The Moon by Night (26 page)

Cheney hurried down the long ward toward the private rooms. Only two of the four private rooms, and the large suite, were occupied. Cassandra Carteret had happily moved into the smaller private room, with only one armchair, so that Annabeth Forbes could have the suite. Mevrouw de Sille was in another private room. The four private rooms and the suite were at the end of the hall, and Cheney was somewhat surprised to see that all the doors were closed, since all of the doctors followed the same guideline of leaving the door ajar unless they were doing an examination or procedure. Annabeth Forbes and Mevrouw de Sille were Cheney's patients, while Mrs. Carteret was Dev's patient. It seemed unlikely that Dr. Pettijohn would be examining any of these three patients, but Cheney decided to check anyway, because she did need to find him.

A quick light knock, then Cheney went into Mevrouw de Sille's room. She halted abruptly in the doorway, for Dr. Pettijohn sat on Mrs. de Sille's bed, holding her hand. He turned and nodded when Cheney came in, but Mrs. de Sille looked up at her in a decidedly cold manner. “Yes, come in, Dr. Duvall,” she said. “I would like to speak to you.”

“Of course, Mrs. de Sille, but first it is extremely important that I speak to Dr. Pettijohn.” Cheney waited expectantly.

He half turned, then asked lazily, “Yes?”

“In private, please,” Cheney said evenly.

“Of course,” he said, rising. Smiling down at Mrs. de Sille, he said, “I'll come back in just a few moments.”

“Please do,” she said in a pleading tone. She looked very unwell. Her face was an unhealthy pasty hue, and she had dark purple shadows under her eyes. Her voice was thick and hollow with catarrhal infection and the pernicious pneumonic fluid in the lungs. Her tone was weak and querulous as she turned to Cheney. “Dr. Duvall, I don't require a private audience. I just wanted to tell you that I have decided to retain Dr. Pettijohn as my personal physician. He has told me that protocol demands that I notify you of this before he formally takes over my case.”

Cheney was unpleasantly surprised but not really shocked. Mevrouw de Sille, in Cheney's opinion, was much too easily intimidated on the one hand, and on the other was extremely susceptible to flattery, particularly by men. Cheney, perhaps, was a bit more distant to her than to some of her other patients because she regarded this as a weakness and a fairly inexcusable one at that. Dr. Pettijohn could be charming when he chose, and his somewhat affected European sophistication would be just the type of thing that would impress a woman like Mevrouw.

Since Cheney was hard pressed with other matters at the moment, she merely said, “Very well, Mrs. de Sille, I appreciate your candor. If you would be so good as to excuse us…” To her disgust, Dr. Pettijohn lifted Mrs. de Sille's pudgy little hand to his lips as he left. But Cheney ignored her critical feelings. Perhaps gestures such as that—as self-serving and hypocritical and unprofessional as she regarded them—were just the thing that might actually help a woman such as Mevrouw de Sille. Cheney begrudgingly admitted that she had never been without male admiration, and so she likely did take it for granted and didn't know how unhappy she might have been without it. Mevrouw was a moral woman and was, like many of the oldest Knickerbocker families, extremely concerned with preserving a reputation of utmost propriety. Cheney knew there was no question of Mevrouw de Sille entertaining a relationship with any other man regardless of what her husband did. But receiving the attentions of a charming, sophisticated, and, Cheney supposed, attractive man when he was your personal physician was perfectly proper.

All of this flashed through Cheney's mind as she and Dr. Pettijohn went out into the ward hallway to talk. He said in a low voice, “Dr. Duvall, I hope you won't misunderstand—”

“Never mind, Dr. Pettijohn. Of course I want what's best for the patient, and perhaps this is best for Mrs. de Sille. At any rate, it's done.” Cheney watched his face to see if he wanted to say more, but he merely listened and then nodded slightly.

She continued, “I haven't had an opportunity to look at Mrs. Green's file, but I heard her crying when I walked by. Is that from being upset or depressed or because she's in pain?”

“All of those, I think.”

Cheney was frustrated. “Could you please explain more fully about her condition?”

“I'm afraid I don't know exactly what you're looking for, Dr. Duvall,” he said pleasantly.

“I just need to get a better understanding of her state of mind, what she's thinking, if something specific—Oh, forget it,” Cheney finally said with exasperation. “I cannot be a person's physician
in absentia
. It's ridiculous. I'll tell Dev today to make some other arrangements about Mrs. Green. For now, please just use your best judgment during your examinations and if possible relieve some of her suffering.”

“Yes, Dr. Duvall,” he said politely.

Cheney sighed. Dr. Pettijohn always seemed to be holding himself at such a vast distance from her that she could never be sure if she was communicating clearly with him. But she could think of nothing else to say without sounding as though she were treating him like an idiot, so she went on, “I believe that two of the male patients—Mr. Norton and Mr. Reese—have contracted influenza. Did you, by any chance, diagnose this in Mr. Reese?”

“Yes, I did, just this morning.”

“I haven't had a chance to make rounds on the women's ward yet or read the files. Do you know if any of the women patients may have the initial symptoms?”

“None except, of course, Mrs. de Sille.”

Cheney nodded. “That's good news. Thank you, Doctor.” She turned to go back up the hallway to the administration office and had taken several steps before she turned, saying, “Oh, Dr. Pettijohn—” She stopped in confusion because he had not moved and was watching her with a stillness and intent that was disconcerting.

“Yes?” he said, unmoving.

“I…I just wanted to ask—to make sure that you would—”

“I will see Mrs. Green in just a few moments,” he said smoothly. “But just now I must finish with Mrs. de Sille.”

“Yes, of course…” Her voice trailed off, and slowly Cheney turned to leave. She felt uncomfortable because she had the impression that he was still standing there, his eyes unblinking and honed in on her back, watching her walk away. It gave her an odd sensation, not exactly of fear or dread, but rather of extreme uneasiness. All of her conversations with Dr. Pettijohn were unsettling, and she wondered if he had this effect on other people, but then she told herself that it was probably just that
she
made
him
nervous. She had that effect on people she worked with sometimes because she was in such an unusual profession for a woman, and people were not accustomed to dealing with women in her position.

At least that was what she told herself.

She couldn't stop herself. She darted a quick look back as she turned up the hallway toward the administration offices.

He was still standing there, unmoving, watching her. When she turned, he smiled.

“If he isn't the most exasperating man I've ever—”

Cheney suddenly realized that she was talking to herself again and with an audible click snapped her jaws shut.
If I don't watch it, I'm going to be one of those scary old women shuffling around and muttering dark things under my breath…like poor crazed Lady Macbeth….”Wash your hands; put on your nightgown; look not so pale; I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave….”

“Stop,” Cheney said loudly. She looked up at the ceiling, gathered her skittering thoughts, opened the file drawer labeled Inventory, and began to methodically go through the files.

Also, Dr. Duvall, you seem to be extremely hostile toward Dr. Pettijohn, and he has done nothing at all to you,
whispered that still small voice that Cheney sometimes dreaded to hear. She sighed.
It's true. I know it. It's not his fault if I can't find a piece of paper
.

Cheney had done rounds of the women's ward and to her relief found that none of the women appeared to have symptoms of influenza. When she had visited Annabeth Forbes, she had suddenly wondered what facilities and supplies the hospital had for infants. Annabeth's baby wasn't due for two more months, and Cheney didn't expect that she was going to deliver prematurely, but the hospital did have a dispensary three days a week—Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from noon until six—and they were beginning to receive many women with children. The hospital was not fully organized and stocked yet, so Cheney was concerned that they may not have made any provisions at all for infant care.

She recalled that Victoria had told her that diagrams of all the storage spaces—the downstairs bulk storage and the storage closets on the main floor—were the only way to manage an inventory, and that Dr. Pettijohn had drawn detailed schematics.

She was still trying to decipher the filing system when Officer Goodin knocked on the open door of the administrative office. “Dr. Duvall? I beg your pardon for interrupting, but may I speak with you?”

“Of course, Officer Goodin, please come in,” she said, closing the drawer with relief. She disliked paperwork. “What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to let you know what I've found out about that poor young girl who was in that bad accident,” he said in his funereal manner.

“Please sit down,” Cheney said, waving him to one of the chairs in front of the desk. She sat down, and the gangly policeman perched on the edge of his chair with a small tablet on his knees.

“Her name was Jeannie Gold. At least that's the name she gave them at Beau Monde Gardens. She never mentioned any people, so I've no way of tracing family. She had a friend there, and this lady tells me that Mr. Melbourne was something of a regular…a regular—”

Cheney loved baiting Officer Goodin. He was so unworldly in a way, and it never seemed to sink in that though Cheney was a lady, in her profession she had seen, and heard, much more than most well-bred young women ever did in their entire lives. “Client? Customer?” she suggested, her eyes glinting.

His hound-dog eyes widened, and then he nodded jerkily. “Um—er—yes, something like that. Anyways, it seems he'd just bought this new phaeton and picked it up at Columbia Coaches on Columbia Street, and then he went on over to the Beau Monde to show it off to his—er—special friend, Miss Gold.”

Cheney nodded thoughtfully. “He took her for a ride, did he? And let her drive.”

“It appears so. But I was just wondering if you'd had a chance to examine her, Dr. Duvall. Just so's I can tidy up and close this incident.”

“Yes. The cause of death was a broken neck.”

He nodded and made some meticulous notes in his little notebook. Looking back up, he asked her intently, “In your opinion, Dr. Duvall, do I need to interrogate Mr. Melbourne? Do you think there is anything I should add to this accident report?”

“I don't think so,” Cheney answered thoughtfully. “Mr. Melbourne doesn't recall the accident. He doesn't even remember the girl.”

“That happens, I know.”

“The memory may come back to him. In any case, I'm so glad you told me that the girl was driving the rig. He's the type of man who would be extremely distressed if he thought that he had killed her. But now I'm certain that the accident must have been her fault. I could tell during Mr. Melbourne's surgery that he had not been drinking at all. I can smell liquor on a patient even if it's only a glass of wine or two. The girl smelled very strongly of cheap whiskey.”

“I thought so too,” Officer Goodin said. “But the accident scene was such a moil that I really didn't have a chance to investigate proper-like. I knew when I saw that Mr. Melbourne looking up at me with those scared eyes that I was going to have to telegraph for you, and I had to attend to that and still try to control the crowd until that young municipal copper showed up. And then, of course, I had to watch the poor girl.”

Mystified, Cheney asked, “Watch her? You mean she was still alive?”

“Oh no, Dr. Duvall, I could see her neck was snapped first thing,” Officer Goodin answered quietly. “The witnesses say that too, that she tumbled over and got caught in the spokes of the wheel. No, what I mean is that street was busy, and some of the harpies had already gathered. So I tried to keep an eye—”

“What's a harpy?” Cheney demanded.

Officer Goodin looked uncomfortable. “That's what we call the ones who rob the dead. You see, that girl had some beautiful hair, and by the time the dust settled, there were three of them there already haggling over her hair. They sell it, you know, to wigmakers.”

“No, I didn't know,” Cheney said quietly. She thought that perhaps she wasn't so worldly after all.

He dropped his eyes. “I didn't mean to upset you, Dr. Duvall. It's a hard thing, sometimes, for fine ladies to have to see the devil's old world and how ugly he makes it.”

“No, Officer Goodin, it's I who must apologize to you. I thought that my job was difficult, but I can see that you have heavy crosses to bear.” Cheney managed a small smile. “So many times when I see desperate people, they're scared enough to want to talk about Jesus. It's sad it takes that in so many cases, but it is true.”

He smiled his beatific smile again. “He doesn't mind, Dr. Duvall. He'll take us no matter how much we wish we had another way out.” He rose and tucked his notebook into a breast pocket. “I stopped by Roe's and I didn't see Eugènie, ma'am. Did you take a hackney in?”

“Yes, I did, and I'm so glad you reminded me. Where is the best place to find a cab after midnight?”

His craggy face drew into stern lines. “Oh, Dr. Duvall, you surely won't be out wandering these streets looking for a cab tonight, will you? No, no, no, ma'am, that won't do. Not in my ward. I'll stop by tonight at midnight and escort you over to Broadway to find you a cab. No, no, ma'am, it's no use trying to talk me out of it.”