A Deadly Affection (38 page)

He sighed. “From what you've told me, I don't see that anyone really knows what happened. That being the case, I think the wisest course would be for you to remove yourself from the controversy.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“You've done your duty and told the police everything you know. I don't see that anything more is required of you.”

“I can't abandon Eliza now.”

“She isn't your responsibility.”

“She has no one else! Her own mother believes her case is hopeless. Her lawyer hasn't seen fit to meet with her yet except to claim his fee, although her grand jury trial is scheduled for next week. I'm the only one who seems the slightest bit interested in trying to prove her innocence. But I can't do it alone. Please, Professor, I need your help.”

His gaze dropped to his pant leg. “There's no guarantee that she would reveal the information you seek under hypnosis,” he said, brushing off a crumb. “Besides, I don't have the time. Not with the conference coming up.”

“It would only take an hour or two,” I pleaded. “We could go right now, and you'd be back before lunch.”

He looked up. “I'm sorry,” he said flatly, “but I can't.”

I thought of all the times at school I'd stayed up late to meet his urgent research deadlines, or set aside my course work to help him with some little crisis he couldn't manage on his own. I'd done it gladly, eager to help, proud to be part of his team. And now, the one time I asked for his help, he refused me. I felt hot tears stinging my eyelids, and blinked them away.

His face brightened. “There is a young doctor I know, however—an experienced hypnotist, just over from France. I believe he trained with Charcot at the Salpêtrière. I can give you his name. I'm sure you'll find him quite capable.”

“There's no time to get someone else. Besides, how can I ask Eliza to trust someone I don't even know? I don't want some stranger, Professor. I want you!”

“Well, I'm sorry,” he said curtly, “but we can't always have what we want, now can we?”

I stared at him in mute dismay. So that was that. He really wasn't going to help. “I should go, then,” I mumbled, pushing myself up from the chair in a daze. “I'm sorry to have taken up your time.”

“Don't be silly,” he said, getting to his own feet. “You know I'm always happy to give you the benefit of my advice.” He rocked up on his toes, patting his waistcoat, his good humor restored now that I was leaving and taking my problems with me. “Be sure to keep me abreast of things. And don't worry overly much. I'm sure everything will work out in the end.”

His cheap assurances made me want to gag. I lifted my bag over my shoulder and started for the door.

I was nearly through it when he called, “Genevieve, wait!”

I stopped, my heart hitching in my chest. Thank God, he'd come to his senses. Of course he wouldn't abandon me when I needed him most! He'd only needed another moment to consider. I whirled around, ready to forgive him everything.

He held out his hand. “You forgot the paper.”

I heard a strange rushing noise in my ears, as if all the air were being sucked from the room. I had the odd sensation that I was growing lighter and higher, expanding into space. The professor looked different from this vantage point, as if I were viewing him through the wrong end of a telescope: smaller somehow, and less assured. I noted the slight sheen on his brow, and the uncertain smile on his lips. Suddenly, it dawned on me: the professor needed me.
He
needed
me
. I squeezed my elbow over my book bag, experiencing an unfamiliar frisson of power. I had tried appealing to his heart, and to his conscience, and gotten nowhere. Perhaps it was time for another approach.

“Actually,” I said slowly, “now that I think about it, the paper isn't quite ready. There are a number of improvements that should still be made.”

“I'm sure it will be fine.”

“I really couldn't hand it over in good conscience.”

He wiggled his fingers. “Just give me what you've done so far, and I'll make do.”

“Make do?” I raised my eyebrows. “That hardly seems good enough, does it, Professor? After all, there's your reputation to consider.”

He slowly lowered his arm. “What are you up to, Genevieve? Are you telling me you're not going to give it to me?”

“Oh, I'll give it to you. As soon as I've had a chance to give it the proper attention. Right after this other pesky little matter is cleared up.”

“It seems I've underestimated you,” he said sternly. “I didn't know you were capable of blackmail.”

“Neither did I,” I replied. “But then, as you once told me, we never really know what we're capable of until we're pushed to it.” I could smell my bridges burning, but I didn't care. Overcome with a strange but exhilarating giddiness, I added, “Of course, if you absolutely can't wait, I'd be happy to recommend someone else. There's a librarian I know, a very competent researcher. I'm afraid she knows absolutely nothing at all about your topic, but in a pinch”—I winked at him—“I'm sure you'll find her very capable.”

I caught a gleam of reluctant amusement in his eye. “I take your point, Doctor.”

“Do you?”

“If your point is that I can't afford to take you for granted, then yes, I do.”

“You'll help me then?”

“I don't appear to have a choice. But if I'm going to become involved in this woman's defense, I must at least insist that you take notes of our session. There may be something in it that I can use for my next paper.”

“Fine. As long as you don't reveal Mrs. Miner's identity.”

“Agreed. And I have to be back by noon. I have an appointment with my publisher.”

“I wouldn't dream of keeping him waiting.”

He stepped past me to the call box. “I'll have Wilson bring the motorcar around.”

The housekeeper rushed in with the teapot as we were starting into the hall. “But, Professor,” she wailed. “Your tea!”

“Can't be helped, Mrs. Whelan,” he told her with a sigh, glancing wistfully back at the profiteroles.

Hoisting my book bag over my shoulder, I took hold of his arm and led him out the door, leaving the housekeeper gaping in our wake.

Fifteen minutes later, we were standing at the door of Eliza's flat. On the ride up, I had explained more fully the details I was hoping to confirm through hypnosis. Although the professor's pride had still been piqued by my heavy-handed persuasion tactics, his natural curiosity—and, I suspected, the prospect of publishing a case analysis of a suspected murderess—had eventually risen to the fore, and by the time we arrived at the shop, he'd mapped out a rough strategy for the session. Since the identity of Olivia's father seemed to be the information Eliza least wanted to divulge, the professor had decided to work in reverse chronological order, beginning with the baby's birth and moving back to the time of conception, exploring the issues I had touched on as we progressed.

Eliza opened the door and greeted us nervously. I introduced her to the professor and followed them both into the flat, watching as the professor put his considerable charm to work. Before we'd even reached the front room, he had Eliza eating out of his hand. Just as he'd had me doing all these years, I realized now.

Eliza settled self-consciously on a worn sofa in front of the windows, while I pulled two chairs around to face her. “You needn't be afraid,” the professor assured her, his eyes twinkling as warmly as old St. Nick's. “The trance state is simply a place between sleep and wakefulness—not so very different, really, from a daydream. While you're in it, you'll have access to memories and feelings that lie outside of your conscious awareness. Your conscious mind will still be present, but it will be watching from the wings, as it were.”

“You won't ask me to do anything silly?” she asked, apparently still harboring concerns on this score.

He smiled. “That would be a waste of both of our time, don't you think?”

“Or anything I wouldn't normally do?” she added.

“As I said, your conscious mind will still be watching. It won't permit you to do anything at odds with your values or beliefs.”

“So what do you say, Eliza?” I asked encouragingly. “Are you ready?”

She took a deep breath. “I suppose.”

“Perhaps you'd like to rest your arms on that pillow,” the professor suggested.

She moved a crocheted pillow from the corner of the sofa to her lap and folded her arms on top of it.

“Are you comfortable?”

She nodded.

He turned to me. “Ready, Doctor?”

I centered my writing pad on my lap and placed my inkwell on the sofa table in front of my knees. “Ready.”

“Then let's get started.” Unclipping his pocket watch, he lifted it by the chain and held it in front of Eliza's face, slightly above eye level. “Mrs. Miner, I want you to keep your eyes on my watch,” he said as he started swinging the chain. “Try not to pay attention to anything else except the sound of my voice. Don't worry about any noises you hear from the street or any thoughts that come into your mind. Just fix your entire attention on my watch as it moves back and forth, back and forth before your eyes…”

Eliza sat stiffly upright with her hands clasped on top of the pillow, her eyes moving dutifully to and fro with the watch.

“Remember that you are under no one's control,” the professor went on, “but are a willing participant on this journey into the pleasant state of deep trance. You are allowing Dr. Summerford and me to guide you into this state to retrieve helpful information from your past. You may speak or move or interrupt us at will, whenever you desire.” His voice was slow and lulling, his body still save for the slight motion of his fingers on the chain.

“Now, feel your body begin to relax. Be aware of your breath as it moves in and out, deeper and deeper into your lungs, staying in contact with my voice as you follow the watch moving back and forth, back and forth, steady as the beat of your heart.” His voice droned on, smooth as melted beeswax. I could see Eliza's face begin to soften, her shoulders droop a little more with each pass of the watch.

“As you follow the watch, your eyes may begin to feel heavy,” the professor continued. “They may feel so heavy that it's an effort to keep them open, but try to keep them open if you can, enjoying the pleasant sensation of heaviness as you follow the watch, keeping your eyes open even though it feels as though there are weights on your eyelids, pulling them down, making it harder and harder to keep them open.” Eliza's eyelids, I noted, were slipping gradually lower as he spoke. “Your eyes are now so tired that it's difficult to see through them,” he said as her eyelids started fluttering. “They're so tired and heavy that you may feel you have to blink. Your eyelids are so heavy that you can no longer hold them open.” Her eyes blinked a few more times and slid shut. “Your eyes are closed.”

He lowered the watch to his lap. “Now, notice as the heaviness in your eyes seeps down your face, into your nose and your cheeks and along your mouth and jaw, releasing any tightness that lingers there…” He went on in this manner for several minutes, moving Eliza's attention gradually down her body, until the rise and fall of her chest was nearly imperceptible. My own eyes were now at half-mast, my breathing as slow as if I'd swallowed half a box of Hoffman's Drops. The world seemed to contain nothing but the professor's soothing voice.

“I'm going to ask you a question, Eliza, that can only be answered by your subconscious mind,” the professor was saying. “For while your conscious mind is like a tiny harbor, shallow and hemmed in, your subconscious is as wide and deep as the ocean. Your conscious mind can guess at how your subconscious will answer my question, but it cannot know. Only your subconscious can give me the answer. The question I am asking is this: Does your subconscious mind think it will go into a trance instantly, or within the next few moments? If the answer is instantly, then the index finger of your right hand will lift from the pillow
automatically
. If the answer is in the next few moments, then the index finger of your left hand will lift from the pillow
automatically
. Your subconscious mind can tell my conscious mind what it thinks or understands by simply causing a finger on your right or your left hand to lift. Now be aware of your hands and see what the answer is. Feel the slight movement in your finger as your subconscious tells it what to do. Feel the finger beginning to move upward, off the pillow, as your subconscious responds to my question.”

Eliza's right index finger twitched and rose off the pillow.

“Good. Notice that your finger feels like something separate and distinct, moving under its own will. This is your subconscious mind revealing itself. Now that your subconscious has answered this question, it can answer other questions as well, using your voice just as easily as your finger, as easily as if it were your conscious mind responding. Now let your finger return to the pillow. When your finger touches the pillow, you will be ready to go into an even deeper state of relaxation.”

As her finger dropped to the pillow, he continued, “Imagine, now, that you are walking down a long staircase. The staircase leads to a special place deep inside you. This is a very safe place where only you can go. Imagine walking down the steps—one, two, three, four—staying in contact with my voice as you descend, allowing yourself to go deeper and deeper into this special place. This is the trance state. You don't have to think about it; it just is, like your breathing or the waves in the ocean. While you are in this deep place, a part of you is able to hear me and to answer my questions. Can you describe to me what you are feeling?”

“Heavy,” Eliza muttered, her lips hardly moving around the word.

“Tell me where you are if you can.”

“A safe place,” she murmured. “A secret place.”

“Now that you are in this safe, secret place, I want you to imagine that you are looking at the hands of a clock. Note that the hands are moving in reverse, going backward in time. As the hands of the clock move backward, you will be able to go with them. You can go back a day, or a year, or many years, remembering events now as clearly as you experienced them at the time. Some of these memories will be happy, and some will be sad. Some of them may have been hidden away or forgotten over time. But remember that all of your memories are welcome here.

“Now, watch the hands of the clock turning back, through the years, to the time when you were pregnant with your daughter, Joy. Try to remember how your body felt when you were about to give birth, how round and heavy you were. Perhaps you can feel a slight pressure in your back or lower abdomen. Perhaps you can even feel the baby moving inside of you…”

Eliza's hands slipped off the pillow and cradled her belly.

“Good, you're remembering. Now, try to recall all the sights and sounds and smells as vividly as if you were experiencing them for the first time.”

Her face tightened. “It hurts,” she said, her fingers closing now over her belly.

“What hurts?”

“The baby. It's coming.”

“Are you having a contraction?”

She grimaced in response. Rousing myself from my stupor, I noted with amazement that her contorted face looked exactly like those of laboring women I'd observed during my internships.

“Can you tell me where you are?” the professor asked.

“At the hospital,” she said breathlessly.

“Why are you having your baby at the hospital instead of at home?”

“The doctor is here. Mother arranged it.”

“Are your mother and the doctor there with you now?”

“Yes.”

“Is anyone else there?”

“The nurse…” She stopped, her face twisting again at another apparent contraction.

I glanced at the professor, wondering if it was a good idea to reenact the entire labor.

As if having the same thought, he instructed, “Now, look at the hands on the clock again, Eliza. Notice that they are moving forward in time, to the moment your baby is born. Go with them to that moment. Your baby is here; can you see it?”

“It's a girl!” she said with a smile. “She's so beautiful! They're wrapping her up in a little pink blanket…” Seconds passed, and her smile began to fade.

“What's happening now?” the professor asked.

“The nurse won't give her to me. She's taking my baby to the door.”

“What do you see?”

“There's someone there, in the hallway outside.”

“Who is it?”

“I don't know; a lady, in a black veil.” She stiffened. “They're—they're giving her my baby! Mama, help! Don't let them take my baby…” She shrank back against the sofa with a strangled gasp.

“What is it?” asked the professor.

“She…she slapped me,” she said in a small voice.

“Who did?”

“Mama. She says to be quiet and stop making a fuss. She says I'm lucky someone's willing to take the bastard off my hands.”

The color had drained from her face. Though she was apparently describing something from her past, her physical body was undeniably reacting in present time. I glanced at the professor in concern.

“Now look at the clock hands,” he instructed, “and notice that they are moving back in time again, to the summer before your baby was born. It's August, and the flowers are in full bloom. The park is green, and the air is lush and warm.”

She sighed softly, her arms relaxing on the cushion. “I can smell it,” she said, lifting her face serenely to an invisible breeze, as if the scene she'd just relived had never occurred.

“Your baby has been growing inside you for several months now.”

“Yes,” she said, “I can feel it moving.”

“Where are you, Eliza?”

“On the roof.”

“The roof of your building?”

“Mmm.”

“What are you doing up there?”

“Just thinking. I moved some boards against the old pigeon coop to make a lean-to, so no one can see me when I'm inside.”

“Do you go there often?”

“Whenever I can get the key. Mother doesn't like me to come up here; she keeps the key on her ring in the kitchen. But she wasn't watching today.”

“Have you ever taken someone up there with you?”

“No.”

“What about the baby's father?”

“Who?”

“The father of the baby you're carrying. Has he ever seen the lean-to?”

“My baby doesn't have a father.”

The professor glanced at me. I shrugged.

He thought a moment, then asked, “Eliza, have you ever been kissed by a man?”

“Grandfather kisses me when he visits at Christmas.” She grimaced. “I don't like it, though. I don't like his mustache.”

“Has a man ever kissed you on the lips?”

“Oh no. I don't think I should care for that at all.”

“Tell me, Eliza, do you know how babies are created?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you know it requires sexual intercourse between a man and a woman?”

She didn't answer.

“Eliza? Can you answer me?”

“That may be true for other babies, but it isn't true for mine.”

“It isn't? How do you suppose your baby came to be, then?”

“God gave her to me for being such a good girl.”

“You must be a very good girl, indeed.”

“I try to be.”

“But you took the key to the roof against your mother's wishes. That wasn't being very good, was it?”

“That's different. The baby was for being good to Papa when Mother was mean to him.”

The professor cocked his head. “Is your mother mean to your papa?”

“Sometimes. But I can always make him feel better.”

“You're close to your papa, then.”

“Oh yes. I'm his little princess.”

“Have you told him about your baby?”

“Mother told him,” she said, her voice turning grim. “She wanted him to beat me, but he wouldn't.”