By the time I got home it had started to rain, a miserable sort of freezing sleet that soaked me through between the El station and Patchin Place. So I was tired and dispirited as I trudged through the slush to my front door. I had an absurdly irrational hope that Daniel might be standing there, waiting for me, but of course there was no sign of him.
“Drat the man. Why can’t he ever appear when he’s needed,” I muttered and realized instantly how ridiculous I was being. When he was there I told him to go away and when he wasn’t there, I wanted him. I suppose this was because our relationship had to be put on hold until the charges hanging over him were finally settled, and frankly, I didn’t trust myself when we were alone together.
Tonight, however, I didn’t care about being cautious. I needed to be hugged and held and to feel safe. The incident with the wind machine had shaken me up more than I cared to admit. I told myself that it could only have been started by ordinary human hands, but I still remembered the chill draft around my legs before that great blast of wind. The theater had definitely gone cold. Maybe I was starting to believe that a malevolent spirit might just be responsible.
It was too late to barge in on Sid and Gus, so I let myself into my little house and went around lighting all the gas brackets. I looked for a note from Dr. Birnbaum, but there was none, which was also vexing. He had promised to deliver a report on his way home. I hoped that his strong code of ethics hadn’t gotten the better of him and he wasn’t going to divulge his diagnosis to me. I went over to the stove and made myself a cup of tea. I remembered then that I’d promised to bring some nourishing food to the girl at the hospital. I had no time to make a soup now. I’d have to buy something on my way to visit her tomorrow.
My dreams that night were troubled. Somehow the mute girl in the snowdrift mingled with the ghost in the theater. “You see, I have robbed her of her voice,” he said. “She will never speak again.” And he laughed a horrible laugh that echoed through the theater and through my head. I woke with my heart racing and found it hard to get back to sleep with the consequence that I dropped off just before dawn and woke late. I was still pottering around my kitchen in my robe and slippers when there was a knock on my front door. I fully expected it to be Sid or Gus, on their way back from the French bakery with croissants, coming to invite me for breakfast, and was horrified when the caller turned out to be none other than Dr. Birnbaum. He was immaculately turned out as always in a great coat with an astrakhan collar, his gold-tipped cane tucked under one arm.
“Holy Mother of God,” I muttered. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I wasn’t expecting a gentleman caller this early. I thought you’d be my friends from across the street. Please forgive the attire.”
He smiled. “My dear Miss Murphy, I assure you that I have seen more shocking things than your dressing gown during my years as a doctor.”
“In that case, come on in,” I said. “I’ve just made a cup of tea. Can I pour you one?”
“Thank you, but no. I have just had coffee at my hotel. I came to explain why I did not leave a note for you as promised. I saw the girl, and what I saw disturbed me greatly.”
“Can she speak yet?” I asked. “Did she say anything?”
“Nothing. Not a word. She stared at me blankly as if she didn’t understand or hear me.”
“But she is not deaf?”
“No. I tested her hearing and she reacted normally to sounds out of her range of vision. She hears. She also has the power of speech, I believe. The sisters tell me that she moans in her sleep and she has no abnormalities that I could detect. I can only conclude that some great trauma has robbed her of her wits.”
“Poor girl. How terrible,” I said.
“It is indeed. I remember that my mentor, Dr. Freud, in Vienna had such a girl as a patient. She also appeared to be mute until Dr. Freud was able to cure her through hypnosis. I should dearly like to work with this young woman and see if I can help her regain her senses and her voice.”
“Oh, do you think you can help her? That would be wonderful.”
“If I am given the chance,” he said. “Nobody has come forward to identify her. If she is not claimed soon, I rather fear that she will be shipped off to the insane asylum.”
I gasped. “Oh no. They can’t do that.”
“What else is to be done with her? When her body is healed she can no longer take up space in a hospital bed. And when she’s in the asylum she will be beyond my reach. That institution has its own doctors and its own methods, which I hear are primitive beyond belief.”
“We can’t let that happen, Doctor,” I said. “I’m not going to let it happen.”
“How can you stop it?”
“Let me think,” I said, pacing around the room. “We can put an advertisement in the New York newspapers, and I have a friend on the New York police force—a female officer called Mrs. Goodwin. I’ll ask her to look into any reports of missing girls. Somebody somewhere must be worried that this girl hasn’t come home.”
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)
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