he said. “What’s this?”

  She drew in a noisy breath, shaking her head in frustration. “I’m just finding it hard to stop thinking—”

  “About Tonino? The girls?”

  She nodded, happy to let him mislead himself. She did spend a lot of time thinking about the children, but this moodiness came from somewhere else, and she wasn’t ready to talk about that yet.

  “You coming down to breakfast?”

  “I think I’ll try to sleep for another half hour.”

  He studied her for a long moment and she thought, just then, that she would have to confess all. Married now for a year, she had never gone back to sleep once she woke in the morning, not even when a head cold kept her away from the hospital. She yawned again, hoping she was not overdoing it.

  He leaned down to kiss her forehead and left. Anna listened to him walking down the stairs, counted to thirty to make sure he’d be at the table and talking to Mrs. Cabot, turned her head to the pillow, and burst into tears. When that was out of her system, she made her way to the bath, where she sat staring at her bare feet until she could wait no longer.

  “Get it all out of your system now,” she muttered. “I’m still captain of this ship, matey, and I’d like smooth sailing for the rest of today at least.”

  With that she let everything come up, rinsed out her mouth and brushed her teeth, and made ready for the day.

  * * *

  • • •

  REALLY, ANNA TOLD herself as she set out for work, really she should be glad that everyone was too busy to notice her leaving. Clear-eyed old women could look at her and see more than she cared to let them see, and on top of that they would shower her with questions: where she was going and why, and when she would be back, and why she was so pale, and what she meant by skipping breakfast. Right now she could keep herself to herself, but not for long. Because there was a party, and there was no escaping it.

  Just when she most wanted to hide away, she would have to be at the center of everybody’s attention. How was a woman to hide things while she was being stared at? Not that she had anything to hide, she reminded herself. She was lawfully married, after all. But still she disliked the idea that her Aunt Quinlan would look at her and know that she was pregnant. Somehow she always seemed to know; it had happened too many times for Anna to dismiss this odd little talent of her aunt’s as coincidence.

  She was still ill at ease with the idea herself; she needed a few days at least to come to an understanding with the interloper who now shared her body. For a moment she considered going into the hospital, though she had the day off. No better way to distract herself than to spend as many hours as possible with a scalpel in her hand.

  Then she went out the front door and there was Sophie, being helped out of her carriage by No
ah Hunter.

  She raised a hand in greeting and called to her. “It’s your day off,” she said. “Let’s go play.”

  And that was that; she couldn’t turn Sophie away. On the other hand, Sophie was always a comfort.

  She said, “Do you mind if we walk? I have an errand to run.”

  When the carriage had gone off, Sophie put her arm through Anna’s. “We can start with a few errands, if you like. Where are we headed?”

  They set off toward Washington Square, and Anna explained. “Something I want to get for Jack, as a late anniversary present.”

  Sophie nodded. “And where is this gift to be found?”

  “Mr. Hobart’s.”

  “A bookshop? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jack reading anything but police reports. Is he fond of novels?”

  “I don’t think so, no,” Anna admitted. “But you remember the story he and Oscar told about their visit to the publisher’s office?”

  Sophie put back her head and laughed. “You mean to turn Jack into a writer of mystery stories?”

  Anna shrugged. “A reader of them, at least. He might like them, and he could read to me in the evenings, sometimes. I’d like that.”

  What she didn’t like was the sudden welling of tears that came suddenly and unbidden. She turned her face away and blinked hard, but it was too late.

  Sophie was quiet for a long moment as they crossed to Washington Square North. In a quick movement she turned and pulled Anna to her, hugging her with all her considerable might. Anna let out something between a laugh and a squeak.

  “I am so pleased for you, really, Anna. I am delighted for you.” Her voice trembled a bit, but she cleared her throat.

  “Yes, well.” Anna wiped her cheek. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I had dust in my eyes.”

  Sophie drew in a breathy sigh. “If you insist. No need to talk about it if you’re uncomfortable.”

  “It’s not discomfort,” Anna said. “It’s—it’s—oh hell. I don’t know. I’d just like to sit with it for a while, by myself. But it’s impossible—”

  “In a family like ours,” Sophie finished for her.

  “Yes. And what an ungrateful wretch I am. I am so fortunate to have you.”

  “You know,” Sophie said, “we could resolve to spend a day talking about nothing of any importance. Would that serve?”

  They walked all the way to Sixth Avenue without saying a single word, and Anna was thankful for that most of all. At Clinton Street, while they waited for traffic to clear, Anna felt a tentative touch at her elbow.

  “Dr. Savard?”

  The woman looked familiar, but Anna could not place her. “Yes?”

  “Dr. Savard, I doubt you’ll remember me. Naomi Geddes, that’s me. You sewed up my Rodney when he put his hand through a plate glass window. Just four he was then, and the gash went from wrist to shoulder. Do you recall?”

  Anna did remember now. “He howled to the heavens, I remember,” she said. “He thought we were going to stick his arm in a sewing machine.”

  “That’s right,” said the doting mother, her broad smile showing off strong teeth with seamstress notches in the front incisors.

  Anna introduced Sophie, but Mrs. Geddes was intent on telling the story, one that had the ring of many retellings.

  “And when you took out the needle to show him, such a little thing with a curve to it, he gave right in. He’s seven now, and still as much trouble as ever he was.”

  “I’m glad to hear he’s doing so well,” Anna said.

  “It’s very good to run into you,” Mrs. Geddes finished. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you hereabouts before.”

  “We’re on our way to see Mr. Hobart,” Anna said.

  Mrs. Geddes turned as if she could see around the corner to where the bookshop stood, just beyond Smithson’s Apothecary.

  “Poor Mr. Hobart,” she said, in a hushed tone. “He’s always glad of a little company, you know.”

  A small twinge at the nape of her neck, something one part of Anna’s mind refused to acknowledge as a harbinger.

  Sophie said, “He hasn’t been well?”

  “Melancholia, is what I’ve heard. Ever since his wife passed, a year ago now. He’s awful low.”

  Anna said, “I’m sorry to hear that. Sophie, maybe we should try another bookseller?”

  “Heavens no, don’t do that,” said Mrs. Geddes. “On top of everything else he’s near run the shop into the ground. He needs all the custom that comes his way.”

  * * *

  • • •

  THEY HAD TO walk past the apothecary, both of them with their gazes fixed firmly ahead. If Anna could arrange to never see Nora Smithson again, she would do that.

  The investigation was stalled, once again. The interviews went on, but Jack believed nothing would break until Sophie’s lawsuit came to trial, while Anna thought that a medical crisis was more likely to force Nora Smithson’s hand. Oscar had wanted to know how things would develop if it turned out that the mass in her abdomen was a cancer, which Sophie had told him truthfully.

  “The pain will put an end to her pretense. I’m surprised it hasn’t already, unless she is indulging in opioids.”

  “That’s certainly possible,” Jack had said. “She’s been seen coming out of Ho Lee’s on a regular basis. Maybe she’s consuming so much morphine that she doesn’t want it to show up on the account books.”

  Now Sophie squeezed Anna’s arm and said, “I can almost hear you thinking. Stop it. We’re only talking of pleasant things today, remember?”

  * * *

  • • •

  AT FIRST GLANCE it looked to Anna as though the bookshop were closed to business. The interior was dim; there were no customers to be seen and no one behind the counter. But the door opened and the bells rang dutifully. Before the sound had stopped Mr. Hobart appeared from the back to take his place at the till.

  “Dr. Sophie, good morning. I see you’ve brought Dr. Anna with you. What can I do for you ladies today?”

  Anna had to hold back her reaction, because the Mr. Hobart she had seen last a year ago was a solidly built man of middle height, perfectly groomed. This man’s complexion was pasty white with a tinge of yellow, his cheeks rough with gray stubble, his hair stringy with grease and dirt, clothing rumpled. But he was as polite as ever though his voice caught and wobbled and hesitated.

  Anna said, “I have a list, just let me—” And she began to sort through her reticule.

  “Oh dear,” Sophie said, trying for a teasing tone, though she was clearly as shocked by Mr. Hobart’s appearance as Anna. “This may take a while.”

  Mr. Hobart waited with his hands clenched in front of himself, the grip so tight that his knuckles stood out in stark relief. He meant to smile, but some inner turmoil had all his attention. As Anna approached the counter with her list she saw that he was perspiring freely.

  “Mr. Hobart,” she said. “Please pardon my intrusion, but you are unwell. Can we be of assistance?”

  “No, no.” He held up both hands, palms out and trembling. “I am just a little under the weather. I’m due for my medicine, you see.” He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, which seemed to have stopped.

  “What medicines are you taking?” Sophie asked, coming closer.

  “Really!” Mr. Hobart’s voice cracked. “Do not bother yourself. May I see your list?”

  He took it from Anna with a jerk and held it up to read. There were crescents of dirt under his nails, but no sign of ink.

  She said, “They are what I believe is called mystery novels.”

  Mr. Hobart glanced at her. “Yes, I see. I have Mr. Collins’s The Moonstone, and Poe’s The Murders in the Rue Morgue. But I’ve never heard of Charles Felix.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve got the name
exactly right,” Anna admitted. “But it’s a small matter. I’ll take the two you do have.”

  He inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment. These books are in a recent shipment I haven’t unpacked yet. It will just be a moment.”

  When he had disappeared into the back of the shop Sophie said, “Did you notice that half the shelves are empty? And very dusty. Did you see his hands?”

  They could hear him moving things around in the storeroom. After a pause there was the squeal of nails being pulled from a wooden shipping crate.

  “Not that one,” they heard him mutter to himself. “Silly old man. You’re looking for the shipment from Philadelphia.”

  Anna scanned the shelves and picked up History of Woman Suffrage and put it down again. “I can’t concentrate.”

  “I know,” Sophie said. “There is something terribly wrong.”

  She crouched down to look at the bundles of newspapers piled in a corner. “There are papers here from days ago that haven’t even been untied.”

  The sound of a door opening and closing came to them from the second floor.

  “Maybe he has some books stored in the apartment,” Anna said.

  They listened to someone walking overhead. A light step, quick, almost childish.

  Again a door opened and shut, followed immediately by another door. Now they heard voices, both of them female. The conversation couldn’t be made out, but the tone was clear: confrontation.

  Anna said, “Does he have—”

  “No,” Sophie said. “No children.”

  The sound of crockery smashing was unmistakable. More running, doors opening and closing.

  “Maybe we should—” Sophie had begun when Mr. Hobart appeared again. He was breathing hard, dust on his shoulders and in his hair, but he held two books.