Legacy of the Dead - Charles Todd [62]
“I’m Dr. Wilson. I was up until five this morning with a difficult delivery. If you’ll make your call a brief one so that I can sleep, I’ll help in any way I can.”
“What kind of cases do you take here?”
Surprised, the doctor said, “Difficult ones that can’t be safely delivered at home. The well-to-do, who want more comfort than an upstairs bedchamber. And the rest are female complaints where surgery or other remedies are required. I deal with a goodly number of women who are ill. Tumors or excessive bleeding. Miscarriages. Stillbirths. I find that a number of husbands don’t heed me when I tell them a wife should bear no more children. I save the woman if I can. I also deal with botched abortions, where infection is rampant and the woman has waited too long to seek medical help. I don’t see how any of this is of use to the police!”
“You don’t handle lung complaints—”
“Not if they don’t bear on a pregnancy or other reproductive problem.” He was impatient now.
“Can you give me the names of women who came here in 1916? I can’t tell you with any certainty what the date was. But the woman I’m seeking was delivered of a healthy son.”
“No, I can’t.” It was short and curt.
“Then can you tell me if a Mrs. Cook was your patient in that time period? Mrs. Maude Cook. We are investigating a murder that might have a connection with her.”
“My patients don’t commit murder!” the doctor said indignantly.
Rutledge had heard many people express the same certainty. It was a common reaction, a natural one. No one I know could do such a thing! But murderers came in all shapes and sizes, all denominations and races, all social strata. And more often than not, they had friends who were appalled. . . .
“I’m sure they don’t, Doctor. In this case, we’re speaking of a victim. And of a three-year-old child who may have been orphaned. We need to contact the parents of the woman, or her husband.”
“A victim.” Wilson regarded him differently. “I don’t recall anyone by the name of Maude Cook. But let me check my files.”
He went to an oak cabinet against the side wall and pulled out a drawer. It was stuffed with folders and papers. He thumbed through some dozen of them, and did it again, then finally shook his head.
“I don’t find a Maude Cook at all. Are you quite sure you have the right name? There’s a Mary Cook here. And she gave birth to a male child.”
“In 1916? What was the date?”
Wilson gave it to him. It was a month too early. Still—
“Can you tell me where she lives? Or give me the direction of any family?”
Wilson turned back to the files. “She gave London as her home. There’s no other information. The father was dead. In the war. She cried when I told her she had a son. She said he would have been proud. A good many women tell me that. I have tried to grow accustomed to it, and failed. Children need fathers. Too damned many of them in these last years had none to go home to.” He rubbed his eyes. “Is that all you want of me?”
“Did Mrs. Cook have lung disease of any kind?”
“No. She was young and healthy. There was a complication, however. It was a difficult birth. Long and tiring, and there was a good deal of trouble. Breech birth, you see. Touch and go, but I saved her and the baby. Infection set in. She was quite lucky she was here—she’d have died otherwise. The fact remains, she’ll not be able to conceive again. Well, she has her child and I doubt she’ll marry again. So many men died. . . .”
It was cold comfort, but all the doctor had.
“Why did she come to Scotland to have this child if she lived in London?”
“She was traveling. Foolishness on her part at that late stage, but she was on her way to London when the bag of waters broke.”
But Wilson had no idea what had brought Mary Cook north from London or how long she might have lived in Lanark before consulting him. “I don’t have time to question my patients about their private