by Paula Paul
The act of forced concentration had been demanding and tiring for her, and she was relieved when the lecture ended, in spite of the fact that she knew it had undoubtedly provided new insight into the practice of medicine and to surgery in particular.
She walked out of the lecture hall expecting to look for a hansom since she had instructed Nicholas’s driver not to wait. She was barely out the door when she heard her name called in a voice so deep and rich it seemed to be made of chocolate.
“Dr. Gladstone. Paging Dr. Gladstone.”
She quickly found that the source of the voice was a giant of a man with the look of Scotland about him—fair hair that was wild, unruly, and almost red and a face that life had carved into a craggy landscape. He was dressed in livery, as incongruous on him as an Eton jacket would have been.
It took her a moment to work her way through the crowd to his side. He was still calling her name and searching over the heads of everyone around her.
“I am Dr. Gladstone.” His height made her feel like a child, as she had to look up to speak to him.
His pale eyes widened as he looked down at her. “You?”
“Yes. I am Dr. Alexandra Gladstone.”
He continued to stare at her a moment longer, as if she were some odd specimen he’d never seen before, then his eyes crinkled out a smile and a brief burst of strong, round laughter forced his head back. “You?” he said again, looking at her. “Doctor Mort did nae warn me ’twould be a woman,” he added, tumbling every R around on his tongue a few times before he let it escape.
“Warned you?”
“Ah you must pardon my bad manners, milady. ’Tis just that I was nae expectin’ a lady is all.”
“Am I to assume you were sent to fetch me by Dr. Kingsley Mortimer?” Alexandra couldn’t help smiling. There was something about the man’s pleasant face and manner that put her at ease.
The man nodded affirmatively. “Sent a carriage for you, he did. Said I was to find and deliver one Dr. Gladstone, so you can see why I naturally thunk ’twas a man I’d be afetchin’,” he said.
The big coachman turned and, with his rich, round, and resonating voice, cleared a way through the crowd to the carriage. They were soon on their way through the streets of London. It was a long ride to the hospital on the opposite side of the city. The sun, self-satisfied with its day’s work, had turned to a lazy bronze by the time they reached the long, stretched-out building that was the Beckwell Hospital for the Insane.
The brick structure, with two wings spreading from each end of the tall center, looked like children’s blocks laid side by side, some jutting out further than others, some stacked higher. It was set amidst park-like grounds and gave the appearance of ultimate modernity. The carriage circled around one side of the building to a respectable middle-class house at the edge of the grounds.
When Alexandra knocked with her gloved hand on the door, it was opened by a tall, silver-plated woman who looked to be in in her fifties. She wore a grey dress with an apron of a darker shade of grey, and her grey hair was pulled severely from her face and wound into a bun at the back. Her thin face, which was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, looked as if it had never been marred by a smile. “This way please, miss,” she said before Alexandra had a chance to speak. She led her toward a room just off the hall where a portly gentleman with a white-flecked beard sat, relaxed in a chair sipping a glass of brandy.
He put aside the brandy and rose to his feet as soon as he saw her. “You are Dr. Gladstone, of course. Please come in.” He gestured toward a chair then turned to the silver woman. “Tea, please, Gerta.” His voice was cordial but not particularly warm. When Alexandra settled herself in the chair he had indicated, he turned to her again and spoke in his same lukewarm voice. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Gladstone.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Tell me, please. How is Robert?” He seated himself in the chair opposite her.
“Robert?”
“Snow. How is he?”
“Constable Snow. Of course. Quite well,” she said, noticing for the first time that his eyes did not match his voice. Those eyes burned with something.
“Good,” he said, nodding. “He’s a good man. As you may know, I met him through his sister.”
“Did you?” she said, hoping to cut short the polite banalities. There was nothing to say anyway, since she hadn’t known until that moment that Constable Snow had a sister.
“Yes, well, that’s another story, of course.” He cleared his throat and leaned toward her slightly. She got a faint whiff of the brandy as he spoke. “Robert sent me a wire and told me to expect you, but, as we all know, one is not able to go into great detail with a telegram. He said only that the subject is a series of murders on which I might be able to shed some light and that you would explain the details.”
“I shall do my best,” she said, accepting the tea Gerta had brought. Dr. Mortimer took a cup of the steaming liquid as well, but he set it down next to his brandy snifter and spoke again.
“You must start at the beginning and include every detail you can.” He settled back in his chair, but in spite of his relaxed posture, his eyes still smoldered.
Alexandra had scarcely started when Gerta reappeared at the door. “Excuse me Doctor,” she said, addressing Dr. Mortimer. “There is a gentleman at the door who says his name is Forsythe. He claims to be an associate of your guest and insists that he must be allowed entrance.”
Dr. Mortimer turned to Alexandra. “Do you know this man?”
“I…Yes, of course,” Alexandra said, deciding to minimize the awkwardness of the situation as much as possible, although she was seething with anger at Nicholas for putting her in such a position.
“Then show him in.” Dr. Mortimer sounded annoyed.
Nicholas entered looking handsome and very much the elegant aristocrat with his tall, well-built frame and his expensively tailored suit. He went immediately to the alienist with his hand extended. “Dr. Mortimer, I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you at last.” He spoke without feigned effusiveness and with a quiet confidence.
“Indeed,” Dr. Mortimer said in his icy voice.
“I must tell you I was impressed with your work on the McGarry case. Quite innovative. I believe you may have changed one aspect of medical jurisprudence forever, that which deals with the criminally insane.” Still with his sincere, matter-of-fact tone.
“Well now, that’s a rather bold statement.” Dr. Mortimer’s voice had lost some of its chill.
“Nevertheless, it’s true. As I said, your thinking is quite innovative.”
“You are perhaps a member of the queen’s bar?” Mortimer asked. “I understood you were Dr. Gladstone’s assistant.”
“Yes, I am,” Nicholas said, leaving it unclear to which title he was making claim. Then he turned and acknowledged Alexandra for the first time. “I do hope you will forgive me for being late, Dr. Gladstone. The errand you sent me on took a bit longer than I expected.”
Alexandra could only stare at him, in awe of his charming charade. She had not, of course, sent him on any errand at all.
Nicholas seated himself on the settee next to Alexandra, so close that his thigh pressed ever so slightly against hers. “Please, do go on with what you were discussing,” he said.
“Dr. Gladstone was about to tell me the details of the case at hand,” Dr. Mortimer said.
Nicholas turned to her and gave her a most annoyingly innocent, encouraging smile. Alexandra had to struggle to keep from rolling her eyes. Instead, she took a breath, turned her attention back to Dr. Mortimer and told him about the gory murders of Ben Milligan and of the stranger, including how the bodies were found and how the heart of each had been removed, the stranger’s with less expertise. When she finished, Dr. Mortimer sat silently musing for several seconds, a thumb and forefinger stroking his beard while he stared into nothingness. Nicholas, in the meantime, was on his best behavior. He sat quietly listening, prete
nding he had heard it all before. Finally, Dr. Mortimer spoke.
“This last murder, the stranger, I mean, you say that one occurred while the imbecile, young Lucas, was in jail?”
“Yes,” Alexandra said. “That’s why Constable Snow released him. It was obvious that he could not have committed the murder while he was in jail, and that he, therefore, was not likely to have committed the other one either.”
“But that one was different, wasn’t it? The other mutilation was more expertly done.” Dr. Mortimer seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing Alexandra.
“Are you suggesting that Lucas could have killed the first victim?” She had read the paper which Snow had given her. Mortimer’s theories on the criminally insane, as she understood them, would not have indicted Lucas.
Dr. Mortimer brought his attention back to her. “It’s possible the imbecile could have done it. The second murder could have been someone trying to mimic the killer of the first victim.”
Alexandra shook her head. “I can’t imagine who—”
“The imbecile’s mother, perhaps? You said she was extremely protective of her son.”
Alexandra felt a sudden empty chill, mingled with hot anger. She put her teacup on the table. “Excuse me, Dr. Mortimer,” she said as she stood. Nicholas immediately stood as well. “I’m afraid I’m wasting the time of both of us. If you can have your carriage—”
“Sit down, please, Dr. Gladstone.” Dr. Mortimer made no attempt to stand in deference to her gender.
“Your accusations, sir, sound like nothing more than the superstitious talk I hear at home from—”
“I said sit down, please, Dr. Gladstone.” His voice was forceful and commanding, rather like a parent scolding a naughty child. Alexandra, acutely aware of Nicholas looking at her, did not sit, but she stopped speaking and stared at Dr. Mortimer.
“I am not accusing anyone, miss,” he said. “I am merely allowing myself to consider all possibilities. If you can keep an open mind, perhaps you can aid me in this.”
Alexandra, who had always considered herself to be open-minded, felt chastised, and her face burned with embarrassment. She sat down again. “I apologize, sir. Of course I can keep an open mind.” Nicholas once again sat beside her, even closer this time. Was he being protective?
Dr. Mortimer ignored her apology and continued as if there had been no interruption. “Tell me, please, if you will, why you think Lucas is not a worthy suspect.”
“He’s very kind. Just not the sort. He cries when an animal dies.” Alexandra knew that fell short of being the kind of intelligent, analytical answer Dr. Mortimer was seeking. She was, in fact, beginning to feel like an imbecile herself.
“Do you agree, Mr. Forsythe?” the doctor asked.
“What? Agree? For the most part, yes.”
“Um hum,” Dr. Mortimer said and turned his attention back to Alexandra. “And his mother? Just not the sort either, I suppose.”
“No,” Alexandra said in what was almost a whisper.
“It seems you feel some particular need to protect these two, Dr. Gladstone.”
Alexandra hesitated a moment, trying to collect herself. “Life has not been easy for Gweneth Pendennis,” Alexandra said at length. “She has never been married. As I’m sure you can imagine, having a son out of wedlock has made her suspect of everything from madness to witchcraft, as well as immorality. And the fact that her son is an imbecile only adds to suspicion.” She hoped neither of the men noticed the slight tremble in her voice.
“But you don’t believe she is guilty of any of those things,” Dr. Mortimer said.
“Of course not.”
“Not even immorality?”
“Perhaps she made a mistake once, but I do not believe that necessarily constitutes a state of permanent immorality.” Alexandra felt as if her lungs could not take in enough air. “In any case immorality does not constitute insanity.”
“And you, Mr. Forsythe?”
“Oh, I quite agree.”
Dr. Mortimer was silent for a moment, stroking his beard again, thinking. He picked up his brandy snifter and stared at the amber liquid in the bottom, then set it down without tasting it. “It would appear,” he said, breaking his silence at last, “that these murders are indeed the work of a homicidal maniac, just as Robert suggested.” He glanced up at Nicholas and Alexandra again. “There is an erroneous belief among the public, however, that a homicidal maniac is easily distinguished from a sane person. I must tell you that is not necessarily the case. I remember a similar case I read about that took place in Paris. A man horribly mutilated. The killer was never found. The reason, I believe, is because the police were looking for someone who was obviously insane. A maniac who commits this kind of crime could be a person you see every day in the most mundane and ordinary circumstances. But hidden in the brain,” he continued, “is the impulse to kill. It is the root of that impulse we must search for.”
“You are referring to some malformation of the brain, perhaps?” Alexandra asked.
“No, I am not,” Mortimer said, “I’m afraid it is much more complicated and…shall we say, more disconcerting than a physical abnormality.”
“Disconcerting?” Alexandra asked. She was grateful that Nicholas was, so far, keeping his mouth closed.
“It is my belief,” Dr. Mortimer said, “that a homicidal maniac can be made by his environment. Such a person, as I suggested, appears to be sane, and it is precisely that very fact that is so disconcerting to most people.”
“Please explain,” Alexandra said.
“My dear, it is certainly upsetting, if not absolutely frightening to most people, that a person who appears to be as sane as they are, is able to commit such heinous crimes. It makes us feel vulnerable, not just to the murderer, but to our own natures.”
“A sane person doesn’t kill people randomly.” Alexandra’s voice was insistent.
“Oh, it isn’t random at all. Each killing is done for a very specific reason—the same reason in both of the Newton cases, I dare say.”
“The same reason?” It was Nicholas who spoke, in a voice that was vaguely intimidating. Obviously he had kept quiet as long as he could. “Isn’t it rather a big step to assume that both victims were in some way guilty of the same offense against the killer?”
“Indeed it would be,” Mortimer said, “but the killer most likely is not concerned with the guilt of each victim. She most likely sees them only as the embodiment of what she fears or hates.”
“She?” Alexandra said. “Are you still insisting Gweneth is the killer?”
“Ah, there is your protective nature showing itself again,” Dr. Mortimer said. Alexandra thought she detected the slightest hint of a condescending smile on his lips. “Let us indulge in an exercise of the intellect and consider Gweneth for a moment.” He stood, paced to the fireplace, and rested his arm on the mantel, stroking his beard for a moment yet again. “First, let us look at the victims. What traits do they have in common?”
“They are both male,” Nicholas said.
“Indeed. Anything else?”
Alexandra was momentarily too angry with Nicholas for bullying his way in to respond. She tried to glare at him, but he was, or at least pretended to be, oblivious of it.
“Anything else?” Dr. Mortimer said again.
Alexandra realized that Nicholas was silent because he had just given away the extent of his knowledge. “They are both of the approximate same age,” she said, not sure where this was leading.
“Ah,” Dr. Mortimer said. “How old?”
Nicholas looked at her as expectantly as Dr. Mortimer, waiting for her answer. “Middle-aged,” she said, still not following his logic.
Dr. Mortimer paced back to his chair, but he remained standing and turned to the two of them again. “Let us continue this intellectual exercise. Let us say that the father of Gweneth’s son was approximately the age of the victims. Let us assume, for the sake of the exercise, that she had a reason
to hate this man.”
“Perhaps she blames him for siring an imbecile on her,” Nicholas said, getting into the game again.
“Very good,” Dr. Mortimer said.
“Or she was angry because he didn’t want the child,” Alexandra said, aware that she was visibly shaking.
Dr. Mortimer nodded.
“Or,” Nicholas added, once again in his barrister’s voice. “He forced himself on her. Raped her. Hurt her badly. And repeatedly.”
“Excellent!” Dr. Mortimer said with enthusiasm. “It is my belief that if such violence is perpetrated on a person repeatedly, and especially during childhood, then something goes awry in the person’s mind, or soul if you will, and he or she becomes obsessed with correcting or righting the wrong, or with gaining revenge. I also believe the maniacal killer may often enjoy the power of being able to manipulate the public and becomes upset if someone else is blamed for the crimes. It’s as if they enjoy the notoriety, even anonymously. I also have concluded from studying other cases, that the maniacal killer will break the pattern and kill outside of his chosen pattern, only if he thinks someone is coming close to uncovering the truth.”
“That is very interesting, Dr. Mortimer, but most of what you described about Gweneth is pure speculation,” Alexandra said.
Dr. Mortimer nodded. “Indeed it is. As I said, it was a mental exercise. I used the scenario merely to illustrate how a so-called homicidal manic may act. We could, of course, choose another suspect. Perhaps your nurse. Nancy, is it? Or the one you call Polly?”
“Must it be a woman?” Alexandra was growing more and more unsettled.
“Of course not. We could use any man you suggest as the suspect and repeat the exercise. You must understand, of course, that these recent murders may not be the first ones the killer has committed, and I will tell you most assuredly, they will not be the last unless you apprehend him or her soon. And remember this, the only other reason the murderer may have to kill is if she thinks you are coming close to unmasking her.”
