The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [67]
“I’m truly sorry, Dr. Osler,” I said softly.
He dismissed the sentiment with a short wave of his hand.
“Do you know the actual cause of death?” I asked.
The Professor shook his head. “Not precisely, although I suspect toxicity in the environment in which she worked contributed greatly.”
“When will you conduct the postmortem?”
The Professor looked up. “I won’t. Couldn’t bear it, Carroll. I’ve arranged for her to be buried in a private cemetery.”
I nodded, relieved at the remarks despite the horrible circumstances. Dr. Osler’s behavior with the female cadaver might have an innocent explanation after all. There were indeed, it seemed, cadavers that even he could not cut into.
When we met for rounds, it was clear that everyone had been as deeply affected as had been the Professor. Corrigan’s face was ashen and Farnshaw appeared similarly. The death of one doomed little girl had pointed up to us the limits of our powers to heal and the fragility of our profession. Only Simpson preserved control, almost certainly because she had been forced to prove every day that she was not susceptible to female emotion.
I took her aside when rounds had been completed. “Perhaps you would be willing to step out with me for a moment,” I said to her. “I need air.”
Simpson’s face was set, as if in stone. But at my request, a thin smile appeared briefly on her lips. “You need air, Ephraim? Of course. Thank you for asking.”
We left the hospital and walked to the pathway along the river and turned south, away from the Blockley.
“I cannot bear cruelty to children,” she remarked after we had gone a few paces.
“There is something particularly execrable about those who would abuse the helpless,” I agreed.
“That girl … such extraordinary will …”
“She certainly brightened everyone who came near her. I will miss her as well.”
“Do you like children, then?” she asked. “Many men do not.”
“I liked Annie,” I replied, but then considered the larger question. “Yes,” I said finally. “I believe I do like children.”
“It is the principal reason that I became a doctor,” Simpson confided.
A nobler reason than mine, to be sure.
We walked a bit farther, watching the boats on the Schuylkill. A small private sailboat had caught the wind and was racing across the path of a steam packet boat heading upriver. As the sailboat came closer to view, it was possible to make out a young man at the tiller and a woman in the bow, both obviously of means, enjoying the maneuver, although an officer on the packet, leaning over the rail shaking his fist, did not share their amusement. Imagining the carefree woman to be Abigail Benedict was not difficult … but could I have been the man?
Simpson broke into my reverie. “If you’re not busy this evening, Ephraim, perhaps you could come by the settlement house. There’s something I want to show you.”
“I’m sorry, Mary,” I replied, not able to completely tear my eyes from the sailboat, “I cannot.” In reply to Abigail’s note, I had sent a boy to the Benedict home to leave word that I would arrive at eight. “Perhaps another evening.”
“Of course,” she answered, but her voice had gone distant. Her eyes were now on the sailboat as well. “We should be getting back now, I think.”
When I knocked on the Benedicts’ door at the appointed hour, opening it was not a servant but rather Albert Benedict. “Dr. Carroll,” he effused, shaking my hand warmly, dripping noblesse oblige, “it’s a pleasure to see you again. Do come in.”
Benedict ushered me into a parlor, where we sat on either side of a brilliantly polished tea table on which sat a crystal decanter.
“It’s a Hennessey, 1825,” he told me. “Privately bottled. The family owns a vineyard in Jarnac. Hennessey will blend and bottle every vintage for anyone who sells them grapes. This one is quite good.”
The cognac was indeed superb; smooth, without any bite at all.
“You are here to see my sister?” Albert asked after a moment.
“At her request,” I replied.
“So she mentioned. Tell me, Dr. Carroll,