Mercury's Rise (Silver Rush 04) (43 page)
As she approached, she heard something. Something strange and ghostly, scratchy and not quite clear. Finally, it resolved itself into the sound of musical notes. A piano, ghostly and insubstantial. She slowly pushed open the door to the back room. There was Dr. Prochazka, seated by the oddest contraption she had ever seen. She had a confused impression of brass, polished wood, springs, levers, tubes, a cylinder rotating slowly in the middle, all surmounted by a large horn, facing her way, from which the annoying scratching and an indistinct rendition of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” emerged. It was as if a pianist playing well, but distantly, had to contend with an army of crickets intent on overlaying his music with their own skritching and crikking. Prochazka slowly, methodically cranked a small handwheel mounted on one end. Then he stopped cranking. The flywheel slowed, the cylinder’s rotation decreased, the music drifted down in pitch, speed, and volume…and died.
“What is that?” she asked.
Prochazka bounced to his feet, flexing his hands and gazing at the instrument as ardently as a child at a treasured toy. “A phonograph. Invented by your Thomas Edison. And improved by me to be vastly superior.”
She tried to ignore his audacious assertion that he had bettered a device created by the greatest inventor of the modern-day world. “It makes music?”
“Not makes. Records. Then plays it back.” He looked at her. “Do you see what this means. What is now possible?” The sheer intensity of his gaze, his obvious desire that she understand and anticipate the answer, made her consider carefully before responding.
“So, with this phonograph, one can perform a piece of music and listen to it later?”
“Yes! But not music by just
any
one. Not the horrible display of the previous evening. But the best the world has to offer. Liszt, in his prime. Clara Schumann. Chopin, Tausig—if they were only still alive! Think of it!”
She did. Overwhelmed by the enormity of the idea, Inez glanced at the contraption on the table. “But the sound is not…optimal.”
“Work is needed—by Edison, by myself, perhaps by your Alexander Graham Bell; he is also interested in this phonograph invention. Once perfected, what a gift to the world of music!” He seized her hands. “Then talented performers, such as yourself, your performances will reach the far corners of the world with this marvelous machine. And your music, your interpretation of it, will never die.”
Inez withdrew her hands from his grasp. His vision dazzled her. It was like looking into the sun—hard to do, possible only for the briefest of moments. Now that he was open to talking to her, she searched for a way to guide the conversation to the subjects closest to her heart. “You are too kind to include me in such a list of luminaries,” she said. “I thank you.” She looked around the room, long and narrow. “I am impressed that you find time to do this among all your other endeavors.”
Counters extended the length of both long walls. At the far end of the room sat a stove. The phonograph occupied a table by itself in the center of the room—a line of demarcation between two countries. One counter was full of strange objects: rows of flat covered glass plates, stacked up in towering pillars. Several microscopes, much like the one in his front office. Only these were clearly working microscopes, and not for show. They had more glass plates stacked around them, some of the plates in groupings covered with bell jars. Clear flasks empty and partially filled, bottles, and, just at the limit of the light, something that looked to be a camera. A magnifying glass at the close end of the table. Scribbled papers were tacked to the wall above the jumble.
On the other side of the room, the counter held a soldier’s column of tonic bottles. Above the bottles, orderly shelves were filled with bottles, tins, small containers, all with white paper labels. It reminded Inez of Nurse Crowson’s back room, without the overpowering smell of mint.
“Yes, my endeavors.” Dr. Prochazka threw himself back down on the chair by the phonograph, gestured for Inez to take the chair opposite. “My work is nearly done. Another reason to celebrate tonight.”
“Done?” Inez was perplexed. “Do you mean…” She looked around at the equipment. The bottles. “…you have worked out some elixir to restore health to those with the wasting disease?”
He stared at her as if she was crazy. “A cure? For phthisis? There is no cure.” He leaned forward, hands clasped as if in prayer. “But I have found the cause.”
“The cause? But, I thought is was a constitutional ailment.”
He waved a hand impatiently. “All myths and theories, put forth by desperate people. Yes, even we physicians, we are desperate to offer hope, reasons, explanations, cures. No matter what we say, what we advise, some improve under our direction and indeed seem cured, while others follow the same regimens and are consumed by the disease. And we don’t know why.” He gazed at the phonograph. “We are blind men, stumbling about in the dark, hearing a phantom music, but unable to detect its source.”
He looked at Inez, and said, “I ramble. You do not care to hear the history of discovery. Suffice to say, the evidence has shown that tuberculosis is a specific, inoculable disease. I have worked here and seen it. Dr. Koch, a colleague of mine in Germany, is working on the same questions. We have been corresponding. I shall write to him, tell him what I have learned. I have done all I can here in the States. I shall return to Germany to work with him, and we will transform the future, now that I have discovered the truth.”
“Which is what?”
“I have found the bacteria that cause the disease. I have cultivated them in the test tube, photographed them, followed their evolution through their life cycles. I did not invent the procedure,” he added matter-of-factly. “Dr. Koch did this for the anthrax disease, ten years ago. I simply followed his procedures.”
She tried to come to grips with what he was saying. “But, what does this mean, if it isn’t a cure?”
“What it means is that we can see it. We can identify it.” He held out his open hand toward her. Inez almost expected to see something tangible resting in his palm. “We have it, at last: the greatest killer of mankind, over the centuries.” His hand closed into a fist. “Now, we know what we are fighting.”
“So, all of this?” She gestured behind him, to the tonic bottles and medicinals.
“All of that,” He turned to look at the shelves and countertop. “The tonics and inhalants. The cod liver oils, mineral waters, vapors of creosote, carbolic acid, mercurial salts…They can provide relief. For some. But they do not cure.”
It was the opening she’d been looking for. “What of Herb Paris?”
He raised his eyebrows. “So many want to know, this past day. Yes, I have a store of Herb Paris. It is helpful, for some. Those who suffer from bronchitis, spasmodic coughs. Also for headaches and neuralgia. The seeds and the berries have something of the nature of opium.”
“And it is a poison.” Inez added. “How could it have ended up in the livery, in a horse’s nosebag?”
Prochazka shrugged. She could tell his attention was waning, drifting away from her and her questions. He was disappearing back into indifference. “It is shipped to me from overseas, specifically for my studies and for use in this clinic. I keep it here, in the laboratory.”
“Who has access?”
“I keep this room locked at all times.”
A delicate cough interrupted them. Inez started and looked toward the entrance to the front of the clinic. Nurse Crowson stepped into the room and into the light. “Excuse me, doctor. I’m here to pick up the medicines.” She presented the basket.
He leaped to his feet. “Of course, of course. Time for the evening doses.”
Mrs. Crowson slipped in, and headed to the far side, setting her basket on the counter next to the tonic bottles.
“Mrs. Stannert, I apologize for keeping you from your evening.” His stiff formality and indifference evaporated. “I hope to hear you play again. Perhaps tomorrow? You might indulge me with a little Beethoven, perhaps?”
She smiled. “‘Moonlight Sonata’? I believe it can be arranged.”
He took her gloved hand and bowed low over it. “
Dekuji
, madam. Thank you.” His voice was fervent.
Inez surveyed the laboratory for the last time. On one side, impenetrable science with its bewildering confusion of glass vessels, curious instruments, and cryptic papers. On the other, orderly palliative treatments with their deceptively clear labels and falsely reassuring tonics. Prochazka stood in the middle, one hand resting on the phonograph. Mrs. Crowson stood a little behind, lifting one bottle at time, setting them in her basket. Prochazka added, “Forgive me for not escorting you back to the hotel, but I must help Mrs. Crowson. There are a couple new therapeutics we must talk about.”
Inez smiled. “I can find my way, doctor. Thank you.” She left, pulling the clinic door closed behind her before hurrying across the gardens, into the hotel, and out to the front, where Mark and buggy awaited.
Inez quickly explained why she had kept Mark waiting and then plunged into her day’s happenings. Mark had lit the buggy’s lanterns for the night ride, so she was able to see his smile of approval as she detailed how she managed to procure a passkey. When she described her descent to the hotel’s underworld, he sobered. “You took a chance there, darlin’. What would you have done if you’d been caught?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “I would have thought of something. If not, well, what would they do, after all? Shoot me?”
“I’d hate to guess. Desperate folks do desperate things when in desperate situations. Although, you do seem to have more lives than a feline and able to talk yourself out of tight corners I’d not thought possible.”
She warmed at the compliment. “You always did say that words were my best weapon and defense, with my pocket pistol running in second place. In any case, we now know more about Lewis, and the truth about the financial state of affairs at the hotel. Lewis was a physician during the War. He must have been. The photo. The box of, of…” In her mind, she saw the cutting edges again—the saw, the knives, all blades and teeth, hungry for blood and bone.
“Surgeon’s kit.”
She looked over at Mark, his profile against the night. “What?”
He said, “The box you described. It’s a surgeon’s kit.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, darlin’, South or North, the army sawbones lugged the same tools.”
“Oh, of course.” She faced forward again. “In any case, he is a doctor or
was
a doctor, but won’t own up to it. Something must have happened that he won’t even acknowledge as part of his past. Too, there is the matter of the initials, which seem to indicate his name back then was not the same as the one he currently uses, and the fact that he does not want the name ‘Victor’ associated with him here in Manitou. Something is awry. Maybe he was a doctor before and something went wrong, or he was incompetent and it all caught up with him. Either way, he’s definitely incompetent as a businessman and hotelier. The finances of the Mountain Springs House are a complete disaster, if what is on his desk is any indication.” She shot another look at him. “Don’t you dare sign any sort of agreement with them. And don’t let Jonathan either.”
“I’m doing my level best, Inez. It’s a dicey situation. I want them to believe I’m serious in my interest, but at the same time not willing to put pen to paper yet. I can’t play gull to their game much longer. They know I own the Silver Queen, that I’m not adverse to a gamble, so obviously, I know something about businesses, cheats, and cons. They’re probably wondering if I’m on to them, as it is.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. You’re walking a tightrope in all this.” Inez frowned. “It’s the photograph, I’ll admit, that has me most perplexed. Two men posed in front of a surgeon’s tent. One is clearly Lewis, or Franklin, or whatever his name really is. I’m assuming he is the VLF indicated on the back. The second man has the same last initial, looks younger, and there is a definite family resemblance. I suspect they are brothers, and perhaps Mrs. Crowson is their sister. She has the identical photograph in her room by her bed, so obviously, it is important to her.”
“Well, I suspect you reckoned right on that. Makes sense they might be brothers who joined up and served in the War together. Two surgeons assigned to the same unit.”
“Maybe.” She stared straight ahead, deep in thought. The lights of Colorado City straggled by. “Here’s another possibility: maybe Mrs. Crowson herself was in the War.”
“As a nurse? It’s possible.”
“I was thinking more that she might be the other person in the photograph. That she might have disguised herself as a man.”
“Inez. Not all women have your propensity for wearin’ trousers.”
“Well, just consider it for a moment. Her brother goes off to war. Maybe he is her only family. She decides to go as well, and the best way to stay by his side is to pretend to be his brother and medical assistant.” She glanced at Mark sideways. “It’s not so difficult to do, to pretend to be a man.”
“For an evening’s lark, I can see your point. But you’re talkin’ about the War, Inez. That’s living a ruse under hard conditions, day and night, month after month…or however long afore someone realizes that the doctor with soft hands and gentle voice isn’t the comrade-in-arms everyone believes.”