City of Darkness

Chapter THIRTY-SIX

5:10 PM





Even though he considered Trevor’s accusations ludicrous, Tom still found himself running as he made his way back to Mayfair. He arrived to find the house not only in order, but almost a parody of tranquil domesticity, with a fire crackling in the hearth, Emma’s yellow roses on the table, and the smell of baking bread wafting in from the kitchen.

No danger here. Absolutely none. Trevor Welles was a fool and Tom had been just as much of one for letting himself become swept up in the man’s wild theories. Tom’s hands were shaking as he made his way to Geraldine’s liquor cabinet and poured a large brandy. It had been cold and dank outside like only November in London can be and Tom had not buttoned his coat or knotted his scarf in his hasty departure from Scotland Yard. He pulled an armchair near the fire, wrapping himself in a shawl Geraldine had left on her footstool, and began to drink with a steady determination.

He would send for his grandfather’s old medical journals, yes he would. He would find a way to gain access to the type of knives John used in his surgical practice and he would assist Trevor in his wound studies at Scotland Yard. Because Tom had no doubt, absolutely none, that any information brought to light there would exonerate John Harrowman. He personally would discover the sort of irrefutable scientific evidence that no one could deny. Tom drained his glass, poured another, and closed his eyes as he thought of his grandfather. Leonard had always said that science was his religion, a statement he would follow with a soft little laugh, so that anyone who chose not to believe such a radical statement could say “But of course he was joking.” Leonard knew the opinions held by his neighbors, and accepted that they would consider his atheism a personal assault. He didn’t fear their censure, but neither did he wish to distress them. He was gentlemanly enough to couch even his deepest beliefs inside a chuckle.

But Tom had certainly known that his grandfather wasn’t joking. Science was not only his profession, but the basis on which he lived his life. Leonard had taught both of his younger grandchildren to hold scientific truth in high esteem, even when that truth was neither convenient nor reassuring. Tom had been happy to hear that his sister had fallen in love with a doctor, partly because he understood how much this sort of match would have pleased their grandfather. For the first time he was also willing to concede that perhaps Cecil had a point when he said Tom’s desire to flatter Leonard had driven him to attend medical school.

Tom gulped again, then poured again. The brandy had at first burned him, then warmed him, and now once more was burning. He pushed off Geraldine’s shawl and reached down to unbuckle his boots. Not an easy task. He groaned and leaned back in the chair, one boot off and the other still on. Wasn’t there a child’s nursery rhyme about a man in just such a state? God knows, that was what his older brothers had always said, that Tom had known the route to Leonard’s heart ran through the medical schools of Cambridge, that his studies were nothing more than a way to win their grandfather’s approval, and ultimately his patronage.

And perhaps they were right, at least about what his motives might have been at the start. A boy doesn’t know what he wants to be, so he follows in the steps of the man he most admires. Nothing criminal in that, is there? But during his time at Cambridge Tom had gradually developed, if not Leonard’s all-consuming passion, at least a deeper respect for science and the character of the men who worshipped at this particular shrine. John Harrowman was a man who had devoted his life to helping the wretches of the earth and it seemed that in accusing John, Trevor had been accusing Tom himself, and Leonard, and the brotherhood of doctors. Tom splashed the last of the brandy into his tilted glass. Damn the man. A shudder ran through him and Tom pulled the shawl more tightly. Cold, then hot, then cold again.

I’ll send for grandfather’s notebooks this very day, Tom thought. But first I’ll take a nap.

The clock was striking five as Leanna entered the sitting room, and with one glance she knew Tom was drunk. Not the giggly, early-drinking type of intoxication either, but rather the cold-limbed still-bodied type of stupor that is the result of a relentless, almost medicinal type of drinking. She had seen first her father and then her brother Cecil in this same position many times and now she looked down on Tom with poorly-concealed exasperation. He had been called on to act as man of the house and a mere twelve hours after his arrival he was incapable of defending them from a gnat. Leanna pulled the pillow from behind his head, and waited for his eyes to flutter open.

“Do you want tea?”

Tom shuddered.

“You should have food.”

“Brandy. I’m chilled to the bone,” he said thickly.

“Brandy is the last thing you need,” Leanna said irritably. “What will Aunt Gerry say when she sees you like this?”

“Doubt she’ll care.”

He was probably right on that one, but Leanna was not prepared to concede the point. “I thought you were going to see Trevor Welles.”

“I did.”

“And then came home and finished a bottle.”

Tom threw back the shawl as he was hit with a heat wave which produced small prickles of perspiration all along his flushed face. “Damn it, Leanna, this has all been a bit much to take in.”

“So sorry you’ve suffered. Emma hasn’t left her room all day, not that you asked.” Leanna exhaled slowly, suddenly aware of how much she sounded like her mother when her tongue grew sharp. For the first time in her life she was beginning to understand how hard it must have been for Gwynette to put her husband to bed night after night, year after year. “Aunt Gerry and I are going out,” she said, her tone more civil. “A friend of hers has just become a grandmother and we’re going to see the babies.” She shook her head before Tom could object. “Gage is coming with us,” she said. “And we’ll be back early. The better question is whether or not you’re fit to stand guard over Emma. She’s had something to eat and will probably sleep away the evening, but I hate the thought of her calling for something and you being too drunk to answer.”

“I’m fine,” Tom said, standing up to illustrate his point. “I’ll have a bit of tea and toast and be even more completely fine by the time you leave. But isn’t Emma sleeping a lot? I have the impression she’s been sedated for three days in a row and that may not be prudent.”

“John seems to feel it’s best.”

“But she has to confront what’s happened at some point, doesn’t she? What did he give her, do you know?”

“Morphine.”

Three days on morphine? That seemed excessive, and Tom felt a return of the same nameless unease that had stuck him while walking home from Scotland Yard. “Morphine is serious business, Leanna,” he said. “The longer the drugs are in her system the harder it will be for her to shake off the effects.”

“Of course, John said as much, but he was also afraid she was a danger to herself. He said he’d never seen grief that violent on anyone.”

“What was she doing?”

Leanna looked at him. “Crying, of course.”

“Seems a natural enough reaction under the circumstances. Why would he think that made her a danger to herself?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Leanna said in exasperation. “You can discuss it with John tomorrow. Until then just promise me you’ll stay alert.”

“I’m fine,” Tom said, starting his wobbly progress toward the kitchen. “A bit of toast and tea and I’ll be the best sentry in London.”





6:10 PM



With Gerry, Leanna, and Gage gone and food in his stomach, Tom pulled his anatomy book from his satchel and returned to the fire. Thanks to his nap, he had never gotten his wire off to Galloway, but he could do that tomorrow and in the meantime, perhaps he could find some useful information about scalpels in the chapter on surgery. He balanced the heavy book in his lap and hunched over it like an invalid.

Despite his brave talk in front of Leanna, Tom was still somewhat under the effects of the brandy and after only a page or two he found himself drowsy again. He sat very still and listened, but there was not a sound from upstairs and he finally decided that a small splash of brandy might ease the pressure in his head. The first bottle was gone but Geraldine was an excellent hostess, always prepared for an unexpected guest, and Tom suspected she kept a well-stocked bar. He pushed himself to his feet and headed back toward the liquor cabinet.





7:25 PM



Tom awoke with a start and struggled to sit up, his head throbbing and his eyes painfully slow to adjust to the murky darkness. How much time had passed? An hour? Two? He was dimly aware of a presence in the room and turned to look behind his chair. No one there, and no one in the far corner. Just as he was willing to concede the drink had made his imagination take over his senses, he saw Emma at the writing desk, dressed in a white flowing robe with her hair down. She looked like a ghostly bride and Tom nearly let loose an involuntary cry.

Emma sat still, gazing at him with a serious and unblinking expression. She had apparently begun to roam the house as the drugs gradually loosened their grip on her nervous system; Tom had observed the same effect on patients and he knew it was imperative he get her back upstairs before she stumbled and managed to really hurt herself. The only trouble was, he was none too steady on his own feet and now that his eyes could make out the mantle clock he could see it was nearly seven-thirty. The rest of the household would be back soon and would see how utterly he’d shirked his duty. He couldn’t bear another lecture from Leanna.

“Emma dear,” he ventured, in what he hoped was a pleasant tone of voice, for his head roared with the effort of speech and his tongue felt like cotton. “You should be up in your bed. May I help you?” She made no sign of having heard him, her eyes still unnervingly fixed. “Emma,” he tried again wincing with the effort of pushing his body away from the chair and stretching it to its full height. “You should be upstairs.”

“No,” she said. “I’m tired of that room.”

“Then sit here,” he said, knowing it was best not to argue with someone whose system was withdrawing from powerful doses of morphine. “Sit here in the armchair, and we’ll talk, you and I. Perhaps,” he added heroically, for the thought of entering the kitchen was comparable to the idea of scaling Everest, “I could get you something to eat.”

“No,” she said again, her small chin jutting and her arms folded corpse-like around her chest.

Think of her, not yourself, Tom’s fevered brain implored. She’s a patient and this is a test of your skills. A doctor must function even when tired. Even when sick himself. Yes, even when drunk on his feet.

Tom walked toward the small form, one hand outstretched. “You worry me sitting here alone, Emma.”

“I’m not alone. You’re here.”

“I suppose I am, in a way,” he admitted. “So shall we talk?”

“No! I’m talked out. Leanna thought I should talk and Doctor John and Geraldine and even Gage brought up my tea this afternoon and said ‘Let it out, Miss Emma, tell Gage about your burden.’ I’ve talked all I intend to talk.”

“Very well, so that wasn’t a good idea. You won’t talk, you won’t eat or sleep. What will you do?”

She looked at him with piercing blue eyes. “I want you to hold me.”

He was a bit taken aback, wondering for a minute if he had managed to hear her correctly. But she had been through an unimaginable blow, so perhaps a bit of old-fashioned comfort was in order. Would a good doctor agree to such a request? Would John? Tom glanced at the clock. The main thing was to get her back upstairs before Leanna returned.

“Of course,” he said. “But we should go upstairs. This room is so gloomy, don’t you think?”

She frowned, tilted her head a bit questioningly. Perhaps she’s coming round, Tom thought, because she’s caught me in my little lie. Everyone knew the parlor was the warmest and most pleasant room in Gerry’s house. But she allowed him to take both of her hands in his and lead her to the stairs. They ascended them like a train, with his arms around her waist, standing behind her on the step below and steadily, gently pushing. Just getting to the first landing in this ridiculous position was a struggle, but when he released her for a second, she swayed so wildly he was afraid she’d spill down the stairs.

“Better carry you,” he said, and she did not resist.

He flexed his knees and scooped her up. She was a small girl so lifting her did not disturb his fragile balance as much as he feared it would. “There, there,” he said, or something very like it, the sort of thing he imagined a real doctor would say. Her gown was thin, nearly wispy, and he had the uneasy thought that in better light the white muslin would be totally transparent. He cradled her gingerly, taking care not to let too much flesh touch flesh, but his efforts at restraint were pointless for, with a tremulous sigh, Emma suddenly sagged against him, her whole torso sinking into his and her head rolling back on his shoulder. It was an alarmingly good fit.

And precisely what would John do now, Tom wondered, his heart involuntarily beating a bit faster. Ironically his first thought upon leaving Trevor’s office had been to seek solace in the arms of one of the Whitechapel girls. A mad impulse under the circumstances, and yet he had stood in the street outside of Scotland Yard and debated what direction to go, east or west. He’d wondered if the bars were full or empty and he’d imagined just this – that frightened bodies were clinging to other frightened bodies all over London. Anxiety and despair were stimulants in their own right, as apt to make people seek company as any other emotions. But his feet had turned west, home to Mayfair, with the familiar old ache so enormous in his chest that it had taken almost two bottles of brandy to quiet it.

Now here was Emma, Emma whom he had always liked. No… cherished, really cherished, in a way, which was all the more reason he should wrest her arms from around his neck and leave her alone in her room. He nudged open the door with his foot, carried her to the tousled bed. She murmured something indistinct, let her head fall back a bit further and their eyes met, both misting and slow to focus, and before Tom could muster another thought he was kissing her, falling over her with a mixture of relief and grief he could not begin to understand. Who was to comfort whom? Tom could hear, as from far away, the sound of someone crying, and when he pulled away just enough to gaze at Emma’s face he found it damp and salty. He was so overcome with tenderness that he utterly failed to notice the tears were his own.