Cold Vengeance - Lincoln Child [38]
“Of course.”
“Do you believe that X-ray radiographs and MRI machines can take pictures of the internal structure of the body, without resorting to invasive procedures?”
“Naturally.”
“Around the time of my birth, such things would have been thought ‘a biological impossibility.’ Is it really ‘impossible’ that medicine could retard aging and prolong a life span beyond its natural length?”
“Well… perhaps prolong a life span. But to keep a girl in her early twenties for more than a century? No, I’m sorry, it’s just not possible.” As he spoke, Felder felt his own convictions wavering. “Are you saying that’s what happened to you? You were the subject of some kind of medical procedure to prolong your life?”
Constance did not reply. Felder felt he was getting somewhere, all of a sudden.
“How did it happen? What brought it about? Who performed this procedure?”
“To say anything more would be to betray a confidence.” Constance smoothed the front of her dress. “I’ve already said more than I should have. The only reason I tell you this is I sense you have a sincere desire to help me. But I can say nothing more. What you choose to believe is entirely up to you, Doctor.”
“So it is. I thank you for sharing this with me.” Felder hesitated. “I wonder if you would do me a favor.”
“Certainly.”
“I’d like you to think back to your childhood on Water Street. Your earliest memories of the neighborhood.”
She looked at him very carefully, as if searching his face for any sign of coyness or deception. After a moment, she nodded.
“Do you remember Water Street with any clarity?”
“I remember it well.”
“Very good. As I recall, you have said your home was at Sixteen Water Street.”
“Yes.”
“And you were roughly five years of age when your parents died.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the immediate surroundings—around your residence, I mean.”
For a moment, Constance’s alert eyes seemed to go far away. “There was a tobacconist next door. I remember the smell of Cavendish and Latakia drifting into the front window of our flat. On the other side of us was a fishmonger’s. The neighborhood cats liked to congregate on the brick wall of its back garden.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Across the street was a haberdasher. London Town, they called it. I recall the model displayed over the signboard. And down the street was a chemist’s shop—Huddell’s. I remember it because my father took us inside once for a penny bag of chocolates.” Her face shone briefly at the memory.
Felder found the answers more than a little disturbing.
“What about schooling? Did you go to school on Water Street?”
“There was a school, down at the corner, but I didn’t go. My parents couldn’t afford it. Universal free public education didn’t exist then. And I told you—I’m self-educated.” She paused. “Why are you asking me these questions, Dr. Felder?”
“I’m curious to see how clear your early memories are.”
“Why—in order to satisfy yourself they are delusional?”
“Not at all.” His heart was beating fast, and he tried to conceal his excitement and confusion.
Constance met his gaze with her own and seemed to see into him. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’m tired.”
He took up the folder with both hands and rose. “Thank you again, Constance,” he said. “I appreciate your candor.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And for what it’s worth—” he said suddenly—“I believe you. I don’t begin to understand it, but I believe you.”
Her expression softened. Very faintly, she inclined her head.
He turned and knocked on the door. What had possessed him to make such an impulsive statement? A moment later, the key turned and an orderly appeared.
Outside in the corridor, as the orderly relocked the door, Felder opened the folder he’d been carrying. Inside was an article from that morning’s New York Times. It described a historical find that had just been announced that very day: the diary of a young man, Whitfield Speed, who had lived on Catherine Street from 1869 to his untimely death under the wheels of a carriage in 1883. Speed, an enthusiastic New Yorker, had apparently been very taken with Stow’s Survey