A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Some of these symptoms match Lottie’s description of Robin.

  “They can be mild or severe.” Dr. Kirkland says sadly, “Robin’s symptoms were severe.”

  “What causes Little’s Disease?”

  “We don’t know, but it’s often associated with injuries to the child’s head during birth or illnesses in the child or mother.”

  It must be terrible to have a child so afflicted. My heart goes out to Sir Gerald and Lady Alexandra even though I suspect that one or both of them murdered Robin. “Is there a cure?”

  Regret clouds Dr. Kirkland’s blue eyes. “Not at present. There are treatments, though. We can provide canes, crutches, braces, and wheelchairs that enable the patients to move around. We can stretch stiff limbs with splints. We can administer sedatives to calm the seizures. We can perform surgery to reposition malformed joints, lengthen contracted tendons, or cut the nerves to spastic muscles.”

  The surgery sounds like torture. I can’t help thinking that whoever killed Robin may have done him a favor. Perhaps Sir Gerald and Lady Alexandra didn’t kill Robin to get rid of him but to spare him years of suffering.

  “Little’s Disease is a chronic condition that doesn’t improve with age,” Dr. Kirkland says. “Robin would have been crippled, unable to walk, talk, or take care of himself all his life.”

  “How did Sir Gerald react to the diagnosis?” I ask.

  “He’s unaware of it, as far as I know.”

  “But I thought he consulted you? I thought he was at Mariner House when you examined Robin and you spoke to him afterward.” That was the impression I’d gleaned from Lottie.

  “No. I’ve never met Sir Gerald. It was Lady Alexandra who consulted me and invited me to Mariner House. After I examined Robin, I reported my diagnosis to her. Sir Gerald was away. I doubt that he even knows of my existence. That’s why I was surprised when the nurse said he’d referred you to me.”

  Either Lottie had mistakenly assumed Sir Gerald had called in Dr. Kirkland or Lady Alexandra had deliberately given her the wrong idea. “Are you saying Lady Alexandra didn’t tell Sir Gerald that Robin had Little’s Disease?”

  “That’s correct. And she made me promise not to tell him. I respected her wishes.”

  So Lady Alexandra kept secret from Sir Gerald the news that Robin’s condition was incurable.

  “Later, I realized I shouldn’t have promised,” Dr. Kirkland says. “A father has a right to information about his child. But at the time, Lady Alexandra was devastated by the news. She cried so hard that she couldn’t breathe, and she had heart palpitations. I had to give her a sedative. She said she couldn’t bear to watch Robin grow into an adult but never be normal, to always have to hide him from the public.”

  Dr. Kirkland shakes his head regretfully. “I suggested sending him to an institution. Some parents aren’t able to cope with a handicapped child. I was fortunate. I contracted poliomyelitis when I was six, but my parents loved me and treated me like an ordinary boy and taught me that I could do anything I wanted. Of course, my handicap wasn’t as extreme as Robin’s—I can walk with crutches when I need to, and it didn’t affect my mind. I’m sad to say that institutionalization is a common practice for families with children like Robin.”

  “Why didn’t Lady Alexandra send Robin away?” I ask.

  “She said Sir Gerald would never agree to it. According to her, he thought Robin’s ailment was a temporary phase, and he would be furious if he even knew she’d consulted me.”

  My relief is massive. Sir Gerald hadn’t lost his hope that Robin would be normal someday and therefore had no reason to exterminate the child. He’s innocent after all; my trust in him was neither undeserved nor misplaced.

  “I never saw Robin again,” Dr. Kirkland says. “Two weeks after I diagnosed him, he was kidnapped.”

  27

  “I won’t say, ‘I told you so,’” Mick says smugly. “Lady A drowned Robin so she wouldn’t have to put up with him for the rest of her life.”

  We’re sitting in the kitchen, and I’ve just relayed the information I gleaned from Dr. Kirkland while Fitzmorris cooks lunch. Hugh is still missing after more than twenty-four hours, the longest he’s ever been gone. I envision him lying unconscious in a bathtub in some hotel, his wrists slit and the water turning red from his blood. Mick and I are glad of something to talk about besides Hugh, but we’re listening for the sound of him at the door.

  “Sir Gerald isn’t in the clear yet,” I say, determined to be more objective from now on. “Dr. Kirkland assumed that Lady Alexandra never told him Robin had Little’s Disease, but we don’t know it for a fact. Sir Gerald is a proud man, and an abnormal child must have been difficult for him to stomach.”

  “Yeah.” Mick looks disappointed to think he could be wrong about Lady Alexandra. “And it would’ve been cheaper to drown Robin than stash him in a fancy hospital.”

  “I’m sure Sir Gerald could spare the money. He would have been more concerned about his public image. Maybe he thought the secret would come out even if Robin was far away in a hospital.” I realize that while the new evidence casts a bad light on Sir Gerald and Lady Alexandra, it’s also cause for reconsidering the other suspects. “I wonder if anyone else at Mariner House knew about Robin’s diagnosis. If Olivia did, she’d have had less reason to be jealous of him. And Pierce might have thought that Robin’s disease was enough punishment for Lady Alexandra and Sir Gerald.”

  “But I don’t see what difference it makes with Tristan,” Mick says. “If he wanted Sir Gerald’s dough, Robin had to die, no matter what shape he was in.”

  The sound of familiar steps above us launches Mick, Fitzmorris, and me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. In the foyer, we see Hugh toss his hat at the rack and miss.

  “Thank heaven, you’re back, my lord!” Fitzmorris says as he picks up the fallen hat.

  “We were so worried,” I say, tearful with relief.

  Shrugging off his coat, Hugh turns to us. His eyes are sunken and bloodshot with dark, puffy circles underneath. His haggard face is rough with stubble. When he hangs his coat on the hook, he loses his balance and braces himself against the wall. A haze of alcohol fumes surrounds him. He’s naked from the waist up except for the bandage covering the bullet wound on his arm; he’s lost his jacket and shirt. My relief turns to dismay.

  “Where were you?” Mick demands. “I looked all over.”

  “Drowning my sorrows.” Hugh slurs his words. “With company that’s more congenial than I can get here.”

  My heart sinks; he still hasn’t forgiven me for telling the police about Tristan. And I can smell, in addition to the liquor and the stale vestiges of his bay rum shaving lotion, the harsh odor of unfamiliar cologne. He’s been with a man—or men. He could have been caught by the vice squad, arrested for crimes against nature, and sentenced to two years of hard labor in prison.

  “Why are you back so soon?” he asks me. “I thought you were going to solve Robin Mariner’s murder and one-up the police.”

  I’m angry at Hugh for turning on me, at Tristan for coming between us, and at myself for letting things get so out of hand. “The police’s investigation is over.”

  “Really,” Hugh says with a dreary lack of interest. When Mick describes Tabitha’s supposed suicide and DeQuincey’s arrest, Hugh smiles faintly at me, as if to say, I told you it wasn’t Tristan. Then he turns and unsteadily climbs the stairs.

  “My lord, shouldn’t you have something to eat?” Fitzmorris calls.

  “I’m knackered. I’m going to bed.”

  My temper pushes aside my concern for Hugh. Following him up the stairs, I say, “You can’t just bow out of this!”

  “Watch me.”

  “I’m not the only one who agreed to work for Sir Gerald, and I’m not the only one who dug up evidence on the suspects. You ought to help me finish what we started.”

  “I’m finished with the detective racket.” Hugh stumbles and grasps the banister for support.
“Anyway, you just want another go at Tristan. You’re determined to frame him for Robin’s murder.”

  “That’s not true!” But I can’t forget my conversation with Barrett, and I wonder again about my own motives. My anger flares hotter at the thought that Hugh could be right about me, the monster’s daughter. “Why are you so determined to protect Tristan? He doesn’t care about you.”

  “Thanks, Sarah. Rub it in,” Hugh says with bitter sarcasm. “I could ask that about you and Sir Gerald. You’ve bent over backward to make excuses for him, and he threw you out like a pregnant parlor maid.”

  I gasp in wounded indignation. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “You’re right. It’s worse. I think Tristan is the love of my life. You think Sir Gerald is your father.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve laid the unvarnished truth on me, so let me return the favor. You want Sir Gerald to be innocent because you want your father to be innocent. You feel guilty because you didn’t look hard enough for your father when he went missing, and you’re trying to make up for it by selling yourself out to Sir Gerald.” Hugh taps his head with his finger. “You’ve got the two of them mixed up in your mind.”

  His accusation is so unexpected, ludicrous, and cruel, I’m too flabbergasted to counter it. “Why should you get to drink and carouse and feel sorry for yourself while Mick and I struggle on alone? It’s not fair!”

  Mick calls plaintively, “Let’s not talk about this anymore.”

  Hugh stops at the top of the stairs and faces me. Anger blazes in his red, swollen eyes. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair. I could have told the police about your father, but I didn’t, because I knew it would hurt you, and we were friends, and I was loyal to you. But you told them about Tristan even though I begged you not to. Where was your loyalty?”

  He turns, stalks into his room, and slams the door.

  My temper cools as quickly as it ignited, leaving me devastated. My knees buckle, and I sit on the stairs. Mick sits beside me, awkwardly pats my hand, and says, “Don’t worry, Miss Sarah. He’ll come around.”

  But Hugh’s words echo in my ears: You think Sir Gerald is your father.

  “In the meantime,” Mick says, “you and me can keep at it together, can’t we?”

  We were friends. Our investigation has cost me Hugh as well as Barrett. But Mick looks so anxious that I force a smile as I nod. His friendship and our hope of solving Robin’s and Tabitha’s murders are all I have left.

  #

  At one thirty in the afternoon, Mick and I weave through the noisy crowds that jam the streets around St. Paul’s Cathedral. Robin Mariner’s funeral is a momentous event for a public enthralled by the story of his kidnapping and murder. The cold, drizzly afternoon hasn’t deterred spectators from turning out in hordes. Newsboys shout, “The police caught Baby Robin’s killers! One dead, one in jail!” Drawings of Raphael DeQuincey and Tabitha Jenkins grace the front pages of the newspapers. Peddlers do a good business in beer, meat pies, pickled oysters, and souvenirs—postcards, teacups, and boxes of candy bearing painted pictures of the photograph of Robin with Lady Alexandra. Many people wear black clothes or black crape armbands. I wonder if the public will ever know the secret about the little boy who so many prayed would be found alive, for whom so many now grieve.

  Mick and I plow along in the wake of other people moving in the same direction. The crowds grow thicker. Carriages and horses clog the lane on the west side of St. Paul’s. The enormous baroque structure of white masonry walls, columns, and towers rises from a sea of humanity. Its high, majestic green dome dissolves into the rain and mist. Photographers stand ready with cameras on the steps that front the cathedral’s entrance. Gilded ropes strung on brass posts mark off a wide aisle down the center of the steps. At the bottom, and all around the cathedral, police constables hold back the crowds. Mick and I are crushed up against the base of the statue of St. Christopher. I stand on tiptoes in a futile attempt to see over the heads that block my view in all directions.

  “How are we gonna find Sir Gerald in all this?” Mick asks.

  The funeral is our chance to tell Sir Gerald what I learned from Dr. Kirkland. Although he probably won’t welcome the news that we think his wife killed their son, tell him we must. He paid me to find out who kidnapped Robin; I feel a duty to finish the job, and he has the power to convince the police that they’ve arrested the wrong person. But I’m not eager to see him. Since my quarrel with Hugh, I’ve mulled over what he said, and after trying hard to deny it, I’ve had to admit that it’s true.

  It also explains my puzzling attraction to Sir Gerald.

  I cast Sir Gerald as a stand-in for my father. I fell prey to the illusion that Sir Gerald, who embodies paternal strength and protectiveness, filled the void in me that my father’s absence left. I wanted him to be innocent, as if that could negate my father’s guilt. Now I’m ashamed that I was so blind to the workings of my own mind. I thought Hugh was cruel to set me straight, but he did me good even though he spoke in anger. I owe him a tremendous debt.

  A commotion stirs the crowd. A phalanx of policemen’s helmets and gentlemen’s top hats bobs above the crowd, moving toward the cathedral. Craning my neck, I see the funeral party and guests—hundreds of people, all dressed in black—mount the steps. Photographers aim their cameras; flash powder ignites in explosions of white light, fiery sparks, and sulfurous smoke. The crowd buzzes with excited conversation as spectators point out the important politicians, merchants, and theatrical stars among the funeral party. At its head, Sir Gerald escorts Lady Alexandra, her face hidden by a black hat with a veil. John Pierce, Tristan, and Olivia follow them. Mick and I are immobilized by people tightly packed around us.

  As the funeral procession streams into the cathedral, the crowd breaks through the police cordon and swarms up the steps, jostling the photographers and knocking over cameras mounted on tripods. Police yell, brandishing nightsticks, but they’re vastly outnumbered. The crowd carries Mick and me with it. People push against me, feet trod on mine, and elbows jab my face. I stumble on the steps, and Mick pulls my hand.

  “Hurry!” he cries. “This is our chance!”

  The last members of the funeral party are entering the open doorway between the tall white columns. We and hundreds of other people stampede in after them before the door slams shut. Inside the cathedral, the vast, cold, echoing space is filled with the sweet smells of flowers and incense. Gold ornamentation on walls, columns, and the high ceiling gleams in the dim light from candles and gas lamps. The nave seems a mile long, its floor inlaid with a diamond pattern of black and white marble and lined with rows of chairs. Midway along its length, under the windows that circle the base of the dome, stands Robin’s white-draped coffin on its bier, surrounded by floral bouquets and wreaths. There, the priest, bishop, and other church officials greet the funeral party. While ushers show guests to their seats, policemen chase out the trespassers.

  “Over here!” Mick urges me through one of the archways that border the nave. We run up the outer corridor for some twenty feet, then duck between two rows of vacant chairs. We crouch, hiding, until the other trespassers have been ejected and the police are gone. Then we walk up the aisle, but a man blocks our way before we reach Sir Gerald. It’s Inspector Reid, wearing black civilian clothes. My heart sinks.

  Reid eyes Mick and me with exasperation. “What are you doing here?”

  “We have to speak with Sir Gerald,” I say.

  “Of all the nerve!” Reid says in a low, furious whisper. “This is no time to bother Sir Gerald and his family.” He seizes us by the arms and starts to march us down the aisle.

  “Let go!” Mick cries, so loudly that his voice echoes throughout the cathedral. “We got somethin’ important to tell Sir Gerald. It’s about Robin’s murder!”

  Guests and funeral party turn in our direction. Sir Gerald strides toward us, saying, “What’s the problem?”

  “Trespassers,” Reid says. “Th
ey’re just leaving.”

  Sir Gerald recognizes us and frowns. Behind him, John Pierce stares coldly, Lady Alexandra lifts her veil to see us, and Tristan puts a protective arm around a pale, subdued Olivia. Disapproval radiates from the clergy and the guests. I flush, but Mick has no inhibitions.

  “Tabitha Jenkins and Raphael DeQuincey didn’t kill Robin,” he announces. “We know who did.”

  The crowd murmurs in astonishment, Sir Gerald’s frown deepens, and I shush Mick. Wild claims aired in public aren’t going to convince Sir Gerald, and Reid isn’t going to let us stay long enough to substantiate them. We had better keep silent and wait for another occasion than incur ridicule that will set Sir Gerald’s mind against us.

  But even as Reid drags us toward the door, Sir Gerald says, “Wait. I’ll handle this.” Beckoning to Mick and me, he walks through an archway.

  Reid reluctantly releases us. We follow Sir Gerald downstairs to the crypt. The vast space is honeycombed with thick stone columns and arches. Our footsteps clatter on the mosaic floor. The air is cold, damp, and reeks of the cesspools that underlie London. A few gas lamps shine like weak stars that don’t illuminate the darkness enough for me to see to the far ends of the crypt. Sir Gerald leads us to an area where I discern the hulking shapes of tombs that contain England’s illustrious dead. I hear dripping water, faint murmurs from the crowd upstairs, and skittering noises, perhaps from rats.

  Sir Gerald turns to face us. At last I truly see him for what he is—not a stand-in for my father, but a virtual stranger. He takes his watch from his pocket and glances at it. “The service starts in ten minutes.” His voice is as cold as the air. “You’d better talk fast.”

  He’s about to bury the son I now believe he didn’t murder. My father disappeared to avoid punishment for the murder he likely committed. It’s as though I’ve been looking at a photograph that I thought was a double exposure of the same man, and now I see that it’s of two different men who bear no resemblance to each other. My attraction to Sir Gerald is gone, but my fear and awe of him remain. Tense with misgivings, I tell him about Lady Alexandra, Dr. Kirkland, and Robin’s diagnosis.