The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [53]
“Sara?” the Doctor asked.
Miss Howard seemed to shiver a bit. “I’m sorry. But there’s—almost a sense of tragedy about it. Could she have had children, Doctor, and lost them—say, to disease or poor health?”
The Doctor mulled that one over. “I like it,” he finally said. “It’s consistent with her choice of victim. Most of us—with the exception of the likes of Moore, there—feel a certain longing when we see such a child as Ana Linares. However unconscious or remote. Could tragedy have been the experience that made this woman’s longing irresistible? Is this to be the healthy, happy child she has always wanted?”
“And apparently feels entitled to,” Marcus added.
“What about the clothing?” Lucius asked. “If Señora Linares is right, and she was some kind of nurse or governess—”
“Ah, Detective Sergeant, you have read my thoughts,” the Doctor said. “For what have we just described, if not a woman who would be drawn toward caring for children as a profession?”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Moore said, rising and backing away. “No, no, no, I smell where this is going …”
The Doctor laughed, “Indeed you do, Moore! But why should you be afraid of it? You proved during the Beecham case that you have a positive talent for such work!”
“I don’t care!” Mr. Moore answered, his horror only half theatrical. “I hated every minute of it! I’ve never had to do such boring, miserable drudgery—”
“Nevertheless, it will be where the hard part of our investigation begins,” the Doctor answered. “We will visit every nursing and governess service in this city, as well as every hospital, every foundling home, and every lying-in facility. The woman is here, with the child, and if Señora Linares’s eyes are to be trusted—as I believe they are—then she holds a position in the field somewhere.”
Lucius’s face had screwed up into a human question mark. “But—Doctor. We don’t even have a name. Just a verbal description. I mean, if we had a photograph, a picture of some kind—”
The Doctor set his chalk down, then slapped the white dust from his hands and vest. “And why shouldn’t we?”
Lucius looked even more confused. “Why shouldn’t we what?”
“Have a picture,” the Doctor answered simply. “After all, we have an extremely vivid description.” Picking his jacket up, he slipped it back on as he continued, “You gentlemen have missed the major feature of this case. What was the principal thing we lacked in the Beecham affair, the principal thing that is lacking in most crimes of this nature? An accurate description of the criminal. Yet we have one—and my guess is that, put to the test, Señora Linares’s description will be even more detailed than it has been thus far.”
“But how would we translate that into a visual image?” Miss Howard asked.
“We would not,” the Doctor replied. “We would and will leave that to someone trained in the field.” Pulling out his silver watch, the Doctor popped it open and squinted at it. “I should prefer someone of Sargent’s ability, but he is in London and would demand an absurd fee. Eakins might do, too, but he is in Philadelphia—even that is too far, given the urgency of our task. Our opponent may flee the city at any moment—we must move quickly.”
“Let me get this straight, Kreizler,” Mr. Moore said, ever more dumbfounded. “You’re going to commission a portrait of this woman, based on a description?”
“A sketch should be sufficient, I think,” the Doctor said, tucking his watch away. “Portraiture is an immensely complex process, Moore. A good portrait painter must be something of a natural psychologist. I see no reason why, given enough time with the señora, a very reasonable likeness could not be created. The first job is to find the right artist. And I believe I know where to get a reference.” He looked my way. “Stevie? Shall we pay a call on the Reverend? I believe we’ll find him at home and hard at work at this hour—provided he’s not