A Madness So Discreet (14 page)

“
D
r. Thornhollow, I—” Grace burst into his office, only to stop cold two steps later. “Doctor, are you drunk?”

“Thoroughly.” He mock toasted her with a tumbler from his armchair, which he'd moved to squarely face the blackboard. “And this time there's no deceit in it. It appears you get to see all my worst traits today, Grace.”

She closed the office door behind her, latching it for both their sakes. “Doctor,” she said slowly. “Davey was here and he—”

“Yes, I heard Janey knocking. She said there was a policeman here but as I've found them so totally unhelpful I wasn't inclined to spare any of my time.” He threw back what was left of his drink and pointed the empty glass at the blackboard. “On the other hand, since my theory has completely collapsed, I suppose that
may have been a mistake.”

Grace pulled a chair over next to his, their argument forgotten for the moment. “You were confident in the hypothesis before our trip to town,” she reminded him. “Did the failure of our visits to the doctors' offices truly constitute a complete collapse?”

“Yes,” Thornhollow said. “The ether indicates a medical man, for sure. But that's not criminal psychology at work, Grace, that's a fact any bullheaded policeman could wrap his head around.”

He nodded toward the board again, where their handwriting intersected each other's, weaving a web of notes in which to capture the killer's personality. “But our work, the beauty of conjecture we spun here, has failed us. I had hoped to catch our man so easily, but it was presumptuous.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, bloodshot eyes darting over the board. “I've missed something, or built the entire thing on a false cornerstone. Regardless, our house of cards has fallen.”

“Then we shall pick up the deck and reshuffle,” Grace said. “If the ether points to a doctor, then we still have a narrowed list of suspects. Perhaps he is smart enough not to kill in his own area. He could be a country practitioner who travels here to make his kills anonymously.”

“Kill, singular,” Thornhollow said. “We have just the one body. For all we know it's as that idiot at the murder scene said, some railroad bum stopped off here to dabble a bit in his dark fantasies.”

“A railroad bum with ether in his pocket?” Grace asked. “You're drowning in self-pity along with spirits, Thornhollow. And besides, if you'd bothered to answer the knock on your door, you'd know that there's been another victim.”

“What? When?”

“Mrs. Jacobs's daughter,” she answered. “The other policemen were content to write it off as an unhappy woman finding her end in a bottle, but Davey said the room smelled of ether and that she had been positioned in the same manner.”

“Eyes open? Ankles crossed? Hands folded over her abdomen?” Thornhollow's questions came quickly as the dull sheen over his eyes evaporated.

“Yes to all.”

He was on his feet in a moment, his path winding a circuitous route around her chair. “If this is true, it's a wonderful occurrence.”

“Mrs. Jacobs might disagree.”

“Emotions aside,” he went on, waving his hands at the inefficacy of her thoughts. “Don't you see? This may put our suppositions back on track, Grace. Our killer failed in his first attempt to be intimate with his victim, perhaps too hurried by the fear of being caught or too flustered in the moment of his first kill. But he learned from his error and tried a different approach. Any struggles or cries in a brothel would hardly be out of place, and he would be free to entertain himself as he saw fit after the fact.”

“But the exposure,” Grace argued. “Anyone could see him go up to the woman's room. Why would he take the risk?”

“Perhaps he's confident that the police would not recognize the smell of ether, chalking up her death to drink. Which, it seems, they were quick to do if not for the observations of young Davey. And,” Thornhollow added, “as much as it would satisfy my ego to believe wholeheartedly that Mrs. Jacobs's daughter is indeed our second victim, I can't properly ascertain that.”

“Nonsense. Davey said that—”

“I think Davey would happily say just about anything in order to see you again, Grace.”

“He asked for
you
, Dr. Thornhollow.”

“Knowing full well that by finding me, he would be led to you.” The doctor held up his hand to stem her next flow of words. “I'm not saying Davey is a liar, only that he might have preemptively jumped to a conclusion that helps fulfill his own whim.”

“Then you'll have to see the body yourself, I suppose,” Grace said, only slightly mollified. “She's been moved by now, I'm sure, but maybe you can determine whether ether was at work in her death.”

“‘Moved' is putting it mildly,” Thornhollow said, approaching the blackboard. “She's already in the ground.”

“That was fast work.”

Thornhollow shrugged as he reached for the chalk. “She's a whore with a mother in the insane asylum. Who would go to the funeral?”

“No one, I suppose.”

“If—and I stress the
if
—Davey is correct that she was the second victim of our killer, we could have learned much from the scene. All those clues are now lost to us, sadly.”

“Unless someone saw who the girl took into her room last,” Grace said.

Thornhollow made a notation on the blackboard. “It's a possibility. Although I'm sure there's plenty of traffic, and anonymity is the key to the game played in those walls.”

“It's still more than we had a few hours ago,” she insisted. “A simple visit and a few questions could be the answer.”

Thornhollow turned to her, face pale. “You're not suggesting we visit a brothel?”

Grace felt a bit of warmth in her cheeks as she spoke. “I don't see a way around it. We can't blanch at an unpleasantness when it could remove a hurdle.”

“An unpleasantness,” the doctor huffed, returning his attention to the board. Grace watched him write, the slanted cursive sentences he listed on the board ending with more question marks than periods.

“I didn't know you had a sister,” he said suddenly, a tenseness in his shoulders.

“I didn't think it was worth mentioning,” Grace said, her voice unsteady at the first allusion to their heated words of that morning.
“I met a little girl today, on the grounds, and a . . . a baby,” she said, her mouth barely able to pronounce the last word. “In some ways the girl was like Alice; the set of her mouth, the curl of her hair. But mostly it was the light I saw inside, the innocence and joy of life. Doctor, I hope you realize that I wouldn't have written to Falsteed if I had any concerns—”

“It's all very well, Grace. I can't fault you for making emotional connections with other humans.”

Grace toyed with the glass he'd abandoned on the desk, and the only sound in the office was the scratch of chalk against slate.

“You do realize the danger your sister is in?”

The question was asked quietly, though the weight of it tore a hole through her heart.

“Yes,” Grace said, the single word spoken aloud more horrible than anything she'd ever heard in the asylum. “I had thought that when the temptation was removed he would no longer . . .” Her throat closed on her words, and the tears that filled her eyes drowned all thought.

She put her hands over her eyes, the sobs that she choked down racking her body. Cool fingers closed around her wrists and the doctor knelt in front of her. “Grace,” he said quietly. “The fault does not lie with you. It never did. You are not a temptation but simply a target for another's black sin.”

“I wish it were not so,” she cried, tears flowing freely now. “If
I had somehow invited his actions, made him feel . . . what he felt, then going away would bring it to an end. Alice would have nothing to fear, and no one need ever know.”

Thornhollow removed his hands from her own, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief. When he spoke again his voice was matter-of-fact. “Has there been any indication in your letters that his actions have transferred to her?”

“No.” Grace shook her head, taking the offered handkerchief to dab her eyes. “Merely the beginnings, mirrored exactly as they were with me. She has some time yet.”

Thornhollow sighed heavily. “That's a relief, at least.”

“Doctor,” Grace asked. “What are we going to do?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I simply do not know.”

But his eyes were on the blackboard.

H
is indecision was replaced with action by nightfall. An urgent knocking at Grace's door interrupted her dressing for bed, and Janey's irritated countenance in the hallway did not bode well.

“Why he can't just leave you alone for the time being, I don't know. We can't all keep that man's hours.”

Grace twisted her hair into a simple knot as they descended the stairs together, the nurse's steps still heavy with her anger. “I tell you, it's not right, Grace. Sometimes I think he forgets that you're a patient too, you know. He may need your assistance from time to time, but you need your sleep. A few more interruptions in your schedule and I may see fit to say so.”

Grace listened mildly as they crossed to the large front doors,
which stood open, letting in the cold air. Thornhollow's carriage waited outside, Ned at the ready.

Janey took off her own wrap, draping it over Grace's shoulders with a frown still on her face. “I'm quite serious, Grace. You're my charge as well as his, and if I think his activities are interfering with your best interests, I'll speak up.”

Grace grasped the nurse's hand in a flood of affection, squeezing to communicate her thanks. Janey looked at her, a sigh hitching deep in her chest. “You'd be devastated if I put a stop to it, though, wouldn't you? Your eyes are brightest before you step into that carriage, Grace, though the darkest circles are on your face the next morning.”

Janey impulsively pulled her into a hug, and Grace's back stiffened. “Sorry. I get too close to you girls for my own good. Go on, then,” she said, giving Grace a playful push out the door. “Go do your work.”

The nurse watched as the carriage clattered off into the night, shaking her head, arms close around herself for warmth. “Those two,” she muttered. “There are days I think we've incarcerated the wrong one.”

Grace's question as to their destination died on her lips as she closed the carriage door behind her to find they were not alone.

“Mrs. Jacobs will be joining us,” Thornhollow said, arm wrapped
around an awkwardly long package as they bumped their way across the river. “It's not the usual activity that takes us out tonight, as you'll see.”

“It's dark, Doctor,” Mrs. Jacobs said, her face pressed directly against the glass. “My Mellie, she don't like the dark. Cries something awful and calls for me in the night.”

“So you've said.”

“I can hear her. She's thirsty.” Her hand joined her face against the glass, leaving a murky condensation trail behind it. “She needs a drink, Doctor. I can't rest till she's had it.”

“Of course not,” he said. “And no one would expect you to.”

Grace kept her eyes rooted on the grieving mother, whose mouth worked constantly, teeth tearing her lips to shreds. Tears leaked from her eyes, finding well-worn tracks within the wrinkles of her cheeks. If Janey had been upset about Grace's health, she would've been apoplectic over Mrs. Jacobs. Her eyes were sunk so deeply they were only black pits in her face, and the circles under them were nearly as dark.

Grace nudged Thornhollow's foot with her own, nodding toward the package he carried with a raised eyebrow.

“You'll see,” he mouthed.

The carriage rocked to a halt and Ned opened the door with a lantern in hand, his face betraying no curiosity or irritation at the late hour or oddness of their destination. When Grace alighted from the carriage her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the headstones,
row after row standing bleak and immovable in the dark, naked tree branches shifting wildly above them in the wind.

“Apologies,” Thornhollow said. “Perhaps it would've been best to warn you.” Grace shook her head, a blank mask back in place as she followed Ned, who seemed to know more about their duties that night than she did. They made their way to a freshly dug grave, the wind whipping Janey's wrap around Grace's shoulders as she hunched defensively against it.

“You've got to keep them out of the beds of your toenails,” Ned told her solemnly. “Once they're under 'em, there's no getting 'em out.”

Grace nodded as if she understood.

Thornhollow's words carried on the wind, his voice so gentle she could hardly believe it was the same man who had yelled at her that morning.

“Come now, Margaret,” he was saying, hand outstretched. “She's waiting.”

“Mellie?” The name, filled with hope, fluttered through the night, torn away by the wind.

Ned wordlessly took the oblong package from Thornhollow as they approached, the doctor still holding on to the widow's arm to offer support. A sharp intake of breath came from the woman as she saw the fresh grave, and Grace moved to her other side to help keep her on her feet.

“They come and told me she was gone,” Mrs. Jacobs said, her
eyes flat in the moonlight. “But I didn't believe them. How can it be so when I still hear her calling for a drink?”

“You hear her now?” Thornhollow asked.

“Aye, Doctor,” she said, absently wiping at her face. “She's thirsty down there. It's the long sleep she's gone to, and she'll be needing a good drink if the Lord expects her to rest easy.”

“Then she shall have it.” With a nod from Thornhollow, Ned began to unwrap the package, while the doctor motioned for Grace to follow him into the deeper shadows of a vast maple.

“Despite what you may think, I didn't spend the entire day drinking in my office. Mrs. Jacobs has refused rest as long as she can hear her daughter calling for her. Shortly after you and I had words this morning, I made a trip to town with specifications for an instrument to remedy that situation.”

Grace watched as Ned produced a long auger, taller than he was, alongside a slender reed. “And what is my role this evening, Doctor? You do not need my eyes or ears for this.”

“No,” he admitted. “I asked for you to come along so that you might have a full picture of myself, as a person. Today I said things that I shouldn't have, and I apologize. Too often I forget that you are a patient as well as my protégé, and I spoke to you in a manner I would never take with someone under my care. I wish to regain your trust, and this is a first step toward earning that back, by showing you that I do care for others, though I often fail to show it.”

Grace nodded that she understood and they returned to the graveside in silence, where Mrs. Jacobs had fallen to her knees, fingers trailing through the loose dirt.

“We'll need you to step back, Margaret,” Thornhollow said, and Grace gently took the older woman by the shoulders when she showed no sign of moving.

“Ready then, Doctor?” Ned asked, auger in hand. “Should be easy going, with this so recently moved. Also, the squirrel said so.”

“Helpful creature,” Thornhollow said, and the two men went to work, each taking turns twisting the narrow auger into the ground near the headstone. It slid into the earth easily, and Grace shuddered as she watched it sink farther, each twist bringing it nearer to their goal.

“They digging her up, then?” Mrs. Jacobs said into Grace's shoulder. “The doctor thinks she's not dead after all, doesn't he?”

Grace eyed the small pile of earth growing next to the stone where the men deposited the dirt the auger brought up and shook her head. Their task was much more exacting than a disinterment, a job that required precision and not the blunt instrument of a shovel.

A light rain began, the cold turning each drop into an icy needle. Grace shivered and drew Mrs. Jacobs closer for her own comfort as well as the other woman's. Thornhollow and Ned paused for a moment, the easy turning of the auger at an end.

“We've struck it, then,” the doctor said, eyes meeting Ned's.
“I had the point made sharp, so a few good pulls ought to punch through. Are you up for it?”

Ned's gray head went up and down, and they twisted together, the sharp tip straining against the pine box six feet below for only a few moments before forcing itself downward.

“Stop!” Thornhollow yelled, and Grace shuddered to think what the tool might bring up on its sharp tip if they'd gone even a few inches too far. They pulled hand over hand, each exertion bringing more silver into the light. Dirt slid off the coiled edges and finally at the tip, splinters from the coffin.

The doctor nodded, tossing the auger aside. “Ned, if you would hand me the reed?”

It slid into the hole easily, and Mrs. Jacobs's soft mewling eased as she began to understand. Thornhollow rose from his knees beside the grave, went to the carriage, and returned with a canteen.

“Madam,” he said solemnly to Mrs. Jacobs. “I believe your daughter is thirsty.”

The older woman disentangled herself from Grace, took the canteen from Dr. Thornhollow, and crawled to the gravestone. Thornhollow offered Grace his hand, and she rose, watching as Mrs. Jacobs whispered something into the reed, her words disappearing into the coffin below, followed by a long, cool drink of water.

Her sobs followed, long and heavy. “I can't hear her no more,
Doctor,” she said. “That's all she needed. A drink, and her mother to give it to her.”

Ned removed his hat and leaned on the auger, his voice surprising them all as it rang out low and strong, mixing with the moan of the wind as the storm rolled in.

O say can you see by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?

Thornhollow let go of Grace's arm and covered his heart with his hand, his baritone joining with Ned's thrumming bass.

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Grace's throat itched to join them, but it was not only subterfuge that kept her mouth firmly shut. Emotions had welled close to the surface, and she thought her heart had never felt so full as it did standing next to the defiled grave of a whore while lunatics sang the national anthem.

Four sets of muddy footprints crisscrossed the black-and-white floor of the atrium, the doctor having convinced Ned to come inside for tea upon their return. The rain had unleashed on them, though Mrs. Jacobs had remained unperturbed, even when the closest of lightning strikes set Grace's arm hairs on end. Ned was soaked through, and though he normally wouldn't leave the stables, the doctor's offer of a warm drink had brought him inside long enough to slug it down, then venture back out into the night. Thornhollow rested near the fireplace in his office, face dejectedly in his hands though he himself had proclaimed the night a success.

“It was a good thing you did tonight,” Grace said, once they were alone.

He waved off her praise. “It was no miracle. All I did was listen to the woman and give her what she was asking for.”

“When no one else would.”

“Mmmmm,” was the only response Grace got, and she saw that his eyes had wandered to the blackboard again.

“Not still in a foul mood about our killer, are you?”

“I'm in a foul mood about our lack of a killer,” he said. “You've listened to me lecture long enough to know that a person who attacks with a method as specific as this doesn't stop. It will happen again, and me too dense to see to the heart of it and stop him in time.”

Grace eyed the board. “It's as if something inside of him has been
unleashed; he won't restrain willingly. But, I'm curious—why start in the first place?”

“A lethal mixture of any number of things. Judging by his attitude toward women, he deals with an overbearing mother. Add his failures with wom—”

“No, Doctor,” Grace interrupted. “I mean, why start
now
? If he is a medical man, he will have had schooling, so he can't be terribly young. Yet the sloppiness from Anka Baran's murder indicates she was his first victim.”

Intrigued, Thornhollow leaned forward. “Yes, and most killers tend to seek out victims within their own age range. I'd say the Polish girl—”

“Anka,” Grace said her name.

“—was in her late twenties at least. From seeing Mrs. Jacobs's daughter when she visited here I'd say she was a comparable age, though her lifestyle may have added a few years to her face.”

Thornhollow tapped his fingers on his knees, eyes roaming the board as if trying to find a place to fit their new puzzle piece though he didn't even know the shape of it yet. “A good question, Grace. Why now? The answer may shed light on the portrait of our man.”

“As would visiting Mellie Jacobs's place of work,” Grace said.

His fingers stopped drumming, and he shuddered. “I need not tell you how much I dread it. I doubt the employees will understand
where my interests lie. I'll be in for some rather awkward explaining, I'm sure.”

“I could do the talking,” Grace said. “I'll cover my scars. No one will know I'm a mental patient.”

Thornhollow shook his head. “As I said before, sometimes even I forget that you are one. I'm not sure it would be wise to expose you to—”

“I am hardly naive,” she said, cutting him short.

“I know that,” the doctor said, hands returning to his face as he rubbed his forehead. “But I can hardly defend taking a young woman who is under my care into a . . . a . . .”

“Whorehouse.”

“Yes, fine. Into a whorehouse. Really, Grace—how would that look?”

“Then you need not accompany me,” she said.

“I wouldn't let you go in there alone under any circumstances.”

“You won't have to,” Grace said. “I have an idea.”