They seemed to retreat and she heard their voices in muttering dispute a short distance away and tried to hear what they were saying. But the listening part of her was dying; even the voice inside her head was silenced. No longer whispering or praying or entreating, it was merely sobbing at how ugly the world had become, and how terrifying.
The voices returned and stood over her.
"No marks, Mr. Eden said—"
"No marks'll show-"
"She's fair-"
"Better than whores—"
"Then be quick—"
"And we all git a turn—"
As hands commenced pulling back the layers of her garments, as she felt the coolness of dirt beneath her bare legs, as a head with grizzled beard and whiskers lowered itself over her, as something of indiscriminate size and force wedged itself between her legs, as the double pressure on her body crushed her arms bound beneath her, she calmly gathered the few remaining fragments of her soul and
took them to a deeper level. In the last moments of consciousness she was aware only of the rhythmic rocking motions of her body, the fire burning deeper inside her, the awareness of what was happening rendering her brain useless.
Her last clear image was of a little girl with long hair running across the headlands of Eden, gathering wild flowers.
With strict instructions, she ordered her soul to stay with the child in that bright and safe world. . . .
In her first moment of privacy in the tragic bedchamber, Elizabeth sank to her knees beside Mary's bed and felt all life forces deserting her.
Morley Johnson. . . .
The name came like the assault itself, without warning, reminding her of her own ordeal of rape years ago. Had she ever truly recovered from it?
"Oh, Mary," she mourned, unable to look on the still face, though the only visible marks besides her butchered hair were two small rope burns on her wrists, suggesting more than one assailant, more than one assault.
In her grief, Elizabeth saw herself as she had been a scant two hours ago, beside herself with worry as the clock had devoured the minutes, then the hours. But not until the chime of ten had she taken matters into her own hands, had aflSxed her bonnet and started down the darkened stoop alone, prepared to flag a hired chaise in Jason's absence, to journey to Hyde Park alone and not to return until she'd found the lot of them and most of all, thoughtless Mary, for she'd still been angry with her then.
How disastrous, that postponement of time! If only she had launched her search at eight o'clock or, better, seven, when Charlie Bradlaugh had offered to go for her. But no, she'd permitted Charlie to leave and had sat alone for three more hours, the very interval no doubt when Mary had been enduring—
But the thought could not be borne, and almost angrily she pushed away from the side of the bed and took her grief to the darkness near the window where below on the pavement she saw Jason, still trying to answer the questions of the police inspector, three bobbies standing at attention, as though guarding the house.
As she wiped away her tears, fresh ones took their place and, aware that she must regain her composure, that as the alarm spread she
would be forced to answer questions from the police inspector, from the physician, if he ever arrived, and ultimately from John himself, she sat stiffly in a near chair, withdrew her handkerchief and held it flat against her face.
From behind this barrier, with the bed blodced from her view, she forced her thoughts back to a scant hour ago, to that moment when she'd just descended to the pavement and, hearing the rattle of a carriage and thinking it might be a hired chaise, had lifted her arm in an attempt to catch the driver's attention, and had seen and recognized Jason and had felt a surge of relief.
It had only been on second glance that she'd seen the look of disaster on his face, one policeman riding on the high seat with him, another opening the carriage door even before Jason had brought it to a halt, running alongside for a few steps, then reaching back and assisting an hysterical Doris to the pavement.
Elizabeth recalled thinking, Something has happened to poor Doris. It was not until a moment later that Elizabeth had looked back toward the carriage and had seen a policeman emerge awkwardly with a lifeless form in his arms, a familiar figure with the exception of the head, which resembled a young boy more than—
Breathless with the horror of memory, she stood and stumbled over something on the floor, the ripped and soiled garments which she had stripped from Mary, a foul odor still emanating from them. She kicked at them, then lifted them gingerly and carried them to a seldom-used cabinet behind the screen at the end of the room. There she stuffed them as far back in the darkness as she could. Later, when there was more time, she would personally bum them.
She closed the low storage cupboard and raised up, thinking she'd heard something from the bed. But it was nothing. Mary was still unconscious, her hair damp where Elizabeth had tried to wash it, the horribly butchered ends plastered softly against her skull, her head turned to one side.
What in the name of God is taking the physician so long^
She'd sent one of the policemen to fetch him and she'd sent another for John. It was approaching midnight, the traffic of the city eased. They both should have returned by now.
In growing alarm at the still face on the pillow, Elizabeth wiped away what she hoped was the last of her tears and thought how mysteriously empty her house had been on this night—Lord Harrington still not returned from his day with Mr. Parnell, Andrew and Dhari
among the missing as well, Doris finally released to weep herself dry in the privacy of her rooms below stairs, everyone missing or absent, as though they had sensed impending tragedy and had wanted no part of it
Tenderly she caressed Mar/s forehead, baffled by the specific mutilation of her butchered hair, as though someone knew that rape would not show except on the soul and there must be something visible.
"Mary?" Elizabeth called softly, hoping to revive her, praying that she would remember enough, though not too much, the faces, a name, though not sensations.
Appalled at the incoherency of her thoughts, Elizabeth gathered her in her arms and held her close, as though to cancel everything that had happened.
But sense and logic intervened and informed her that she could cancel nothing, that Mary must bear her own weight of memory, as Elizabeth had, and that if there was a God in heaven, there also was a demon in hell, standing watch over one particularly fiery furnace that was held in reserve for beasts who walked about disguised as men.
Slowly Elizabeth lowered her back to the pillow, thinking that she had heard voices in the entrance hall downstairs. She hurried to the door and looked down to see the police inspector still questioning Jason, poor Jason, who had had the misfortune to find her, in a small dirt clearing beyond the sunken garden.
From Elizabeth's position at the top of the stairs, she could only see their boots, one seated, the other hovering close. It had been Doris' testimony that the West Indian driver had been with her, Doris, all evening that had prevented the pohce inspector from accusing him.
Over the monotone of the police inspector's voice, she heard the door open, people coming and going willy-nilly in Doris' absence. Trying by a sheer act of discipline to rise above the chaos, she peered dovmward and saw a strange set of highly polished black boots.
"Who is it, please?" she called down, her voice sounding repellent, like a curious old woman.
The ruddy face of the police inspector came into view. "It's the doctor, madam," the inspector called up. "Shall I—"
"Yes, right away, please," Elizabeth interrupted, still puzzled by the boots. She'd been expecting her customary physician, a kindly
Father Christmas gentleman named Tidwell, who'd looked after her household for over a decade, a lovable old-fashioned man who on numerous occasions had sat socially at her table.
But those boots did not belong to Georgie Tidwell, nor did the hem of that dark velvet cloak, nor those slender pegtop trou
sers, nor—
He was at midstep, and Elizabeth found herself looking down into the face of a man she'd never seen before, a new doctor's valise of leather in one gloved hand, a shiny top hat in the other, a look of imposition on his lean features and an unwillingness even to glance in her direction.
As he approached the top of the stairs, and as still there had been no formal introduction, Elizabeth stepped forward.
"Sir," she called out.
"Madam," he responded, looking haughtily up.
"You are-"
"The physician, madam," he replied, halting one step short of the landing. "I assume that it was you who summoned me away from a most enjoyable dinner party."
"I'm-sorry-"
"And I as well." He took advantage of Elizabeth's retreat to gain the top of the landing, where he stood before her. Impatiently he announced, "My name is Dr. Arthur Canning."
"Where's Georgie?"
"Dr. Tidwell," he pronounced, "is far too old to go traipsing about in the dead of night. I have recently joined his staff for the purpose of assisting him."
"Of course," Elizabeth murmured, struggling to deal with the man's arrogance. Somehow he was making her feel unworthy, female. Attempting to regain the upper hand in her own house, she said, "This way," starting toward Mary's closed door, dreading the thought of this cold man examining Mary.
Inside the room she glanced at the bed, hoping that Mary had revived. But she had not and, as the doctor pushed past her, she murmured, "She has not stirred since—"
Unable to say the word, he said it for her. "The rape, madam. These things must be faced. The police inspector has informed me of all that I need to know."
Standing at the foot of the bed, Elizabeth watched as he shrugged off his cloak, then stripped off his gloves, pushed back the sleeves of
his dinner jacket, hovered over Mary, lifting one eyelid, recording her pulse and stopping for a brief inspection of the rope bums about her wrists. He retrieved a small vial from his vaHse, uncorked it and thrust it under Mary's nose.
At first there was no response. He inserted the end of the vial directly into her nostril and clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing her to breathe deeply of the acrid odor which was beginning to penetrate as far as the end of the bed.
On the verge of objecting, Elizabeth started around the opposite side of the bed, then held her position, seeing faint movement, Mary's head beginning to push back against the pillow in a gentle thrashing movement, one hand lifting toward the obnoxious smell.
The minor struggle persisted for several seconds and, though clearly she was conscious, still the doctor held her head fast, his hand clamped over her mouth, forcing her to breathe again and again.
"Doctor, please," Elizabeth commanded. "She's quite—"
"Be still or leave, madam!" he snapped.
Unable to watch, Elizabeth turned away, trying her best to control her anger. How did this restraint vary from the ordeal which had plunged her so deeply into unconsciousness?
"There," she heard the doctor pronounce with a self-satisfied tone, and she looked back to see Mary's eyes open, wide and darting, her hands grasping the coverlet.
Reflexively, Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. There was not one aspect of the pitiful creature on the bed that resembled Mary Eden. From the butchered hair to the expression of terror in her eyes, it could have been a complete stranger lying there.
Speak to her, Elizabeth thought in a wave of grief. Someone must speak to her—inform her that she is safe and among those who love her.
But as she started toward the bed, the doctor stopped her with a dismissal. "Leave us, madam, please—"
"But she is my charge," Elizabeth protested, anger rising. **Go ahead and conduct your examination. I'm not a modest—"
"It's not your modesty I was thinking of," the doctor said, "but rather that of my patient."
Defeated by consideration from such an unexpected source, Elizabeth retreated. Though every instinct within her said "Stay," there was nothing she could do to combat the aura of professionalism be-
side the bed. She closed the door behind her and stood close, listening, but she heard nothing. The worst sensation was her own sense of helplessness. There was nothing she could do—about anything.
She walked slowly toward the straight-backed chair on the opposite wall and sat erect, her hands clasped in her lap. The voices in the entrance hall below seemed to have diminished. And there was no sound at all coming from behind the door opposite her.
Then, it was over, or just beginning, and how much responsibility for this tragic night rested directly on her shoulders? And how much more would John try to place there?
"Oh, dear God," she groaned. She bent over and covered her face in her hands and, in spite of the darkness, saw one crystal-clear image of Mary's face as it had been, as it was now.
A short time later she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see the police inspector approaching, his eyes slanted into circumflex angles of pity, in spite of his professional objectivity.
"Madam," he called out, "a word, if I may."
"Of course. Vm sorry. I'm just waiting for the doctor to—"
"He's still with the young lady?"
*"i^es."
There was an awkward pause, the inspector standing stiffly at the top of the landing. "Madam," he commenced considerately, "is there no one I can summon to be with you? Sometimes just a friend-"
"No," she said.
"I'm afraid I must inform you that my man has just come back from the Belgrave Square address—"
"John?"
"According to the staff, Mr. Eden is dining out this evening, a business conference of some sort. We left word that he was to come here immediately upon his return, though no one could say when that would be."
"Thank you, inspector," she murmured. 'TouVe been most kind."
"Kind perhaps, madam, though I'm afraid not too efEcient. I feel I must warn you in advance that investigations of this nature generally net few results."
Yes, she knew that, but hearing the hopelessness in his voice made it all the worse. "Surely there is some recourse to justice."
**As of now, very little, I'm afraid. The West Indian is innocent, I'm convinced of it."
Poor Jason. She would have to look in on him later, and Doris as well. She closed her eyes to the concerned expression on the inspector's face and started out of her chair, when at that moment the bedchamber door opened and the physician appeared, meticulously drawing on his gloves, his face as unrevealing as ever.
Elizabeth waited for him to speak, and when no words seemed forthcoming, she went to his side, loathing the entreaty in her voice for simple information which should have been freely given.
"Doctor, please," she begged, "is she—"
"She's remarkably intact," he said, closing the bedchamber door behind him. "Of course the hymen is shattered, causing minor bleeding, but the genitals by and large are undamaged. No lasting scars, I'm pleased to announce." He was addressing the inspector, to the total exclusion of Elizabeth. "If there is such a thing in your profession, sir," he said, "it was a most nonviolent rape, which should tell you something, and I'm sure it does—"
The man's ordinary manner was maddening enough. Now to have the mystery and a sense of coyness added to it was almost unbearable. Though she had been excluded, Elizabeth asserted herself. "I don't understand," she pronounced coldly. "What precisely is it that you are saying?"
The inspector tried to intercede, but the overbearing physician would not give him a chance.
"The young woman's assailants were not sadistic. Or if they were, they tempered that sadism in a simple act of vengeance. For instance, the mutilation of the hair is a lover's trick, certainly not a rapist's, who would have used the blades in other areas, her breasts perhaps or the womb itself."
Sickened, Elizabeth turned away, but the haughty voice went right on, as though sensing her weakness and wanting to cont
ribute to it.
"We've both seen female victims, haven't we, inspector, that defied description. Severed ears, disembowelment. The Rapist of Larchmont, caught only last year, always cut off his victim's feet."
The semidarkened hall began to swirl about her.
"But that young lady was most fortunate," the male voice went on in a light tone of voice. "It would be my opinion, inspector, that either she knew her assailant or he knew her. Revenge is evident to be sure, but muted revenge, almost as though he merely wanted to
frighten her and cause her temporary discomfort, rather than destroy her, don't you agree?"
Elizabeth couldn't tell if the inspector agreed or not. Clearly the doctor had planted a theory in his head that had not been there before.
**It's—possible,** he stammered.
"It's not only possible, I'd say it's quite probable," the doctor countered. He paused. "Of course, one overriding question remains—"
Elizabeth looked back, her loathing for the man increasing with each word he spoke.
"What, we feel compelled to ask, was a gentlewoman doing alone in the park at that hour unchaperoned?"
"She'd been riding," Elizabeth said.
"Was she astride her horse when her assailant overtook her?"
The inspector shook his head. "No. Her horse was found tethered outside the garden."
"Then she had dismounted and was clearly waiting for someone."
"That's not true!" Elizabeth protested.
"And how can you be sure, madam?" he inquired, not looking at her, but glancing over her head. "Were you there?"
"No."
"Was she allowed to ride after dark?"
"No."
"Did anyone think to put limits on her, restrictions, as it were."
"She was told-"
"—and apparently did not heed—"
Obviously sensing Elizabeth's rising emotions, the inspector gently interceded. "I believe that will be all for now, doctor," he said, and took the man's arm and turned him toward the stairs. "And I thank you for your theories on the case."
"Casel" the doctor panoted sarcastically. *Tou don't have a case, inspector. All you have is a headstrong young girl who was allowed to run free and undisciplined, and who received precisely what she deserved."
The Women of Eden Page 35
