The Women of Eden (45 page)

"Mary?" Elizabeth called softly, hoping to revive her, praying that she would remember enough, though not too much, the faces, a name, though not sensations.

Appalled at the incoherency of her thoughts, Elizabeth gathered her in her arms and held her close, as though to cancel everything that had happened.

But sense and logic intervened and informed her that she could cancel nothing, that Mary must bear her own weight of memory, as Elizabeth had, and that if there was a God in heaven, there also was a demon in hell, standing watch over one particularly fiery furnace that was held in reserve for beasts who walked about disguised as men.

Slowly Elizabeth lowered her back to the pillow, thinking that she had heard voices in the entrance hall downstairs. She hurried to the door and looked down to see the police inspector still questioning Jason, poor Jason, who had had the misfortune to find her, in a small dirt clearing beyond the sunken garden.

From Elizabeth's position at the top of the stairs, she could only see their boots, one seated, the other hovering close. It had been Doris' testimony that the West Indian driver had been with her, Doris, all evening that had prevented the pohce inspector from accusing him.

Over the monotone of the police inspector's voice, she heard the door open, people coming and going willy-nilly in Doris' absence. Trying by a sheer act of discipline to rise above the chaos, she peered dovmward and saw a strange set of highly polished black boots.

"Who is it, please?" she called down, her voice sounding repellent, like a curious old woman.

The ruddy face of the police inspector came into view. "It's the doctor, madam," the inspector called up. "Shall I—"

"Yes, right away, please," Elizabeth interrupted, still puzzled by the boots. She'd been expecting her customary physician, a kindly

Father Christmas gentleman named Tidwell, who'd looked after her household for over a decade, a lovable old-fashioned man who on numerous occasions had sat socially at her table.

But those boots did not belong to Georgie Tidwell, nor did the hem of that dark velvet cloak, nor those slender pegtop trousers, nor—

He was at midstep, and Elizabeth found herself looking down into the face of a man she'd never seen before, a new doctor's valise of leather in one gloved hand, a shiny top hat in the other, a look of imposition on his lean features and an unwillingness even to glance in her direction.

As he approached the top of the stairs, and as still there had been no formal introduction, Elizabeth stepped forward.

"Sir," she called out.

"Madam," he responded, looking haughtily up.

"You are-"

"The physician, madam," he replied, halting one step short of the landing. "I assume that it was you who summoned me away from a most enjoyable dinner party."

"I'm-sorry-"

"And I as well." He took advantage of Elizabeth's retreat to gain the top of the landing, where he stood before her. Impatiently he announced, "My name is Dr. Arthur Canning."

"Where's Georgie?"

"Dr. Tidwell," he pronounced, "is far too old to go traipsing about in the dead of night. I have recently joined his staff for the purpose of assisting him."

"Of course," Elizabeth murmured, struggling to deal with the man's arrogance. Somehow he was making her feel unworthy, female. Attempting to regain the upper hand in her own house, she said, "This way," starting toward Mary's closed door, dreading the thought of this cold man examining Mary.

Inside the room she glanced at the bed, hoping that Mary had revived. But she had not and, as the doctor pushed past her, she murmured, "She has not stirred since—"

Unable to say the word, he said it for her. "The rape, madam. These things must be faced. The police inspector has informed me of all that I need to know."

Standing at the foot of the bed, Elizabeth watched as he shrugged off his cloak, then stripped off his gloves, pushed back the sleeves of

his dinner jacket, hovered over Mary, lifting one eyelid, recording her pulse and stopping for a brief inspection of the rope bums about her wrists. He retrieved a small vial from his vaHse, uncorked it and thrust it under Mary's nose.

At first there was no response. He inserted the end of the vial directly into her nostril and clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing her to breathe deeply of the acrid odor which was beginning to penetrate as far as the end of the bed.

On the verge of objecting, Elizabeth started around the opposite side of the bed, then held her position, seeing faint movement, Mary's head beginning to push back against the pillow in a gentle thrashing movement, one hand lifting toward the obnoxious smell.

The minor struggle persisted for several seconds and, though clearly she was conscious, still the doctor held her head fast, his hand clamped over her mouth, forcing her to breathe again and again.

"Doctor, please," Elizabeth commanded. "She's quite—"

"Be still or leave, madam!" he snapped.

Unable to watch, Elizabeth turned away, trying her best to control her anger. How did this restraint vary from the ordeal which had plunged her so deeply into unconsciousness?

"There," she heard the doctor pronounce with a self-satisfied tone, and she looked back to see Mary's eyes open, wide and darting, her hands grasping the coverlet.

Reflexively, Elizabeth pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. There was not one aspect of the pitiful creature on the bed that resembled Mary Eden. From the butchered hair to the expression of terror in her eyes, it could have been a complete stranger lying there.

Speak to her, Elizabeth thought in a wave of grief. Someone must speak to her—inform her that she is safe and among those who love her.

But as she started toward the bed, the doctor stopped her with a dismissal. "Leave us, madam, please—"

"But she is my charge," Elizabeth protested, anger rising. **Go ahead and conduct your examination. I'm not a modest—"

"It's not your modesty I was thinking of," the doctor said, "but rather that of my patient."

Defeated by consideration from such an unexpected source, Elizabeth retreated. Though every instinct within her said "Stay," there was nothing she could do to combat the aura of professionalism be-

side the bed. She closed the door behind her and stood close, listening, but she heard nothing. The worst sensation was her own sense of helplessness. There was nothing she could do—about anything.

She walked slowly toward the straight-backed chair on the opposite wall and sat erect, her hands clasped in her lap. The voices in the entrance hall below seemed to have diminished. And there was no sound at all coming from behind the door opposite her.

Then, it was over, or just beginning, and how much responsibility for this tragic night rested directly on her shoulders? And how much more would John try to place there?

"Oh, dear God," she groaned. She bent over and covered her face in her hands and, in spite of the darkness, saw one crystal-clear image of Mary's face as it had been, as it was now.

A short time later she heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see the police inspector approaching, his eyes slanted into circumflex angles of pity, in spite of his professional objectivity.

"Madam," he called out, "a word, if I may."

"Of course. Vm sorry. I'm just waiting for the doctor to—"

"He's still with the young lady?"

*"i^es."

There was an awkward pause, the inspector standing stiffly at the top of the landing. "Madam," he commenced considerately, "is there no one I can summon to be with you? Sometimes just a friend-"

"No," she said.

"I'm afraid I must inform you that my man has just come back from the Belgrave Square address—"

"John?"

"According to the staff, Mr. Eden is dining out this evening, a business conference of some sort. We left word that he was to come here immediately upon his return, though no one could say when that would be."

"Thank you, inspector," she murmured. 'TouVe been most kind."

"Kind perhaps, madam, though I'm afraid not too efEcient. I feel I must warn you in advance that investigations of this nature generally net few results."

Yes, she knew that, but hearing the hopelessness in his voice made it all the worse. "Surely there is some recourse to justice."

**As of now, very little, I'm afraid. The West Indian is innocent, I'm convinced of it."

Poor Jason. She would have to look in on him later, and Doris as well. She closed her eyes to the concerned expression on the inspector's face and started out of her chair, when at that moment the bedchamber door opened and the physician appeared, meticulously drawing on his gloves, his face as unrevealing as ever.

Elizabeth waited for him to speak, and when no words seemed forthcoming, she went to his side, loathing the entreaty in her voice for simple information which should have been freely given.

"Doctor, please," she begged, "is she—"

"She's remarkably intact," he said, closing the bedchamber door behind him. "Of course the hymen is shattered, causing minor bleeding, but the genitals by and large are undamaged. No lasting scars, I'm pleased to announce." He was addressing the inspector, to the total exclusion of Elizabeth. "If there is such a thing in your profession, sir," he said, "it was a most nonviolent rape, which should tell you something, and I'm sure it does—"

The man's ordinary manner was maddening enough. Now to have the mystery and a sense of coyness added to it was almost unbearable. Though she had been excluded, Elizabeth asserted herself. "I don't understand," she pronounced coldly. "What precisely is it that you are saying?"

The inspector tried to intercede, but the overbearing physician would not give him a chance.

"The young woman's assailants were not sadistic. Or if they were, they tempered that sadism in a simple act of vengeance. For instance, the mutilation of the hair is a lover's trick, certainly not a rapist's, who would have used the blades in other areas, her breasts perhaps or the womb itself."

Sickened, Elizabeth turned away, but the haughty voice went right on, as though sensing her weakness and wanting to contribute to it.

"We've both seen female victims, haven't we, inspector, that defied description. Severed ears, disembowelment. The Rapist of Larchmont, caught only last year, always cut off his victim's feet."

The semidarkened hall began to swirl about her.

"But that young lady was most fortunate," the male voice went on in a light tone of voice. "It would be my opinion, inspector, that either she knew her assailant or he knew her. Revenge is evident to be sure, but muted revenge, almost as though he merely wanted to

frighten her and cause her temporary discomfort, rather than destroy her, don't you agree?"

Elizabeth couldn't tell if the inspector agreed or not. Clearly the doctor had planted a theory in his head that had not been there before.

**It's—possible,** he stammered.

"It's not only possible, I'd say it's quite probable," the doctor countered. He paused. "Of course, one overriding question remains—"

Elizabeth looked back, her loathing for the man increasing with each word he spoke.

"What, we feel compelled to ask, was a gentlewoman doing alone in the park at that hour unchaperoned?"

"She'd been riding," Elizabeth said.

"Was she astride her horse when her assailant overtook her?"

The inspector shook his head. "No. Her horse was found tethered outside the garden."

"Then she had dismounted and was clearly waiting for someone."

"That's not true!" Elizabeth protested.

"And how can you be sure, madam?" he inquired, not looking at her, but glancing over her head. "Were you there?"

"No."

"Was she allowed to ride after dark?"

"No."

"Did anyone think to put limits on her, restrictions, as it were."

"She was told-"

"—and apparently did not heed—"

Obviously sensing Elizabeth's rising emotions, the inspector gently interceded. "I believe that will be all for now, doctor," he said, and took the man's arm and turned him toward the stairs. "And I thank you for your theories on the case."

"Casel" the doctor panoted sarcastically. *Tou don't have a case, inspector. All you have is a headstrong young girl who was allowed to run free and undisciplined, and who received precisely what she deserved."

"You have no right!" Elizabeth cried, unable to listen any longer. How subtly the weight of guilt had been shifted from assailant to victim.

Stunned and sickened, Elizabeth watched as the two men made their way down the stairs. At the bottom she saw them stop for an-

other whispered conference, the doctor shaking his head, then laughing, the inspector responding with a smile. They might have been two gentlemen merely passing the evening sharing jests.

Dear God, enough! She turned away and walked to the end of the second-floor corridor and waited until she heard the front door open, then close.

She knew there would be no further investigation unless John pressed for one. Yet in a way she was forced to agree with the two who had just left. What purpose would it serve? How would it comfort the young girl lying "intact" behind that door? How would it ease one millionth of one percent of her memories of this dreadful night, memories which she would carry with her for the rest of her life?

Either she knew her assailant or he knew her. . . .

There was that troublesome fact as well. And had she gone to the park to meet someone?

Deep in mourning for the spiritual death of Mary Eden, she returned to the straight-backed chair, knelt before it and, ignoring Charlie Bradlaugh's tenet that there was no God, prayed desperately to someone to ease her guilt. . . .

It had been his intention to stay out most of the night. For this most important evening he'd selected a prominent arena, his London Sporting Club, watching a series of rat matches, even managing to forget the deadly pursuit that was going on elsewhere in London in the excitement of witnessing an aggressive little bull terrier kill thirty-seven rats, some almost as large as the dog himself, a few even hanging to his nose which, despite his tossing, still held on. Ultimately the dog had dashed the lot of them against the sides of the white pit, leaving patches of blood as if strawberries had been smashed there.