The Gilded Hour (64 page)

“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.”

•   •   •

L
ATER
,
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?”

A
S
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?”

•   •   •

F
ATHER
M
C
K
INNAWAE
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.

The building was larger than the New Amsterdam, utilitarian in design and materials, and while Anna imagined that every bed was already filled, there was a deserted air about it. She wondered if most of the boys were
out on the streets selling papers and blacking shoes, or if they had someplace else to be.

Elise said very little. She walked with her chin to her chest and her arms folded against her abdomen.

“If he realizes that you were once a nun, it will be because of your posture and the way you stare at the ground,” Anna said. “Look at people directly when they talk to you. I know it’s not easy after so many years of hiding away, but it’s a crucial skill to learn.”

“I’ve been trying,” Elise said dryly. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

Anna felt a flush of embarrassment. “I apologize,” she said. “For patronizing you.”

Elise stopped, surprised. “You have nothing to apologize for. I owe you everything.”

“No, you don’t,” she said firmly. “I am simply lending a hand to a promising student. All the work is yours. And while I’m lecturing you on your habits, I should at least be doing as much for myself.”

One side of the wide mouth curled up in what Anna took for reluctant agreement.

“Let’s face down the lion together,” she said, and opened the door for Elise to pass through first.

•   •   •

“I
AM
D
R
. Anna Savard, and this is Nurse Elise Mercier. We have an appointment with Father McKinnawae.”

The young man who sat at the reception desk sorting through papers glanced up at them. Anna felt herself judged, but whatever conclusions were reached, he hid them away well.

“Father McKinnawae’s office is down the hall.” He spoke English with an accent that could have been German or Danish, a young man of maybe twenty years. Not a priest or a monk, by his clothes. He gestured with his head to point them in the right direction. “It’s clearly marked.”

Before they had turned away he spoke to Elise. “Do I recognize your face?”

“I don’t know,” Elise said. “Do you?”

“I’m good with faces.”

“But I’m not. I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”

But he continued to study her, his curiosity overriding common good manners.

He said, “I’m Elmo Tschirner. From Holland.”

A little color came into Elise’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize your face or your name.”

“Are you Irish? You have the coloring, that red hair.”

“I’m not,” Elise said. “Pardon me, we need to be going.”

“Was it something I said?” he called after them, and Anna saw a spark of surprise and pleasure in the younger woman’s face.

•   •   •

T
HE
HALLS
ECHOED
with the sounds of boys’ voices reciting lessons. Multiplication tables, primarily. From farther away there was the faint echo of hammers and saws. There was still the bite of fresh lumber in the air, and just below that, lye soap.

“It feels very familiar,” Elise said. “Like every other orphan asylum and mission I’ve seen. It’s good that they get lessons, don’t you think?”

Anna did agree. Homeless children needed food and shelter and someone who cared about their welfare and their futures. Father McKinnawae certainly took those needs to heart, and, she told herself, that was reason enough to respect the man, sight unseen. Even given Elise’s clear concerns.

The first door they came across had
Father John McKinnawae
stenciled in plain black on wood painted a dull green. It stood half open, but Anna knocked anyway, pushing the door open as she did.

The man standing at the window turned to them, iron-gray eyebrows jumping high on a shiny pink forehead. “Is it that time already?” He looked at a clock hanging over the door. “So it is. Come in. Come in. Did you find your way without difficulty?”

“Mr. Tschirner was helpful,” Anna said.

“Yes, a fine lad, excellent manners. I was lucky to find him. Now, which one of you is Dr. Savard?”

It took a moment for them to satisfy the need for polite introductions, and then Anna and Elise sat down across a desk as broad as a boat. It was covered with papers and binders and books, but everything seemed to be carefully ordered.

“Now, how can I help you?”

Anna took in a deep breath and told the story of the Russo children, starting with the church basement in Hoboken. She had decided to say nothing of Staten Island in the hope that he would volunteer the
information. As she talked she watched his face, broad and unremarkable and unreadable.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble for these children,” he said when she had finished.

“We’ve done what we can. We’d like to do more.”

“Why? Why these four children? Why not some other children?”

Anna hesitated. “I don’t have a good answer for that, except that Rosa made an impression on me.”

“You pitied her.”

Anna wondered if this was a provocation. “I felt compassion for all the children, but her situation I found particularly difficult. May I ask why this is relevant?”

He made a tent of his hands, the fingers touching his chin. “The children in my care are vulnerable.” His gaze pivoted to Elise.

“Miss Mercier,” he said. “What’s your interest in the fate of these children?”

At first Anna thought that Elise would simply not answer, but then she cleared her throat. “I was there when the two boys went missing. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

“You feel responsible?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Father McKinnawae,” Anna said. “We would like to talk to you about the youngest of the children, Vittorio Russo. We believe that he was taken to the Foundling on the twenty-sixth of March, and that you found him there and took him away with you the next day.”

He blinked at her with what she thought was meant to be seen as mild surprise. “Why ever would you think that?”

“We went to the Foundling and looked at the records. Sister Mary Irene remembered the boy because of his unusual coloring. She was very helpful.”

“More helpful than I can be. I’m afraid I have no information for you.” His expression was stony, even hostile.

“You may not remember that you answered a letter of mine some weeks ago and suggested I come see you at Mount Loretto on Staten Island. My husband and I did in fact go to Staten Island on the twenty-sixth of May, but you had been called away because of some emergency.”

He had a polite but empty way of looking at her, as if he were humoring her need to tell a story.

“Brother Jerome gave us a tour, and then we went for a walk on the beach. That’s when we happened to see Vittorio with his adoptive family. He was introduced as Timothy Mullen. We didn’t intrude or ask questions, but I am certain that the boy called Timothy is in fact Vittorio.”

The empty expression gave way to irritation. “Did this child you think is Vittorio Russo seem to be suffering in some way? Underfed? Abused? Uncared for?”

“No,” Anna said. “He looked very content, and he is clearly much loved. Did you place him with the family, Father McKinnawae?”

“I know nothing about a child called Vittorio Russo,” said the priest. “Let me clarify something for you, Dr. Savard. Adoptions are private and anonymous. They are not discussed. With anyone, for any reason. Once a child has been adopted into a family, there is no turning back. It would be terrible for the child and the adoptive parents both. I’m sure you would agree that a child in the situation you’ve described has been through enough, and shouldn’t be wretched from a stable and loving family.”

“So you are saying that Timothy Mullen is not in fact Vittorio Russo.”

A line appeared between his brows, as if she were a dull student giving him a headache. “As I have said, I cannot help you.”

“Let me understand,” Anna said. “If a child were separated from his parents in an emergency—a fire, for example—and they came to you in the hope you might know something of their missing son, a child you had taken in, you would lie to them.”

“That isn’t the situation at hand.”

“But if the child already has a family—”

“Does this boy you’re asking about have parents?”

Anna pulled up. “They are both deceased. But he does have sisters, who love him and miss him.”

“Dr. Savard,” the priest said with great solemnity. “I will try again to make you understand. Where we can, we find good, stable Catholic families to adopt orphaned children, and then we step back and allow those families their privacy. I can’t talk to you about any case, even in hypothetical terms. Do we understand each other now?”

“I understand that I have to tell two little girls who have lost everything that their brother is lost to them too, because the Church won’t allow them to be reunited.”

The smooth pink mouth puckered. “You are used to getting your way, Dr. Savard. But this time you will not.”

“The girls are Catholic,” Anna said. “As a priest, would you care to explain your position to them?”

He smiled at her. “Certainly. You may bring them to see me anytime. Now tell me, who has legal custody of these two Catholic children? Are they being raised in the Church?”

Anna gave him the same insincere smile as she got to her feet. “That is not a topic open to discussion. With anyone, for any reason. I want you to know that I may decide to talk to the Mullen family without your permission.”

There had been some condescension in his manner, and now that disappeared entirely.

“Do not test me, Dr. Savard.”

“But you are having such a grand time testing me, Father McKinnawae. And turnabout is fair play, even for Catholics.”

•   •   •

E
LISE
SAID
, “I feared as much. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

They turned from Great Jones Street onto Fourth Avenue, walking briskly. Elise wondered if it would be best to leave the subject until Dr. Savard had time to gather her thoughts, but then decided it was best not to hesitate.

“He will do what he can to stop you,” she said.

“And what would that be? Will he try to have me arrested, do you think?” She produced a sour smile.

“Would you really approach the family?”

Dr. Savard stopped and looked at her. “I might. Do you have objections?”

“Concerns.” Elise didn’t look away.

“Yes, there is no shortage of concerns.” Her posture relaxed, quite suddenly. “Don’t worry that I’m going to go marching off to Staten Island to
confront the Mullen family. I have no interest in hurting them. We’ll talk about it at home, when the girls are asleep, and decide how to proceed. Does that put your worries to rest?”

Elise said, “I don’t know.”

“Fair enough,” said Dr. Savard. “Neither do I.”

They walked back to the New Amsterdam in silence.

•   •   •

D
ETECTIVES
LIKED
TO
think of themselves as foolproof, able to tell an honest man from one who played at being honest. In Jack’s view of things this was true much of the time, but only because the first lesson learned on the job was not to trust anybody about anything. Something like Anna’s work, where she had to assume that all patients lied, whether they meant to or not.

Harry Liljeström wasn’t lying about anything. His wife’s death had torn him in two; at the morgue he stood looking at her remains with tears streaming down his face. Jack stood back to leave the man his privacy, then took him to the Gilsey House, where he had arrangements to make and a bill to settle.

“I have questions,” Jack said. “But if you’d like to wait until tomorrow—”

Liljeström was ashen, almost as if he were about to faint. “I have to get back home. Ask your questions now.”