The Gilded Hour

  “All right, Elise,” Jack said suddenly. He had been studying her too, it seemed. “What’s wrong?”

  “I am perfectly well.” She produced a stiff smile.

  “She’s not,” Lia said. “She’s not well, but she wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Folks have a right to their privacy,” Aunt Quinlan said. “And we don’t plague people we like and care about at the dinner table.”

  “I’m not placking her,” Lia said, sniffing. “I’m worried.”

  Elise closed her eyes briefly and then, opening them, looked at Anna directly. She said, “I spoke to Dr. Montgomery at Woman’s Medical School today.”

  Anna drew in a deep breath. “Well, that explains a lot. She told you that you’d never make a doctor and to put away foolish dreams.”

  Elise’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”

  “Because,” Aunt Quinlan answered for Anna. “Dr. Montgomery says the same thing to every young woman who comes asking about enrolling.”

  “She told me I was far too enamored of what little intellect I had.” Anna could smile at the memory, these many years later. “And she was just getting started.”

  Elise looked both affronted and relieved. “But why would she say something like that to you?”

  “Because I was too enamored of my intelligence,” Anna said. “Small or large.”

  Jack said, “Surely not.”

  She elbowed him, and the girls giggled.

  “If it’s any comfort to you, Elise, the more insulting she is, the more she hopes you’ll succeed and do well. But she’s superstitious.”

  Chiara made very large eyes. In a whisper she said, “Maloch, Zio Jack.”

  “We don’t allow the evil eye at this dinner table,” Aunt Quinlan said to her. “But if it makes you feel better”—and she tossed a bit of salt over her shoulder—“Dr. Montgomery is protective,” she went on, speaking to Elise. “If she can scare you away, she thinks you didn’t belong in the first place.”

  “Oh,” said Rosa. “Like Billy Goat Gruff.”

  “Just like that,” said Aunt Quinlan. “She’s daring you to cross the bridge, Elise. Are you going to back away?”

  Some color came back into her cheeks. “No,” she said. “Not when I’ve come this far.”

  • • •

  OSCAR MARONEY SHOWED up just as the girls were clearing the last of the dessert dishes and was more than happy to be talked into a serving of pie. For some reason Jack was always surprised at how easily Oscar won over women of all ages. Every face around the table lit up at the sight of him.

  His partner understood women; he knew when to tease and when to pay a compliment and when neither would be a good idea, and then he listened, and focused all his attention. Jack watched him weave his usual magic, wondering in another part of his mind what trouble had brought him to their door. Because it was Oscar’s habit to spend Monday nights playing cards, and only something very important would make him miss his chance to fleece his brothers-in-law.

  Jack waited until he had finished pie and coffee, and suggested that if he wanted a cigar, they should step out into the garden.

  “Why don’t you show me this wonder of a house you bought for your new bride,” Oscar countered. “Let’s bring her along too. I’d like to get her opinion on something.”

  So whatever had brought Oscar to the door was something that couldn’t be discussed in front of women and children. He wondered if Anna understood she had been paid a compliment when Oscar excluded her from that group.

  • • •

  AS FAR AS Anna was concerned, the furniture Jack’s parents had sent from Greenwood rendered the house habitable, and she would have moved in immediately if the idea hadn’t scandalized every other female within ten miles.

  “Not until there are curtains on the windows,” Mrs. Lee said, Bambina and Celestina nodding in agreement behind her.

  “There are curtains in the bedroom,” Anna said. “It’s not like I’m planning on romping through the rest of the house in a state of undress.”

  Bambina’s mouth quirked. “Maybe you aren’t.”

  That made Anna draw up in surprise and then retreat until she could ask Jack some pointed questions.

  Now she sat at the kitchen table with Jack and Oscar and tried not to fidget. To her own surprise it was difficult not to get up and start sorting through boxes of dishes that had yet to be unpacked. She would have to write to Sophie about the unanticipated streak of domesticity she had uncovered in herself. Cap would weep with laughter at the idea of Anna Savard’s sudden urge to explore the complexities of bed linens and tea services.

  Jack was saying, “Anna, Oscar is asking a question.”

  “Sorry.” She made more of an effort to focus on Oscar, who had unfolded a piece of paper and smoothed it out on the table. “What’s that?”

  “You remember the unidentified woman from late last week,” Jack said. “It turns out she’s from Buffalo and was just in town for a few days.”

  Looking across the table, Anna realized she was familiar with the kind of document Oscar had brought.

  “Is that the postmortem?”

  Oscar slid it across the table toward her. “If you wouldn’t mind having a look, your thoughts on it would be much appreciated.”

  “What happened?” Anna asked.

  “Read it first,” Jack said. “Then you tell us.”

  • • •

  JACK WATCHED HER eyes moving back and forth, her expression calm, her hands spread flat on the table to either side of the report.

  She looked up. “What is it you want to know?”

  “Whatever strikes you as important.”

  She didn’t like vague requests, but he saw she was trying. With a shift of the shoulders she turned her attention back to the report and scanned it again. “The postmortem was done by Nicholas Lambert. He was on the Campbell jury, did you realize? High coloring, dark hair and beard? He’s a forensics specialist, and very good at what he does. This report is far better than the one written for Janine Campbell.”

  Her gaze shifted from Jack to Oscar and back again. “Is there some connection between the two women?”

  “That’s what we are wondering about,” Oscar said. “Could you go through the report with us, and start from the beginning?”

  “It’s very straightforward,” Anna said. “Healthy woman of about twenty-five, no external signs of violence. Evidence of at least one and probably more than one birth.”

  “Where does it say that?” Jack leaned toward her and she pointed to the relevant bit of writing.

  “‘Striae gravidarum’ is Latin for stretch marks.”

  Oscar’s expression made it clear he wasn’t familiar with the phrase, and Jack assumed that his own face did the same.

  “In pregnancy the skin of the abdomen is stretched beyond the point of normal elasticity,” she offered. “So there are stress lines that appear purple at first, and eventually fade to white. This lady’s abdomen showed stretch marks of two distinct shades, some almost white, others still pink.” She waited, and got nods from both of them before she went on.

  “In addition to stretch marks, there is scarring to the perineum. Wait,” she said, in response to Jack’s raised brow. “I’ll explain. If the birth is difficult—say, the child is large and the mother is weak after a long labor—an attending doctor will often make an incision from the vagina toward the anus to increase the circumference of the birth canal. The idea is to avoid tearing, which can be difficult to stitch. Closing an incision is easier than stitching a tear; at least that’s how the reasoning goes.”

  Anna could almost hear Oscar blushing, and Jack, she thought, wasn’t much better, despite the frank discussions they had been having recently. She studied the report for a long minute. When she thought they had had enough time to compose themsel
ves, she went on.

  “The surgical procedure is called an episiotomy. It’s done too often, in my opinion, usually by doctors who are in a hurry. In Mrs. Liljeström’s case the person who delivered her made an unusually large incision that didn’t heal well. She had granulomas along the suture line, nodules of scar tissue that indicate that her sutures weren’t removed very carefully. Even tiny bits of suture can cause irritation and infection, and the body reacts by isolating the fragment and walling it off, so to speak.”

  Oscar cleared his throat. “That’s in the past, though.”

  “Yes,” Anna said. “But a thorough autopsy doesn’t leave anything out.”

  Jack said, “The granulomas aren’t relevant to the cause of death?”

  Anna considered for a moment. “That would be conjecture on my part.”

  “Go on and conject,” said Oscar. “We won’t tattle on you.”

  She gave him a half smile. “The scarring indicates that she had at least one very difficult birth. Some women have such bad experiences that they simply can’t face the prospect again. This woman had an abortion, that’s undeniable, but there’s no way to know if she was driven by fear of childbirth. But she had a hard time of it, that’s a certainty.”

  “The operation itself,” Oscar said. “Anything you find unusual?”

  “It does happen sometimes, especially with less experienced practitioners. Too much pressure with the instrument in exactly the wrong spot, and it sliced through the wall of the uterus and severed the uterine artery. The blood loss would be catastrophic, and very fast.”

  “Like cutting a throat?” Jack asked.

  “Something like that,” Anna said.

  Oscar said, “So no similarities to Janine Campbell’s case.”

  “The outcome was the same, of course. But in Mrs. Campbell’s case no major blood vessels were damaged, which is why she had such a long and painful death. She bled, yes, but it was the infection that killed her. This second case is different. Mrs. Liljeström suffered very little beyond the initial pain of dilating the cervix to introduce the instrument. It was, relatively speaking, a merciful death. Or at least, fairly quick.”

  “She arrived at Bellevue in a cab,” Oscar reminded her. “Still alive, but just barely.”

  “That is odd. And another thing—” She paused, and forged ahead. “Dr. Lambert notes that she was fully clothed when she died, and she was very tightly laced.”

  “You’re wondering why she wasn’t undressed for the operation,” Jack said. “And if she did undress, who got her dressed afterward and tightened her stays.”

  “Yes,” Anna said. “She couldn’t have done that on her own. I’m not sure how any of this could have happened.”

  “That’s our job,” said Oscar. “Figuring out the how and why of it.”

  • • •

  LATER, ALONE IN their room, Anna was thoughtful. She said, “The most unusual thing about Mrs. Liljeström is her wealth. Women with money can get excellent care when they want an abortion without looking very far at all. But whoever she went to had very poor skills.”

  Jack thought, Or very good ones. He said, “There are odder deaths every day in this city, and a good number of them go unsolved.”

  She raised a brow, wanting the story but not sure if she could ask for it.

  “A few years ago on a January morning we found a man of about seventy dressed in the uniform of a Confederate officer sitting upright on a bench in Union Square Park.”

  He could see her trying to imagine it. “Did he freeze to death?”

  Jack shook his head. “Strangled. We never did identify him, though notices were put in papers all over the south. Never had a single viable suspect.”

  “But this shouldn’t be one of those cases. When rich women like Mrs. Liljeström need this particular kind of help, they talk to other women like themselves. I imagine she didn’t want to take the chance of being recognized in Buffalo, and so she came here prepared to pay for anonymity and excellent care. Mrs. Campbell didn’t have the same kind of resources.”

  “You don’t know what kind of resources she had,” Jack pointed out.

  Anna said, “Campbell didn’t mention money at all, in his testimony.”

  “Do you think he would have admitted it, if she emptied out their savings?”

  “Women generally can’t just go to a bank and withdraw funds that are there in a husband’s name,” Anna said.

  He shrugged, as if he didn’t care to pursue the point.

  Anna paused in her slow march back and forth across the room. Then she came to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re still thinking that there’s a connection between the two cases,” she said. “But I don’t see it. Hundreds of women die from complications of a badly done abortion every year.”

  “Poor women,” Jack said. “Or very young. Have you ever read a newspaper article about a married woman with money who died as the result of an illegal operation?”

  “You’re saying that these two cases have something in common that distinguishes them from other failed abortions.” That suggestion seemed to intrigue her. “I don’t discredit it out of hand,” she said. “Can you explain what it is you’re seeing that I don’t?”

  Jack thought for a while. “Not clearly.”

  She said, “Is your hypothesis that the same person operated on both women?”

  “I think it’s possible. They look a lot alike, the two women. Janine Campbell and Abigail Liljeström were both in their midtwenties, slender, with a great deal of dark hair and brown eyes. About the same height. I know that there are hundreds of women in the city who fit that description, but think for a moment about this. Both of them already had children and homes. They both had husbands with very good jobs, and access to money. They both had reason to fear childbirth. They were both desperate.”

  Anna drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “You are making a large logical leap about Mrs. Liljeström.”

  “It’s a working hypothesis,” Jack said. “Tomorrow I’m going to talk to her husband—he’s coming in from Buffalo. She had a sister I want to talk to as well.”

  “I wonder why her sister didn’t come with her to the appointment in the first place,” Anna said.

  “Because the sister lives here already,” Jack said. “And that’s another question not answered. Why did she come to New York and stay in a hotel when she could have stayed with her sister?”

  “Because she didn’t want her sister to know,” Anna said. “Do you really think the sister will be willing to talk to you about this?”

  Jack shrugged a shoulder. “I’ll do my best to convince her. Unless you’d like to come along?”

  At that she laughed, clearly pleased and embarrassed both. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “I think you would.”

  “Yes, well,” she said. “Tomorrow I have surgery in the morning and at midday I have an appointment with Father McKinnawae on Lafayette Place, at his mission. Now I’ve surprised you.”

  “Maybe I was just hoping you’d let it go.”

  She pulled back to examine his expression. “Really? You really think we should just let Vittorio Russo go?”

  He flopped back to lie on the bed, his feet still on the floor. “I guess I don’t want to see you drawn into the situation. It won’t be pleasant.”

  “I’m already drawn in. And if I only did pleasant things—”

  “You wouldn’t be you. So when did you make the appointment?”

  “I sent a request in the morning mail and got a reply in the afternoon. I did plan to tell you about it, but then Oscar came and it slipped my mind.”

  Jack said, “I’d go with you if I could.”

  “I’m not going alone,” Anna said. “I’m taking Elise with me. She might not be a nun anymore, but she still knows
how to talk to priests, I should hope.”

  He made a sound in his throat he hoped she would take as mild disagreement.

  She yawned and reclined against him, her head burrowing into the plane of his shoulder. Then she said, “If you think of the two dead women as the product of one diseased mind, how do you account for the difference in the way they were treated? Mrs. Campbell’s death was very hard, and Mrs. Liljeström’s was quick and relatively painless.”

  A hundred answers went through Jack’s mind in a rush, but they all came down to the same thing. “The question is, was he more satisfied with his first attempt, or his second?”

  Anna jerked in surprise, and for a long time Jack rubbed her back until he felt her give up the images he had put in her mind. He thought she was falling asleep and was thinking about how to rouse her to get under the covers when she spoke again.

  “Why do you assume it was a man?”

  33

  AS IT TURNED out, Elise liked the idea of going to see Father McKinnawae even less than Jack did. When Anna asked her to join her for the interview, color rose in her cheeks, almost as if she had been slapped.

  “You have no reason to tell him your own history, you realize. We’re going there to ask about Vittorio Russo.”

  Elise looked doubtful. “But he’s a priest,” she said. “He’ll know.”

  “Why would he? Do they send out a notice to all priests in the city when someone leaves a convent?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then what are you afraid of? That he’ll read your mind?”

  “Priests have been known to do just that.”

  “Nonsense,” Anna said. “You ascribe far too much power to the man.”

  “Or maybe you ascribe too little.”

  That made Anna smile. “He can’t drag you back to the convent by the hair.”

  Elise shook her head. “He has a reputation,” she said finally. “For speaking his mind.”

  “And so do I,” Anna said. “Now, shall we go?”

  • • •

  FATHER MCKINNAWAE HAD raised funds to build the asylum for homeless boys that spanned a full block on Lafayette. It spoke to his determination and drive, things that Anna did not underestimate. He was a man who cared about the fate of the children he took in, and on that basis she hoped he would be willing to discuss the Russo case.