The Moon by Night (40 page)

“He just finished seeing to the gents,” Carlie answered as he fed the stove a couple of logs, then stoked it until the fire roared like a hungry animal. “He was going to the doctors' room to drink some tea. I made tea, Dr. Pettijohn. You want some? I make good tea, Dr. Duvall says.”

“Does she? I think I will have a cup before I go. Anyway, Carlie, I've let the three people who came in after it started sleeting stay in the clinic for the night. Mr. Withers is in six, and Mr. and Mrs. Bloom are in four and five. Go get them some extra blankets. And we're running short of laudanum. Restock both of the supply carts.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pettijohn went up the hall, rubbing the back of his neck, thinking that a hot cup of tea before going to bed would be just the thing. Dr. Varick and Dr. Gilder could surely handle the rest of the night, and Dr. White, as useless as she was, could at least look as if she were monitoring patients.

The emergency doors banged open, blown back by a howling wind that shot ice into the hallway so hard it felt like gravel on Marcus's face. Cursing, he scurried to slam the doors shut behind the three huddled figures coming in.

“Who—” He rounded on them and saw that it was Officer Goodin, so he swallowed his anger. “Oh, hello, Officer Goodin,” he said, still with a touch of impatience. “I didn't think anyone would be out in this tempest tonight.”

“I've got to be out in it, like it or no.”

Officer Goodin addressed him in a tone that Marcus thought was patronizing and insulting. The policeman made him uncomfortable, and Marcus was convinced that it was because he was a religious fanatic and full of self-righteousness.

“But these two, now, don't have to be out there. I was going to just take them home, but it looks to me like Miss Wilhelmina here needs some medical attention. And I didn't hardly like to leave Miss Geraldine alone.” Two women were huddled close to the tall policeman, shivering, their heads down with scarves pulled close over their faces.

“All right, come along then,” Marcus muttered. He turned and went back down the hall, meeting Carlie. “I've got two more, Carlie, so hurry up with the laudanum.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and started limping along as fast as he could.

Officer Goodin was holding one woman's arm. She leaned on him, swaying, barely able to walk.

“Put her in here,” Marcus ordered. “And the other one? She's sick?” The woman was just a figure in a man's gray wool overcoat that was much too big for her. The sleeves came down far over her hands, and the hem dragged at least four inches on the floor.

“She's in the family way,” Officer Goodin said. “Any minute now, it looks to me. But it's kind of hard to tell because she's such a little mite. Geraldine? C'mon, girl, just get yourself up on that bed while I get Wilhelmina situated. Don't worry. The doctor will see to the both of you.”

Marcus helped her get seated on the bed, and finally she looked up at him. She looked vaguely familiar—she had a heart-shaped face, rather prominent front teeth that hadn't yet rotted out and big dark smudges of eyes—but Marcus couldn't remember the circumstances.

Officer Goodin, meanwhile, was saying in a gentle murmur, “Now, Wilhelmina, I know you're hurting, but you need to let the doctor see this arm. You drinking that rotgut gin isn't going to heal this up. Here, I'll help you.”

The woman was crying, a slow steady monotone of moans punctuated by snorts and sniffles. The policeman helped her take off her coat, but when he peeled one of the sleeves off, she yelped sharply. “Oh, that burns like fire. It hurts worsen than when I done it, Policeman Preach!”

“I know, I know, Wil, but Dr. Pettijohn will help you,” he said kindly. “Here, now you just sit down and let him see this arm.”

Now that her heavy outer coat was off, Marcus could see that she was a short, squat woman with oddly colored brown hair shot with bright red streaks, a half-hearted henna treatment. A stench rose from her that made Marcus's stomach heave. She held up her right arm and squinted up at him. “I 'member you. You're the doc that bandaged this arm up the night I got set afire like, by Ruthie and Walt. Well, I'd say your doctorin' didn't help me much, now did it, my fine pretty boy?”

Marcus frowned and made himself look at her arm, though he couldn't begin to make himself touch it. Obviously she had been burned, and gangrene had set in. Her entire forearm was swollen, the skin around the raw burnt places turning black.

Officer Goodin asked heavily, “You attended her when she got burnt, did you, Dr. Pettijohn?”

“I have no idea,” he answered, turning up the gas lamp over the bed and gingerly taking Wilhelmina's finger and pulling it so she lifted her arm up closer to the light. “But I can see that this happened some time ago, and if I did attend you, I'm sure I told you to come back in to change the dressing.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Me and Geraldine was pretty tipsy-topsy that night. I barely 'member it. Do you 'member it, Gerry?”

“All I 'member,” the little girl—for Geraldine was only eighteen—said, “was that nice tall handsome man. He picked me up and set me on the bed 'cause I couldn't hardly climb up by myself.” She was so small that her feet didn't touch the floor as she sat on the edge of the bed. She swung them back and forth like a child.

Marcus, his girlish features twisted with barely concealed disgust, turned Wilhelmina's arm this way and that. It was with a supreme effort he could even stay in the room, the sour smell of infection was so strong. Now he could see that the woman was burning with fever, and she was only barely conscious. Her eyes were heavy lidded, and her voice was slurred.

“All right. Lie down, please,” he directed. “And Miss—what did you say your name was?”

“That's Miss Geraldine,” Officer Goodin said pointedly. “And this is Miss Wilhelmina.”

Marcus shrugged. “Geraldine, you lie down too. I doubt you'll be going anywhere tonight.” He looked up at the policeman. “You aren't staying here, are you, Officer Goodin? I mean, I assume you have other responsibilities besides babying streetwalkers.”

“So I do,” he answered evenly. “But I'd like to ask you a question or two before I leave, Dr. Pettijohn.”

“Surely.” He led the policeman out and down the hall, out of earshot of the occupied cubicles.

“What about her arm?” Officer Goodin asked, frowning. “It looks real bad to me.”

“It is. It's gangrenous,” Marcus said shortly.

The policeman sighed. “I thought so. I've smelled that before. It's hard to mistake and hard to forget. Will she lose it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to do it tonight?”

“No. I'm going to let Dr. Buchanan do it. He's our chief of surgery. Besides, I don't have the necessary staff to do it tonight,” he added with some inspiration. Marcus didn't want to do the amputation. He was no barber-surgeon. He was a physician, trained in Paris at L'Hôpital de la Charité, and he was not about to chop off some sniveling whore's rotting arm.

Officer Goodin was looking down at him with a carefully guarded expression, but Marcus thought uncomfortably that the man must know something of his thoughts and was staring at him with disdain. “Will there be anything else?” Marcus demanded impatiently.

“Yes, sir. I would like to ask if you're going to let them stay the night,” he said politely. “They were out shiverin' on a street corner, and not a soul out tonight anyways, including hackney cabs nor hansoms either. I had to walk them here, but I don't think they'd make it trying to walk back. They've got a room at Miss Fancy's boardinghouse, but that's eight blocks over.”

Marcus shrugged carelessly. “Dr. Buchanan won't be in until tomorrow. I suppose the other one can stay too.”

“Her name's Geraldine, Dr. Pettijohn,” Officer Goodin said with emphasis. “And Wilhelmina's got the hurt arm.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“No, sir, not for now.” Officer Goodin put his flat cap back on securely, then wound a woolen scarf over it and around his neck. “I'll be back, though, to check on the two of them tomorrow.”

“I will see to them, Officer Goodin,” Marcus said frigidly. “Good night.” Having lost all patience with the policeman, who talked and moved as slowly as Carlie, he finally just walked away from him, marching up the hallway and around the corner.

Officer Goodin followed, pulling on his gloves and steeling himself to face the maelstrom outside. He opened the emergency room doors, took a deep breath, put his head down, and disappeared into the night.

****

Marcus Pettijohn's eyes popped open, and he jerked upright, looking around in alarm. He had forgotten where he was, and the sight of the unfamiliar room had frightened him for a moment. Then he recalled that he was upstairs in the comfortable flat above the partnership's offices. With a sigh of relief he rubbed his face, then stood and stretched. The fire in the bedroom was dying down, and he stared at it for a moment, considering.

All right, I've got to get this straight and get it right. Victoria may be sophisticated, but she is definitely a bleeding heart. The policeman is good friends with Dr. Duvall, and Victoria certainly respects Dr. Duvall. One day she'll respect me, she'll look up to me, she'll lean on me….

His thoughts angled off into a fuzzy but triumphant dream until, with an effort, he brought them back to the subject at hand. Still staring at the fire with a blankness that might have been chilling to an observer, he murmured, “The whores…they are just the kind of hopeless charity case that Dr. Duvall loves to fuss over…and Victoria would so admire her for her noble dedication. And like a fool, I gave them to Varick!”

He began to get dressed.

It had been almost twelve-thirty by the time he had escaped to the office—soon his new flat, he hoped. He had been so excited to see it. It was more elegantly furnished than any place he had ever even hoped to have. Once he studied the fine overstuffed velvet sofas and settees, the masculine leather armchairs, the mahogany and walnut tables, the fine china in the kitchen, he realized that Victoria must have furnished the place after Cleve Batson had moved out. The thought so excited him that he could hardly settle down to sleep. He had walked around and around the four rooms, handling everything, sitting on each piece of furniture, searching through the secretary in the parlor to see if there were any personal notes or letters, checking every cabinet and shelf and cupboard in the kitchen and bath to see if there was anything at all of a personal nature. There was not. Even the soap and towels and toiletries in the bath were untouched. Marcus knew that Cheney and Shiloh had stayed the weekend, but Mrs. Underwood, who cleaned the hospital and was the laundress, must have cleaned the flat that day. Still, the place did have a certain aura of elegance and cool comfort that Marcus connected with Victoria Buchanan.

Consequently, when he finally did lie down, he didn't go into a deep sleep. His mind was wandering, dipping in and out of sleep as one dips below the surface of a still pond when swimming and then glides back up to sunlight and air. The realization that the two women, Wilhelmina and Geraldine, might give him an opportunity to make yet another connection to Victoria had just drifted into his stream of consciousness. As soon as he had crystallized the thought, he bolted upright. Now, as he hurriedly buttoned up his coverall, he thought,
I can keep them in the clinic tonight, but tomorrow morning I can send a message to Victoria that I have two charity patients I'd like to admit, and I'd like to consult with her about the finances. Yes, that will work!

Exultantly he hurried back to the hospital. It was only three-thirty in the morning. There was actually nothing much to be done with the women tonight, but he did have to make some excuse to take them on as his patients.

The sleet had stopped, but the wind still blew, hard and icy, tearing at him, snatching his breath from his nostrils and icily burning his throat as he struggled to breathe the arctic air. By the time he reached the hospital, his eyes were streaming and the tips of his fingers already felt numb. He yanked open the heavy double doors of the emergency entrance, gratefully feeling the moist warm air envelop him.

Then he coughed, even gagged, a little. He could smell that awful woman's arm, even all the way up the hall. And she was crying in that tiresome monotonous snort and sob that made Marcus want to shake her. Still, he set his shoulders and swallowed down his disgust, for now he knew his course of action. His plan was made.

Carlie was coming out of Wilhelmina's cubicle, holding a basin, with soiled linens over his arm. “They washed up, Miss Wilhelmina and Miss Geraldine did,” he said in his plodding way. “Do I give them gowns, Dr. Pettijohn? Dr. Varick said not, but their dresses are pretty dirty.”

“Yes, go get them gowns, Carlie,” he said, yanking open the curtains. Dr. Varick was unwinding a long linen bandage that was looped lightly over Wilhelmina's infected arm. Her face and hand did look clean, but she was still wearing the same purple dress—now Marcus remembered it, for it still had charred marks on the right side of it—and clutched a filthy shawl about her shoulders. Dr. Varick said, “Oh, hello, Dr. Pettijohn. Couldn't you sleep? I was just checking this dressing.”

“I'll do it,” he said brusquely. “Ma'am, please stop crying. You're disturbing the other patients.”

“I can't help it,” she said, sniffing. “I'm telling you, Doctor, this arm hurts something fierce. It feels like it's on fire, all the way up to my shoulder. I hurt and ache all over, something awful. And can't keep down a thing, not a blessed thing.”

Marcus made himself sound polite. “I know, Wilhelmina. You have a bad infection, and that is going to make you feel very ill. I was just thinking about it, and I believe I need to admit you. And you too, Geraldine. I'm going to examine you, but I think you probably have influenza. You sound hoarse and congested.”